The youth minister at our parish is an extroverted, somewhat handsome, funny-as-hell, irreverent but religious, hopefully soon-to-be seminarian, 27-year-old man from the Atlantic coast of Georgia. And this man is taking the senior high youths to the Dominican Republic for a week in August on a mission trip. All eleven girls and ONE boy. Heaven help us.
The planning session was last night. My middle daughter, her friend, one of the adult chaperones and the youth minister were the last ones there when I arrived to drive the two girls home. After much ragging on the youth minister about his girlfriend-of-the-season and the possibility of using a waxing of his thick chest hair as a fund raiser for the mission trip, it was time to get the girls home to study for their finals.
As my daughter got in the driver’s seat to pull the car away from the telephone pole so her friend and I could open the passenger door, the youth minister, who followed us out, was throwing wadded-up paper balls at my daughter which she promptly threw back at him. She smartly rolled up her window so he couldn’t get the paper ball in her lap anymore. But that only provoked him to mark the window with an imprint of his open mouth. Right at eye level.
Until I can get outside with the Windex, I have to drive around with our youth minister’s mouth print staring me in the face. I think we need a chaperone for the chaperone.
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