Wednesday, August 6, 2014

The Complaints of the Summer


I stay on the patio longer than usual because my heart wants to get back into my throat.  I have to keep her from getting too upset before we go back in.  “Play with this,” I say, shooting a rubber band at her.

She surges joyously around in the wagon, just thankful for being touched.  I hate her in this moment.  I decide to tell her a story.  Maybe she’ll go to sleep.

“One day,” I begin, “there was a very large and interesting person who came down from Heaven and infected everyone.”

My heart cares not.  She flip-flops around in the constant water.  She is happy by herself.

My anger rises from not being recognized and it comes from a place I don’t particularly like.  I always have to put anger down in the regime of me.  I turn towards a beckoning lord.

“Lord?” I say.

“Yes Ma’am,” he says back.

“I feel disenchanted,” I whisper, “but my task for the morrow is to enchant.”

God says to me in this moment and summer of weakness, Sweet baby pie, I have been watching you.  I raised you to know yourself.  Do not let a moment or day or month of disenchantment steer you away from what you know is right.  Isn’t that why you got gas in your car yesterday?

God is joking with me.  I ask if he wants to be capitalized. 

He says no.

I challenge him.  I kick my feet.  I know I’m gonna get crucified anyway, so why wait.  “I didn’t get to go camping!” I tiny-shout about the complaints of the summer.  “I wanted this and that and the other!”

I tiny-vomit in my throat but swallow and go on. “Plus I was really hoping you could come through for me this time.”

God walks around in huge puffy footsteps.  I can hear the voice of him in my brother’s speech and my mother’s language and the vocabulary that my family has shared for years.  God has been arriving on my doorstep in semi-truck trailers and boxes all summer.  How excellent for me. 


God tells me this.


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