Cheerios for Jesus

What people seem to forget is that most of the time Jesus was just a regular person. He was just a little brother who broke your toys and made fun of your hair. People think of Jesus as a Deity, the Son of God, the Savior of the World, Word became Flesh, all those capital words and important phrases but he never wore a halo in our house and except for on my birthday he never performed any miracles. Although, on a few occasions I was positive that Mom poured milk into his sippy cup and later I noticed that he was drinking Wild Berry Kool-Aid. As far as I was concerned, Jesus was just my little brother and at times he could just be a major pain.

Jesus was always getting into my stuff.

Mom gave me a jewelry box when I turned five. I placed it on my dresser along with some small porcelain girls, photos of my best friends and a mirror. The only really important thing was the jewelry box. It was carved from a dark red wood and shaped like a heart, the Valentines kind not the human kind with blue and red tubes hanging off the top. It played “Music Box Dancer” when you lifted the lid.

I kept all my important stuff in that box: a Susan B Anthony dollar; a plastic ring; a sticker of a unicorn and a necklace that my Grandmother had given to me.

The coin I received from God. He went to the bank the day those things were minted and bought me one, he said keep it close because you’ll probably never see another one again. It was funny how God was always right about that stuff.

The plastic ring was from my boyfriend, Thomas. He had a cold when he handed it to me. Thomas won the ring by placing a quarter in a machine at the Piggly Wiggly and turning the crank. He had to put in six quarters to get it. It was worth it. The ring was gold, but most of that has rubbed off. It had a red stone, surrounded by silver stars.

The unicorn was the prettiest horse ever and that was my favorite sticker.

The necklace was my Grandmother’s. It consisted of small, wood beads strung on a pale, hemp braid. The beads were shaped like dove eggs and had delicate carvings etched across their centers. Each bead was carved from a different tree and so the colors slightly varied; they also each carried their own meaning. The center of the necklace held a heart carved from the cross of Jesus. It was by far the prettiest wood of them all. Grandmother was given the necklace by her Grandmother who received it from her Grandmother and so on until you came to the first Mary: the mother of the Jesus in the NT. She said it represented the heart of her son and that it was very powerful. Not in a magical, saw a person in half sort of way, but in a spiritual way. It was my most favorite possession of all. Although calling it a possession was not quite correct because it had a beauty and peace that belonged to the world. No person could own it.

Now Jesus would sneak into my room and try to open the heart shaped box really slow but each time the music came on giving away his encroachment. I wonder if the people who put that song into the box knew it would serve as an alarm against little brothers. Jesus was always taking things out of that box and playing with them, but he never touched the necklace. Even he understood that it was special.

If I caught Jesus before he got into my dolls or earrings he would just run away and giggle. But if he was already playing with them; it was too late. Jesus would start crying and I had to just let him go on thrashing my earrings or butchering the hair of my dolls. Jesus’ style for cutting hair could best be described as post-modern nihilism. All of my dolls lacked patches of hair because Jesus trimmed their hair in sections. The dolls looked like the victims of atomic blasts, chemotherapy or bad hair stylists.

He was my little brother and I hated it when he cried, because it always made me worry that something more serious might be wrong with him. I guess even when he was three years old we all secretly knew that he was doomed. Even though he did not behave like the Son of God, we knew that he was and all of us knew how that story ended. At three years old, Jesus acted just like a regular little brother except for this one day at church.

Mom packed Jesus some Cheerios in a plastic container on the mornings before we went to mass. She also had to pack diapers, wipes, bottles, toys, spit rags and bibs. She had to feed, bathe and get us all dressed before the nine-thirty mass. Most of the times we walked in five minutes late. No matter how early she awoke, she always ended up rushing and we always arrived late. Mom would march us in, single file, Dad bringing up the rear with Little Mary thrashing in his arms. Mom would search for a pew large enough for all of us, and preferably towards the back of church in case little Mary started crying giving Dad a reason to escape for half the mass. As we walked down the center of the church, the priest leading a prayer, Jesus continuously asked why everybody else was already seated.

On most Sundays while we sat in the pew little Mary and I tried to be still and pretend to pay attention to the man who always seemed to be shouting down at us. Jesus typically played with toys. Mom said it was okay because Jesus was only three and because he was a boy. Little Mary was only one and she often slept through the mass. Mom said boys had energy that they couldn’t control. So while we sat, Jesus brought Hot Wheels and played with them; he brought books and leafed through the pages, but most often he sat there and chewed on his Cheerios.

I was pretty sure that Jesus never listened to a single word the preacher man said. I tried really hard to listen but the preacher man always made life seem complicated and harsh while God, my father, had always told me that life was meant to be simple and joyous. The preacher man seemed angry and I knew that God wasn’t about anger. God was calm and caring and loving. I know all of this because he was my father.

Dad taught us that there was no significance to which church we attended. He would say that whenever a group of people came together as a family and loved one another a church was formed. He said the structure of the people was more important than the structure in which the people worshipped. I just thought it was funny that people dressed up and sat quietly on hard benches as a way to become close to God. I know that I felt much closer to God outside playing in the daylight among the trees and birds than I ever did inside one of those dark buildings even with the colorful glass and shinny cups.

There was one day in Church that stood out from the others. It was not because of what the Priest said but because of what Jesus did. We all sat together, Jesus eating cereal and babbling while the Priest gave his sermon on the sins that plagued the world.

The Priest said that the world today was not unlike Sodom and Gomorra and I looked over at God who looked embarrassed because of what he had done thousands of years ago. Would another loved one be turned into salt? The Priest condemned the drug abusers and a group of people called sodomites. The Priest yelled and harangued and even slapped the pulpit once. All the while Jesus did a very curious thing. He stopped eating his cereal and listened. Once the sermon concluded, Jesus went back to playing.

At the conclusion of mass the Priest once again stood at the Pulpit and rattled off a list of announcements. He notified us that a special collection was being made for poor people in a country named Bosnia. Next came a fish fry that was going to be held on Friday to benefit the church’s stock portfolio. It appeared that the Parish had invested too aggressively in technology stocks and additional funds were needed to secure dental and medical benefits for the Priests and Nuns. Our Pasteur concluded with particular emphasis on a very, special bingo to be held on Wednesday with a three thousand dollar grand prize. It was funny how an organization, like a person, could perform both good and bad deeds.

Jesus gave out a loud sigh at the mention of bingo and muttered “never place a stumbling block in the path of your brother.” When I looked over he had already resumed playing with his Hot Wheels. Had Jesus just said that or had I imagined it. I looked up at Mom but she gave no indication of hearing anything. Mom was busy re-packing the diaper bag as church threatened to come to a conclusion. I studied Jesus but he did not take his eyes up from the truck held tightly in his hand and I finally concluded that it must have just been in my mind.

Mom and Dad definitely lived through different experiences in church.

God sat back, relaxed, and seemed to take in all of the mass. Church made God stronger. Not just the gospel and words of the liturgy, but God absorbed the energy of the congregation: the babies sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, with their embarrassed parents attempting to hush them regardless; the children dressed up like adults but still acting their age; adults who sang, fell asleep or daydreamed. God hummed along with the choir and loved to shake hands with people when we passed out peace. If you sat within three pews of my father he offered you peace.

Mom, on the other hand, struggled to survive Mass. From the moment she woke up on Sunday morning, her entire mission was simply to get through brunch, the meal we ate once church was over. Then it was one Martini and who cares what followed. Mom attended church and painfully dragged us with her because it was a sacrifice. She endured it for her God in heaven, not my father at the end of the bench.

Thankfully, after one final song, the mass concluded and we all packed up our things and went out to the Windstar. Yes, God drove a minivan. Mom was carrying our jackets, the Tupperware, some books and her purse. I was holding Jesus’ hand and Dad was carrying Little Mary along with the diaper bag.

We made our way through the quickly departing cars when Thomas ran up to me in the parking lot to say hello. Thomas was my boyfriend and he often talked to me after church. “Hi Mary, how are you doing?” Thomas wiped the drainage from his nose with a tissue.

Thomas always held a cold. He was the oldest of six children and he had to sit in the back part of the church behind the glass where they quarantined all the sick babies. He had sat back there for six straight years without a single day of relief because his mother had a baby every year. He had a cold everyday of his life because as soon as the youngest got old enough to come out of the isolation room another baby was born and the family went back in. Sometimes, in church, I would look back there and watch the viruses jump from child to child like flies on the back of horses.

Jesus tugged at my hand and I told him to wait just a minute. It had been two days since I saw Thomas and that’s a long time to go without seeing your boyfriend. “I’m doing pretty good, just watching my little brother,” I looked over at Jesus as he wrestled his hand out of mine.

Thomas coughed and sputtered while something green escaped from his left nostril. We talked about a movie that was coming out next week that we both wanted to see. He thought his mom might take us. He then said that he had to be going and ran off to catch up with his family. I walked the rest of the way to our van thinking of the upcoming date.

Mom strapped little Mary into her car seat and I was climbing into the back when mom asked where’s Jesus and I turned around and he wasn’t there. I said I don’t know and started crying because I lost Jesus and now something bad was going to happen to him.

Mom’s eyes turned round and wide and a little vein began to show on her forehead. There were cars circling us as they jockeyed to leave the parking lot. Mom started walking back towards the church calling, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” and everyone was looking at her like she just went crazy.

Dad picked up little Mary and told me to come along. The tears kept coming from my eyes and I was whining that something happened to Jesus. Dad kept telling me that Jesus would be all right and that I should stop crying but I couldn’t because I knew that I was suppose to be the one holding his hand, making sure that he was safe.

We raced to the church, looking between all the cars still in the lot hoping to find his little body intact. The cars swarmed like bees and it seemed impossible for Jesus to be unharmed. After searching the lot we went to the church. Dad carried little Mary into the church and I followed.

The church was now empty and its vast, open center allowed our footsteps to echo throughout its recess. The sound of my Sunday shoes clopped like the hooves of a horse, bouncing off the wall behind the alter, the one holding the large cross with the hanging Jesus, and came back at us like thunder. We found mom standing in the center of the church with a look of amazement on her face. A slight tremor ran through her fingers, which covered her mouth like a fan.

Jesus was standing in the center of the marble altar but he was not alone. He was talking to the parish Priest. Jesus appeared small standing next to our Priest. His head barely reached up to the white rope that hung tight around the Pastor’s waist. Jesus was holding one of his toy cars in his hands and speaking. Actually, it appeared as if the two of them were arguing.

“I think you are mistaken when you portray my father as an angry and vindictive God,” Jesus spoke to the Priest. I was shocked. When did he learn the word vindictive?

Jesus kept speaking and it was as if someone else’s words were coming from his juvenile body. “My father is not judgmental and punitive. He is kind and loving. He wants all of us, brothers and sisters through him, to be righteous. But not out of fear of punishment. My father understands that most wrongful acts are committed not out of cruelty or malice but insecurity. He expects a lot from us but only because he knows that we are capable and that our true happiness is dependent on our being virtuous. The reason he knows this is that this is the image in which he created us. Not a physical image, but a spiritual one. The failure of mankind to comprehend this is why Heaven appears to elude us. Rather than casting threats, you should offer your parishioners hope.”

The Priest was taken back. There, standing before him was a small, frail, three-year-old child correcting him on his interpretation of God’s word. The man looked confused as he searched the walls of the church for the right thing to say that could counter his diminutive antagonist. The Priest rubbed his chin then replied, “You are right to think of God in this way my son,” the Priest finally spoke. “A loving father is a beautiful image to hold near to us. That is how God is for those with virtues. He also loves the truly repented as much as those who have lived upright their entire lives. However, do not be mistaken, God does not just wish us to be good; he demands it. He has revealed his wraith in the past when people have failed him and will do so again. It says in Genesis that ‘the Lord judge between me and thee’. And again in Samuel it states that ‘if a man sin against the Lord, who shall entreat to him, because the Lord would slay him’. God rewards those who are just, but he also punishes those who are not.”

My brother was not even fazed. He shook his head in disagreement. “You speak of a young God. The Old Testament revealed God’s childish nature; it is only in the New Testament that he has matured. It was written in John, ‘and if any man hear my words and believe not, I judge him not: for I came not to judge the world but to save the world.’ God wrote a New Testament so that those of us on Earth may learn to love each other, as it was his original intention. Even more clearly in Luke, my brother spoke, ‘judge not, that ye not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive and ye shall be forgiven.’ These are not just words for his followers, God expects the same from himself.”

I looked at Mom and Dad. Both of them stood in silence. When had my brother read the scripture and how could he quote verses? I looked around half-expecting Rod Serling to step out of one of the Confessionals.

“In one way, you are correct,” my brother continued while running his cast metal car along his arm. He accidentally dropped the car and crouched down to continue playing on the alter floor. He ran it along the rich marble and appeared to have forgotten that he was in an argument with the Priest. The Priest looked on incredulously until Jesus spoke. “There was a time in which your vengeful image of my father was the same one that he chose to portray himself. But the birth of his son changed the very nature of God. He realized how cruel he had been in the past and asked his son to attain man’s forgiveness. God would not, and in fact he could not ask a father to slay his own son, as he once demanded of Abraham. People think that Jesus died so that the gates of Heaven could be open, but in actuality he suffered so that we may learn to forgive God so that we may see the Heaven whose gates have always been open.”

“Forgive God,” the Priest raised his voice and it shook throughout the church.

“Yes, it is one of the most difficult things for man to do. Forgive his creator for making an imperfect world that is at times overly forbidding. So many people use their anger with God as a reason to keep from coming to him. Their anger is an obstacle, a wall so high many can not see the beauty on the other side.”

“To forgive, one must be humble, because forgiveness requires one to acknowledge their own imperfections. People can not find heaven until they can forgive God and learn to follow his way.”

The Priest’s voice was now filled with anger. His face blazed a furious red. “You refer to God as an adolescent child, an imperfect creator capable of error. It is blasphemous for you to even think that man should have the right or power to forgive God. God provides all. He is our creator and protector and we are indentured to him. We are not worthy to stand in his presence.”

“Even a ruler must answer to his servants,” my brother said and turned around to walk away. “With great power comes great responsibility, the creator is responsible for his creations, not the other way around.”

“I will pray for your soul, my child,” the Priest called to him, but Jesus just kept on walking.

Mom ran up to the Priest and apologized for her son. She scooped up Jesus into her arms. “I am sorry father but he does not realize that people are still not ready for the truth. He did not mean to offend you.” Mom was stumbling on her words and her apology seemed to anger the priest more.

Later, we sat in silence as God drove the car home from church that day. Not in complete silence, the sound of my mother weeping drifted back from the front of the car. At the time I could not figure why the words of Jesus would upset her so much. It was not until years later that I realized that Mom was not upset with what he said but with the idea that my brother was the one saying it. Somewhere deep inside her heart she hoped that Jesus was not the Son of God and thus not destined to a life of pain and sacrifice. She hoped that she did not carry the same cross as Great Grandmother Mary. There in the church on that typical Sunday morning my brother proved his true identity and sealed his fate.

Traveling with God: The Musings of a Fallen Deity

“I don’t know exactly what happened,” God said to me one Saturday morning as we marched along the sidewalks of Austin.

Early September came on beautiful in Texas. The sun had risen into a cloudless sky providing warmth. A slight breeze washed through my hair kneading my face and ears. The trees were dressed in tall formal dresses splashed with reds, greens and yellows. God spoke to me, but about exactly what I could not quite figure. It had something to do with Mankind’s past (not the WWF wrestler), God’s past, the present and future and which, if any, was most important.

God, my father, had taken to long walks on the weekends. He would typically pick one of us kids and together we would head off through the neighborhood talking along the way but often just strolling and listening to the gossip of trees. God had to carry Little Mary and Jesus. I was old enough to hike by myself. Initially God tried to make each journey unique, turning down different lanes with a calculated randomness but after about five or six times he developed a standard route. Dad pointed out the same bush or home style with each passing as if he was seeing it for the first time. We would come to the school, which was about seven city blocks away, and then we would head back towards home.

On this Saturday, Jesus and Little Mary began crying shortly after breakfast and God decided that it was a good time to head out for a break. Mom didn’t appreciate this, but God said that he thought he needed to spend some quality time with his eldest daughter. We all knew it was an excuse for an escape and more specifically, a walk.

God said that a walk nourishes the soul in a way that few other spiritual morsels could. He said this is why Jesus N.T. could always be found walking.

I skipped along his side (skipping was okay but God said that power walking was a creation of Satan) while God walked with a determined stride. We covered the first three blocks without sharing any words and then he just started speaking. The words started slowly, like sleep sneaking up, but then gathered speed as the blocks passed us by and the pieces became concrete in my father’s mind.

“I used to rule this world with an iron hand,” he sighed. “People prayed to me, and not just on Sundays. I was tough and people respected me.”

“Respect and fear are not the same thing, Dad,” I repeated something that he had said to me many times in the past.

Dad smiled. “You are right there, Jellybean, respect and fear are not the same thing. For some their adulation grew from fear. The true follower, however, held a genuine respect and love for God. The disciples knew that if they put their faith in God then he would provide for them. They did not fear their Lord. When I look back, I have no regret for the days in which I provided for my followers; it is the devastation that causes me to pause. The days in which, rather than showing compassion, I wielded my sword are the days that bring me sorrow. I once destroyed the whole world just because people stopped paying attention and that occurred before television was the big distraction. Do you realize that humans spend more time worrying about fictional characters flickering across a glass tube than they do their own souls?”

“I think it is because people can see those characters on the television, but they can’t see their soul,” I said.

God stopped walking and looked at me. “How did you get so smart?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

God started walking again. “People could see souls if they just looked more closely,” God said. “Not only can they see the soul, but feel it. A person could reach out and grasp the soul’s power if only they opened their mind to its light. Souls are really quite beautiful. They carry a phosphorescent halo in a multitude of colors that varies on their keeper. Although keeper is not quite the right word; we are more like companions to the soul.”

“Noah’s soul was green,” God said. “His green was of a young pasture of wheat at dusk. I told Noah that his next door neighbors were lazy; that all they cared about was the pursuit of immediate gratification.” I looked at a redbird sitting up high on a tree branch and wondered if I pursued immediate gratification. “Noah argued that his neighbors weren’t evil people. He said they just had poor coping mechanisms. Can you believe that?” God laughed. “Poor coping mechanisms, that Noah was way ahead of his time. That’s how I knew he was the one. He was thoughtful, caring and hard working. He loved his neighbors even though they laughed at him for his righteousness, which he did not flaunt like some of these so-called Christians today. I thought Noah was a man that I could rebuild the world around. So even with Noah coming to their defense I took them all out, animals and all. I was frustrated and thought that starting fresh was the best idea.”

“But the animals,” I uttered.

“Exactly,” Dad went silent and I could tell that he was hurting. “The animals were doing just fine. They were living the lives that I had designed for them but still I destroyed most of them. It definitely was a good month to be a fish.”

“Or a bird,” I added.

“Well, lets just say that it was a good month to be a fish and leave it at that,” God said.

I thought about the birds and wondered if they were able to maintain flight until the waters receded.

“I can look upon it now and realize that it wasn’t the best reaction. I had just finished doing battle with Lucifer in Heaven and I guess I just sort of displaced some of that frustration on Man. It seemed as though everybody was turning against me, in Heaven and on Earth. It was all a new experience for me, being God and all, and I guess I didn’t handle it so well. No wonder the Old Testament paints me in such a harsh light.”

“The whole thing with Egypt really upsets me also. Locusts, frogs, turning the Nile red: those were just parlor tricks. They were supposed to convince the Pharaoh of my true power. Scare him a little. But the Pharaoh was a stubborn man; he figured me for just a little, old, fat, bald man standing behind a curtain pulling levers and pushing buttons. And again I just lost it. Became irate by his insolence and sent the Angel of Death down to take all those first born sons.” God stopped speaking as if there could be no right way to complete this thought.

The school approached and I expected to turn around but God kept walking. I watched our school pass away behind us.

We walked in silence for the next couple of minutes. We were now moving into a part of town that I didn’t recognize. My legs were starting to get tired but I didn’t know what to say. Even though I wasn’t sure exactly what God was talking about, it seemed important.

“Those kids had nothing to do with the Pharaoh’s stubbornness,” he finally said. “Neither did their parents. Most of the children killed belonged to the working class Egyptians who knew little of the Pharaoh’s battle with Moses. I sent the Angel anyway. Do you have any idea how many children died on that day?”

I shook my head in answer.

“I do. I know exactly how many because I had to face all of their souls afterwards. Can we ever make up for the trespasses of our youth?”

“Sure we can, Dad,” I replied.

God looked down on me in shock. I don’t think he was expecting an answer. “Come again,” he said.

“I said sure we can Dad,” I picked a leaf off the ground and twirled it in my hands. “When I started the second grade Becky Stadler and I were enemies because she had a Flight Attendant Barbie she thought was too good to play with my Ken doll pilot. We never even spoke to each other except to say something mean. Then, at the beginning of Third Grade, Sister Agnes of Agony made the two of us partners on an art project. We used our Barbie and Ken dolls in a diorama depicting Jesus healing the ten lepers. Becky even cut the nose off of her Flight Attendant Barbie.” I dropped the leaf and watched it glide back to the earth. “Ever since then we have been best friends.”

“And the dolls that initially tore you apart actually played a pivotal role in bringing you together,” Dad said.

“No, Sister Agnes of Agony brought us together. Dad, were you even listening to what I said. Just because Becky was too stuck up to play Barbies with me in the second grade didn’t mean we had to stay enemies for ever.”

“Yes, I was listening Jellybean,” God rubbed my back. “Maybe you are right. While we can not alter the past, we can change ourselves and therefore the future we create.”

I looked at God thinking that we had just said two different things, but he seemed pleased so I kept quiet. I thought now would be a good time to turn around. My calves were complaining. We had headed past the big road we always drove to and crossed it on a walking bridge. The cars raced below us, all heading off towards their futures.

“I didn’t come to a revelation with Noah or Egypt. Unfortunately sometimes we have to fall two or three times before the lesson is learned. After turning Lott’s wife to salt, I just started wondering what I was doing. I had transformed from the Supreme Creator into some sort of mass serial killer. I had to sit back and think awhile. What was the purpose of this world I created and what did I really want for the people I put in it? I came to the realization that humans to me were like my children. They never asked to be here. I formed them so I had to have a purpose for them, a reason for their existence. I determined that I was obligated to them because I was their creator, not the other way around.”

“Well, the reason for their existence was really quite easy. People are constantly looking for a complex meaning to life. They long for immortality of the physical life and measure importance by way of power and fame. The answer to their longing is so simple. So obvious.”

“Be kind,” I said.

God looked at me and smiled. “You are wise beyond your years, Jellybean. You understand the path, which is inseparable from the destination. The purpose in life is for people to create a Heaven on Earth. Despite what many have said, it is possible. People achieve this by living in peace and harmony, in essence by being kind.”

“My experience had taught me that I could not force Eden upon people,” God said. “Just ask Jill. After much deliberation I decided to let people choose their own life. I mean really choose. Jack and Jill were not thrown out of the Garden of Eden; they walked out. Living in the Garden, did people really have the freedom to find heaven? I mean any dime store psychoanalyst could see that I was trying to force people to act in a way that I wanted. Well they showed me, didn’t they? Even faced with the threats of death, sorrow and pain, people followed their own will. They still do that today. People live to take a bite from the apple.”

“Independence,” God exclaimed. “I made that spirit strong in humans. And I have to say that I don’t regret it even though it has given me some headaches. I should have made them a little more humble and it wouldn’t have hurt if I could convince them that it is not a sign of weakness to be dependant on others; that it truly is a wonderful thing when you need others. But, who is perfect? Even Barbara Streisand couldn’t convince people of that one and she is a Siren.”

At this point I decided that God was not really talking to me, but using me as a way to not appear insane as he walked down the street mumbling to himself. We came to a small blue house and as we passed I looked at the trees that were beginning to change colors. Soon the leaves would fall, blanketing the grass in a kaleidoscope. There were two people coming out of the house dressed really nice. One was carrying a baby. They looked happy.

“Did you know Lott loved his wife?” God said.

“The one you turned into salt?” I asked.

“Yes, that one,” God looked like I just poured some of Lott’s wife into his wound. “Salt. What was I thinking? They lived in a desert. It wasn’t even useful to him,” God laughed.

God often told jokes for his own benefit then laughed quietly all alone. It was one of the things I really loved in my father: the ability to amuse himself especially when he was feeling sad. God truly wanted what was best.

“It wasn’t until I became human that I really understood what a harsh God I had been. Lott had begged me to spare Ellen from the destruction of Sodom. He told me she was the world to him and don’t think that didn’t bug me. I should have been the world to him, not his wife. Initially I spared her, but once again just like the apple hanging from the tree in the Garden of Eden I dared her to defy me. I made her. I could see the blaze of her soul. I knew she would turn around and when she did I was too vain to back down from my threat. To turn the love of one’s life into a column of salt; I know now just how cruel that was.”

“Well, I gave up and decided that I wanted humans to love me because they wanted to not because I had forced them or coerced them with threats of a blazing hell. I decided to let people develop on their own, and damn if those Romans didn’t create a world of chaos and havoc. They conquered, oppressed and tortured everybody to the point that once again everybody thought I was punishing them. ‘Oh, God sent the Romans to punish us’ they would cry.”

“You know, Jellybean, some people give me credit for everything good; others blame me for everything bad. Why is it all or nothing with people? Of course I wanted people to worship me so I guess it’s partly my fault too. I took credit for beautiful sunsets even though that was just a fluke.”

“You didn’t make sunsets?” I asked surprised by this revelation.

“Well honey, when you get older you’ll realize that the Universe is a rather large place. I really couldn’t be directly involved with every aspect so I delegated certain responsibilities to my underlings. I mean I really enjoyed sunsets and thought the whole star thing was really cool, but I didn’t come up with them myself. Actually, it was Lucifer who created the sun quite by accident; he was always playing with fire. I did have final approval though.”

“What else didn’t you directly make?” I asked.

“Honey that’s not really the point. As the Chief Executive Officer of Heaven I oversaw the construction of the entire Universe. You can say that I kind of put it all together. Everything you see carries a part of my soul.”

“Sounds to me like you’re trying to take all the credit again,” I said while looking at a rose bush that we were passing and wondering if God designed flowers.

“Well Mary, what I did or did not directly produce is not what’s important. What is important is that I wanted to set things right. I wanted to make amends for my past. So, I sent Jesus down two thousand years ago. He was supposed to let everybody know that their God loved them. His message, that I wanted this world to be a wonderful place where people care for and help each other, was simple and clear. I want people to see each other as I see them: members of the same family; parts of the same body; elements of one glorious molecule.”

“Molly Cue?” I asked.

God must not have heard me because he didn’t answer my question. Instead he kept speaking about his first son. “They didn’t have to crucify Jesus, you know. When I sent him down it was not preordained. I do not write the scripts, as everybody would have you think. I simply put the actors on the stage, where they choose to go with it is up to them. Life is improvisation. However, understanding the nature of mankind and human frailties, the crucifixion did seem inevitable.”

“People just weren’t ready for the truth. Life under the Romans was too hard and there was so much dysfunction. People wanted something greater. They need to know that there is something that they are working towards. Jesus failed to give them it. They were waiting for God’s imminent rescue, a God in a golden chariot to bring them to another place, a futuristic heaven. They did not want to hear of heaven on earth. People did not want the son of a carpenter to tell them that only by giving up all of their material possessions and walking from town to town helping people would they discover fulfillment and happiness. To the Israelites, earth was an imperfect place. The idea that the whole purpose of this life was to work towards a heaven on earth, that to love each other and the wonder that arises from life would be more than enough, for some reason for many people, it was not enough.”

We came to another curb and God stopped. We waited for a car to pass and then God stepped off the curb and into the street. I went with him, wondering when we were ever going to turn around and head home.

“That message got all messed up,” God shook his head. “I never thought that the insecurity of man was so great that he would actually nail someone to a cross for suggesting that peace was a good thing. But then almost two thousand years later they did it again to John Lennon. Unfortunately, not only did people misunderstand my son’s message but also many twisted it all up and started using Jesus’ words as weapons. I just got so frustrated I had to get out.”

“So I came here and I have you and your mother and Jesus and little Mary and I love you all. I tell you, it would be very hard for me to love someone who turned your mother into a pillar of salt. Or took one of you from me as a way to punish the President of this country. You are my world. While the message may be difficult for the entire planet to grasp, I find that in smaller units it is already a reality. Within this small part of Earth we have harvested Heaven, Jellybean. While I know that it is not always so easy to love those that we are close too, it is always worth it.”

God stopped. We had come to the end of the road and looked out upon the river that ran along the edge of our city. I thanked God or whichever one of his underlings for placing it there. The water was deep and dark and rushing past us. I reached down to rub my aching legs.

“Oh my,” God said looking around and for the first time realizing how far we had come. “We seemed to have walked much further than I thought. I’ll tell you what, Jelly bean.” God crouched down and reached an arm around my waist. “Why don’t you jump up on my back for a little piggyback ride? Remember, God only asks that you walk half way; I will carry you the rest.”

If God Gets Lost, Don't Give Him Directions

God said he hated to give people directions, it was important that each person found their own way in life. He did finally brake down and show the Israelites the promise land, but only as a last resort. He said that they would have been in that desert for another forty years if he didn’t personally lay down a yellow brick road for them and he probably would have been blamed for that too.

Even to this day God says that he gets blamed because people can not find their own way in life. How could there be free will if God kept telling everyone where to go and what to do?

“People are strange,” God told me one night as I worked on math problems in the kitchen. I sat at the center island whch had a large, butcher block top that hung over the edge created a large table. In the evening, I liked to sit in there while working on my homework. Mainly because it was quiet, but also because it was more open than my bedroom.

God stood near the sink pealing an apple. I tried to ignore him but he demanded my audience. “People say that they want freedom but deep down in the depths of their souls they really don’t. Because freedom means risk. It means chance and it means sometimes doing the right thing and sometimes doing the wrong thing. With freedom one must make a decision. One must make a commitment” God said he doesn’t care what decision a person makes as long as they act with grace in their heart.

“Sure, I could tell them, ‘well, it’s your choice but personally I would go this way.’ But who would have freedom then?” God’s eyebrows rose up high on his forehead and I had to stop factoring to pay him attention. I smiled to let him know I understood. God took a bite from the apple. “Yeah sure, people are going to think, ‘Well God would go that way but I think I’m going this way because God doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’ Then when it didn’t work out others would say, ‘you should have listened to God.’”

“Mary,” God said while he threw the apple core into the trash and walked on to the family room, “never take directions from anyone. You must be your own person.” I followed him down into the room. “You can take suggestions, but ultimately you must choose for yourself what course you will travel. You must be responsible for the path your heart leads you.”

“God, why didn’t you give people any suggestions?” I asked.

“I did,” he replied. “I spelled them out clearly in the N.T.. Love your God with all your heart. And love your neighbor as yourself. I can’t think of any better suggestion as to how to live a healthy life. Other than maybe, just love.”

I asked God why he talked to some people like Noah, Moses and Oral Roberts but then didn’t talk to others. God said simply that people were often mistaken. Individuals often interpret situations the way they want to. So when God said he supported Moses leaving Egypt, he didn’t mean it to be taken as an offense to the Egyptians. But Moses went and thought so anyway. Now he had to admit that the plagues and Angel of Death did seem a little one sided. But God was always for the underdog.

God sat me on his lap and looked deep into my eyes. “Mary there are two things that I want you to understand. And these are very important.”

I nodded my head to let him know that I was listening.

“First. This can be a wonderful world and it can be a very rough world. It is full of overwhelming joys at times and unbearable sorrow at others. It is important that you realize that your life, your very destiny, always remains under your control. It is in your perception. You have the power to make something great of your life if that is what you want. This doesn’t matter if you live on this planet for two weeks or ninety years. Whether you live in a mansion or a trailer park you can have a profound contribution to the universe, but only if you believe in your self. Others can give you help, but they can not give you directions. The direction must come from your heart. Do you understand?”

I told him yes but I knew that I would have to give it a lot more thought. I was still struggling to understand square roots.

“Now the second thing is as important as the first.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Are you listening closely?” God asked. “Because I want this to be perfectly clear.” God’s face showed the frustration of a deity who has so often been misinterpreted and misunderstood.

“Yes, I am listening closely,” I replied.

“Okay,” God looked at me with complete seriousness. “I never, ever, ever spoke to Oral Roberts.”

Manna from Heaven

I hated when it was God’s turn to cook dinner. He made it a point to give Mom a day of rest and said that on that day he would provide. Of course she still had to set the table and clear the dishes. God didn’t do dishes. The worst thing about God’s night to cook was that God only made manna or something from manna.

Manna could be placed in any kind of dish. We ate fried manna, steamed manna, boiled manna, manna casserales and manna stews. I dreamt manna and felt manna weeping from my pores manna. Still, I had no idea what manna was. I finally asked God what it was that we were eating.

“What do you mean ‘what are we eating?’” God said while he wiped up a bit of gravy with a piece of manna and put it in his mouth. The manna served as both the main dish and the side dish. “We are eating manna.”

“I know that we are eating manna,” I poked the thick, fungi thing with a fork as if to see if it might move or cry out. “But Dad, what exactly is manna?”

“Manna is manna,” he replied. He looked down upon his plate in reflection. The brow above his eyes curled in thought.

Jesus and Little Mary let go a laugh.

“No, what food group does it fall into? I mean, I am pretty sure that it is not a fruit but only because it has no sweetness; those seeds confuse me. It doesn’t appear to be dairy. Vegetable, meat and bread are all a toss up as far as I can tell.” I fingered the manna as if it was part of a chemistry experiment.

God went silent. He continued to eat his manna, not answering me. Only his face had turned serious as if he was upset and that was when I realized that even he didn’t know. Manna was just some fluffy bread like meaty thing that resembled potatoes.

Mom kicked me from under the table and made like that I should change the subject, but I couldn’t. I asked him why he couldn’t make something else like chicken, I mean he was God wasn’t he. He should be able to cook chicken.

This last bit pushed him over the edge and God found himself in the precarious position of having to defend manna. He said, “It is healthy. It sustained the Israelites for a generation in the desert. If they could eat it for forty years than you could eat it this once.”

I said “Well, whose fault do you supposed that was, making those poor people walk around for forty years in a desert where there wasn’t any decent food. If things weren’t bad enough they were eating this stuff. They probably made that golden calve as a hint. They were saying ‘Hey God, send us some beef’.”

Mom shot me an ugly glare and at the time I couldn’t figure out why. I expected her to come to my defense but instead her eyes told me that I had stepped over the line. Hadn’t she often complained to me that all God cooked was manna as we cleared the table together?

“How did they take a bath,” Jesus added between bites of stuffed manna. “Did you also drop bars of soap, Dad? I bet they smelled terrible.”

“Don’t get me started on that,” God rolled his eyes. “Why is everyone always blaming me for the Israelites plight? Whenever something bad happened it was always ‘Yahweh is punishing us’. Did they ever stop to think that maybe Yahweh might also be waiting for them to get to the promise land? Like I had nothing better to do then watch them wander in circles. Or maybe I might be busy creating life on another planet? After all, it is a big universe. Is it my fault not one of them had a sense of direction? I didn’t want them to just keep going round in circles, but that is exactly what they did. I mean couldn’t one of them learn to read stars or invent a compass, the Phoenicians did. I will tell you this Mary, that Moses was good with the staff but he had an awful sense of direction. I’m still amazed he made it downstream. Jesus, you think I didn’t have something better to do with my time.”

“What did I say?” my brother asked.

“Oh, not you Jesus,” God shook his head, “I was just using a figure of speech.”

“Oh,” Jesus replied and went back to eating his manna

I guess my complaining got to him, because next week Dad said that he was going to cook chicken. It didn’t turn out to be just a chicken; it was dove and not one but five doves and three goats and bushels of squash and greens.

I arrived home from school and was immediately accosted by a burnt stench. I walked into the kitchen. It was an absolute mess with God in the center of the linoleum lying prostrate on the ground. There were three doves arranged on a platter near his head, each one slit down the middle, their heads still dangling by thick tendons. Blood splattered the floor and dotted the ceiling. Small gray feathers flew everywhere. It looked like a massacure had occurred in there. A large kettle sat on one of the burners and an awful, putrid cloud arose out of it. I asked Dad what he was doing and he said that this was how you properly prepared food for the table.

God got up from the ground and continued leafing through the Book of Exodus, which he was apparently using as a cookbook.

“What’s in there?” I pointed to the kettle with the black cloud.

“Goat blood. It creates a pleasing odor to the Lord.”

“It doesn’t smell so pleasing,” I wrinkled my nose.

“Well, now that I have had the opportunity to appreciate it close up, I must confess that you’re right Mary. Remember, I didn’t have a nose up in Heaven. I was just trying to give the Israelites something to do. I didn’t want any of that virgin sacrifice to start up again. I think I’ll go throw this down the drain.”

“Better take it outside,” I said.

“Are you kidding? The neighbors will think I boiled a skunk or worse and possibly report me to either the Humane Society or the Department of Family Services.” God chose to pour the boiled blood down the drain and the stench remained in our house for the next week. Later he told Mom no use crying over spilk. She cried anyway.

We all ate in silence among the feathers and blood and remnants of the sacrifice. To top it all off with, God overcooked the birds and the meat was dry. All through dinner mother eyed me and I could feel the guilt dripping over my body as if I had just emerged from a pool. I had created this mess.

“Come here Mary,” she called as I tried to escape to my room after dinner.

“Yes, Mom”

“Do you realize that your little sister will probably have nightmares?" she accused.

"Yes, but I had no idea."

"I want you to help me clean the kitchen.” Mom handed me a sponge and bucket of water. I began scrubbing the blood and fowl intestines off the wall and tile.

“Mary, it is a little known fact that the Israelites did not like manna either,” Mom scraped a piece of goat off the wall. “See, after a few years of wandering in the dessert the Israelites began to complain about the food, so God asked them what they wanted and one of them, Leviathus, said that pork chops would be nice. Well the next day it rained pork on the Israelites camp, not just chops but blood and feet and heads. It was reported that three people were killed by falling pork butts. It was so traumatic that the very next day the religious elders forbid the consumption of pork forever.”

“Now your father means well,” Mom continued. “But God was never very much of a cook. So from now on, please eat the manna without complaining and never ask your father to cook anything else again. You simply thank God for the manna from heaven and remain silent.”

From that day forward no one ever complained about one of dad’s meals.

Instructions from God

God and mom stopped having children after three. Dad said that when he told people to “go forth and multiply” he didn’t mean for them to do so with reckless abandonment. He said that families were like a chain and its value could not be measured by the number of links, but rather by its overall strength. All families must choose how to build their own chain.

In my chain we have two adult links and three children links. Little Mary is the youngest and she has been fashioned from gold. She is quiet, reflective and beautiful. She can be found mainly on her own and brings immediate pleasure to the discoverer. Jesus Merv Christ stands in the middle. He is iron, a universally found and most useful metal. He exists in everything and is vital to all of the living. He can be found in all things from the construction of our buildings to the blood cells that carry oxygen in our bodies. I am the oddest and like my sister was named after my mother and grandmother and her mother and her mother also. I’ll leave it to you to pick my metal.

I asked Dad why he named my brother Jesus Christ and he said without hesitation, “He’s my only son, what else was I supposed to call him.”

The five of us grew up in a pleasantly green neighborhood in the Austin suburbs where all the houses were constructed from bricks and built in a colonial design. There was a park with a playground and pond just two blocks from our home. The neighborhood was infested with children. When I asked God why we lived where we did he said it was because it was comfortable.

You would probably think that God would be a doctor or psychologist or someone influential like the President. But God said that he had been the most powerful deity in the Heavens and now that he was on Earth he wanted to hold the most powerful job possible. God worked as a first grade teacher at Our Lady of Perpetual Pain Elementary School.

"Life is like a journey composed of many individual steps," God said to me. "For some reason people tend to focus on the final steps as the most important. They see each step along the way as a pawn to the destination or final step. This could not be farther from the truth. The way I see it, Jellybean, each step is equally important and has its own special value. Not one step carries any more significance then another. If you take your first steps carefully, the last will be easy. I help people with those first steps. Parents help their children with their first steps and that is why I created parents and first grade teachers."

God was pleasant, compassionate and managed to soften his voice for the kids who arrived to their first day of school, often full of fear. Most of the kids liked him immediately. The role fit my father well. He loved kids and respected the creativity stowed away in their innocent minds. He always gave them advice, but never directions. Even at a young age a person must make a choice; it is the nature of freedom.

God said that he wanted people to choose to do the right thing. It meant nothing knowing that someone did what was right out of fear of the repercussions. When someone follows your word because the passion within their heart tells them that it is the right thing to do, then you no longer have a disciple but a companion.

In class God demanded complete silence when he spoke as if his words were the word of...well I bet you know what I was going to say. One thing those Biblical writers got right was the manner in which he spoke. God was always speaking in parables or metaphors and he made the most difficult decisions seem so simple. But the thing about God was that he never came out and showed you exactly what you were looking for, you always had to figure it out for yourself.

I could be fighting with my little brother over a toy shark or something just as insignificant and God would enter the room, ask for the toy and then sit down in the room. Jesus and I would stare at each other knowing that there would be a lot of silence before he spoke. During the silence, Jesus and I would just be sitting there looking at the toy, salivating. And then God would tell us some story about a farmer with two crops, one of giant corn and another of peas. Or he’d talk about a rich man who’d hoard his gold coins but then die for lack of bread and it made absolutely no sense to us but you’d tell him you understood just so you could get the toy back. He would finally hand us our toy and, once he was gone, continue the fight over the toy. But maybe just a little less strongly.

God cared about me and Jesus and little Mary. He said he would always keep us safe as long as we believed in him. And we did.

When I was in the first grade, there was this kid who was bigger than the rest of us because he was held back. He seemed to have a lot of issues with being held back. His name was Tommy and he had to go to the Principal’s Office twice a day to take some medicine that was supposed to make him nice but it really didn’t work.

Tommy was always calling me names. He screamed scary Mary, for instance. It made no sense. How was I scary? Just because it rhymed with my name? He would chant it over and over for no reason what so ever.

There was this day during recess when we were playing tag. I was running really hard because when I played a game I always wanted to win. After the game I walked over to the drinking fountain and as I felt chunks of cold water flow through my lips it started. “Scary Mary, scary Mary, bet your back is really hairy.”

I ignored him and tried to drink. Tried to enjoy the rush of the water as it raced down my eager throat. My heart continued to race, both from the running and partly because the chanting was becoming really annoying. His song continued, “Scary Mary, scary Mary, bet your back is really hairy.”

I looked up and discovered that Tommy wasn’t even in line for a drink.

I don’t know why I did it. I just snapped. I stopped drinking and looked at him or more specifically his mouth: the large, bloated, black disgusting gap in the center of his face. It kept moving and screaming. And after a few seconds I couldn’t even hear the words anymore. All of my senses tuned in to the motion. His lips kept sputtering along, spit occasionally spraying out and finally I just pulled my hand back and hit it. And then rather than words, blood was streaming from this trench. Tommy started crying I think. I couldn’t tell for sure because I still couldn’t hear. His wail just blended in with all the other sounds in the yard.

I froze. I watched crimson droplets spray from his fat lips. Jamie told me I should run but I was six years old, where was I going to run to? Next I found myself under the wing of the recess monitor being led to the Principal’s office. The recess monitor was a short, cube shaped old lady with wavy gray hair on her head.

I sat in the Principal’s office waiting. There were two chairs, both orange and plastic, and a long wooden bench. I sat on the bench with my feet swinging freely above the ground. I was nervous because I knew that the secretary had called my father. I had never seen him angry, six years and he never had raised his voice. Then I had never done anything like this.

Tommy came out of the nurse’s office and sat down on the bench next to me. He held a handkerchief to his lips and occasionally let out a whimper. His lip had already become purple and swollen.

I am not sure if time stood still or just slowed to a crawl, but I could swear that the big hand on the clock, the one that marches out the seconds of our life, started moving slower and slower and eventually just gave up and stopped. I waited for what seemed the time the Israelites wandered in the desert. One thing the T’s taught me, God was good at making people wait.

Mt father finally came into the office.

Dad didn’t appear angry. Rather he had an odd look on his face; one dripping sadness into disappointment like paints on an artist’s palette. His eyes focused on the floor, he walked straight pass me and into the Principal’s room without saying a word. It was as if he was suffering because of my sin.

I decided to look down at the floor also. I had not really noticed it before. It was just checkerboard linoleum, nothing worth registering.

I sat there while my father spoke with the principal thinking about what he would say when he came out. And I knew he was going to come out and tell me about a fish who swam his entire life in the ocean searching for sunken treasure only to realize after finding the treasure that he had no pockets with which to carry it. And what kind of a story is that to tell a kid.

After what seemed an eternity, he came out of the office and walked over to me. I could see his eyes and he looked sadder then I had ever seen him. I had caused that. That look on his face. Suddenly, I didn’t want him to speak. I couldn’t bear to hear his voice. I knew I couldn’t stop it from coming. We all have to face our maker at some point and my day was here. God stood near me and said, “Mary?”

“Yes Dad,” I moaned.

He took up a seat next to me on one of the plastic chairs. It looked absurd because the chair was for kids and God kind of spilled out over both sides. God looked at Tommy, took in his swollen lip and shook his head. “Mary, I know you are a good person with a kind spirit.” I looked over at the clock and noticed that the second hand had started moving again. My Dad continued speaking. “When we hit somebody, we harm ourselves more than we hurt the person that we hit." Tommy shook his head as if he did not believe that. "I know you can see the blood on Tommy’s lips and it is obvious that you have hurt him physically. But what you can’t see is the entire person, the spiritual soul combining with the physical. When you consider the entire human being, the pain that you have created is far greater within yourself. See Mary, not only did you injure Tommy’s lip but you have also damaged your spirit.”

God brushed my hair and looked into my eyes, “I know you have a strong spirit and it will heal just like Tommy’s mouth will. But try to remember, Mary, the very best thing that you can be in this world is kind. It is most difficult to be kind when others are not. We may not always reach this goal but we should always strive for it.” God looked over at Tommy’s swollen lip and back at me. “I love you very much, Jellybean.”

God told Tommy that he was sorry that his daughter had punched him and that Tommy had also been forgiven. God said that he understood that Tommy harassed out of feelings of alienation and isolation. He finally told him to try being kind to others and then he would make friends. Tommy just moaned and turned away to face the door.

That was it. God kissed my forehead and walked out the door, back to the first grade where he would teach the letters of the alphabet to word starved children. I sat there on that hard bench in silence for another fifteen minutes until the principal asked me why I had not gone back to class yet and I had to shrug my shoulders because I didn’t know. He sent me back to my class and as I walked down the long hall to the third grade I thought about what my father had said. I did not fully understand his words. I know that after hitting that boy I felt bad inside and I think that might have been what God meant by harming my spirit. But what bothered me most was seeing how sad my hitting that boy had made God feel and I knew that I never wanted to do that again.