Prologue to The Heretical Handbook for Reclaiming Reverence.
I was about to step on The Price is Right stage with Drew Carey, my daughter, the most handsome male model I had ever seen, and…God? It sounds like the beginning of a joke. But it was happening.
Like a rogue shopping cart careening down a hill, the last 24 hours hurtled me down an unexpected path, made a few illogical turns, and landed me on TV. A few minutes earlier, my first bid over a trampoline was disastrous. I had promptly proved my brain was powered by discount coupons and wishful thinking. I was almost a thousand dollars off. The collective snicker from the audience was quiet, yet audible. I was providing prime entertainment.
“I am not supposed to be here,” I thought.
The night before, I was home in Chandler Arizona, covered in sweat, tears of pain squeezing out the corners of my eyes, passing a kidney stone. By morning, I was running off zero sleep, and had just “given birth” to a healthy crystalline structure of just a few millimeters. But, I managed to drag myself to the airport. I couldn’t miss out of this little family adventure to California.
I did miss out, at least I started to. There was no room for me on the plane. My husband and daughter had to leave without me, they were flying directly to Burbank. After they boarded, I was sitting and contemplating the sweet comfort of the loving arms of my bed. That’s when I first heard that voice, soft and melodic inside my head, “talk to the gate agent.”
The agent ended up being incredibly sweet and had an idea, there was a flight to Long Beach, boarding soon, and she had me a seat on it.
“It’s only an hour drive to Burbank!” She said like a perky cup of coffee. I raised an eyebrow and thought, ‘do you know what came out of my urethra this morning! there is no way in hell I can drive an hour feeling like this.’
Instead, I thanked her for her kindness, took my ticket and waddled my way towards my new gate. ‘Maybe if I drive really fast,’ I mused ‘it won’t be so bad.’
I was also going to need a car. I went online to find that the only option available was a minivan. My ‘get there fast’ plan was rapidly devolving into a ‘get there eventually, with lots of room for groceries’ scenario.
I arrived at the rental car counter in Long Beach, resigned to my soccer mom fate.
“Minivan?“ the clerk asked, raising an eyebrow. “We don’t have a minivan.”
Then, he handed me the keys to a Corvette, and my little drive once again became less like a chore and more like a heist.
I did drive fast, but you can never account for traffic. It still took me an hour.
When I finally made it to Burbank, the closest parking was about a mile away. I limped my way to the studio. When I arrived, the guards informed me the phones would be confiscated inside, but items such as smartwatches were not allowed through the gates. There was no way I could make it to the car and back again.
“I guess I am going to say goodbye to this,” I said, taking off my smartwatch and throwing it in the garbage.
When I reached my husband, John, and daughter, Olivia, I was in a mood. I was glitter bomb filled with existential dread, and I was about to go off with the slightest provocation.
I laid on a bench like a Victorian debutante in a fainting spell, and told my husband about the watch. He looked up and saw a shipping store across the road. With a clearer head than mine, he found the watch in the garbage and daringly crossed 8 lines of traffic to ship my watch back home. He made it back just in time for doors to open and the crowd to begin being ushered into the studio.
The next few hours were a conglomeration of waiting lines, then interviews. My husband had found us standby tickets to see a filming of the annual kids’ edition of Price is Right. It was just like the regular Price of Right with Drew Carey, except a kid and their parent get to play the games together. He thought it would be so fun to see and maybe even be on the show. I was hoping he would get his wish. But, with me looking and feeling like Miss Hannigan, I figured no producer in the world would want me in the audience, let alone near Drew Carrey or other kids.
“I am just here for support” I told whoever would listen “if for some reason our daughter is chosen, please send John up, not me.” I felt like I had told enough interns, producers, cameras and bathroom attendants that everyone got the message.
When we finally entered the studio, it was larger than expected. Being standby ticket holders, we were some of the last to enter.
It wasn’t a room; it was like an indoor wave pool filled with lights. Humans of every size, and humans of every noise, had already filled the space. The audience, a sea of faces blurring into one ecstatic mass, sitting and standing like churning waters. The announcer, a booming voice from the heavens, was about to usher us into the promised land of Plinko and showcase showdowns.
They put us on the very last row and I thought, this is good. At least it will be hard for the camera to see me and the chances of us being called up were slim.
When the show started, the studio transformed. The lights, the sound, the orchestrated frenzy – it was a masterclass in manufactured excitement. Seeing Drew Carey step into the spotlight, the gears of the show grinding into motion, revealed the intricate choreography behind the magic. It was a fascinating blend of raw energy and meticulously planned spectacle. It was enough to drown out the pain. I was both buzzing and slightly overwhelmed.
Contestants’ Row filled with the first wave of kids and their parents, a chaotic mix of jittery limbs and forced smiles. We sat, a captive audience, for what felt like an eternity – which equals roughly 45 minutes in this scenario – as they filmed the first two rounds. Both kids, bless their lucky stars, walked away with prizes.
There was a small break in the action. The studio calmed momentarily to a restless hum, a mix of wide-eyed hope and parental desperation. We barely had time to shake the stiffness out of our legs before the stage manager barked, ‘Places, everyone! Cameras rolling!’
Drew Carey, ever the professional, turned to the announcer. ‘George, tell us who’s next?’ And then, those words, those terrible words, the ones that sent a chill down my spine: ‘Olivia Christie, and Brock Hancock, come on down! You are the next contestants on The Price is Right!’
No. No. No! This can’t be happening.
I glanced at John, his expression all concern. I was a mess, but rules were rules, and the game show gods, as we all know, are notoriously fickle and cruel. With a forced grin and a slightly manic skip, I grabbed Olivia’s hand and we made our way down. Time to play the part, even if my insides were screaming ‘pull the ripcord!’
As we all know, my first bid on the trampoline was less ‘triumphant bounce’ and more ‘spectacular belly flop.’ This next round, I was going to play it smart. I was going to consult the audience.
The Announcers voice boomed through the studio, announcing the next prize:
“Contestants, next up, a revolutionary new entertainment system!“ A dramatic pause hung in the air, thick with anticipation.
“A Nintendo Switch console package! A home video game system that transforms! Play on your TV, or take it with you!“ The crowd went wild. “And a Nintendo Switch Lite! A dedicated handheld system, perfect for portable play!“ More cheers.
“This package also includes a travel case! Keep your Switch protected on the go! And, a selection of accessories! Everything you need to maximize your gaming experience!“ Enthusiastic applause erupted.
“Who’s ready to bid?“
While Drew worked with the new contestants, I went into full espionage mode. I scanned the audience, a covert operative on a mission. If I had binoculars, I would have pulled them up, I knew what I was looking for. I spotted her: a mother, a beautiful chaos of frazzled hair and four boys ranging from ‘just discovered video games’ to ‘professional button mashers.’ She was my oracle. I locked eyes with her, and mouthed, “How much is it?“
Clear as day, she mouthed back, “$450.”
“Contestant Number Two,” Drew called, “what is your bid?“ I turned to Olivia, then back to Drew, and with a voice that was probably a few octaves too high, I blurted, “Four Hundred and Fifty Dollars, Drew!“
My heart was doing a frantic tap dance in my chest. I vaguely registered the other bids. It was all a blur of numbers being yelled out by the audience and responses by the contestants. Then, Drew’s voice, clear as a bell: ‘Actual retail price, $465.’
We won! Then it hit me, ‘oh shit, we won; now we have to go on stage! Oh double shit, the cameras! The whole world will get to see this glorious mess that I am.”
We ran onto the stage, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Olivia, ever the trooper, was right beside me, her small hand clasped tightly in mine. We exchanged smiles with Drew Carey, the studio lights a bit overwhelming, and then he began explaining the game. Sixteen boxes lined the stage, one held ten thousand dollars. But the mechanics of the game, the rules, the odds – none of it really sunk in. Because a voice, a quiet but insistent whisper, was already filling my awareness. “You know which one it is.” It wasn’t a guess, wasn’t a hunch. It was simply…knowing.
Before the game even began, before prices or choices or any of the usual game show chaos could unfold, I looked down at Olivia. “Let’s pick number eight, okay?” I said it with a certainty that surprised even me. She nodded, her eyes wide, and just like that, our choice was made.
The game began, and I vaguely realized there was more to it. Two toys were brought out, a price was given that was half of what one of the toys would cost. Half-off, they called it. The male model moving around and pointing at things made it even harder to concentrate. With each correct answer, half of the boxes disappeared.
Later, I’d learn from one of the directors that this was the hardest game they had, and that nobody had won in over a year. He said that everyone had stopped what they were doing backstage to root for us. With each choice, I guided Olivia, my confidence growing with every box that vanished. We got every guess right.
Then, only two remained. Eight and sixteen. Our choice, made before the game had even started, held firm. Olivia walked towards box number eight, a hush falling over the studio. She lifted the box, and an avalanche of cash came down. We had done it. The audience erupted in cheers.
I listened to that voice, that inner knowing, and it told us exactly what to do.
We didn’t make it to the Showcase Showdown. My spin on the Big Wheel landed me just shy of the top spot, and we were ushered off to join the ranks of the other winners. In retrospect, it was a blessing in disguise. The grand prizes were a trip to Turks and Caicos (where I already had a job and we frequently visited) and a new car (which we’d just purchased). Plus, the tax implications of these grand prizes were daunting, with a six-month wait to receive the prizes.
We left the studio and were sworn to secrecy. Our Price is Right adventure was to remain hidden until the show aired in April, almost five long months away. By then, the world had tilted on its axis. Covid lockdowns were in full swing, and the timing couldn’t have been more surreal. Our prizes arrived – the Nintendo Switch, a mountain of toys – but more importantly, the eleven thousand dollars (ten thousand from the game plus a bonus thousand for our Half-Off sweep!).
When the money arrived, lockdown life was taking its toll. The walls were closing in. John had just lost his job with the airline. Where he had worked for twenty plus years. Too much was changing too fast. So, we made a decision. We packed our trusty Jeep, loaded it with snacks and sanity, a kid, a dog, a hamster, and set out to explore. We called it our Coddiwomple, we didn’t know where we were going, we just knew we had to do it together. If we couldn’t be around people, we’d immerse ourselves in nature. Utah, Idaho, Montana, Washington, Oregon, California – the national parks became our refuge, our escape from the confines of quarantine. Plus, we had some money to do it with.
The trip was more than just a sightseeing adventure. It was a journey of self-discovery, a chance to breathe and reassess. Somewhere between the towering redwoods and the cascading waterfalls, a realization dawned: it was time to move on, time to leave Arizona. We started an entirely new life.
Looking back, I can’t help but see the strange synchronicity of it all. The unlikely path that led us to that stage in Burbank, on that day when everything was working against me. The recurring number eight that seemed to follow me everywhere, the voice that whispered the answer before the game even began. It was as if the universe had orchestrated this series of events, guiding us towards a new beginning.
The prize money became our lifeline, allowing us to step away, to explore, to ultimately land on our feet in a new state.
It felt like divine intervention, a guiding hand leading us through uncertainty. A few decades earlier, I would have readily attributed this to God, proclaiming from the rooftops, ‘Look what God has done!’ Even now, the feeling persisted, yet my deconstruction had left a void where that belief once resided. So, who had orchestrated this improbable sequence of events? Perhaps my journey wasn’t truly over. Perhaps this experience was an invitation to explore further this very idea one what we call ‘God,’ to understand its potential beyond the doctrines I had left behind.
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