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“Let’s see,” God said. “Whom shall I forgive today?” She was sitting at our dining table, running her fingers down a long scroll like Santa Claus, deciding who’d been naughty or nice, or St. Peter deciding whether to open the pearly gates. God, hard at work, discerning the hearts of…of who? Where? Why?

I sat down across from her with my nicely-whitened coffee and watched. Granting forgiveness is a big job. I wondered if I was on the list of offenders, and if so, what I’d done to get there. Almost every day, I throw a blanket “Sorry” out to the universe–sometimes for my own hateful, selfish behaviors. Sometimes, more of a mass acknowledgement that we humans have really fucked things up.

After what seemed like an eternity, God stopped mumbling to herself and looked up. Her face was glowing. “That feels so darn good,” she said. “I should do that at least a couple times a day.”

“Do what?” I asked, trying to keep the envy out of my voice. I hardly ever see God looking this serene and happy. I felt like the customer in When Harry Met Sally who said “I’ll have what she’s having” as she watched Sally fake an orgasm over a plate of food.

God smiled, knowing exactly what I was thinking. “It is kind of orgasmic,” she said. “Forgiveness is like yoga for the soul. Rest for the weary. Truth for the inquisitive. So good.” She reached over and squeezed my shoulder. A friendly gesture, I guess, but her hands were like burning coals. My shoulder fell off. The intense warmth spread rapidly. Everything fell off. I would’ve screamed for help, but my voice was gone.

Whatever I had once been was now strewn all over the dining room floor—chunks of ego and defensiveness melting like ice. The hound of heaven, lapping me up. The insults and the injuries, the malice and the madness. For a fraction of a second, I loved my enemies. I loved my liquid self. I loved the scorching hot God—the strangest friend I will ever have.

“Thanks,” I thought.

“You’re most welcome,” God said. “You look good all puddled up like that.” She extended her foot, and with one exquisitely long toe, she touched the last of me. The toe glowed, sizzling, blistering, flaming hot.

“So that’s forgiveness?” I said, refusing to completely disappear.

“Yup,” said God. “So good.”

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Some people choose to refashion themselves into cardboard cutouts so fragile they’re in chronic danger of ripping, dissolving, or falling completely apart. They’ve armed themselves with knives–tips dipped in venom—and weaponry of all shapes and sizes, ready to defend against the shadows flickering at their cardboard feet. They don’t seem to know that rain falls on the just and the unjust; that shadows only define the light.

Today, I have turquoise hair, ivory teeth, ruby lips, and purple nails. Bright orange ideas curl around my head like steam. I breathe in a sober version of the living, illusive God and breathe out the drunken mess of trivial, egocentric gods that power most of us along.

“Hey, Source of All That Matters,” I say to the gathering clouds. “Is this the day?”

“Of course,” Source says back. “It’s always the day.”

This brings to mind time zones and happy hours, datelines, eclipses, sun spots, and lunar new years stacked end on end like shipping crates from China. “No, Source,” I say. “I mean from my perspective. Not global. Not cosmic. And not yours. Crawl in behind my eyes for a minute. Wrap up in my skin. Flex my biceps, rub my neck, touch that worrisome mole. Try to remember what you were going to do next. Limit yourself to my synaptic firings and misguided outcomes.”

Source of All That Matters sighs. “Okay,” she says in something other than a voice. “But turnabout’s fair play.”

I’m not going to back down. “Sure, fine.” I shrug. Being God for a day sounds easy. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could do a better job.  But right now, I want God to understand how hard it is to be me.  “What are you waiting for?” I say, taunting. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”

Source of All That Matters laughs and is gone. Or I think she’s gone. I must have scared her off. Could I have scared her off? What the heck? That was stupid. Why do I always, well, who do I think… Ah, the rain. The red-winged blackbird. The golden finch. A day so finely textured it will never come again: Manna from heaven; malice from hell. Cardboard armies, nuclear bombs, wasp nests, robin eggs, duct tape, baling wire.

Just over the horizon, the shimmering mirage of another day is forming in the womb of creation while this day bursts open like a seed pod. I turn my back to the lightening. Thunder loosens my bones. Under my fingernails, the black soil of now; in my pockets, choices. Chances. Tedium and change. The underbelly of God is soft and seductive. I’m too heavy to move.

Enough?” asks Source.

“Oh, yeah.” I nod with a head barely fastened on. “Enough.”