Camping like Jesus

“I tooted,” he giggled. Laughter broke out between the two of them as they poked their sticks into the campfire.

“What!” I shot back at him. “Who in the world toots around a campfire?” I guess it was inevitable. Social graces had invaded the sacred realm of manliness. While camping, no less.

“Okay, let’s get one thing straight, boys, men don’t toot. We fart. Got it?”

“But mom says we can’t say that,” the older son responded meekly.

“Mom…is not here. We are camping like men, right? Men fart. We’ve always farted. Women hate that about us, so they try to make it more civilized, more respectable in the company of others, particularly other women. But boys, get it out of your head that you toot. As long as you’re with me, a fart it is, a fart it will forever be.”

A sense of harmony spread across their cute little faces as the entered into the sacred realm of manhood. Somehow, they recognized there was a difference about them, something to set them apart, not higher or lower, just apart, but united.

“Daddy, does Jesus fart?” the littlest sincerely asked poking at an ember.

Trying not the choke on the coffee entering my mouth, my wide-eyed expression confounded my son. “Uh…yes, he does,” I stated with all the reverence I could muster as I wiped the few drops of coffee running down my beard.

“No sir!” shot back the oldest stirring the embers before him. “He’s dead. Mom says that Jesus doesn’t fart.” “He’s not dead,” the youngest quickly responded. “Is too.” “Is not,” the youngest challenged his brother by waving his stick at him, burning tip inches from his face.

“Hold on there for a moment, partner,” I broke in before they escalated the theological debate into a duel. “Put that stick down, sit still and listen. First, Jesus did die…”

“See, I told you,” the oldest proudly announced.

“…however,” I continued holding my hand up to silence any further interruptions, “Jesus, also rose back to life after three days and all of his disciples saw him and claimed him to be alive.” A broad smile beamed from the youngest one’s face directly at the oldest. “So, you are both correct, Jesus died but now he is alive. Now, why would mom say that Jesus doesn’t fart?” The beauty of teaching children is that they don’t know what a rhetorical question is and at that moment I could see their imaginations whirling at break-neck speed to offer an answer.

“I’m sure that you both will agree that Jesus was a man, just like us, right?” They nodded their heads in agreement. “There isn’t anything different between you and him. The skin that you have is just like his; the feet you have, he had also; the mouth you feed your belly through is just like the one that Jesus had. So, there is no difference. If you eat something that doesn’t agree with you, what happens?”

“You puke,” the youngest one shot out, being the recipient of his brother’s vomit from the morning excursion to the pond where crawdads flourished from the entrails of our daily fishing adventures.

“That’s right, you puke. And I’m certain that Jesus did that too, just like us. So, since Jesus was a man just like us, if he ate just like us, if he pukes just like us, then he has to fart…” giggles explode from them both, “…just like us. Agreed?”

Both shake their heads in chuckling agreement, each stirring up the embers of the fire nearest them. Silence descended upon us, broken by the irregular cracking and popping of the fire. “Phhhhttt!”

We all smiled, acknowledging our inner nature. “Daddy, does Jesus poop in the woods?”