The strands of God I braid into lifelines are made of rags, dried roots, aches, pains, snake skins, and sun. My images of God are stained by blood and the poison leaves of rhubarb, crushed, boiled, dried, and painted on muslin shipped from India, the cloth of royalty, spun with pride by beautiful brown people starving for a chance at life.
There are those who keep their meditations and rituals tight and tidy, like spiritual minimalists. They expect God to do the same. Variations on good and evil are not tolerated because of the mess that creates. But I can absolutely assure you, attempts to keep God simple and sorted out never work.
God appears or withdraws without warning. God ignores, intrudes, laughs, cries, gallops away, swims back, soars, grovels, snorts, pouts, lurks, flaps, crawls, and overstays any kind of real or imagined welcome. I lament the naïve worship of false saviors and the primitive ways we think we can protect ourselves.
“And what about plastic?” God asks, joining my foray into complexities and despair. “Tupperware was once regarded as a miracle.” God takes the shape of a vacuum cleaner, then a fridge; God infuses a book of photos of my chemo baldness and the breastless beauty of my friend’s short-term victory over cancer. God is flippant and fancy, playing the fool to cheer me up.
“Be ye still, God,” I say to all the moving pieces.
“Good one,” God laughs and pulls me onto the trampoline. God is protective, warning those close to me that I can’t be bounced as high anymore. Even though this signals the condition of my bones, I am comforted by the attention.
“I know you pretty well,” God says, watching me jump. “I wish you’d stay off ladders.”
“Oh, take a hike,” I say.
“Good idea,” God says. And away we go.
This is the Big Truth. We can neither contain nor control God: not in rituals, not in words, not in ideas (simple or otherwise), not in rules, not in promises, not in skylines or photos—even from the Hubble telescope. God refuses to be shaken down, defined, spoken for, or reduced. Thus, it is wise to entertain sorrow, welcome the stranger, love the enemy, and find strength in the profound, complex joy that is life itself. God’s blood is the blood we bleed. It is on loan from eternity.
Short visits with an honest God 
I love how God in your writing always seems to remind me not to take myself to seriously. Humbling and relieving.
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Thanks, Dylan. It is a kind of mixed relief / sadness that none of us, alone, can save the world…As Billy Joel has made clear, we didn’t start the fire…but I keep a bucket of water close by anyway.
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Wow! Awesomely inspiring with a wonderful Catholic bent. Thank you dear Rita.
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Thanks, Suvendrini. I actually thought it had a fairly anti-Catholic undercurrent :). My co-author is quirky that way.
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Rita, every Sunday I look forward to your beautiful words of wisdom, and I loved this one today. The simple, but not easy, idea that since we can’t contain nor control we instead would be served by being open to all of what comes really touched me. Thanks.
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Carol, every Sunday, I sit in my old blue writing chair, edit, edit some more, often tear up, chew my nails, and finally post. It is SO cool to hear from you and other readers…makes it all worth the struggles. Thanks.
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Very Nice, Rita
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Thanks, Ric.
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Oh Rita, how can you say what is in my heart and head? And you phrase it much more elegantly than I ever could!!! Presently, I keep close to my heart the belief that there is a God and she has my very best welfare on her radar, but my partner and I are facing homelessness unless we can manifest a new place to live (here in CA) for less than $700/month. We’re trying to find an old camper van that is inhabitable. Patricia has severe chronic healthcare needs (received a kidney transplant last Oct.) and cannot dwell on the streets in a tent. Housing lists are closed with waiting times from months to years. If it’s a good day for you, and you think your honest God might hear you, would you put in a request for housing for Patricia and me? I appreciate it!
Big hugs to you and John!
Brenda Binkerd
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Hey Brenda, this sounds horrid, and I know my coauthor agrees and is heart-sick with and for you and Patricia. I cannot explain the mysteries of inequity, suffering, or death. I only know God is in the trenches, torn up and hungry, waiting with us for better days, or the end of days. Sending back hugs and hope.
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