“I started with the idea of green hills but quickly veered toward the more central question of water,” God said. “And when I was younger, I thought everything should have a touch of blue.” We were considering the markers and wonders of seasons as we strolled along the rising river. Evening light bounced orange off the smoother surfaces. As is often the case, God was stoned, oblivious to the assumption that conversations should make sense. I was on guard. A barely lucid God can be both freeing and frightening.
We skipped a few rocks across white ripples. I squinted up at God and said, “Well, when I was younger, I swallowed the wrong words and have suffered bouts of vertigo ever since. Especially when it comes to you.”
“I know.” God admitted, with a goofy grin on his face. “That may account for your swollen joints and liberal leanings. Maybe it’s an immune system response.”
“Nah,” I said. “Lately I’ve realized bullshit makes great compost. It was you all along, wasn’t it?”
God threw his head back and a majestic, maniacal mirth roared through the valleys. He whooped and howled and slapped his thigh. Small trees caught fire. He laughed so hard it turned into a coughing fit. I pounded him on the back. He wasn’t really in danger, but it was fun to have an excuse to beat on God.
Things settled and we sat ourselves down on a fallen cottonwood. “Bullshit makes great compost,” God repeated as he wiped his eyes. And he was off again.
“It’s not that funny, God,” I said after the second wave of tremors and surges subsided. “You’re just really messed up right now.”
“I know,” God said between lingering chuckles. “But don’t worry, sweetie. Like you said, the joke’s on me. Sometimes, I forget how hilarious I am.”
As night fell into place, we began walking back, guided by the string of blue lights blinking near the porch. It’s amazing how long those solar-powered bulbs last. And it’s equally astonishing that even with all the wrong words, queasy sensations, and primitive fantasies, God is still my favorite insanity.
He put his arm over my shoulder and in a stage whisper said, “Must you refer to me as an insanity?” His face was still glowing from the flames he’d lit. I shrugged. He grinned. “I mean, at least bullshit makes good compost. What’re you gonna do with insanity?”
It was my turn to laugh. “Give everything away,” I said, happy to have such an obvious answer. “I’ll just give everything away.”
“No, you won’t,” God said.
“Yes, I will,” I said in a calm voice, gazing up into the infinite sky, taking strength from the touches of blue lingering around the edges.
Short visits with an honest God 