The god we trust was once a vengeful creature, even spiteful, angry and strong. He was a man like men could never be. Most artful creator, merciless destroyer, gentle and tender, fierce and adamant—not really so different from us that we might not worship him.
And then he changed.
Where once he willingly held a grudge for forty years, he came to give (willingly and lovingly) for thirty-three what I could not give for a second for the sake of others: his child. He was the kind of mother I can never dream to be. He was the father my father taught me in brief glimpses is out there—up there, beyond—the kind of father I would love to be.
One day, I hope to leave a little note in the last wall that’s left of the last place I know he lived, this god of mine, and I will ask a single question. Or maybe I will say a single word. I don’t know. I suspect such a senseless act can hardly be anticipated—full of meaning but what substance? A moment in time, dedicated not to him but to me—a selfish act of a desperate man hoping a greater purpose will absolve all the wrong choices I have so painstakingly taken through my life. Absolve me. For history can absolve no man.
One day, I hope to walk into a garden where that child he gave me—gave us—found just how weak human resolve can be. And perhaps, full of resolve, I’ll dare to pray for my own children. He’ll still do what he wishes—I suspect that’s one thing he has left from the old days.
One day, the god we trust changed.
One cold spring night, in a far-flung corner of the world nearly forgotten by men of sense, the god who told us he was a jealous god only to change it later—only to send word for us to love one another like he’d sent one to love us—that god I could never have loved became just like me—he had a son.
And that has made all the difference.
And then he changed.
Where once he willingly held a grudge for forty years, he came to give (willingly and lovingly) for thirty-three what I could not give for a second for the sake of others: his child. He was the kind of mother I can never dream to be. He was the father my father taught me in brief glimpses is out there—up there, beyond—the kind of father I would love to be.
One day, I hope to leave a little note in the last wall that’s left of the last place I know he lived, this god of mine, and I will ask a single question. Or maybe I will say a single word. I don’t know. I suspect such a senseless act can hardly be anticipated—full of meaning but what substance? A moment in time, dedicated not to him but to me—a selfish act of a desperate man hoping a greater purpose will absolve all the wrong choices I have so painstakingly taken through my life. Absolve me. For history can absolve no man.
One day, I hope to walk into a garden where that child he gave me—gave us—found just how weak human resolve can be. And perhaps, full of resolve, I’ll dare to pray for my own children. He’ll still do what he wishes—I suspect that’s one thing he has left from the old days.
One day, the god we trust changed.
One cold spring night, in a far-flung corner of the world nearly forgotten by men of sense, the god who told us he was a jealous god only to change it later—only to send word for us to love one another like he’d sent one to love us—that god I could never have loved became just like me—he had a son.
And that has made all the difference.
2 comments:
. . . insight. Oh my. Insight. I never realized.
But, of course. It changes us all, doesn't it?
You. You amaze me with your insight.
Absolutely! Amen.
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