We stood in the yard under the moon. Our conversation with God was less poignant than Margaret’s in the 1970 Judy Blume book, Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. I imagine Margaret was more respectful, though I admit I haven’t read the book.
I began the skirmish. “I wish you were dead, God.”
My friend picked up the ball with “See you in hell, God.”
Okay, we’re women. We try to look on the bright side. Coronavirus? Bring it on! We can stay indoors indefinitely and disinfect doorknobs–until we can’t. The mad washing of hands goes on, but we’re done wiping down stainless steel fixtures and tea kettle handles. Our contacts with carriers are limited, and, frankly, I would rather read my book than be a slave to Lysol. This is not to say I’m perusing the most challenging books when I’m not wiping the counter. Nope, I’m rereading “comfort” books: Milton’s Paradise Lost, Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, and Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
I semi-prayed at first, but gave up. It’s obnoxious to take the Name of the Lord in Vain, but I envision the Miltonic God of Paradise Lost and feel angry. I curse the god of Clorox. On the other hand, I admire Jesus in Paradise Regained. so maybe I should reread that instead.
Don’t we deserve to curse? My friend was hospitalized with a broken arm, two broken ribs, and fractured vertebrae. Alone in the hospital, she begged me to visit. No visitors were allowed because of coronavirus.
Yes, I understand, but I also begged the nurse to find some way we could care for her at home. That was not possible at the time.
And so she’s finally out, and we’re cursing in the back yard.
Are you there, God? It’s us, the humans.
