Driving

it's almost christmas.  you are heading to the mountains at mom&dad's.  anxiety presses up against your stomach and lungs.  as you get closer to home, you begin to argue and argue and argue with GOD (or maybe just with your Self) about religion and prophets and feelings and boys-that-you've-decided-you'd-maybe-like-to-spend-nights-with.  you rail on about family and fundraisers and seasonal sayings.  you cry over babies who went to school and didn't go home because some wacko (who probably had some kind of violence perpetrated against him at some point, because you only treat people the way you've been treated) decided to visit their classes and shoot their little lives away.  you ask HIM why? and how? and where are YOU?

you tell HIM you question your faith tradition and practice more and more every day, but you see HIM everywhere, burning in bushes that look like Pretty Girl and Sweet Pea and Handsome Boy; burning in bushes that look like battalions of pink ribbons lining streets to the grave of a little girl named Emilie; burning in a man who buys you waffles&chicken; who lets you laugh without constraint; who tells you how-he's-broken-but-you-just-see-how-he's-breathing-BEAUTIFUL-everywhere-you-look.

there's all of this anger and sadness behind your eyes and you weep with questions you haven't asked for years.  you tell HIM you see HIM mostly in the living things of earth, but sometimes in that-which-cannot-be-seen.  you remind HIM that sometimes things of the earth look like old men in suits who have cloudy vision.  you tell HIM those old men in suits get in your way, block what it is you need to see.  you tell HIM you think your own vision probably isn't any better, but it's yours but it feels right but it feels scary because it feel so goddamn big and true to you.

you say you're marrow-weary of being patient for people who claim to be GOD's chosen.  you demand some Gilead-strength balm!

you pass the stupid, cud-chewing herd of elk that now neighbors the highway, raised for their antlers (and maybe their meat).  maybe those elk know best, knowing nothing better than clumping together when it's cold enough their breaths steam.


answers envelope your accusations and questions like a patriarchal embrace: BE PATIENT.  BELIEVE IN LOVE.

deeply-breathing-BEAUTIFUL-everywhere-you-look, you concede: ok.  you press the pedal down with a little more weight as the truck you drive starts the climb up another hill:  be patient.  believe in love.