Dear God
Dear God, sorry to disturb You but... if you do, in fact, exist, then You know who this is.
You also know that I've never believed in you. But, see, I figure, if I'm wrong about that, You'll forgive me. I've been wrong before. And if I'm right, well, it doesn't matter a packet of pins. Like Philip Carey said in Of Human Bondage.
You know I'm an existentialist. I know, because I took a quiz:
And, well, of course You already know I'm a postmodernist.
I won't believe in heaven or hell
No saints, no sinners, no devil as well
No pearly gates, no thorny crown
It's been a hell of a week, God.
Today was my mother's birthday; yesterday, the anniversary of her death. She lived exactly 62 years upon this earth. She had a sense of irony I can only hold a candle to.
On Thursday I attended a funeral for a small man in a small town. A good man, but in no way remarkable. A friend's father. He leaves a legacy of children and grandchildren, nothing more. He suffered for years; worse so in the last few.
In the small town: reunions with former highschool classmates; a sighting of my grade 11 chemistry teacher; a woman who I remember from the convenience store near my home; and children, now in their 30s, who were in my mother's grade 1 class.
Overheard:
"Did you see that tall woman standing in front of you in the church? Do you know who she is?"
"No."
"Mrs B's daughter!"
"No!"
"Did you know Mrs B died a few years ago?"
"No!"
Almost everyone between the ages of 28 and 48 still living in Beamsville had my mother as their grade 1 teacher. And they all remember her.
But You know that.
On Friday night my car was towed. I had to cab it across town and pay a $107 ransom — cash only; no bonds.
Last night, Gambit, my neighbour's cat died in my arms. I was looking after him while she was away for the weekend. I had to break the news to her over the phone.
I can't believe in You.
Earlier on Friday, before my car was towed, before Gambit died, I was at The Banknote, waiting for Mo (we were going to The Groundhog for karaoke), when I asked where was Andrew? I made some wisecrack about him taking the night off.
He was taking the night off, all right.
He was at Sick Kids.
His baby has leukemia.
It's just somebody's unholy hoax.
I'm tired, God. I haven't slept much this week. But, God? On the off chance that I'm wrong; that you do exist; that you are listening, I want you to know that you can have it all. My car, my cats, even my hometown. You can have it all, just don't take Andrew's baby.
Please, god.* * *
Update: Day 18 for Junior
You also know that I've never believed in you. But, see, I figure, if I'm wrong about that, You'll forgive me. I've been wrong before. And if I'm right, well, it doesn't matter a packet of pins. Like Philip Carey said in Of Human Bondage.
You know I'm an existentialist. I know, because I took a quiz:
And, well, of course You already know I'm a postmodernist.
I won't believe in heaven or hell
No saints, no sinners, no devil as well
No pearly gates, no thorny crown
It's been a hell of a week, God.
Today was my mother's birthday; yesterday, the anniversary of her death. She lived exactly 62 years upon this earth. She had a sense of irony I can only hold a candle to.
On Thursday I attended a funeral for a small man in a small town. A good man, but in no way remarkable. A friend's father. He leaves a legacy of children and grandchildren, nothing more. He suffered for years; worse so in the last few.
In the small town: reunions with former highschool classmates; a sighting of my grade 11 chemistry teacher; a woman who I remember from the convenience store near my home; and children, now in their 30s, who were in my mother's grade 1 class.
Overheard:
"Did you see that tall woman standing in front of you in the church? Do you know who she is?"
"No."
"Mrs B's daughter!"
"No!"
"Did you know Mrs B died a few years ago?"
"No!"
Almost everyone between the ages of 28 and 48 still living in Beamsville had my mother as their grade 1 teacher. And they all remember her.
But You know that.
On Friday night my car was towed. I had to cab it across town and pay a $107 ransom — cash only; no bonds.
Last night, Gambit, my neighbour's cat died in my arms. I was looking after him while she was away for the weekend. I had to break the news to her over the phone.
I can't believe in You.
Earlier on Friday, before my car was towed, before Gambit died, I was at The Banknote, waiting for Mo (we were going to The Groundhog for karaoke), when I asked where was Andrew? I made some wisecrack about him taking the night off.
He was taking the night off, all right.
He was at Sick Kids.
His baby has leukemia.
It's just somebody's unholy hoax.
I'm tired, God. I haven't slept much this week. But, God? On the off chance that I'm wrong; that you do exist; that you are listening, I want you to know that you can have it all. My car, my cats, even my hometown. You can have it all, just don't take Andrew's baby.
Please, god.
Update: Day 18 for Junior
2 Comments:
Speaking as somewhat of an existentialist who DOES believe that God exists, I must tell you something about your message to him/her...
it was perfect.
While I do believe in God I'm not very religious, and I think most of what people have to say about prayer is bull. Start with this, then do that, end with a scripted closing and an "Amen" despite not understanding the definition of the word... nonsense.
What you've just said, though, was dead on. One person talking with another, seeking an "eye to eye". It felt good to see some sincerity in the world. Thanks for this.
I've said a prayer of my own for the baby. I haven't had a chance to go through your blog and see how the little one did, but please pass along my best wishes.
Haven't read the entire blog as yet, but is the little one still doing well?
Sass, what about the book you gave me, the one I still have that you insisted I read as a child, "Mr. God, This Is Anna..."
When did your beliefs take such a dramatic turn?
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