Let’s not beat around the bush here: My wife is a heathen. She comes from a long line of heathens. Heathenality, if that’s a word, is part of her DNA. If she sent off for one of those Ancestry.com genetic tests, it would come back saying, “5% Norwegian, 95% Heathen.”
But we’re in Lisbon, where there’s a very old Catholic Church on every corner and atop every hill. So you are clearly obligated to visit a lot of those churches on any tour of the city.
As a result, I’m torn between keeping Jamie close at hand so she doesn’t run off with João Luis Marques Guerrero, our hunky tour guide, or staying as far away from her as possible so that I am spared when one of God’s lightning bolts fries her like a juicy Portuguese steak.
That’s okay, Jim. I have a hotline to Jesus and I always pray for Jamie. And I pray for you, too, Jim. I pray that Jamie doesn’t kill you!
I’ll take what I can get.