Guests

Upstream from us, there’s an old guy who’s been known to shoot off his rifle when rafters float by. I don’t do that. But it does throw me off when God lands on our sandy bank and strides to the house, excessively tattooed, dreadlocks flowing, a nearly naked wife and a gaggle of chattering children trailing behind. My compassion wriggles away like a garter snake in tall grass. I am wary and antagonistic. God is far less challenging as a superhero or a ray of light.

I rally and force myself to be nice to this God of awful multiplicities and entitled bearing. It’s a shallow nice, verging on phony. This is God the Other. No wonder humans so readily fear and hate The Other.

“Welcome,” I say, half-heartedly. “Would you all like something to drink?”

“Sure. Sweet tea if you have it,” God says. “Nice place you got here.”

My suspicions flare. Are they casing the joint? Am I under surveillance? Will my hospitality be repaid by something nefarious, manipulative, or even deadly? Will I be poisoned?

“Oh, you’ve already been poisoned,” God chuckles.

“Snack?” I say, offering a tray of fresh vegetables with hummus. Snap peas, green peppers, and little carrots.

The children make gagging noises and demand bacon. I hate the smell of bacon, and God knows this. They open the fridge and stare. I don’t like the door open. I don’t like my leftovers being examined.

God runs the hot water too long, pees in the garden, and dominates the conversation. There are wet socks everywhere.

As I make lunch for them, they mention taking a little siesta.

“It isn’t even noon,” I protest.

“Yeah, but it’s so hot. We’re tired. Could you unload the raft while we put our feet up for a spell?”

Unload the raft? My heart sinks. God appears to be moving in. I have no space for this. No bandwidth. There’s not a charitable thought in my head.

A gentle breeze cools the heat of my rapid-fire fears and defenses. It’s God.

“Center,” she whispers. “Deep breath. You can do this.”

“I know,” I hiss back. “But why, God? Why?”

“Practice,” God grins. “Do you think we enjoy being so unsettling? You’re our neighbor, honey. We love you. We do this for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” God says. The entire Collective grabs the plate of cookies. Crumbs fly as they gobble more than their share. Then they curl innocent and nap like cats in the sun.

The crumbs are holy, I remind myself, sweeping the kitchen, surprisingly calm. The crumbs are holy, and I am loved.