As the Israelites traveled through the desert wilderness, the presence of God was manifest in a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. Exodus 13:22
In the summer of 1982 God sat at a card table, poodles at her ankles, cocked cigarette in hand, setting her nine cards in vast array.
The summer of '82 was slow and hot and humid, and we traveled through the days card by card, pacing ourselves by trumpeted proclamations Let’s Make a Deal! Wheeeeeel ooofff Fortune! and the whispers of Luke and Laura.
When the news ended, when the last card played, when the air was thick and stale, and we were tired of each other, I trudged away, smelling of smoke, and entered my quiet house. If anyone was there, they knew I had been with God.
Every morning, I’d return, crossing the wasteland, my house to God’s, to sit before the altar of three channels and eat toast to the happy banter of others Good Morning, America.
The incense of tobacco, bright and fragrant, rose into the crisp morning air, air cleansed by the light of the moon.
Sometimes God thundered about daughters-in-law. Sometimes God quaked about the silent phone line, the boys who seldom called. Sometimes God wept for the sins of the family, and sometimes God spoke in a still small voice, It’s going to be ok, honey Oh baby, I’m so very sorry
An ember by night, the Cloud of Presence by day, In the wandering wilderness of that season, God Was.
Bringing you into the world was a half-cocked plan, born of accident and bravado. Of one thing I was certain: I would do better than my parents. My smart resolve soon fell away into the ruts of their well-worn path.
From the Box Store of Beliefs, I bought a large suitcase. Around scratchy clothes and tight shoes, I arranged for you all the useless nothings Of Propriety and how.it.is.supposed.to.be.
I watched that unwieldy valise bounce against your new knees. I knew this was best for you because Important Things are Heavy and keeping a grip on Big Truths takes tenacity and brute strength.
As the years went by, The pillars of what I thought I knew, what I thought was true, Toppled.
I remembered The dream of another way, Of the path that says: It is never too late to let go of the Warping Weight.
It is not too late For us to slide that clunker out the rear car door into a backwash ditch.
Now, I’m buying you a big bandana and a stick.
I’m packing you a bundle Of deodorant and daring and creativity and chapstick and sriracha and compassion and fuzzy socks and the salve of let.it.go and the balm of how.it.could.be.
I will watch you set off, A bright bandana ball bobbing behind you.
Yes, that will be a happy way to release you into the world.
Chali Davis 