A Thursday with God

It takes a while to agree on the day. We each claim unwieldy schedules. I concede He may be busier, so I let Him choose. We meet at a 7-11 for hazelnut coffee, mine with artificial creamer, His black, uncomplicated. On a bench outside, we sit by the pumps where gas shimmers in traces of old rain. He insists we take turns selecting our activities. We flip our empty cups— Up, I go first.

I try to think where He’d like to go, but it’s like buying a gift for someone
who has everything. I panic and we end up at Costco wandering aisles of over- abundance. I regret my choice. But it’s marvelous, He says, as he lifts a variety pack of cured German meats and a 5 lb. block of cheddar. He suggests we arrange a picnic. I imagine a “feeding the 5,000” scenario, maybe a homeless shelter, or prison yard and scrunch my eyes shut, ready for a miracle.

An empty coast, just some scrubby brush and tall grasses. He must have dropped off the food while I wasn’t looking. I give Him a quizzical glance. Wait for it, He says, as he pulls a hunk of leftover cheese from his coat pocket, offers me a piece. Then they come— Chincoteague ponies at full gallop. I love that sound, don’t you? The vibration chatters incomprehensible words to my bones.

We’re outside a white clapboard house with green shutters, a well pump
with a bronzed placard around back. Helen Keller lived here I tell Him, but I suspect He knows. We look at the museum photos kept behind glass, our heads bent together.
It must have been hard, her life, I mean.
It was, He offers without elaboration.
My tongue jumps with questions, yet
I let the moment pass.

Want to see something really cool? My mind reels. It’s so humid my glasses fog. Is this a greenhouse? Come on, I think, not even the Amazon rainforest? Look, here, He points to a plant with densely packed leaves. Yeah, it’s nice. I see his head shake ever so slightly. No, here! He runs his finger along the vein, that color, it doesn’t have name – want to give it a go?
I take a picture with my iPhone and ask if I can think about it.
He looks disappointed.

I try harder with my next pick and concentrate on the great cathedrals—
flying buttresses, gold leaf, and stone arches. Humanity’s display of adoration. He smiles politely as I point out ornate statuary and stained glass. He climbs into the crow’s nest pulpit and looks over empty pews. I hear a low sigh. What? I ask. Don’t you enjoy our worship?
Yes, I do, He says, but these walls feel tight, and He moves toward the exit.
I’m a little annoyed.

The sign reads “2013 Best Small Library in America,” Lost Creek, WV. Now where is He? Of course, running from table to table collecting stubby yellow pencils. He lays them in front of me and grins. We methodically sharpen each one. I use the electric sharpener while He turns a crank model. He seems entranced by each perfect point. We replace them in their respective cups and walk out past a befuddled librarian. Is it still my turn? He asks, because we’re sort of in the neighborhood already.

We walk past burn barrels, old tires, a ruffled orange tabby sunning on a broken-down car. The welcome mat says “Go Away” but He knocks on the screen frame. Paint flakes and drifts to our feet. What are we doing? I ask impatiently. This won’t take long, He says, just an old friend I’d like to see.
I feel a growl turning over in my stomach and pull my sweater tight.

Owlet moths flit around the weak porch light. We stand.
Amped up truck mufflers and cursing rise and fade. We stand.
I shift from leg to leg. It seems rude to sit if He doesn’t. We stand.
His turn feels endless now.
I’m beginning to think this is how He spends most of His days.

by Nadine Ellsworth Moran