Lately I’ve been creating words with great deliberation because I’ve voluntarily immobilized some of my fingers with a splint to reduce the pain of a swollen joint. And I am unreasonably enraged. Every keystroke counts. Every option must be carefully considered. That’s how old this has all become: God and I exist almost beyond recognition, agitated by self-imposed limits and unrealistic longings as arbitrary and simplistic as the arrival of spring.
“Dear God,” I say, in a voice laced with ice. “Is there anything that would be enough?”
“No,” God answers, unapologetic. ”It’s more about hunger. Less about satiation.”
“But isn’t there a way to set the table so people get their just deserts?” I think my play on words is pretty funny.
“Depends on the menu,” God says, going with the analogy but staying on the serious side.
“Revenge,” I say, unwisely honest. “Revenge is on my menu today. Injury. Insult. Revenge.”
“Oh,” God says. “So that’s what you’re shopping for. Those aren’t commodities I distribute directly. But I can make some recommendations.”
“No thanks,” I say. “I’ve got reliable dealers.”
“I’m sure you do,” God says. “But time is short. Sleep in white sheets and don’t decorate to deceive.”
I consider this bizarre advice. The wounds I wish to inflict have surfaced in my joints and sinews. They limit my range of motion; they dwarf my imagination.
“God,” I say. “Doesn’t everyone decorate to deceive? And why worry about sheets?”
Sometimes, God explains. Sometimes God does not. As we sit quietly, it seems likely this is one of those times I’ll be stuck trying to explain things to myself. But after a moment, God adds, “Revenge is an autoimmune disorder.” He removes the splint, takes my hands, anoints them with coconut oil, kisses each swollen knuckle, and turns my palms up. I see down through the calloused layers of my life.
“If you sleep nude on white sheets, the colors of your dead skin leave distinct markings. Like a map—a recognition. A way forward.” God says. “It is good to shed dead skin. Good to leave evidence of your slow, distinct transformations.”
“But sometimes, I don’t want to transform, God. I want to get my offenders by the neck and do some transforming of my own.”
“Me, too,” God says. But he continues to hold my hands. Slowly, I move God’s hands up to my neck, cover God’s hands with mine, and wait. There is a pulsating warmth but no pressure. Then God gently slides his hands free and puts them around his own neck which has become a Giant Sequoia.
“I can’t reach,” I say.
“I know,” God says. “And I’m O.K. with that.”