Christians – especially evangelicals who live in southern climes – aren’t exactly known as the 24-hour party people of the planet. In fact, we’re more often regarded as the Grand Poobahs in Charge of Party Pooping and General Shushing. Granted, I would hope that any believer heard discussing his “lost weekend” in Vegas would be literally talking about getting lost while proselytizing among the streets of suburban Sin City. We are, after, called to be in the world but not of the world.
Nonetheless, it seems that as the culture continues adding express lanes on the wide and winding Highway to Hades (of which I-635 is most definitely an artery), more and more Christians are sequestering themselves from anything enjoyable lest they be accused of selling oceanfront time-shares at Beelzebub Beach. Which makes planning a vacation – especially a spring break vacation – a bit difficult if you’re not into Branson’s outlet malls and Yakov Smirnoff or Dollywood. After all, choose poorly and you could inadvertently expose your children to things they should never have to witness in life. Like a wayward Kardashian.
But does that mean Christians should put the kibosh on kicking back, cutting loose and perhaps actually enjoying ourselves a little before shuffling off this mortal coil? (Note: If the thought of “shuffling” makes you uncomfortable because it evokes thoughts of dancing, I’m not sure the rest of this column will be of much help.) “Nay!” say I, like an 18th century parliamentarian. “Nay!”
So can we just, both individually and collectively, but mainly you because I’m not hauling three kids under two off on a weeklong jaunt, put a little fun back in fundamentalism? Well, you can always head to a certified vacation destination like the beach. Although, if observing people dressed in what amounts to waterproof underwear – but with less structural support – strikes you as more of a mammarial mine field than mission field, it’s best to skip past the beach. Instead, consider a water park lodge. The kids will go nuts and the only adults there are other parents who don’t want to get wet either. It’s not exactly fun for the entire family, but frankly, kids are a selfish lot.
Another swell idea is to head to the mountains. Everybody and their incontinent dog hightails it to the beach anyway, so why not go where the infidels ain’t? Depending on which mountain range you choose to visit, you can ski, snowboard, rock climb, mountain bike, run moonshine or mine for coal. All activities which are guaranteed to cause at least one family member to suffer a cool injury that will be the talk of the schoolyard once classes resume and your kids go back to talking like me and Julio in 1972. Groovy.
Staycations are also popular in these wackanoodle economic times. Mainly among travel blog writers who think the word “staycation” is just the cleverest new piece of compound wordification since Bennifer (sorry, Brangenlina). Find a decent hotel in town and go nuts. Order bowls of $12 corn flakes from room service. Inhale the wondrous scent of freedom only an over-chlorinated pool can provide. Grab every rack brochure you can find and visit tourist destinations you never knew existed so close to your own neighborhood without needing an EPA exemption. Be scandalous and take the kids to a G-rated movie. Seriously, only around five cents of every ticket goes straight to Lindsay Lohan. And that’s a small compromise to make for Goobers.
And when you finally get into the swing of unclenching your glutes, I implore to do something that might possibly set tongues a-waggin’ all across the vestibule. Yes, I suggest you and yours Wang Chung tonight. Then tomorrow night. And then, if it’s going well, all week long. I realize the question of whether Jesus would or would not Wang Chung tonight has pestered theologians dating back to Saint Frank of Agassi in A.D. 1986. Yet, we must remember that the Lord of All is also Lord of the Chung. So whether your preferred variety is Wang or Connie, go forth and Chung like you’ve never Chunged before. And when you’re done, please shoot me an email and let me know just what the heck it is.
But regardless of whether you choose the coasts, the mountains, your own backyard or perhaps, like my parents, a small midwestern town with a presidential library, the point is to have fun. So relax, undo the top button on your golf shirt, untuck and don’t worry if the kiddos get a little nacho sauce on the bust of American hero Dwight D. Eisenhower. Hey, it’s spring break. Besides, as much as everyone likes Ike, they’ll like him even better with cheese.