++I Pity the Fool++

   

Psalm 53:1 tells us, "The fool says in his heart, there is no God."  That scripture makes me feel like a small, white, female Mr. T.  I read it and think, "I pity the fool."


One time I sat in an adult Sunday school class and the teacher said, "If you think God comes to you in dreams in the bathtub, you are certifiably crazy."  I never went back.  Know why?  'Cause I don't see dead people.  I see God.

I see visions of me on a potting table made of old barn wood, with a one inch lip on all four sides for my fluids, just in case.  It's out in an open field and the sun is a brilliant yellow white.  I look like a life-sized, girl version of the board game, Operation.

God stands next to the potting bench.  His hands work inside me.  Tweeking a spleen.  Polishing a wishbone.  My friend I ask God questions to said it reminded her of this one part in Song of Solomon.  I love the translation that reads, "You are my private garden, my treasure, my bride, a secluded spring, a hidden fountain."

Another time, I watched God hold my heart.  Actually, I just saw his hand.  It looked like the giant hand chairs outside the Cool Ridge store on High Street.  My body's engine was nestled in his ginormous palm and it was huge too--beating, throbbing.  Ba-boom, ba-boom.  ba-boom.  And it was aqua.  God knows aqua is my favorite color.

When I consider God, it's like I have to set off an M-80 in my brain.  Not to hurt it, but to clear out the junk--the recipes, pin numbers, and vocab lists from high school.  I have to do that to even begin to think on God.  He made and he knows every person--past, present, and future.  He is aware of every thought, prayer, and deed they will ever come up with before they ever do.  He intimately perceives the detail of every creature, each cell.  He knows the greatest thing beyond my peewee comprehension, and he knows the least thing ever--sub, sub, sub-atomic stuff.

Sometimes when I pray, I picture God and Jesus and heaven.  There was a lady mystic who did the same thing, centuries ago.  I read about her in an A.W. Tozer book.  I'm glad I'm not alone.  I spend a lot of time wondering if I'll be able to see the Spirit when I get to heaven.  Will He be a silvery aqua mist, hovering over us all?

Some believers poopoo me trying to envision God.  They say I'm trying to create my own God like that guy who wrote The Shack.  To them I say, am I so very different than Moses?  He wanted to see God too and Bible scholars call him great.  I just want to look at whatever God'll show me, even if it's his backside.

Sometimes I picture myself up in heaven with God and Jesus.  I sit criss-cross applesauce on the floor of the throne room.  In fact, I'm snuggled right up to them.  My left arm is looped around God's right leg, and my right arm hugs Jesus' left calf.  Don't ask me if their appendages are flesh, spirit, or polished bronze.  They just are.  God and Jesus pet my hair as I take it all in--endless worship, passionate intercession.  Folks are flinging crowns and those wild, flying creatures--all eyeballs, wings, and praise?  I come undone.

One time--  No, there's been lots, Jesus asked me to dance.  We waltzed on the crystal sea.  Perhaps it was the Sea of Galilee.  When we dance I'm a cross between a kindergartner and an eighth grader at her first dance.  The kindergartner part of me stands on my daddy's feet to be taller, to let him lead.  The eighth grader in me laces my fingers behind my date's neck and melts against him, longing to be one.  And then the best thing happens.  A hole opens in my chest and his.  My heart beats inside him and his heart beats inside me.  We are one.

I'm not making this stuff up.  I saw it all with the eyes of my heart.  It's not imagination or fantasy as some will no doubt say.  Those people who put God in a wet matchbox?  I pity them too.

The Biggest Loser

My son raised his hand at the kitchen table.

“This isn’t school, sweetie,” I said.  “What?”

“Why’d you give me a shot glass with my smoothie?”

I waited ‘til he took a swig.  “Um . . . I seem to have lost something.”

His eyes bulged.  His cheeks puffed.

“Like what?”

I busied myself wiping the stove.  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I said.  “Like the mango pit.  The shot glass is for the pit pieces.”

I turned when I heard him gag.  A peach-colored smoothie stream filled the tiny glass.

“Sorry,” he said as he pushed the big and little glasses across the table.  “I can’t.”

“Aw, c’mon.  It tastes way better than the time I lost the plastic measuring spoon.  And the extra fiber, it’ll . . .”

He made his lips disappear.  Shook his head violently.

I sighed.  “Got a quarter?”

One of his eyes got smaller.  “Yeah.  Why?”

“Let’s make a bet.  Do you think Daddy’ll figure it out or not?”

“He totally will,” my son said.  “It’s like there’s sunflower seed shells in there.”

My little guy and I tried to keep our faces straight while my husband sucked down his shake. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand then kissed me on the cheek.

“That hit the spot,” he said.  “I’m going for a run.  See ya later.”

I waited ‘til I heard the front door catch, then I stuck my hand, palm up, in front of my son. 

“You owe me twenty five cents.”

“Gambling’s evil,” he said.  “You know that, right?”

~~~

I searched everywhere for the receipt.  To figure out how much the watch cost.  The gift he got me for our twentieth wedding anniversary.  I found the paperwork in the bill pay dumping drawer.  I scootched my reading glasses up the bridge of my nose.  Used my pencil eraser to go line by line.  Found the store name.  Followed the dots over to the right.  My palms, underarms, and the divot under my nose felt suddenly damp.

“Did you find it yet?” my husband said when he came home from work. 

I shook my head and held my hand out for his lunch bag.  He went through the mail pile, slicing the top of each envelope with an old butter knife. 

“It’s probably gone forever, you know.”

I peered under the settee at a dust bunny.  “I don’t think so,” I said.  I squatted and picked up the dust fluff in a pincer grip.  “I’m pretty sure I’ll find it when I change my closet over.  It’s probably in a pair of shorts.  I bet I took it off to wash dishes one night.”

The next week I was at my desk.  Writing, editing, checking Facebook.  Same thing.  I heard a voice.  Well, I didn’t hear it really.  Not out loud or anything.  But it was definitely there, inside my head.

Lift up the printer.

There it was.  A small hill of silver links and a barely blue pearlescent face.  My throat felt tight.  I blinked a couple times to keep my eyes from spilling over.

I fished my cell out of my back pocket.  Slid it open.  Typed a text.

“Guess what I just found?”

“No way.”

“Way.”

I closed my phone.  Leaned back in my chair.  Gazed up at the ceiling.

“Thank you, sir.  Voice inside me, sir.”

~~~

I held the phone with my shoulder as I washed dishes. 

“Hello, Sunshine,” my husband said.

“Um, we have a problem.”

I heard his breath hiss out through his nose.  “What now?”

I rinsed my favorite pottery mug.  It’s pale aqua, celadon actually, with a ditch for my thumb and a dragonfly impression beneath the handle.

“I kinda, sorta  . . . misplaced the—“

Another angry nose noise.  “What did you lose now?”

I put the cup on the drying rack.  Petted the dragonfly with my Playtex rubber-gloved finger.

“The tax return,” I said.  “I stamped it.  Took it to the post office and everything.”

Huff.  “You’re kidding.  Tell me you’re teasing.  Wait a minute.  Is it April first?”

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me.  “No.  It’s not April Fool’s Day.  No such luck.”

“Dang it!  We’re getting back, like, $2,000.”

I pushed my lower lip out.  Pinched the bridge of my nose ‘cause it felt all prickly.

“Did you call anybody?”

I straightened and nodded.

“I did.  The High Street post office lady.  The one who always wears a Pittsburgh Steeler jersey on Fridays.  She said maybe someone’ll find it, be nice, and put it in the outgoing mail.”

Snort.  “Yeah, right.”

I grinned and paced as I waited for my husband to answer his phone.

“Guess what?” I said.

“What?”  His voice was still flat.  Even though the missing tax return debacle was a week old. 

“Please don’t be grumpy,” I said.  “I have good tidings.  She has it!  The Pittsburgh Steeler post office lady has our tax envelope.  The guy who changes the rugs every week found it this morning.  It was under the runner in front of the outgoing mail slot.”

“Thank God!  And . . .  sorry.  I was--”

“I did.  I know.”

~~~

Brrriiiinnnnnggggg!

I slung my jean jacket on the settee in the foyer before I answered the phone.

“Hello?”

It was my friend, Diana, from home group.  We’d just said goodbye, not even five minutes ago.  At the school, down the hill.

“You missing something?”

I tilted my head.  “I don’t think so,” I said.  “Like what?”

“Uh, like your son?”

My mouth fell open.  I put my hand over my heart.  Pound, pound.

“My little guy?”

I spun in a circle.  Pointed at people.  Oldest daughter, husband, middle child, her best friend.  No son.  No man boy of mine.

“You left him down here,” Diana said.  “At the school.  After the show.”

I bonked my forehead with my palm.  “Dang it!” I said.  “I’m such a bad mom.  I counted heads.  Got the right number, but the wrong kid.”

I grabbed my keys and jean jacket.  My husband stepped between me and the door. 

"I'm gonna get him.  You stay here with the others."

I whimpered but moved aside.  Watched him flip through the keys on the fish-shaped key rack.  Then he put his hands deep in his pockets--pants and coat.  All the while I heard his mutters.  Words like loser and responsibility and grown up. 

I followed him into the kitchen.  He dumped out his lunch bag on the counter.  Smacked the containers this way and that.  He went over to the key rack by the back door.  Sorted through each peg.  That's when I got it.  And grinned.

I walked into the dining room, to my secret hiding place.  Where I stash really important stuff--extra front door, back door, and car keys, and my debit card, when I remember to put it there.

I returned to my husband.  Held out a key to his car.

"Here."

He enclosed it with his fist.  It took him a second to lift his eyes to mine. 

"Oh.  Thanks.  And . . . I'm--"

"You're welcome, and . . . I know."