Brother Barf

I’ve acquired a nickname at church lately. I’m not exactly sure why, but one young man about 6 years old has taken to calling me Brother Barf. For all you non-mormons out there, my conventional title at church would be Brother Collins, but since that’s an awkwardly formal title, I’m always looking for excuses to tell people not to call me that. I’m also eager to play along with inside jokes, so when this young man decided to associate me with barf, I was willing to play it up. I’m not exactly sure what about my appearance or personality reminded this young man of barf, but it is no matter. I was pleased to have made his day. We continue to enjoy a charade where I pretend to start barfing every time I see him.
Tuesday night around 3:00 AM I found myself in a little bit of an uncomfortable situation – specifically, I was sprawled out on the bathroom floor projectile vomiting the previous evenings chili dogs into the toilet. Amid thoughts of, “Why won’t this end?” “I’ve never felt so awful in my life,” and “I think I got it in my nose” came the blessed thought, “Too bad that young man isn’t here to see this. He’s totally into barfing.”
You see, one of my favorite aspects of being a member of the LDS church is that it gives me an opportunity to make emotional connections with people I wouldn’t normally bond with. While it’s not exactly a story I expect to hear at General Conference anytime soon, there’s no denying that this young man and I were emotionally connected at that moment. In one of my darkest hours, when I was heaving so violently that I literally thought I was going to vomit out my own intestines, I was comforted by the knowlege of a sleeping 6-year old Mormon boy that would probably find it absolutely hilarious.

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