“The mythical versions of you are far more palatable than the possibility of you,” I told God who was lurking in the predawn shadows. My mind was slightly disheveled, body and soul stiff and creaky. A mouse scrabbling in the closet had yanked me awake. Troubling uncertainties leaked from the murky remnants of deep sleep.
“No they’re not,” God answered, flitting like a sparrow from idea to idea. “Mythical versions are made by humans. They’re fear-based and jagged.”
“Some are,” I agreed. “But some portray you as all light. Soft, loving, pliable, and boundless.”
“Really?” God asked. “I guess I’m not familiar with all my renditions.”
“This is an absurd conversation,” I said to the deep-eyed leper who has stared at me through the same nonglare glass for 40 years. “It is impossible to know God,” I said to the pewter angel from my mother-in-law’s collection. “I did not ask to be born,” I told the yellowing leaves. “And you’ve made a terrible mistake,” I said to the mouse.
None of my declarations stopped the digital clock from flashing up new numbers. My small victories mattered little to the wind. The earth is still quaking, and there are those awaiting the death of God with a certain eagerness. They rub their hands in anticipation, planning ways to distribute what’s left behind. Sometimes, I am among them.
“All ye in need of rest, I have a hammock,” God declared. “All ye without a cause, I have some little gods for sale.”
“Are you certain that’s how you want to start this day?” I asked.
“Certainty is over-rated,” God said, sharp teeth gleaming through the fleeting crimson sunrise.
I fought my way out of bed, fended off the vertigo, baited the mousetrap, and opened the fridge gingerly, as if I were lifting the seventh seal—the final seal—the ultimate pandora’s box—the well-earned wrath of a frustrated deity. In truth, all I wanted was my dark beer, but it’s better to be ready for anything.
“It’s always the end times and the beginning,” God said.
“I know,” I sighed. “But that’s hard for linear creatures like us.”
“You’re tougher than you look!” God said.
“So are you,” I said, wary but alive. We exchanged respectful nods and made our way into the rapidly forming substance of another day.
“Hey, could you give me a hand?” God yelled from the trunk of the ancient crabapple tree.
I nodded. Last night’s storm had twisted the hammock into knots. It took us forever to straighten it out.
Short visits with an honest God 