I think God is still laughing about the fact he made it rain potatoes on Gateway Presbyterian Church.

It’s my fault the Almighty loosed a ton of his starch-filled wrath, or maybe mirth, upon the congregation of 100 who have been meeting for half a century at their church on Castle Road.

You see, I made this wisecrack during a Sunday service. As a deacon at Gateway, one of my duties is seeing that the needy get Thanksgiving food baskets. That means coming up with five pounds of spuds for 30 families on the city’s west side.

As announcements were made one recent Sunday about classes, fellowship activities and the like, I stood up from my pew, always near the rear of the sanctuary.

“Thanksgiving is coming up and the deacons need potatoes,” I said. Straightforward enough.

This group has heard me tout the Deacons Fund. They could probably recite the unemployment and poverty numbers I’ve rattled off in pursuit of whatever is weighing down their wallets.

So I decided some levity might be in order. But leave it to me to crack the joke that set off the Alpha and Omega.

“So, if you’ve got, say, 150 pounds of potatoes to spare, drop them by the church and we’ll get them to where they need to go,” I said, drawing a chuckle from the congregation, and apparently a roar of laughter in Heaven.

The Great Potato Flood began as soon as the service ended.

Presbyterians, a sect that stems from Scotland, are seen by most as a tight-fisted bunch. The old saying about the Presbyterian’s Sunday routine reflects that: “One Hour. One buck. One God.”

But the folks at Gateway are incredibly generous, especially when you ask for food.

As I was leaving that Sunday, sacks of potatoes started coming in through the doors, overwhelming the red cart reserved for donations to the needy.

Then a congregant delivered unto me a visitor — Scott Carrithers, who is generous and happens to own Penrose Country Market.

“How about Thursday?” he asked. “I’ll bring the potatoes, some yams and a couple of turkeys.”

I started thinking about potato recipes the church could use at the Lord’s Dinner soup kitchen, and gratefully accepted his gift.

The potatoes kept coming. “It’s only 500 pounds,” I said during a meeting of the Deacons that Tuesday.

Thursday morning, my calm veneer disappeared.

“I ordered a bin of potatoes,” Carrithers said over the phone. “It was a little bigger than I thought.”

Whereas I needed only 150 pounds, through Divine intervention, or maybe just a typo, 1,500 pounds of reds and russets were on the way.

“That’s great,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound panicked. “I’m sure we can use them.”

Carrithers delivered as promised. A former Wal-Mart manager, he bought the store in Penrose to escape the corporate world. Then, when his son, Bryan, 18, was stricken with bone cancer, he saw how generous people can be. He lives to give back the love he experienced during Bryan’s struggle and recovery.

At work, I explained that some of the day would be spent pursuing recipients of nature’s noblest tuber. I had visions of standing alongside Highway 24, toting a cardboard sign reading “Free Potatoes.”

It almost came down to that. One big soup kitchen, recommended by many, said, “We just can’t use them.”

Photo Editor Stuart Wong told me to call his church, New Song.

Steve Brown at West Side Cares, a charity in Old Colorado City, expressed worry about storage problems, but agreed to help me get Carrithers’ weighty donation into the proper hands.

Brown got 300 pounds, which will go to families and be cut and mashed for dinners to help those in need.

New Song Church took another 300 pounds, which they will give to needy people. Then came Care and Share. The charity helps people throughout southern Colorado and plans to deliver 19 million pounds of food next year. To them, my issue was small potatoes.

I will never again doubt the Almighty’s desire to help folks in need this time of the year. Or this region’s desire to deliver in the face of skyrocketing unemployment and a sour economy.

“How about 500 pounds on Monday?” I asked Harvey Polk, a Care and Share customer service rep, after unloading a truckload.

“We’ll be here,” he said.