I kind-of wish the following had happened so that I could claim it’s a true story. It hasn’t. But let’s just pretend, o.k?
I show up at a restaurant. For some reason, I’m by myself.
“How many?” The hostess asks, reaching for menus.
“One.” I say.
At first I think she’s looking at me funny because it’s a sad little man who dines alone. But then I notice that she’s looking at my ring finger.
“You’re married.” She says, almost an accusation.
“Do you believe that you’re one flesh with your wife?”
“Well, for all the details, you’d have to read my book. But more-or-less, yes.”
She shakes her head and grabs a second menu. “So really, I’m seating two.”
“I guess so.”
But then she stops again, and she looks at my necklace. It has a cross on it. (Actually, I don’t own any necklaces. But pretend I do.)
“You’re a Christian?” She asks.
“Is Christ in you, then?”
She makes some kind of tutting noise and grabs a third menu. “So really, it’s three.”
Really, it’s three.
Every married couple, they are their own little model of the trinity.