Somehow being with someone
else makes it better, all the
major and minor tragedies
of every day. She knew this
was true as a human, because
even though her dad would’ve
been no good in a fight, she’d
felt safer at night when he was
home. Anyone who’d intended
to kill them would’ve succeeded.
No matter. Being alone is
worse. Unless it is better.
Unless the other person is
the person breaking in, with a
knife, and a mouthful of
slicing in it. Except for
that. But mostly, a connection,
an exchanged smile, a kind
eye, someone who doesn’t mind
the idea of saving just about
anything from pain, makes
the world better and
inexplicably safer, even when
nothing has changed.
Author / bcmiller2014
Seagull Tears
She didn’t cry when the
seagulls died, or seemed
to, their nest uprooted
with a handy plank and
discarded in a slick black
trash bag on the roof.
She didn’t cry then. She
cried later, when she couldn’t
find her keys, and when
she sat with friends
discussing completely
unrelated things, and
when she went to check
her email. Grief is funny
like that.
The birds were
okay. Watched over as
they had been they
never knew someone
checked every morning
to see how they were,
named their babies,
worried over flying
lessons. They didn’t
know how much they
were loved, messengers
of hope in a concrete
landscape. At first
she felt stupid for
grieving. Idiotic birds
making messes. Most
people don’t even like
seagulls. But then she
realized, the loving was
in the seeing, and most
people are blind.
Bus Bee
He came onto the bus like
a flurry of bees, energy
shivering off him in jagged
rings radiating out in ripples
with the scent of turpentine.
I’d been reading. I put down
my book. His life was too
loud for me to concentrate.
Belief
I find I’m coming to be an avant garde kind of Christian who may quite possibly be considered no Christian at all by people I do and don’t know. I persist, however, in believing in Jesus, so I myself am unable to fully separate myself from the term “Christian” even though I find some supposedly Christian views to be in direct opposition to the person I believe Jesus to be.
I believe in God and I believe he is good. He made the universe out of an overabundance of love. I believe he made us and when he said we should have “dominion” over the natural world he meant we should serve it and care for it, or else the leadership style of Jesus means nothing. I believe Jesus is the son of God and provides a bridge between ourselves and father God, but I also believe that anyone who is truly seeking for God in love and truth will be able to spend eternity with him, no matter their faith background. No one can serve darkness with a pure heart, so I believe there are people serving the triune God who may not even know they’re doing so. Hell is only a place where people can go if they choose not to be with God. He will not force himself on anyone, so the only people who go to hell are the people who decide to do so.
I adamantly refuse to believe that God allows suffering so our characters will improve. He does sometimes end up improving our characters when we’re in the midst of suffering, but that’s because he specializes in making good come from bad things. It’s not because he planned for disaster to happen for our spiritual “benefit”. Birth defects are not the equivalent of an ethics and moral compass lesson. They’re tragedies, as are the rest of the diseases, wars, social injustices and the rampant destruction of the natural world.
I don’t know why he sometimes answers prayer and sometimes doesn’t. He’s a deity. I suppose it’s his prerogative. I do have to admit, however, that his seemingly unpredictable nature leaves me feeling insecure, even while I admit that in the balance between my knowledge and God’s, he will certainly win. This is why I still think he is good. My understanding is practically inconsequential when determining the character of someone who happens to be infinite. As such, he did create a stunningly gorgeous and bizarre stage on which our little human dramas play out, and for this I am grateful. I do believe we mucked up his original intentions for the place, although he must’ve known we’d do it. He made us anyway, which means he’s a hell of a lot more sure of his plans than I am.
And by the way, I don’t see how the fact that something is divinely inspired (in this case, the Bible) means that it’s perfect. Artists and poets and musicians are divinely inspired all the time, and it doesn’t mean there aren’t any errors in the work. In addition, we have over a dozen versions of the Bible and each of them focuses on different things. We’d need to know Hebrew to have even a shot at a correct-type interpretation. The stories recorded were placed in a particular time and culture. How do we manage to take these stories and mold them into messages that promote discrimination, homophobia, mysogeny, and other acts that are not initiated by love, when Jesus was himself the embodiment of love? He never became infuriated by anyone but the religious leaders of the day. I believe that if we’re really going to follow God, pride, self-importance, greed and cruelty must be abandoned. Pride is a big one, which I believe the church as a whole has tripped over for millennia. We can become so certain of our own views and correctness that we forget the main point of the whole story I think the Bible is ultimately trying to tell. Jesus himself gave us the most important rules to follow, which are to love God and each other. And what does God require but justice, mercy and humility (rough translation)? These are my cornerstones.
I freely admit to being scared of God, which emotion I’m supposedly supposed to both feel and not feel, having both the fear of God and having been perfected by love which casts out fear. God is love, but fearing him is the beginning of wisdom. I know there are different translations of fear in this context which makes me refer back to my earlier statement about needing to study the Bible in Hebrew. Figuring out who God is feels like trying to package the Milky Way so it will fit in my kitchen cupboard. He’s enormous and mysterious and loving and inscrutable and odd. If you don’t think he’s odd, take a look at those fish that live in the dark and are made of teeth, except for one glowing lure right in the front. Weird. So I guess the fact that I can’t figure him out is actually quite reasonable.
I must admit, I like the idea of knowing him as a person, which some have interpreted to be possible. I also have to admit I feel very much like the main character in that old animated film called “Antz”. The main character is talking to his therapist and saying something like, “I just feel so desperate to do something important with my life but I can’t escape the feeling that I’m insignificant.”
“This is wonderful!” the therapist replies. “You’ve made a breakthrough!”
“I have?” replied the ant.
“Yes! The therapist continues, throwing open the window curtains to reveal the outside world. “You ARE insignificant!” he says.
Perhaps someday God will respond to this desire of mine to know him in what appears to me now to be a ludicrously personal way. If so, he will have affirmed his weirdness and a crazy streak of affection for minuscule things. I, however, cannot make this happen. No amount of studying supposed facts about his character is going to substitute for him stepping into my life in a perceptible way and saying something like, “Hey. What’s up? What’s going on in your heart and mind? Why don’t we go get some fair trade, organic tea in a compostable mug at a family-owned shop (because I don’t support child labor or slavery or racial inequity or wanton destruction of people or natural environments)? I think I’d like that.
Shock
Sometimes there
is a hair trigger
split running right through
a moment when all was
fine and breezy,
the kind
of time when a luxurious
complaint about
someone else’s driving, or
bird shit on the car, seems
reasonable.
Then an unexpected
rift occurs,
and the earth becomes
flat like a
tree that’s been
beaten into
paper, or
a heart that
has lost its
beating.
Comfort
When comfort comes it’s best
to accept it, even if you haven’t
met since college, changed your
your religion and like to value your
pride. If it comes often, remember
it’s birthday. Send a card and
make a cake. When that moment
arrives and your muscles release
and the whirring of knives fades
into the sound of a soft breeze in
a large grove of maples breathe deep. Cry. It’s okay to cry when the damp
leaves behind a scent of fresh
earth and oranges.
God and Babies
Well, in the middle of my time of existential angst, some of my dearest friends had a baby. So like life to send such a jumbled mix of light and dark all at once. He’s perfect, a little angel boy with long fingers and dark hair. His cooing sounds could break your heart. A gift, a new life full of possibilities, laughter and tears, he’s a treasure.
And here I am trying to figure out the meaning of life, and the character of God. I know my friends think God is present, reliable, personal, generous and kind. And yet, when I read the Bible he seems unpredictable, occasionally brutal, and available to only a few. Yes, there are promises of good things, but there are promises of “trials and tribulations” as well. This world has fallen from perfection and there’s no changing that until such time as God decides to really intervene. I do not know how to reconcile the appealing idea that God is a perfect father who wants to have a personal relationship with me, with the picture of this unpredictable, far away God whose ways and thoughts are so far beyond my own that he is completely inscrutable. Of course he’s inscrutable. He’s an omniscient diety powerful enough to create the fracking universe. I feel like I’ve been sold a bill of goods, that he cares about the things that matter to my heart. It’s easier to relegate him to some distant position of indifference than to try to overlay a Daddy God with one who commands the slaughtering of thousands. I’m irretrievably confused and feel destined to remain so because I cannot simply agree with one camp and ignore the other. It seems as though both are true, if I take scriptures into account, which leaves me either doubting the scriptures or accepting the paradox in such a way that I distance myself from him to some degree. I had one unpredictable father. I don’t particularly want another. I don’t especially expect capital G God to take an interest in my personal affairs, but then I have to admit that at times providence has at least appeared to do so.
Again, I find myself returning to fundamentals. What do I believe in? Love, mercy, justice, humility, and more love. These are aligned with the words of Christ, who I do believe was the only perfect man who ever lived. Is this enough? Even if I’m relegated to “fallen away” status by those more zealous and sure of themselves, can I live a full life in service to Love? The fact is, I’d really like a perfect Dad. I’m disappointed that I don’t think I can trust him, and that the fact that he’ll suffer beside me isn’t enough for me to feel safe. We are not safe. That I know.
Then I remember the baby. I think of his parents. I think of all the perils in life alongside all the wonders. It occurs to me that baby’s world is small and immediate. It consists of one moment followed by the next, eating, crying, sleeping, being loved. I’m no more important than he is. Maybe it could be enough to live now, loving and being merciful as much as I’m able and not trying to reconcile inscrutable mysteries of an enormous God. Maybe.
Stories
I know you like I know my great-grandmother. She was in photographs. I heard stories of how kind she was, and how stubborn. She decided she’d never give birth after the first time and that was that. She never had sex after that. She had white hair by the time she was 35, and Great-Grandpa died young so I don’t think I can recommend it as a lifestyle. She used to read dog stories to my dad and they’d cry together and it was the only time in his life my dad ever showed his feelings to anyone. I’d like to meet her. If she could get my dad to cry, I think we should talk.
There aren’t any real pictures of you. Well, there aren’t any good ones. Pasty-faced Jesus and big fireballs don’t count. There are plenty of stories. You’re imaginative, I’ve got to give you that, and you don’t seem to give up easily. Tenacious, I’d say, if you want to be friends with me (though I don’t have a guarantee on that). We don’t think the same way, you and I. You’re a mystery but you are enormous, like the inside of a black hole thrown outward so all its bits are spread over the boundaries between our universe and another we haven’t discovered yet. I feel ridiculous when I’m upset with you. I’d like to meet you. I think I’d start by asking you to read sad dog stories and wait to see if you cried. If so, we might be able to talk.
Scrambled Eggs
Okay, I know what everyone else has figured out already. Getting upset about the seagulls wasn’t just about the seagulls. The problem is that I don’t understand what it really is about. I’m pretty darned tuned into the universe so I suppose part of it could be about hearing the earth groan all the time. It could be about all the devastation humans wreak on each other and the planet. It could be about watching my mother suffer all her life, or watching my dad give up all his dreams, or being their “all we’ve got in the world.” It could have something to do with being married to my dear husband for over 18 years and still dealing with a multitude of issues around physical intimacy. Perhaps it’s about being rejected and/or misunderstood by my in-laws, having little family of my own and feeling sort of alone. Adopted family is great, but it’s never quite the same, is it? It could be related to my desire to create, always thwarted by my need to earn a stable income and teach others how to be more creative. I’m writing a terribly depressing paper about the unseen human costs of cheap production of goods, demanded by people who expect rock bottom prices so they can take mission trips to help the poor, when the truth is, the demand for low prices is creating most of the poor, supporting slavery and child labor, and decimating the environment the most for persons of color and few economic resources. Is it about all that? I almost cried when someone let me pet their dog today. I cried at a commercial on T.V. I’m walking with a limp.
It’s not as though any of the above is new information. I think that’s why I’m confused. I’ve understood and accepted all of this and more. So why now has my body decided to grieve?
Maybe the seagulls were the last straw-the latest instance in which love has failed and suffering has won the day. It was in my face, a blatant violation of one of the factors that has allowed me to continue thinking that living on earth is something I can accomplish without being completely destroyed. My seagulls were stability. They were hope. I counted on the ritual of their lives as one of the anchors in my universe. And yes, I know seagulls don’t live as long as us and are susceptible to tragedy like everyone else. I worried about it, but to see their home destroyed so carelessly, thrown in the trash as though everything beautiful and precious to me were worthless shit to be taken away in just a matter of time. That surprised me.
We are promised nothing while we’re here. God says he’ll be with us, but I don’t understand him. Some of my friends think he’s attempting to perfect us by allowing a series of afflictions, and it’s all for our own good. Some people say he’s in control of everything, and everything happens for a purpose. To this I say, “bullshit.” I think shit just happens. I’m not interested in a God who allows birth defects so we’ll gain character. There’s got to be something I’m missing, but if God actually wants relationship with me he’s going to have to do more than meet me halfway. He’s God, after all, and I have the stature of a flea when it comes to the size of the universe. So I guess I’ll just wait here and send this invitation out into the spiritual dimension. God, I need you to show up. You owe me nothing. I’m sort of banking on the “God is love” theme being true, even though I have no idea how that actually works. Without something outside of and greater than myself to give meaning to this brief, astounding and devastating life, I’ve got nothing. I never believed in that whole idea that children give a person a sort of immortality, and I don’t even have kids. Maybe the point is in loving each other, but we’ve proven we all suck at that. I do have a lot to be grateful for. I didn’t haul my water from a dirty river today. I’m not living in a war zone. I can move around and do stuff. I need more. If you’re the one who decided I’d be a deep thinker then it’s your own damn fault. If all we have is this breath then I need you to show me what that breath is for. I’m asking for your help when I know I deserve nothing. I’m asking anyway. What the hell. It never hurts to ask, right?
The Chaos Feeling Out
While endeavoring greatly to do nothing, my heart endeavors strongly to be heard. All those tears and shiver-making thoughts that I’ve captured and boxed and stored in places I no longer remember, come pounding back at once and I become small, like a
seed
at the bottom of the universe. These feelings are all lost, gangly teenagers who don’t know how to express themselves, hoping to be strung somehow, like
pearls – which
I would be happy to do if I were big enough. Perhaps there’s some warm soil for my seed from
underneath a galaxy.