R: Hey, G. It’s way below zero. You planning to show up today? G: I always show up. I live in the thermometer. It’s your job to recognize me. R: Yeah. But your guises and costumes are confusing. G: So? What are you afraid of? Strike up a conversation. Take a risk. R: With a thermometer? G: With it all. You never know. R: It’s embarrassing to walk up to someone you think you know and then be wrong. G: Sorry, but I can’t relate. I always know. R: Very funny. And not helpful.
The barely visible mercury. The snap of the fire. The murmur of the icy river, the taste of dark beer, the sound of shuffling objects indicating my beloved is nearby, the settling of dust and ash, the brain interpreting visual input as both beautiful and fatal. The skeletal view of truths I do not want to accept.
Acceptance itself.
R: Why do you bother to animate? To engage? G: To quote your grandmother, 'Honey, it’s no bother at all.' R: She lied sometimes. G: I don’t. R: I wish you did. I wish you issued false reassurances so I could be calm and happy. G: You can be calm and happy without lies. R: Platitudes and promises. G: Dutch ovens and sour dough. R: Could you just stay in your lane? G: It’s a long race, R. And I love switching lanes. R: No, seriously, G. Many of us realize you don’t exist the way we wish you did. G: Finally.
Unknowability shelters me from dogma and ill-advised faith. If there’s no rhyme or reason, if there’s no hell or heaven, if all we have is mercy, then let me be merciful. If all we have is kindness, then let me be kind. If all we have is this day, this moment, this breath, then let me breathe.
G: Who are you praying to? R: Delicacies and dialectics. Oxymorons and overtures. G: But not me? R: Oh, I suspect it’s you. The last line of defense. G: And the first ray of light. Within. Around. Through. R: Ah, so humble. G: You think I overdo it? R: Yeah. But that’s just me. You don’t have to change a thing. G: And yet I do. Change is my circulatory system. You want me to stagnate? R: Nah, don't mind me. Go ahead. Change, animate, dissemble all you want. G: Thank you. You won’t regret it. R: I already do.
If, in our little fraction of Vastness, there’s a god who demands we worship him above all other gods, I think, well, how about those other gods? What do they have to say for themselves?
And if we continue to destroy our fragile home spinning in the Vastness and end up extinct, I think, well, that’s not very nice, is it? And not at all wise.
And if there are universal laws or holy suggestions about how best to live, I think, well, such guidance should be readily apparent, right? Who would design the creatures of Vastness and hide the best ways?
Then I think, well, the best ways aren’t hidden. We just don’t want to love our neighbors, let alone our enemies. We convolute and complicate to disguise our greed and justify our cruelty. This has been going on for a long, long time. We borrow other people’s sacrifices to quell our fears.
Apparently on crack, the Apostle Paul wrote Oh death, where is thy sting? Well, Paul, I’ll tell you where it is. It’s wrapped in a shroud at the border between the haves and the have-nots. It’s screaming in civilians blown to smithereens by war machines. It’s plastic in the bellies of hungry, hungry children. In fact, Paul, death stings like hell down here most of the time.
And then I think, well, who’s fault is that?
The Silences parade by. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. The Excuses slither by. Phony, ignorant, gluttonous. The Hierarchies hail themselves. The Meek stand at attention. The Humble avert their eyes and bow their heads.
“Hey, Happy New Year!” Big God bounds into my consciousness like an exuberant dog.
“Hello, God,” I nod.
“What’s shakin’ baby?” God jiggles her large bottom. “Got some money? I have a few charities in mind.”
“It’s not that easy,” I protest.
“Ain’t that the truth!” God exclaims, rubbing my head with affection. “Who’s a good monkey, huh? Who’s a good monkey?”
“Stop it!” I laugh. “No one’s a good monkey.”
“You got that right!” God proclaims. “But get out there and do something nice anyway. Eat some greens. Time’s a-wastin’.”
I shake my head. “I’m tired of greens. And besides, money and time are just abstractions. They’re not real.”
Big God raises an enormous eyebrow. “Hmmm. Let’s see how that works out after you’ve ordered your ice cream. It’s warm today.”
Coins jingle in my pocket as the blazing sun drags my remaining hours across the southern sky.
“Okay,” I admit. “I see your point.”
“I’d like a scoop of salted caramel,” she grins. “And two of coconut crunch.”
Short visits with an honest God 