Even in dancing shoes, God can balance her energies, lean over, and suck the venom from a snakebite if she wants to. She can heal the sick, calm the angry, and comfort those grieving if she wants to. She can lift burdens, feed the hungry, visit prisoners, and welcome strangers if she wants to.
“Why are you writing these things?” God asks. “It’s weird and inaccurate.”
“Aren’t they volitional acts?” I ask. “Don’t you have free will? How could this be inaccurate?”
Rather than make eye-contact, I look down at my fingernails. They’re ridged, uneven, and dirty.
God leaves.
Self-pity overwhelms me. Tears slither down into the unknown and regrettable while I endure the harsh odors and intrusive sounds of life going on. Going by. Going on.
There’s a vivacious spirit roaming the overgrown garden in the back. I’m drawn to the tangled jungle of native species, exotic transplants, and invasive weeds. The garden appears to need tending. If I knew what to attack and what to nurture, I would engage in the battle. I would pull weeds, spread compost, and drip pure water where it was needed. I would…
God returns, laden with serpents and migrants, criminals and emaciated children. “Move over,” she says. “There are more to come.”
“There’s no room,” I protest. “And no path. One thoughtless step could easily crush a strawberry, injure a fern, or break the slender stalk of an orchid.”
God looks at me and repeats, “Move over.”
“I can’t,” I shake my head. “I just can’t.”
But this isn’t true. Every moment, I grow smaller, and the cracks in the clay widen. There’s room.
“Are you a weed or a rose?” I ask.
God shifts her weight, impatient. “You’re stalling.”
“Are you perfection or process?” I persist.
“Stop dithering,” she says. “You still have time to bake something.”
I make a face and drag my tired body toward the kitchen.
“That’s the spirit,” God says. “Our guests would love a warm cookie or maybe a loaf of sourdough or pumpernickle.”
“Ah, c’mon,” I groan. “Enough! I don’t want to move over. I don’t want to break bread with the madding crowd. I suppose you want me to fry up a few fishes, too.”
“That’d be nice.” God laughs as she slides a pair of high-heeled tap shoes my direction. “Your size?”
I hate high heels. I want my old red cowgirl boots. I want to hide in the oven with the cookies. I want to roll my life backwards. But I make myself try on these odd, uncomfortable-looking shoes.
“Just right,” I admit.
“I knew it!” she declares, reaching for my hand. “Let’s go.”
Short visits with an honest God 