{"id":60,"date":"2007-01-12T07:58:27","date_gmt":"2007-01-12T11:58:27","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/?p=60"},"modified":"2007-01-16T14:26:19","modified_gmt":"2007-01-16T18:26:19","slug":"julia-prays-to-forget-evan","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/?p=60","title":{"rendered":"Julia Prays to Forget Evan"},"content":{"rendered":"

I suppose I should want to talk about the President’s bold new plan for Iraq, but it’s all too depressing, isn’t it? So I figured it’s time for another godstory<\/a>. The character of God owes a lot to a certain kind of sentimental movie version of the miraculous done so well in the 40’s by guys like Frank Capra. My adolescent religion was watching those things on tv every afternoon. Those stories owe a debt to Dickens, whose A Christmas Carol<\/em> is a touchstone of sentimental magic. So here’s my Capraesque-Dickensish godstory:<\/p>\n

Julia Prays to Forget Evan<\/strong><\/p>\n

Julia loads the dishwasher, wipes all the counters and splashboards clean and everything on them, scours the stovetop and the sink, vacuums and mops the floor, and watches it dry. She kneels to get a stubborn spot in front of the stove when, all of a sudden, she feels the overwhelming need to pray. It’s that or sob again. She hates that.<\/p>\n

The tile floor under her knees is hard and cold. She’s eye-level with the digital clock on the stove, which hasn’t been reset since the thunderstorm three nights before. It blinks hypnotically: 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00<\/em> . . .<\/p>\n

She doesn’t know what to say. She’s not even sure you say anything. God knows your thoughts, right? Even when she was a kid, the last time she was moved to prayer, she never felt like she was doing it right. But here it is, out of nowhere, the need to pray, in her perfectly clean kitchen. She knows why<\/em> she needs to pray, of course. She’s a solid block of grief and rage, has been for weeks:<\/p>\n

Evan has left her for another woman. After twenty<\/em> years together. Tabitha, the other woman, was two<\/em> when Julia and Evan met, both skating through Comparative Religion, about to graduate. Tabby was five<\/em> when Julia and Evan got married. He calls her Tabby. She could’ve been a flower girl at their wedding, strewing flowers after their car, until a Mack truck came out of nowhere and smashed her skinny ass like a sack of chicken bones.<\/p>\n

This blissful image fades to gleaming Linoleum. This kitchen-cleaning binge has been her latest pathetic attempt to get a grip. And now here she is, on her knees, her hands clasped desperately around a bottle of Glass Plus and a Scrubbie, comforting herself with fantasies of hit-and-run, composing a fucking prayer<\/em>?<\/p>\n

Fine.<\/p>\n

The final humiliation.<\/p>\n

And that’s what she prays for\u00e2\u20ac\u201dfinality.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Dear God,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she says, in a loud, clear voice, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Make me stop loving him…” She totters on the brink of tears. Enough tears. God doesn’t want her tears. Nobody does.<\/p>\n

“Make me forget him,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she says. “Completely.”<\/p>\n

It’s as if it comes out of someone else, someone strong and sure who knows what she wants. She can’t believe she’s said such a thing, but hearing the words, she’s convinced of their rightness, and a faint, private smile comes to her making her feel for a moment that maybe, somehow, her prayer will someday be answered. You take what you can get.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Amen,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she adds, making it official, and the clock\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s numerals stop blinking. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Weird,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she says aloud. She’s gotten in the habit of talking to herself since Evan left. She stares at the steady, unflickering numerals.<\/p>\n

12:01<\/em>, they glow.<\/p>\n

And then, a minute later, 12:02<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Weird<\/em>. She looks down at herself. Almost as weird as kneeling in front of the stove in the middle of the afternoon making prayerful with household cleaning products. She rises to her feet, and there’s a knock at the kitchen door behind her.<\/p>\n

Only friends come to that door. Friends who\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve come by, no doubt, on this beautiful Sunday afternoon, to console her\u00e2\u20ac\u201dand to find out whether Evan\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s girlfriend is really<\/em> only twenty-two. No, Tabby died when she was five, actually, a horrible accident involving a large truck and rose petals<\/em>.<\/p>\n

There’s nothing for it now. She’s standing in plain sight in the middle of the kitchen. Whoever it is can see her through the glass. She hopes they didn’t see her down on her knees and get the wrong idea. She turns to find a complete stranger smiling and waving at her through the glass. He’s a pleasant-looking old man, a dead ringer for Edmund Gwenn in Miracle on 34th Street<\/em>. The kind, crinkly eyes, the soft white hair and beard, the dimples when he smiles. It’s uncanny.<\/p>\n

Cautiously, she opens the door a crack. He probably wants the house next door. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yes, may I help you?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she asks.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I believe you just asked for my<\/em> help,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd he says. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m God.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

He’s wearing a heavy wool overcoat with a cashmere collar, in mid-August. Not a good sign. Close the door and lock it, hit 911 on the speed dial, Now!<\/em> she’s screaming in her head, but she just stares back at him. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153God?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she asks.<\/p>\n

He nods and smiles pleasantly. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153The One and Only.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

She looks back at the oven clock. 12:03<\/em>, it says. She rubs her eyes, takes a deep, cleansing breath, looks back at the old man, and he’s still there, still smiling at her. “My-my prayer?”<\/p>\n

He bobs his head up and down, still beaming. “That’s right.”<\/p>\n

A short, nervous laugh, more like a yelp than a laugh, pops out of her. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153But you look like Santa Claus,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she says.<\/p>\n

The Old Man chuckles. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153It works for most people. With some, of course, I wouldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t dream of showing up as Santa\u00e2\u20ac\u201dthey\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d throw me out on my ear\u00e2\u20ac\u201dyou know, philosophy majors and the like. But you, Julia, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d rather thought you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d like Kris Kringle.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd He takes a cautious step toward the threshold. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Aren\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t you going to invite me in? So we can discuss your prayer?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Invite you in?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd says Julia. She blinks at him like the clock blinked at her, as if her circuits, too, have been frazzled by a bolt of lightning. She can still hear her voice screaming inside of her: Close the door and lock it, hit 911 on the speed dial, Now! Now! Now!<\/em> How interesting, she thinks.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Sure, sure,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she says and steps back, opening the door. “Come in.” She’s glad everything’s so clean. She’d hate for anyone to see the mess it was a few hours ago, least of all God.<\/p>\n

God steps into her kitchen and smiles on everything. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Very nice,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd he says. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Most people would’ve missed the spot under the toaster oven. Why don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t we have some coffee and that big bag of Oreos you bought this morning?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Oreos,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd Julia whispers. So God knows about those. Probably knows about the Gummy Bears in her desk at work.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153And coffee,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd says God.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Regular or decaf?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd Julia asks.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Regular,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd says God.<\/p>\n

Julia can’t remember making the coffee, but there they are, the two of them, sitting at her kitchen table with cups of coffee and a platter of Oreos\u00e2\u20ac\u201dher and God. Maybe the prayer thing wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe she should\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve filled the prescription for Prozac instead. Hell, gobbled up the Oreos like she planned.<\/p>\n

God pries an Oreo apart and smiles upon it. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153So, you want to stop loving Evan. Why is that?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Julia watches God eat Oreos, wondering whether He likes crunchy or smooth peanut butter, red or white wine. She imagines them on one of those stupid morning TV shows she watches when she’s too depressed to go in to work: Today on<\/em> Julia\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s Kitchen, Julia chats with God.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153If you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re God,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she says\u00e2\u20ac\u201d\u00e2\u20ac\u0153you already know why.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God is beginning to annoy her just a little bit.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I suppose you mean that business with Tabitha,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God says, his mouth full of Oreo.<\/p>\n

The mere sound of the name fills her with venom. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Of course, I mean \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcthat business with Tabitha.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 The young and beautiful Tabitha. My husband\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s lover, Tabitha!\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd And then, as it always does, her venom turns to tears.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153He promised to love me<\/em>,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she says, banging her fists on her chest. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Me, not her.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd She buries her head in her arms. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153He promised to love me forever.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God hands her his handkerchief. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I remember that. And you made a similar promise, as I recall.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Julia can scarcely believe God is such a simpleton. She dries her eyes and blows her nose. The handkerchief is soft and billowy and smells like her grandfather\u00e2\u20ac\u201dthe nice one. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153So what? He broke his<\/em> promise.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God shrugs. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Perhaps. Who cares about him, right? Let\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s not get bogged down in the ethics of the whole thing. Enough talk. I’m a busy God. I’ve got a lot on my plate. What would you like me to do<\/em> to him? Misery? Wasting disease? Death?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God pops a whole Oreo in his mouth, dispenses with it in a few loud, crunching chomps, chasing it down with a big swig of steaming hot coffee. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Dismemberment?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153God no!\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd Julia shrieks.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153But I thought you didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t want to love him anymore, that you wanted to forget him altogether.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u201dI do. But I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t want anything bad to happen to him\u00e2\u20ac\u201dor at least not horrible.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God drinks off his coffee and pours himself another cup. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153And why\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s that?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Because I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m still in love with him,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd Julia explains to this incredibly dense deity, adding to herself, You fucking idiot!<\/em> Then realizes\u00e2\u20ac\u201dThe Fucking Idiot can read her thoughts. But she doesn’t care, Goddamnit. She feels worse now than when she fell on her knees to pray, and she thought she was hitting bottom then. She remembers why she quit praying when she was thirteen.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153How about I make you stop loving him first<\/em>\u00e2\u20ac\u201dthen I can do whatever I want to him.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No! You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re impossible!\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God laughs. It’s big and infectious. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve often been told so, yes.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Then she sees the twinkle. Probably been there all along. She hasn’t really been looking for it. Too pissed off, she supposes. But it’s there. God’s been pulling her leg. It’s kind of sweet when she thinks about it. Teased by God. This sweet old man wouldn’t hurt a fly. She smiles bravely at him.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Drink some of your coffee,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God says. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s quite delicious.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I don’t know what I was thinking,” she apologizes. “I shouldn’t have poured myself any. If I drink this, I’ll be up all night. I only drink decaf after noon.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Of course,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd He says. He points a finger at her cup, and gives it a little wiggle. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153You can drink it now.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Her eyes widen, and she stares into the steaming black fluid, imagining millions of evil caffeine molecules dissolving into nothing or turning into virtuous anti-oxidants. She wonders if He can turn the Cokes Evan left in the fridge to diet while He’s here. Cautiously, as if it might now turn her into a toad or a princess, she brings the cup to her lips and takes a drink. It’s delicious\u00e2\u20ac\u201dthe best coffee she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s ever tasted\u00e2\u20ac\u201dand it seems to wash away a good deal of her venom and grief. Maybe God isn’t so bad after all.<\/p>\n

He gives her a reassuring nod, and she has another gulp, cradles the warm, comforting cup in her hands.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153So, back to your prayer,” God says\u00e2\u20ac\u201d”You want me to make you stop loving Evan\u00e2\u20ac\u201dthen what?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Julia sets down her cup, picks up an Oreo and pries it apart, considering the possibilities. She feels grounded now, centered. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I just want to stop loving him. That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all. His life should be whatever it was going to be anyway\u00e2\u20ac\u201dwhether I was stupid enough to love him or not.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153But you want me to change something important. Once you change one thing, it changes everything else.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153My love important? Ha! Ask Evan how important it is. Besides, he already changed everything when he fell for that little bimbo.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God pours her another coffee, and she drinks some more. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153This is really<\/em> good coffee,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd she says.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153The best,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God says. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153And you said you only drink decaf.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

She stares at the coffee in her cup. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153This is regular?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153High octane, actually.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153But I thought you\u00e2\u20ac\u201dyou\u00e2\u20ac\u201d\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd She wiggles her finger at it. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Transformed it or something.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd She points her wiggling finger at Him. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153You lied<\/em> to me.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God rolls his eyes. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153No. I most definitely did not. I said you could drink it, an obvious truth, and you acted on it. I tricked you into living a little. I figured you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d survive. Besides, you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re going to be up quite late.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Julia doesn’t like the sound of that. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Doing what?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re going out. Discussion doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t seem to be getting us anywhere. I thought a field trip might help. Have you ever read A Christmas Carol<\/em> or seen one of the movies?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

She wrinkles up her nose. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Of course. Only about a million times. You like that?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I love it. I love Christmas.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re kidding. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s so crass and materialistic.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I assure you, my dear, I get quite enough grand and heavenly. But as I was saying, we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll go out\u00e2\u20ac\u201djust like in Dickens. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll return at midnight and take you to the present, the past, and the future. What do you think?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Julia thinks He’s nuts. She\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s met God, face-to-face, and He’s totally nuts. It makes sense. It explains a lot of things. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Wh-why . . . why would you want to do that?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153So you can decide what you want to do about this prayer of yours.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Julia holds up her hands in surrender. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Just forget it, okay? Just forget the whole prayer thing.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Sorry, no can do. Omniscience, you know.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd He taps his white temples with his fingertips. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t forget anything.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Julia eyes him suspiciously. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153You could if you wanted to. What about omnipotence?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What is this\u00e2\u20ac\u201dphilosophy 101? Can I make a stone so big I can’t move it? Omnipotence is for suckers. So what do you say? I usually leave this sort of thing to the angels, but why should they have all the fun? They\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve certainly been getting all the good press lately.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Do I have a choice?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Of course. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m a stickler on free will.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd He pries open another Oreo and licks off the filling\u00e2\u20ac\u201dall of it\u00e2\u20ac\u201din a single slurp. Truly amazing. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153If you don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t want to deal with it, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll just answer your prayer as I see fit.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

An image of Evan being fried by a huge bolt of lightning flashes through her mind. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Okay. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll go. But do we have to wait till midnight<\/em>? What am I supposed to do, sit here all day? I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll go nuts.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Good point,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God says, and the clock on the stove blinks 12:00<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Where would you like to go first?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God asks.<\/p>\n

Julia looks out the kitchen door where she first saw God come calling, and it’s dark. Midnight, she’s guessing.<\/p>\n

Julia decides on the present. The future’s out of the question\u00e2\u20ac\u201dshe doesn’t even like to have her tarot cards read. And the past\u00e2\u20ac\u201dwell\u00e2\u20ac\u201dshe was already crying buckets\u00e2\u20ac\u201dwhat does she want to do\u00e2\u20ac\u201dslash her wrists? No, the past is a minefield of morbid sentimentality. Better to stick with the present\u00e2\u20ac\u201dthe rotten present\u00e2\u20ac\u201dwhere she’s good and pissed off, and that gets her through the day. That and Oreos. And now\u00e2\u20ac\u201dshe tries not to think about it\u00e2\u20ac\u201dGod.<\/p>\n

He takes her outside, under starry midnight skies. He holds out his big right hand. The air is crisp and dry as if it were Christmas eve. Who would\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve thought God was such a hambone.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t mean fly, fly\u00e2\u20ac\u201dlike through the air with no plane or anything.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Exactly.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No, please. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m terrified of heights.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll fly low.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

“No! You said I have free will!”<\/p>\n

“Okay, okay. We’ll forget flying. We’ll just appear.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s fingers are poised for a divine snap, when Julia thinks to ask. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Appear where, exactly? Not anywhere within a hundred miles of Tabitha, I hope.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Well, yes, actually.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153So I could see her at some cornball vulnerable moment, right? So I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d understand what life is like inside her perfect body and feel all sympathetic toward her like a big sister or something.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like it?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153It sucks. No Tabitha.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153All right. Past or future?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

The future could be anything, as recently demonstrated by the dreadful present she currently inhabits. It had once been the future too. The deceitful, false, treacherous future that promises one thing and delivers another. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Okay, the past.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153The past it is.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd God gets a look in his eyes like he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s paging through her life looking for just the right bit. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s like someone rummaging through your trash. Only he doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t have to rummage. He was there at every crumpled, discarded moment.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Wait a minute. You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re not going to take me to the past and show me how I dumped Charlie fifteen years ago, so I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m supposed to forgive Evan now, are you?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God rubs his eyes wearily. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Well, yes, I was actually.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like it,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd Julia says. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Too predictable and easy. Besides I was a kid<\/em> then.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153The same age as Tabitha.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No. She was eight.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You know what I mean.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Sure I do. I just don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t buy it. I didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t get involved with a happily married man. I just divorced my miserable husband before he divorced me.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Because you were in love with Evan.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153But he<\/em> wasn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t married.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God smiles. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yes, now I understand. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know why I didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t see your moral superiority before.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Screw you.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

God chuckles. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153So what shall it be then, the future?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

Why is it God\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s always pushing the future? Is it because only he can see it? And maybe Stephen Hawking. Julia\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s had enough. As much as she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s enjoying the crisp, cool night air in August, she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s had it with the time games. She crosses her arms and stands up straight. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153No. I want to change my prayer.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Change your prayer?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s right. New prayer. We start over. I prayed for the wrong thing, and now I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m correcting my mistake. Free will, right?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Right. And what is your new prayer?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I want to forgive Evan.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Forgive him?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s right. You know, \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcforgive my trespasses\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 and all that? It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s what you want me to do, right?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I told you. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m a stickler about free will.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Fine, fine. My own free will: I pray to forgive Evan.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What about Tabitha?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153God, you drive a hard bargain. Okay. Why the hell not? Her too. Charlie. My mom. My eighth grade English teacher. Hell. Even you.\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What about Julia?\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd<\/p>\n

A little sob catches in her throat as she whispers, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Her too,\u00e2\u20ac\ufffd and God kisses her lightly on the forehead, and she can feel it evaporating off her forehead like a mist rising from the river at sunrise.<\/p>\n

She opens her eyes, and he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s gone, and she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s kneeling in her kitchen with a fresh cup of coffee and a platter of Oreos on the counter, though God has already eaten most of them. Just as well. She can do without the calories. The kitchen looks great, and she has the whole afternoon ahead of her.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I suppose I should want to talk about the President’s bold new plan for Iraq, but it’s all too depressing, isn’t it? So I figured it’s time for another godstory. The character of God owes a lot to a certain … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-60","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-godstories"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=60"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=60"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=60"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/dennisdanvers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=60"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}