Some days you’re the bread, and some days you’re the baloney.  It was definitely a baloney day, and it was all my mother’s fault.

My mother, God rest her soul, had very definite beliefs when it came to mattress maintenance.  There were nine beds in our house, and once a month, every single mattress had to be flipped precisely 180 degrees from east to west, then 180 degrees from north to south.

The consequence of an unflipped mattress was, apparently, a hole the size of Wyoming, which would almost certainly swallow you whole, while you slept.  This made a suitable enough impression on my young mind, that I swore allegiance to her mattress theories, and adopted them as my own.  No mattress of mine would ever go unflipped.

Perhaps it was this aversion of being eaten alive in my sleep that led me to purchase a king-size, orthopedic mattress set, as soon as I moved out on my own.  Surely a mattress of that size and quality could not form holes in which to fall.  Of course, it is better to be safe than sorry about these things, so after a month, I set about flipping it, and in the process, learned three things in rapid succession:

1.  My mother had seven children on purpose: that is the precise number of people it takes to flip a king-size mattress.

2. King-size mattresses and beached whales have something in common: neither can be flipped without the help of a ten-ton crane.

3. The reason they make orthopedic mattresses, is because if you actually flip the blessed thing, you’re more than likely going to be laying in it for a while. 

This last lesson came painfully.  The east-west flip went smoothly enough, and I was able to maneuver it so that it leaned against a wall, but when I tugged on the bottom, I stumbled a bit and landed with a thud onto the box spring, with just enough time to take a breath before the top mattress flopped on top of me and knocked it all out.

There was some comfort in knowing that the only one around to see me, with my head barely poking out one side, and my feet out the other, was my cat - but my sense of relief lasted only until he discovered my shoe laces, dangling from my feet, and proceeded to bat at them.

This would never do.

I wiggled, but made no progress.  I squirmed, but to no avail.  I pushed and heaved, scrambled and scootched, bit it didn’t make a bit of difference. In fact, all the fighting seemed only to make matters worse.

I resigned myself to my fate: I would die there, stuck between the mattresses.  The newspaper headlines would read, “Woman eaten by giant mattress.  Cat suspected of foul play.”  Why hadn’t I waited for my roommate to come home?  If I could have moved my leg, I might have kicked myself.

I am ever so grateful that God listens to stupid prayers.  “Lord, please don’t let me die like a piece of baloney.” 

“Hello?  Are you home?” It was my roommate. 

“Help!  Let me out of here!”  She would get a good laugh, certainly, but given the alternative, I didn’t have much of a choice.

“What in the world …” She couldn’t even finish her sentence.  It’s difficult to speak when you’re doubled over, laughing.  She might have freed me first, but no - she let me lay there, like sandwich meat between two pieces of white bread, while she had her laugh.

Independence is an inherently human characteristic, and one that we all struggle with: we don’t want to be helpless, so we err on the side of stubborn independence.  When the going gets tough, we go to the mattresses, when what we should do is kneel down beside one. 

My friend still gives me a hard time about my mattress maintenance habits, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to face another piece of baloney, but that’s okay.  The trade off was worth it.  For the bargain price of a handful of pride, I learned a very valuable lesson: If we just stop fighting long enough to let Him work in our lives, the Lord will see us through.  Just as soon as He stops laughing.

Copyright 2005 Dori Knight