Visitation
These kids of mine. I nurture and nourish them from dust specks, provide every essential staple; then they grow a little, yearn to leave, only to learn, once gone, they really could’ve used more raising. Sometimes they pay morning visits at one of My many official houses. That pleaseth Me, it really do. They dress nicely, sing praise songs off-key, many show without fail at Easter and Christmas, so long as the weather holds.
Other times, they stay away, but call seeking help. Sometimes tacitly. Sneakily. Usually what they want is money, though they veil asks in what they consider crafty constructions: May my home offer suitable space and comfort for my growing family, or Put me to use for your many servants. Like I don’t get that’s a euphemism for landing the VP position they’re angling for? I do see quite a bit, quite well.
I confer instead windows of opportunity, which My kids rarely recognize as forms of riches. I give choices, and challenges, along with manna. I try not to give guilt trips, though these kids remain convinced that’s what’s happening each time I permit the collapse of a chunk of freeway, or mudslides made manifest by minor floods (no 40-year varieties; I’m done with those; I made a pledge long ago, and My vows, ten of them, anyway, are set in stone). No matter how many may tempt and trigger me, I never smite any of My kids. That’s a myth. My will is not the same as My whim.
There is in each precious face on the planet a mote of innocent lamb.
What children forget: all remain under My roof, no matter how big they believe they’ve gotten. No matter if they can grow a beard or bear a child, no matter if the roof above isn’t topped by steeple or minaret. Has this lesson not yet been inscribed? You are always visiting. Tenants through time immemorial, never evicted out of spite, never leaving until your lease on the grave is signed. A little like that Eagles tune, the one with the hotel? And so you keep making messes, no end to troubling My waters, leaving wildfires to rage and jaundice forests, etc., rarely picking up after yourself—do you think squalor just tidies up on its own?
So make the most of your next visit. I can be lowkey about your itinerary. Want to chat for an hour, enjoy a tiny cup of wine or Welch’s, then bolt? Fine. Only here for the music? Play it loud as you like. Just yelped My name as an exhalation of stress in terrifying traffic? No problem (try not to say it in too vain-y a way, is all I ask). My place is set in every moving molecule. My eye always awaiting your headlights to turn up My gilded gravel drive, happy to lighten your heaping burden of bags when you arrive, rescue you from your homeland of doubt and terror. A vigilant parent to the end, with no plans or room to retire.
