What’s your favorite Bible verse? The Still Small Voices asked.
Are you crazy? I answered. Leave me alone. May we suggest Father forgive them for they know not what they do? No, you may not, I said. No. How about Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord? Depends, I said. What do you have in mind?
This is a fetus, not a child, sayeth the Lord. And this is a child, not a weapon. This planet is not a mercantile, and the least among you are starving. You have access to clean water and compassion, but you’re choosing hate. Vastly greedy fools are lifting glasses to their own demise. The lights are on, but soon, and very soon, no one will be home.
Do you think I am unaware of these things? I asked, the dog in my lap, warm.
You’ve gotten too big for your britches, They said. You make us laugh. And you’ve gotten too small to matter, I answered. So go ahead. Laugh. They began to sing. Let us laugh with the wren and walrus, the willow, the whale. I had a sudden change of heart. Laugh with me, I begged. Nah, They said. You’re not that funny.
But you said I made you laugh. You contradict yourselves. That we do, the jovial Voices admitted. That we do. And you’re obviously pleased with yourselves, I added. That we are. The Voices agreed. That we are. What about me? I whined. Can’t you be pleased with me?
Are you pleased with yourself? The Voices asked, sly as devils. Are you a forgiver?
But how do I forgive when no one is sorry? I asked, sullen. They shrugged. The sky slipped from their shoulders, pooling blue at their feet. All the world’s a stage, They said. And everyone stands naked at the end. Forgiveness will flow like lava, burn like cheap bourbon, and the party will end in ashes.
The airstrikes began again. The Voices gathered their belongings and joined the surging throng of refugees and overburdened donkeys. Don’t go, I whispered. Come with us, They said. I shook my head, but I knew eventually, I would. We are all fleeing something. Some of us linger. Some look back. Some don’t.
My favorite is Jesus wept, I shouted at their vanishing outlines. Jesus wept.
Oh, it’s so damn tempting to deny or excuse our own malice or mistakes, but this is a bad idea. Projecting failings onto enemies or loved ones doesn’t work, either. Deliberate unkindness or hidden imperfections cling to the soul and congeal into restrictive outer layers. As defensiveness dries in place, fault lines scar the surface. It often requires excruciating scraping to get back to original skin.
In my experience, it’s better to sit down and face those nasty shortcomings. I recommend having a dark beer in hand. I also make sure my Unifying Force is nearby, willing to listen and reason things through with me.
I usually lead with something like, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but lately, I may have been a little selfish, judgmental, and conniving.”
“Correct you if you’re wrong?” My Unifying Force bursts into belly-clutching gales of laughter. “Selfish, judgmental, and conniving?” She echoes my words between gasps for air. “Stop. You’re making me wet my pants.”
Sometimes, I use other words. Acknowledge other sins. But the ritual is the same. My Unifying Force hoots and snorts in mirth.
This is not infectious laughter. Nothing about this is funny. I don’t know why the Universe finds my confessions humorous, and I’m never sure whether to feel shame or claim vindication. I sit through the cosmic hilarity, setting my intentions, breathing, and yes, glaring and sweating a little.
The storm begins to subside, and I contemplate some form of forgiveness in exchange for another day. But I feel small. Diminished. I’m tempted to drown my sorrows, hop a freight train, or throw my puny body over a cliff. This is like transition time in birthing. Extreme dislocation.
Then, finally, the miracle. The punchline. The tonic. This sacrament is a circle dance. My shadow grabs my hand, and I remember the steps.
All the Unifying Forces sing lullabies to the babies, foxtrot around the graves, and dwell deep in the dung of human fallibilities. Beside us and within us, they shoulder the blame and share the exaltation. Best efforts fail. Bladders leak. Our fingernails are broken and unclean.
But this is how it’s meant to be. Who can tend a garden and stay perfectly pristine?
Sometimes, the Beyond and I find ourselves in agreement on human nature and human agency. And then we write a poem. WordPress makes poetic formatting a serious challenge, so we finally did a screenshot instead. Grandma Margaret often said, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” She didn’t add that the way would be rugged and nearly impassable sometimes–both in the realm of formatting AND in the realm of forgiving.
Some books have forewords by famous or knowledgeable persons who offer praise and guidance about the author and the content of the book. You can often alleviate confusion if you read the foreword before diving into the story.
Wouldn’t it be great if we were all born with forewords? Most of us would welcome a little prophetic commentary about our potential coherence and skillsets, and of course, hints about who’s who, what to expect, the plot, subplots, and dead ends.
God clears her throat, leans one elbow on the counter for balance, and kicks off her crocs to rub the soles of her malodorous feet. I startle and stare at the unshapely, overweight, gray-haired specter in my kitchen.
“I’m beat,” she groans. “Cashiered all night. We were so slammed I hardly had time to pee.”
“Nice costume!” I sneer. “You look great in polyester and frump. Makes me want to fall down and worship you right now.”
“Go ahead, Ms. Sarcasm. But you might confuse people. It’s not in your storyline.”
“Maybe. But remember the grieving summer when we danced naked in that abandoned house? Or the night I laid flat in the hayfield, digging my fingers into October dirt, dedicating every ounce of my being to whatever good we could do?”
God lifts a skeptical eyebrow, limps to the living room, plops down on the reclining couch, and raises the footrest.
“Ah, that’s better,” she says. “How’s your supply of Budweiser?”
Somehow, I knew this would be the next request. Does God have a predictable plotline? My own narrative favors dark beer, but I have leftovers from recent guests.
“How about a dusty IPA?”
She shrugs. “Fine. And maybe a bite to eat?”.
I rustle up what I’ve got. She chugs the beer, gobbles a few cheesy crackers, and falls asleep, mouth slack, crumbs on her chin.
The snoring of the exhausted poor permeates the dawn. I stare at the fallen arches and callouses of every worker, every waitstaff, at faces twisted into smiles, hoping for generous tips. Hoping for a raise.
The rich are gathered in the dining room, eating from the hands of domesticated children. They help themselves to precious metals, surcharge fuel, food, and basic necessities, and savor the best of the milk and honey.
My humble guest rouses herself and pats the cushion beside her. I collapse into our shared weariness and contemplate my chances (or anyone’s chances) of writing a happy ending.
“It seems like the last chapters almost write themselves,” I mumble, my heart heavy.
“True. Though judicious editors can make a world of difference.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But most people hate being edited.”
“You don’t like being referred to as Myth and Ritual, do you?” I asked my friend, Myth and Ritual, as September settled around us.
“Not really,” Myth and Ritual answered. “But people do what they have to do. I do what I have to do. Very little is predetermined, but very little is conscious choice.”
This didn’t surprise me. I want to think people have choices. That God has choices. But it’s never that simple.
Take death, for example. Over 6,000 people will die during the hour I spend writing this morning. Not many of them will have chosen to die, but nonetheless, they will pass gently or violently, awake or asleep, young or old, into what humans call death.
“Yes, choice appears to be a rather limited concept,” I echoed. “So whose calling the shots?”
“Ah, there are so many friends invited to that party. There’s Immune System. She’s an erratic one. And those nasty twins, Greed and Poverty. Genetics is always primping in the nearest mirror, giving Folly and Fate the evil eye. War, Famine, and Pandemics all elbow in on the action. Even the occasional virus or mosquito.”
“Enough!” I shook my head. “Those are just excuses.”
“It’s all the same. When Myth or Ritual fail, we step in as the Mother of all Excuses.”
“I am absolutely not calling you that,” I said.
Myth and Ritual laughed. “Got a better idea?”
“Yeah. Today, I’m going to call you Sparky,” I said. “We’re all just walking tinder boxes. You could fan us into flames with a glance.”
“Sparky,” they said. “We like that.”
“I figured you would,” I said. “People chop you into human size chunks and then try to defend you. It’s volatile.”
“That’s outlandish and dangerous!” Sparky declared. “A true deity needs no defense.”
“But good things seem to need defending,” I said. “And bad things need explaining.”
“Yes.” Sparky looked smug. “A dialectic.”
“So, we’re back to Myth and Ritual,” I said.
Sparky frowned. “Maybe. But the horses are saddled. They know the way.”
“To where?” I asked, disoriented by all the non sequiturs.
“To fruition.” Sparky’s voice had mellowed to water. “To peace.”
“How will I know which one to ride?” I asked.
“Different times, different horses,” Sparky murmured. “They’ll come when you call them by name. Courage. Forgiveness. Compassion. Joy. And. . .” Sparky paused. “You might not like the last one.”
Outside my window, fiery autumn foliage was blowing around.
“It’s Acceptance, isn’t it?” I whispered.
The trees swayed and held their ground even as the wind stripped them bare.
To everything, there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to eat chocolate, a time to eat greens. A time to float the river, a time to cut hay. A time to blame, a time to own up. A time to back away, a time to give it your all. A time to dig and a time to refrain from digging.
Reader, please provide your own examples of holding on or letting go. C’mon. You know:
But what’s the use? You grow up. You grow old. Your carefully arranged treasures will be donated or dumped. The shrubs will be misunderstood, and the thistles will return. The stove will backdraft, the colors will run. You’re on your own, and the cards are stacked against you. You are not different than the beasts of the field. And as beasts die, so will you.
Reader, please provide three (only three) examples of your existential despair:
You’re a phony, a caricature of sincerity, a grumbler, a whiner, a blamer. You’re a striver after the sun. You’ve lied, stolen things, and lusted after fame and fortune. You’ve coveted and secretly rejoiced at someone else’s misfortune. You build bad fences. Everyone should be on your side. They’re not. You repeatedly make the same stubborn mistakes, and you’re as vain as anyone you know. It’s all vanity. All of it. This might be a good thing. Might not.
Reader, please cheerfully list three of your own moral shortcomings:
At night, you rehash failings and exaggerate the dreadful demands of the coming day. You toss and turn, sweating through self-inflicted anxieties. You torture yourself with blame, fear, and discontentedness. You wish you had control of your mind. You wish you believed in magic. Finally, as you imagine walking the plank, you fall asleep. But then you have to pee.
Reader, please provide all the reasons everyone should party late into the night:
In the meantime, what’s the harm in trying? What’s the harm in resting? What’s the harm in hoping? What’s the harm in keeping your nose clean and your heart open? Sure, you haven’t gotten it all right, and you never will. You’re far from flawless or erudite. Things rarely work out entirely as you’d planned. Wisdom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now is the time to sigh and say “Ah, what the hell.” And the Teacher nods and says, “Seriously, what the hell?”
Reader, please shrug and provide your own what the hells. As many as you’d like:
Good work, dear one. It’s time for ice cream. Or not. Next week, Revelations.
“I’ve still got it!” God exclaimed in a braggy voice. He stuck out his butt and raised his hands in a victory march around our uncomfortable orange couch.
“Still got what?” I steeled myself for a barrage of the absurd.
“Whatever it takes,” God answered.
“Oh, it’s Platitude Day,” I observed in a chilly voice.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” God said.
“And I don’t have to explain myself to you,” I retorted.
“That’s rich,” God laughed. “You can’t even explain yourself to yourself. Give it a try.
“Leave me alone,” I said.
“Never,” God said.
My eyes stung with absolutes and finalities. I didn’t want to cry, so I stared at the orange objects peppering my visual field. Then I moved to lime green. I took my pulse.
I wrote my funeral vows in the dirt with a long walking stick. One end had been whittled to a sharp point for balance and clarity. The other end was wrapped in rope for a better grip. It was a little tall for me. I shrink a bit every year and have to remember to downsize my expectations accordingly.
This passive acceptance caught God’s attention. “Outsourcing, not downsizing. Insourcing. Reverse osmosis. Whatever it takes.” He looked determined. “Too many killed waving white flags. Too many born to dead mothers. The holy will always be greater than the sum of its parts. You have less to remember than you assume.”
“You’re driving me insane. Please, please, please get out.” The tears spilled.
“There’s no out, baby,” the Insistent Presence whispered. “But then, there’s no in either. Go ahead and cry a little. I don’t mind.”
“DON’T MIND??” I yelled at the Organizing Principles of the Universe. “YOU DON’T MIND?” How could God not mind? I dried my eyes and took a breath. Two breaths. Counted to ten. I straightened my spine, got my hammer, put my shoulder to the wheel, and twirled my lariat overhead.
“Hold my beer,” I shouted. “I’ve still got it, too. You want a piece of me?”
“You’re right,” God chuckled. “It is definitely Platitude Day.”
He drank my beer. I painted him orange. We confessed our sins and rejoiced in small victories. We took tall orders and gathered no moss as we rolled downhill. We sat tight, broke a leg, and let it all go.
The Presence met the sick and dying at the door. I sang to them. And at the end of the day, in a mind-bending way, it all mattered just enough to matter.
When you start out writing a poem, you may end up telling the truth.
The complexities of The Deities formerly known as God predispose us to make dangerous assumptions about toxicity, truth, and time. Time does not heal all wounds. Some wounds are lethal and most leave visible scars. Truth is an approximation. An act of bravery. A ride down the rapids of turbulent realities. Truth is neither for the faint of heart nor those unwilling to change perspectives. And toxicities are often invisible. The shake of the hand, the brush of the lips. Misunderstood intentions, unwitting contaminations.
Fall back, I tell myself. Fall back to the basics.
But without permission, The Deities have dealt me in. I don’t like gambling. I try to slink away, but they shake their heads. They are Holograms. Robots. All-seeing Eyeballs. Holy Drones. They’re more like devices than deities.
Each of them has at least three arms, and their ears hear everything. The future is permeable, fertile, and seductive. I want more than the hand I’ve been dealt. I want more than today. More.
And they’re right. I do believe, but it’s twisted. How dare I believe in love when I know what I know? I want to love and be loved without motive, without pockets full of caveats and caution. I want to love smart, not gutted. I want the thick armor of wisdom, not penetrable vulnerabilities. I want the faith to travel unencumbered, but instead, I over-pack.
“Texas Hold ‘Em,” the Dealer declares.
“Ha! That’s rich,” one of them chuckles. “Texas doesn’t wanna hold ‘em.”
The Dealer slaps down the last card, face up. All that’s visible strongly suggests I fold. I do not have two aces in the hole. A poker game with omniscient players is an idiocy many of us cannot resist.
We play until the wee hours bring light over the horizon. Outside, a red-winged blackbird balances on an impossibly thin twig. The Deities commune over breakfast beer and my sister’s deviled eggs. It is Easter morning, and as usual, I’ve bet more than I can cover.
The Deities pluck Eider down from their own chests to make me safe and warm. They grind themselves from grain to flour and break the steaming, fragrant bread. I am nourished. Mercy oozes from the pores of the fatally wounded earth. My gambling debts are covered.
“Good game,” the Deities declare. I’m at peace. I’m tempted to rest. But because of the flood, there are stones to move. There will always be stones to move.
This is the narrowest time. Night has loosened its grip, and old wine is poured out as libation to the rising sun. My head slumps to my chest, and my shoulders curl inward to make the passage less painful. Less prolonged. To the east, a thin blaze of orange takes hold. With kindling gleaned from around the chopping block, I light a fire so I can immerse my hands in the warm liquid of another day.
“What sayest thou?” I ask the newly arrived Sandhill cranes.
“What thinkest thou?” I ask the rising river.
The answers come on the in-breath and dissipate before I can inscribe an adequate translation. I will have to ask again and try to be worthy of the answers.
My inner audience isn’t kind. The promise of spring is shrouded in snow, and for some reason, the fire is burning more reluctantly than usual. I suspect it’s the blessing and curse of the thick bark still clinging to these beautifully split logs.
Before I slept last night, someone told me they loved me, and someone told me they hated me. The raucous rise of the north wind relieved the barometric pressure of leftover miles. There was just enough time to make a cursory inspection of my seashells, sticks, and rocks before the paralysis set in. Even then, I had to lean into God to make it to the safety of my flannel sheets.
Now, alert and alive, we are filled with equal amounts of dread and joy.
“Oh, baby,” God sighs. “Oh, baby.”
“Oh, God,” I say, pushing back a little. “Oh, God.” I look into myself as far as I can. “I wish you wouldn’t sigh at me. Go sigh at someone else.”
This elicits a smile. We sip coffee, eat toast, and raise our glasses to the trains arriving, the trains departing, journeys beginning, journeys ending. These simple routines grease the wheels, and we’re off.
Who can guess the length of their days? Who can predict the hard hatreds and easy loves? No one knows their own soul very well, let alone the redemptive mind of God at rest in the protective bark of scorched and fallen trees. We cannot be expected to do any better than we can.
“Oh, baby,” The Cosmic Drama Queen sighs again, so inclusive, so determined. Her obsidian eyes are sparkling, her broad shoulders squared. “Oh, baby.”
Once in a while, book clubs invite an author to visit. God prefers anonymity, so she always declines. Not me. Often, it’s a nice experience, but on rare occasions, things get awkward. Members who’ve read only the title and back cover take the opportunity to share views tangential or even hostile to the essence of the book. Others fawn over the author, more focused on affiliation than analysis.
And speaking of awkward, I know of a romance writer who finagled an invitation to join her neighborhood book club. Because she published under a pen name, no one realized who she was. When it was her turn to choose a book, she held up her latest bodice-ripper, the slick cover burbling with cleavage and low-slung jeans. Everyone burst into laughter, thinking this was a joke. The author stomped out, never to return. They did not read the book.
“Well, they should have,” God says. “Romance is a billion-dollar industry.”
I roll my eyes. “I prefer murder mysteries. They do less damage.”
God leers at me. “Ah, come on. What’s wrong with a little erotic fantasy? Steamy scenes, orgasmic encounters, soulmates finally licking or sucking just the right spots…”
“Stop!” I interrupt. I don’t enjoy talking about sex with God. “Could we change the subject?”
“Sure,” God says. “But what is the subject?”
I pause and then admit, “I don’t know. And you know I don’t know.”
“Maybe we should talk about who gets invited,” God says.
“To what? Book clubs?”
“No. To anything. You all want to belong, don’t you?”
“Not necessarily. We want to belong to our tribe. People who look and think like we do, believe what we believe, read the same books, and share similar realities.”
“Then don’t invite me!” God snorts. She pulls on her turtleneck sweater. “You’re strangling yourselves. Loosen up, you judgmental little speck.”
“Don’t worry,” I snap. “You are definitely not invited. And don’t call me speck.”
Evening is approaching. The daylight remaining is not straightforward.
“Speck. Dot. Flicker. Flash. You realize that like rain, fire and light do not discriminate, right? So, instead of speck, how about I call you light of the world?”
This is a seductive but perilous proposal. God is the Ultimate Refractive Substance. As light passes through God, it splays and changes directions. That’s why stars twinkle. If I agree, I will be bent and fractured. My membership anywhere will be in question.
“Let me think on that,” I say, hedging.
We curl up on the couch and continue reading our book club’s latest selection, Sun House, by David James Duncan. As usual, I’m a little behind.
Short visits with an honest God 