Short visits with an honest God
The scent of innocence, the vernacular of grace, written in the Mother Tongue
You can now order this book for $13.99 on our favorite giant company’s website.
What a nice gift idea. What a great way to welcome another year. What a smart way to remember your favorites…
I’ll happily be reminding you of this in coming posts. In the meantime, stay warm. Find peace. And partake of the NOW.
Thank you!!!
Rita
PS: When I try to put a link to AMAZON, it doesn’t something odd. Google Amazon, when on the page that lets you search, type in my name as author….and Good Luck!!
Due to recent excessive flooding, the gates of heaven have rusted open. Many are desperately trying to push them shut, but those damn gates won’t budge. I’ve heard that the administration plans to soak them in petroleum until the hinges loosen up and the wrong sort can be excluded again.
But for now, carcasses are rolling in unjudged and unimpeded except for the extra stars being glued to the crowns of those who were murdered, tortured, raped, or starved to death. These bodies often come in so emaciated or mutilated that they can’t be identified. Luckily, the Coauthor has published at least one story with every last one of them. These improbable tales of love, loss, and triumph provide guidance for the transformation of their bones. Even the shortest of stories, even the lowliest of lives.
The corpses of the blithely blessed, the perpetrators, monsters, and the enormously greedy are arriving too, but they’re receiving only standard allocations of stars. And no wings. Rumor has it that they’re trying to produce their own private stars and are threatening steep tariffs on feathers and halos.
“Don’t worry,” the Coauthor tells me. “Soon enough, it won’t matter. They’re making fake stars from rare earth elements and unfortunately, your planet is already on life support from all that extraction. All those wars. It won’t be long now.”
“Oh, God!” I exclaim. “Can’t you chip through the rust and slam those gates shut?”
My Coauthor looks at me with sad eyes. “Et tu, Brute?”
“What do you mean?” I demand, but I know exactly what she means, and I hate it. Liars and con men are trashing this beautiful earth. I don’t want justice, I want revenge. People I love have been treated unfairly. I don’t want mercy. I want revenge.
Revenge grows aggressively in the dark waters of the wounded, indignant heart. If you hurt me, I’ll hurt you. If you survive, you’ll hurt me worse, and so it goes, even unto death. One of us will go to hell. And then the other. It’s possible to break the cycle, but forgiveness is something most of us find difficult if not intolerable.
“Ah, maybe leave those gates open,” I mumble. “Afterall, we’re only human.”
The Coauthor turns her palms up in a gesture of helplessness.
“So true,” she says. “But in this iteration, you’re all I’ve got. And that just kills me. Any chance you could put on your Big Girl pants?”
“I don’t remember how.”
The Coauthor looks at me skeptically. “One leg at a time,” she says. “And hold someone’s hand if you need to. Balance is important.”
Do-over Day
(for my exhausted compatriots)
Things happen when the truth gets too close to the surface.
People grow more defensive. For instance, last night
the neighbors lit so many candles
against the coming storm
that their house burned
to the ground.
Do-over day.
Some of the children have chosen to fly too close
to the sun, and their tender wings are undone,
dripping wax down their arms, but maybe
it’s worth it for that kind of light,
that kind of spectacle,
that kind of end.
Do-over day.
Behold! That which is old has birthed something new,
And that which was new has now grown old.
If you hold love too close to your heart
it will explode from all that pressure.
Let it go. It will grow or perish
all on its own.
Do-over day.
You know this by the smell of ground coffee
and offerings burnt to perfection, and syrup
sweet and sticky, the pitcher too close
to the edge. If it falls, it will shatter,
and you will be tempted to say
I told you so.
Do-over day.
This is the time to go back to bed, cover your head,
and resolve to kick the bejesus out of anyone
who tries to get too close while you regroup
in the primordial soup where you began.
You speak softly to your bent reflection
but she’s asleep.
Let her rest.
Short visits with an honest God 