I tell him.
Honey, to tell you the truth, God and I’s relationship is fairly complicated and I’m still trying to figure it all out. He says I don’t call enough. I tell him the phone works both ways. And, then right when I mouth off to him, I’ll find myself making a full-time living writing words at the age of twenty-three (now going on twenty-five) and I’ll look up at him and say “touche”.
The two of us disagree a lot, most especially when it comes to that leather bound book in every drawer of every hotel nightstand in the country. I’ll tell him I’m not sure if that leather bound book is truly him and he doesn’t say anything.
And then I’ll tell him I wish he would have hired Stephen King or Ernest Hemingway or John Steinbeck or Virginia Woolf to write that leather bound book because I think there could be a little more prose and literary flair in there and he doesn’t say anything to this either.
And, finally, I tell him that it keeps me up at night thinking that my sweet grandmama never made it into heaven, according to that leather bound book in every hotel nightstand in the country and he keeps mum to this too.
And it’s all very complicated and quite disagreeable. Yet, I do find myself returning to him despite our disagreements. I spoke to him the other night, actually. I said he did a damn good job crafting your pretty soul and the next morning I woke up with a fever and a nasty cold. Part of me thinks it was his way of telling me not to curse at him even when it’s complimentary. But I’m just thankful we agreed on something.
By Cole Schafer.