Dear God

dear god,

i know you’re busy up there. running the world. and the universe. and stuff. i know i’ve been bugging you a lot lately with all my annoying questions and accusations and outlandish behavior. maybe you’re preoccupied with keeping an eye on covid and poverty and people who aren’t mad at you, so you just don’t have time to sit down and talk to me.

or maybe it’s not your style to pop in and out of people’s homes just because they’re crying and missing their beloved and stuff like that. maybe it would scare the bejesus out of them if you showed up in person. i guess i can see how that would just add to the inventory up there in heaven if you, first, scared people to death down here by making a personal appearance, and then, second, loaded up the front entry of the golden gates with a gaggle of shell-shocked arrivals.

but it’s hard not to take it personally when i sit still and ask you to make me aware of your presence.

and you don’t.

i’m doing my best to sit still. but this whole grieving thing is new to me and my mind wanders and pretty soon i’m opening my eyes in the room which totally defeats the whole "set the scene" thing i was trying to do. and then i see a picture of rob on my dresser and my heart starts cramping again, and pretty soon i’m crying and doing all that outlandish behavior stuff i just mentioned.

remember that sign i hung above the tv? the one with that verse from exodus? "The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still," it reads. i am, you know. being still and waiting. because you said you’d fight for me. are you doing that? because it doesn’t feel like it.

it feels like my family and i are just muddling through this together. hurting all the time. confused all the time. feeling like we’re being punished for something when we don’t know what we did that meant we had to lose rob. i always heard that you’re done punishing your kids now that jesus took it all for us, but if this isn’t punishment, then what is it? a learning tool? it’s a pretty sucky learning tool, if you ask me. i’m starting to wonder if you got your teaching credentials online or something. this is a lousy way to educate the ignorant. i’d rather have remained ignorant of death and loss and widowhood.

i cried it out again last night, or at least i used up the tears i had on hand, and i was so tired and ready to go to bed and i thought it would be nice if i could try to sit still and close my eyes for a few minutes and feel your presence, since you’re so opposed to that whole visibility thing. i’m so tired all the time. tired of waking up knowing it’s just another day without rob. another day of trying to navigate this road without my other half here to help me. which reminds me.

why is it not good for man to be alone but perfectly fine for woman to be alone? i’m pretty ticked off about that today, too.

i sat there for a few . . . okay, a couple . . . maybe it was sixty seconds. but you didn’t show up. i saw a wolf spider run across the rug but that’s about it. if the bug guy hadn’t come last week, i’d have been listening to crickets. is that any way to treat your daughter? ignore her when she gives you an invitation to hang out for a minute? what’s so terrible about making your presence known, anyway?

this is probably a waste of time, writing this letter to you. it’ll probably just land in your circular file. we’re all having a really hard time talking to you right now and when we do, the silence on your end hangs heavy.

what’s so important that you can’t stop by and explain a few things to me? some explanation would go a really long way right now.

are you busy playing golf with rob?

it’s pretty lonely here without him, you know. and it feels pretty lonely without you here, too. i guess you might be mad at my lack of faith. and all the accusations i’ve thrown your way. but i doubt it. if anybody can handle my anger and hurt and outrage and guilt and cold shoulders and sorrow and agony and confusion—it’s You. you never hold grudges. not since you came to live in me.

people are telling me that when i write, i end up answering my own questions. maybe. i’m a writer, you know, so ending a blog or a letter with a nice, big bow is how i roll. i know you live inside me. i’ve heard and read that you’re near to the brokenhearted and to those crushed in spirit. i qualify on both points. i heard you weep with us and bottle our tears and that your Son was called the Man of Sorrows. by the way, i’m really sorry about that.

i’ve sensed you a few times since i lost my darlin’. it was nice for a few minutes. and it was a sensational story to tell to others. but it didn’t last long enough. nothing on this planet that’s good lasts long enough. time is a traitor and no friend of mine.

i just wish that if you actually did show up last night that you’d let me know it. i know that the pretty bow i should end this with today is that you live in all your kids and every time i have a need, you send one of them to hug me or call me or write to me or invite me to come hang out with them—god with skin on. maybe that’s all we get on this side of those heavenly greens where you and rob like to play golf together.

i just wish i’d gone to sleep last night after experiencing a few moments with you. in person.

or maybe. what i really wanted was for rob to show up. 

maybe that's it. sorry for bothering you. tell my husband i said, hi, would you?

sincerely,

eula

p,s. thanks for getting over that whole ‘open up the ground and swallow up all you dirty rotten sinners’ thing. if i can’t be honest with you, who can i talk to?