A/N: This was a story written for GenreChallenge, a group of writers that submits monthly stories of a single genre each month. December 2008 happened to be Time Travel. This is my humorous interpretation of how this could happen without involving time machines and the grandfather paradox. Just a bit of fun, no offense intended towards anyone of any gender or race.

**************** How Jesus Saved My Wedding********************

He woke up to the sounds of his in-laws arguing.

"What do you mean, the minister's a woman?! I thought I told you Episcopalian heretics—"

"Who's to say that women can't preach the gospel just as well as a man, you chauvinistic—"

From the space beside him, his wife—no, at this point she was still his fiancée—sighed. She wiped some of the crusted drool off of his stubble and said, "Well, they're trying at least. I mean, Daddy hasn't called your father a—"

" –gutless son of a diseased whore!" came roaring from downstairs.

He stared at the wall. She stared at the pillow.

"….well, the more things change, right?" Angelique hesitantly chuckled. Tyler gave her a quick peck on the lips, and got out of bed.

The two soon-to-be-wed youngsters walked into the kitchen, still clad in their matching flannel pajamas, only to hear the argument between their fathers escalating. Their mothers were both cooing over a baby blanket, completely ignoring their husbands.

"You don't expect me to take that lying down, now do you?!" Angelique's Hispanic Catholic father roared, spit flying through the air.

"I'm surprised you can muster the energy to stop lying down for anything," Tyler's Irish Episcopalian dad snarled back from his wheelchair.

"Oh, you two are awake ! Mona and Tomas brought donuts!" his mom chirped, indicating a box of Krispy Cremes on the counter. Tyler made a beeline for the coffee pot. He figured even Oprah needed caffeine in the morning.

Angelique, however, gave the two sets of parents a good-morning hug and kiss each, and was promptly dragged off by the women. "See you all in a few hours!" Tyler's mom giggled, while Angelique's mother soundly warned them in accented English to, "stay out of their way, and not to peek" upon pain of many painful-sounding Spanish phrases.

A bit more awake after his second cup, ignoring the antics of his bickering fathers, he made to leave the room.

"And where the hell do you think you're going, boy?" growled his Da.

"……to get ready?" Tyler rasped.

Mr. Finnegan snorted. "Who d'ye think is gonna cook all the food, boy?" His arms pounded the armrests on his wheelchair. "Can't exactly reach the stove now, can I?"

Tyler looked at Mr. Mendez. "Let me take a quick shower, and we'll get started."

Mr. Mendez was about to reply when Mr. Finnegan boomed, "The hell you will! Get your lazy ass moving!" He transferred his glare to the older Hispanic man. "And you get your Mexi-mobile off of my goddamn lawn, or my boys at the station will drag you buy your shrunken dick back to Mexico, you gormless –"

"For the last time, you deaf heretic, we're Salvadorian!"

Sighing, Tyler started pulling things out of the fridge, realizing that it was useless to count on anyone but himself to prepare the wedding food. Pretty much all of his female role models, including Oprah, Tyra Banks, and Martha Stewart, would have done the same, he mused. And horrible start aside, he clung to the knowledge that after the preparations were over, today would be the happiest day of his life.

*******

'Happiest day of his life' could go drown itself in the grocery store-bought carrot wedding cake. He hoped it gagged on the rock hard icing.

It was the worst wedding ever. Not even Miss Manners could have brought it back to life.

Tyler figured he really loved Angelique, or else he wouldn't be putting up with this crap (although, he internally groused, if she loved him she would've eloped like he'd asked). The food sucked, since he got distracted when the tow truck that he didn't know his Da had called tried to lug away Mr. Mendez's car (he tried to ignore his Da's random cackles), and ended up burning most of what he had already prepared. Since there wasn't enough time to re-cook things, they just had to make do. Rachel Ray would have been horrified.

Aside from hectically trying to greet each guest by himself (since Angelique was still, apparently, getting ready, but dear lord did women take forever), he didn't start panicking until he realized that his best man STILL hadn't shown up. But, keeping in mind Mother Teresa, he trusted his best friend, and believed that he would end up delivering a miracle.

He was soon distracted by the fact that there wasn't going to be music, since the DJ (a friend of a friend's brother) bailed on them, without a reason or even a replacement. He swore. Loudly and frequently.

Aside from that, the whole affair was small, so the cost of everything was probably way more than they were going to get in wedding gifts, if any of them were even monetary (which, by the dearth of envelopes, hinted that they were going to soon have three toasters and other useless trinkets).

The ceremony started and ended without his best man. Tyler had gotten a phone call a half an hour into the reception, with his best buddy, the guy that he'd agreed to be eachother's kids' godparent, asking for bail money to get himself out of a Tijuana prison. Tyler had hung up. So much for a Mother Teresa special.

And the coup d'état was that Angelique had, mortifyingly enough, had ….well…. the official story was pasta sauce smeared all onto her dress, but even he knew that sauce wouldn't make that shade of red on that part of the lacy white gown. Not even Princess Di could have pulled that one off as a fashion statement.

After the first dance (shuffling around the grill to the sound of his mother-in-law acapella), he lost sight of his new wife. He found Angelique sobbing in the laundry room.

"Shh…. Honey, it's okay…." He muttered, rubbing small circles on her back. He wondered what Michelle Obama would do.

Angelique hiccupped. "N-no it's not," her chin quivered, "a-and this d-dress was my mother's!" She began bawling in earnest. He continued making the weird cooing noises he'd seen the girls from Sex and the City do to each other when they were angsting. Chick flicks were godsends sometimes.

But in his heart of hearts, he was bawling right beside Angelique, for the awful, horrible day.

******

That night, he had a dream. What made it different from his normal dreams was that it included fluffy clouds, the Pyramids, and a big black woman.

"….even Helen Keller would have known not to eat that cake," he berated himself.

The woman ha-rumphed. "Its-a not tha', yuh dum-ass. Imma here t' make dis," she fluttered her hand around aimlessly, "—ting right."

He mindlessly stared at her.

"De' weddin', idjit!"

Tyler scowled. "Hey!" A few seconds passed. "What do you mean, make things right? What's done is done—unless you can get Mr. Mendez's truck back, which would be awesome. That way I don't have to pay the tow bill."

"Ah mean, joo are-a gonna fix dis, an' make dat weddin' de finest day o'yo live." She crossed her arms over her overly gracious chest and gave a 'harummph'. "Joo can do what joo wan' to fix dat mess wif de' car. Is-a piece o'crap anyway—Ford Exploder '95 my ass! Is-a death trap, yo!"

Sighing, Tyler played along. "How on Earth are you going to do that? Fix things, I mean." Internally, he thought that not even Joan of Arc could have beaten the monster that was yesterday.

"Joo no' list'ning. Joo are-a gonna fix tings. An' stop tinkin' o'Earth. Dis is Heaven."

Tyler couldn't find a response for that (for multiple reasons. One of them being the lack of Toni Morrison. Another being the presence of the pyramids. He grumbled, really….?) After a few minutes of pointless staring at each other, the woman sighed once more.

"Is 'cause Imma Jesus, fool."

Tyler gawked at her. She beamed back at him.

Finally, after what she just said had enough time to beat into his brain, he exploded.

"Listen, I'm an open-minded guy, and I can accept that Jesus COULD HAVE been black, and was definitely Jewish. However, I am positive that Jesus was NOT a woman."

The now-revealed Jesus snorted. "Oh yea? Howdjoo know? 'snot like you were-a 'round back den. Ida remembe'red. Unless you were one a' those mofos a' da end throwin' salt 'n vinegar inta my nail wounds. Hurt like an ax-a-dental cast-a-ra-shun!"

"This is ridiculous!"

"No, what's ridi-q-less is dat Imma still gonna sendjoo back ta fix all dis shit. 'cause Imma jest too too nice for m'good. And Suzie B. A. put inna good werd fo joo, an' Mama say okay. So joo gonna fix tings. Got dat, brat?"

"What on earth—"

"Tuh-rye Heaven. Bye bye, birday!"

"Whaaaagghhaaaaa~!"

"Humph, still goddit!"

The last thing he saw was her laughing, and then scrunching her nose up and stabbing her body forward in a half-second genie bow.

With that, the dream ended.

…..And Tyler woke up to the sounds of his in-laws arguing.

"What do you mean, the minister's a woman?! I thought I told you Episcopalian heretics—"

"Who's to say that women can't preach the gospel just as well as a man, you chauvinistic—"

From the space beside him, his wife—no, at this point she was still his fiancée—sighed. She wiped some of the crusted drool off of his stubble and said, "Well, they're trying at least. I mean, Daddy hasn't called your father a—"

" –gutless son of a diseased whore!" came roaring from downstairs.

……oh God.

He was back. He didn't know how, or why, but….. here he was. Because apparently Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and (for some reason) Susan B. Anthony thought he was worth it. Even if it was all just a strange dream, he could change things. Live up to the expectations of his female heroes and make this the happiest day of his….and his wife's…. life.

And not only that….

…..but the knowledge that Jesus was a forty-something black woman with a G-cup gave him enough mettle to start the day. Not even Ayumi Hamasaki could top that.