The Rapture . . . or maybe not

Two days ago as my husband and I were literally mashing mud in our attempts to plant strawberry starts in our garden, he mentioned, 'hey, did you know that tomorrow is the Rapture?'  Now that hit me as ironic, annoying, and funny at the same time.  Was he trying to convince me that our strawberry planting adventure was useless?  Or that yet another self-proclaimed prophet was willing to put his reputation, privacy, and possibly his very life on the line just to suggest that the rest of us look up to the sky at some predetermined moment for The Big Return?  Was I supposed to think that my husband was longing to escape the strawberry planting adventure for the hockey game on TV?  Or that he was having a sudden and disturbing moment of enlightenment.  Well, whatever . . . I don't believe in The Rapture, or even know for sure if I'm supposed to capitalize its reference.  No matter . . . if and when it does happen you can bet that my Puritan work ethic will put me at the end of the line to the escalator to wherever because I simply cannot allow even one little plant to wither in the compost pile.  Perhaps the critters that inhabit the earth after we all jump off will enjoy those ripe strawberries.  Or maybe I'll just hang out here on earth awhile longer until ET visits and makes a better offer.