C'est fou, mon Dieu.

My mother believes in angels. Al Michaels believes in miracles. Hunter Flint simply believes that Jah, or whoever He is, works in mysterious ways.

My philosophy isn't that much different. I just believe in signs, sent to us by something larger than ourselves. Et mon Dieu m’a envoyé un signe ce matin.

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My stomach wasn't happy. It was early, real early. Like six, seven in the morning I think -- my brain was too disoriented to truly take note. As I listened to and felt the growls rumbling from within, I already knew: A lot of veal and boiled rice was about to end up in Chez Knapp's upstairs toilet.

What a helpless feeling. Nothing can save you once you reach that point. I was a dead man walking.

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I tried in vain to sleep it off. But you can't pull one over on your own body like that. If it wants to hurl, it's gonna hurl.

As soon as that feeling of warm saliva began to massage my jaw bones, I knew it was time to move. "Eight a.m.," I remember registering from the midst of the early morning haze. "Should be a wonderful day."

My semi-sleepwalk from the bed to the toilet was brisque. The fuse had been lit, and there was no telling how much time I had before it blew.

"Here we go again..." I had made it to the big hunk of porcelain and plastic with plenty of time to position myself comfortably in front of it, the feeling of the cold tile floor on my knees somewhat thinning the fog in my brain.

T-Minus five, four, three, two, one...

And I mean lift off.

Ask any of my former roomates about the "loud throw-upper." They'll cringe. They will most definitely cringe.

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You remember Bibi, don't you? The Catholic matriarch of my European surrogate family, which in turn makes her either my surrogate Euro mother, or my surrogate Euro godmother. I can't decide which one just yet.

Bibi is fully aware of my story: Seven years of Catholic schooling in lower school followed by four years of Jesuit education for high school, which in turn has been followed by four-plus years of detachment from the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church.

The first time I ever met the Knapps -- in August 2004 -- was on a Sunday. I was hooping it up with Letitia and Toots -- the two Knapp girls -- when Bibi drove up in her minivan to pick them up. She asked me if I would like to go to Mass with them. I politely declined, something I wouldn't have dared to do had Breck -- the non-Catholic patriarch of Chez Knapp -- not held out himself. Power in numbers, after all, is a very comforting thing.

I meant no disrespect, but I was always afraid it was taken as such.

The battle to bring me back into the Vatican fold has been going on ever since. In other words, I get the feeling that in Bibi's eyes, I am a prime candidate for a Return of the Prodigal Son.

That was in August 2004, before I became eternally indebted to this family for the truckloads of hopsitality it has bestowed upon me.

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That's why, last night, I made a decision.

"I really should go to Mass tomorrow with Bibi and the kids," I conceded. It was the least I could do. "It would be a nice gesture -- I owe her one, after all."

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Eight hours later, I'm down on my knees in front of the toilet, feeling like absolute caca.

The search for an explanation was an exercise in futility. I didn't eat anything different from the rest of the family. I didn't drink out of a river like Hunter decided was perfectly fine when he and Chase went to Freiburg. I didn't booze. I didn't do anything out of the ordinary. All I did was go to bed, and when I woke up, my stomach was letting me know that Mass was not in the cards on this particular Sunday.

"Are you ready to get up?" Letitia -- the Knapp's oldest daughter -- asked when she came into my room to wake me at nine.

I groaned.

"I feel terrible. I'm not going. Tell your mom my vomit was a sign from God that He didn't want me to go to Mass today."

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I did my best to sleep off the agony, but did a shoddy job of it. I was either being punished for eating a poor, defensless baby cow the night before, or I was being warned that, after such a long sojourn from the Sunday pews, I was unworthy for admittance into God's house.

In other words, the Lord agreed that I was not worthy to receive Him, rather than saying the word. It's 5:30 in the afternoon, after all, and I still have not been healed.

(Only Catholics will understand that last paragraph).

I meandered downstairs around midday, hungry, groggy and unenthused about being alive. A few minutes later, Bibi entered.

"How do you feel?" she inquired, still unaware of my original plans to end my hold-out that very morning.

"Awful. I had even planned on going with you guys, today. But I guess me throwing up was just a sign from God that He didn't want me to attend."

I don't know if "skeptical" is explicit enough to describe the look Bibi shot back my way. The way she stared at me -- with no words coming forth from her lips -- told me that Letitia, Toots and Tomas would have had a better chance of convincing her that Spot had eaten their homework than the crappola I was serving up.

"See, Bibi?? It's just like you always say! GOD is in control!"

She wasn't moved.

"Well," Bibi said, a smirk beginning to develop. "That's fine. There are many more Masses today."

I smiled, busted like my last name was Douglas, waiting for the punch line that I could see about to come forth.

"So in fact, I am in control! Hahahaha!"

The struggle continues.