Estate Planning

“I’ve been updating my will,” God said the other day.

I wrinkled my nose. Estate planning is no one’s idea of fun, and I react negatively when the subject is mentioned. But then I did a double take. “You’re doing WHAT?”

It was confusing, not to mention deeply troubling, to think of Alpha, Omega, Parent, Child, and Still Small Voice documenting their final wishes. Who are the heirs? And what would these heirs do if they inherited creation because The Creator ceased to exist?

“Like we said, we’re doing some estate planning,” they said. “We have a long list of nonprofits to consider.”

“Is this some kind of game?” I asked. Occasionally, God uses absurdity to make a point.

God chuckled and kept typing.

I persisted. “Look, you’re a lot of things, but mortal isn’t one of them. By definition, whoever or whatever you are is forever, right?” My voice had gone from suspicious to panicky.

God ignored my uncertainty and asked. “What would you like to inherit?”

I hate questions like that. I hemmed and hawed, aware of a selfish longing to inherit everything, but unwilling to admit it. Instead, I said, “You know, someone once said that the meek would inherit the earth.” Then I added with a grin, “Luckily, I’m not that meek.”

 God grinned back. “Maybe we should change that so the liars and greedy inherit what’s left of the planet. But that’s not what I asked. What do you want?”

I backed away. The God of the Hardest Questions backed away with me.

I stopped, aware of some rising indignation. “The gifting goes both ways, you know. Once, I gave you everything. And you returned it to me slightly stained, but basically untouched.”

“Ah. So that’s how you remember it?” The Many Faces asked. “That’s funny. We forget how linear and language-bound you are right now.” Then they sang a little ditty.

Everything is yours.

Everything is mine.

Everything is nothing.

And everything is fine.

“Oh, that’s so cute,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “When all else fails, write a little poem. Sing a little song.”

“All else hasn’t failed, Little Buddy,” God said. “Relax.” Then they began to sing again.

Finish this parable.

Be of good cheer.

Decorate your coffin.

Drink your beer.

“Sure thing, Skipper,” I lifted my glass, took a long sip of the inexplicable, and in my last edit, added, “If you ever do kick the bucket, I’d like to inherit your irony.”

“Sure thing,” God laughed and hit the Save button. “It’s all yours.”