Bored

God yawned as I complained about the demands of the coming day. This was not unusual. Sometimes God and I get bored with each other. To liven things up, I keep a steady supply of driftwood and other distractions nearby. There are old windows with rippled glass, stacks of books, blank canvasses, angular stones, and stairs going nowhere.

“I’m not bored,” God claimed between yawns. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

“The nights are getting colder,” I said. “Maybe you need more blankets.”

I had no idea what makes for a good night’s sleep for the Entirety of the Universe, and I don’t know where the Holy Ones rest. But I was a little chilly last night. Funny how we impose our own solutions on the problems of others. This might be a loving impulse, but it can also be quite self-centered.

Besides, I wasn’t sure I believed him. The yawning wasn’t the only sign. It was the restlessness in the room, the drumming fingers, the sense of confinement and finality. It was half-eaten toast, the dull movement of time, the impossibility of eradicating weeds, the distant call of migrating geese.

 “I don’t know, God,” I said. “I think you are bored. Maybe you didn’t rest well because you’ve lost your zest for life.

“Maybe,” God agreed. “I’ve been feeling a little down lately. Humans are growing increasingly abhorrent to the rest of the galaxy. You’re so darn short-sighted and greedy. I don’t see things ending up the way I’d hoped.”

Sometimes, when God talks like this, I fold inward in despair. But this time, I rallied. “God, you need to get a grip,” I said. “You are not helpless, and you aren’t a quitter. Don’t give up on us—or at least, on some version of us. You’ll feel terrible if you do.”

God took a last swig of coffee and sighed. “You might be right. Where’d you put those extra covers? Maybe I will try a little nap.”

I grabbed a down comforter I’d found at a thrift shop and the patchwork quilt my grandmother made from worn-out clothing. God curled his weary body, and I tucked him in. “Rest well,” I whispered as I kissed the wrinkled forehead of eternity.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. He snuggled deep into the stubbornly hopeful scraps of endless generations and began to snore. I tiptoed out to the garden, sat on my favorite boulder, and peacefully imagined the shimmering possibilities on a horizon I will never see.