Gas could release in song form, although arguably some do — we were pretty sure my Granny mastered Yankee Doodle but she always got mad when we talked about it.

It was date night — the first in the six months after our oldest was born. I wore eyeliner and pants with a button so it was a big night. We went to a little place recommended by friends for seafood; it was a dark, quiet atmosphere with only us and another couple across the room — who we both agreed were likely on their first date.

“That guy is bombing it,” my husband said who took me to Taco Bell on our first date. “She’s bored and he won’t shut up.”

It appeared he was right, though. Her hand was under her chin with a pasted smile as she listened to him talk about his job. We continued to make quiet observations until the waitress dropped off a basket of crab legs at our table; we fell silent and dug in.

The calm before the storm.

Some moments never fade. I remember everything around in perfect clarity; the swishing of the waitress’s apron as she walked away, the voice of the guy across the room, and the hum of the ceiling fan hung right above our table.

And the fart.

Table cloths flapped in the wind, perfectly placed setting became slightly askew, and across the room was stifled laughter.

“Did you just hear that guy fart?” he said between gasps.

I downed the wine in front of me as the atmosphere became a dark cloud mingled with noxious gas and ghastly embarrassment — for me at least. My husband’s mouth was tightly buttoned in an attempt to stifle his own laughter as he watched my fury grow.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Which was a big lie — I have watched the pitches of salesmen wither away and die as Shawn ruthlessly filled the space between them with the same toxins.

Although I will never forget a most dedicated Sears employee who stood firm in the midst of one of the worst silent but deadly episodes I have yet to see, and through watery eyes delivered his sales pitch on a new state of the art refrigerator with an extra crisping drawer.

I still feel bad we didn’t buy that thing.

“But Meg…look,” he said, gesturing to the couple across the restaurant from us.

The ice broke. Maybe melted was a better word. Either way, the fart had brought them a common bond. Conversation now easily flowed as they discussed the incident with genuine laughs and smiles. And in a weird way, I was kind of honored to be part of it.

Maybe ten years from now, they will tell their children that it was one man’s gas episode that brought them together. I mean, that really is special.

Truth is, we just never know what God will use through life’s little foibles.

As I look up to the night sky where the stars dangle and the cosmos spins, I wonder about this mysterious creator, I approach Him in great fear and worship. Everything — including me — belongs to him.

Laughter also belongs to Him who freely gave it as a gift to warm life up when it gets cold. So in this we can say — God is a funny God.

Everything he created, he did purposefully, including farts. It is just one of those precepts of human nature to release gasses from the body, but surely there could a more pleasant way for this to happen.

Gas could release in song form, although arguably some do — we were pretty sure my Granny mastered Yankee Doodle but she always got mad when we talked about it.

It could have been a regularly scheduled event.

“If we could meet after 4 p.m., that’d be great. I have a scheduled fart at 3:30.”

Instead it is just a rather spontaneous occurrence often coming at the most inopportune times. Pressure usually mounts the moment everyone quietly sits down for a business meeting or upon running into that friend who has never let one go in her life.

Truly, though. Farts are proof that God is funny.

I don’t know why it’s like this, but God says that we should not lean on our own understanding. I just figure it’s another thing He will reveal with all the other secrets of the universe.