Even the shortest trips go better with a little planning. Of course, this makes me nervous and increases the chances that I’ll overpack or underpack. I aspire to smooth-rolling suitcases, thoughtful snacks, and a business-casual posture at the airport. But what I often end up with is bulging bags, broken zippers, spilled water, crushed bananas, the wrong pants, not enough underwear, and so many layers it’s hard to move.
These issues are especially salient today as God listens to me mutter while I unpack from one less than well-done trip and pack for another daunting adventure.
“Your neuroses are fascinating, darlin’” she says with an exaggerated British accent. “Are you by chance laboring under the impression that what you’re doing right now matters?”
My temper flares. I hate packing and frankly, nothing seems to matter. I throw down an armload of jackets and lunge at this unwelcome critic. The energy thrusts my soul upward through the mists of imagined relevance, gaining altitude like a cosmic drone. My piles of clothes and treasures shrink into indiscernability. I kickbox the Cloud of the Holy and try to grab her elongated, bejeweled, illusive neck. At this moment, I would gladly strangle God if I could.
“You’re so rude!” I scream as I dissolve into a sobbing meteor, fodder for the nearest black hole.
“And you’re so sad,” God says gently. “I see that now. So sad and frightened. I’m really sorry. I was trying to help you lighten up and get perspective. Obviously, my timing was way off. My bad.”
God surrounds and we settle. We float down to the base of an urban tree which is growing mostly horizontal in its search for the sun. I congratulate the tree for seeking the light despite all the obstacles. God and I sit on the bench-like trunk and hold hands. The fight is over but I’m still feeling burned.
We get up and amble down the street looking for coffee and a pastry. As I often do, I’m reconsidering the process of writing about these encounters.
“Maybe we’d be wiser to write in third person,” I say to my wily Coauthor.
“Why?” God asks.
“A little distance might be nice,” I confess, looking down at my smoldering feet.
She shakes her head. “Sorry, darlin’. Doesn’t work that way.”
“This may be apparent,” the scribe notes with a self-deprecating grin. “But one shouldn’t blame a gal for trying, should one?”
“Ha ha!” God says. “The authors of these pieces are often quite amusing.”
With that, the authors resume their preparations for the journey ahead. One of them puts in an extra T-shirt. The other takes it back out. “It’s all about faith,” that one says.
“No, it’s all about options,” the other counters. They laugh.
Short visits with an honest God 