So, God? Can We Talk?

Hey, there, God. It's me. Again.

I know I've probably been bothering you a lot lately--and it may be particularly annoying since You know I don't subscribe to the belief that you manipulate the details. However, I'm attempting to fine tune my faith here; get it right, so to speak, so bear with me. Please.

And, if You are handling the details I want to make certain I'm reading the signs right. Like the whole Job (I'm talking employment here, Lord, not Job in the Bible. Although I am aware of the irony in the comparison.) versus Princess thing. And the cookies. You were never completely clear about the last chocolate cupcake, you know, although I chose to take the discovery of additional cookies as a good omen, if not an outright signal to indulge.

All of that, though, is for another day. Today I'm wondering about gender. Yours in particular. I've always been taught that You are genderless. Which worked well for me since for much of my non-makeup wearing, no hair fo-fooing, sensible, non PMS-ing life I've leaned a bit away from the typical gender things myself. What I mean to say, is that I've never needed to see You as sitting on one side or the other.

But lately I've been presented with some evidence that leads me to believe You are firmly male. And possibly biased creation favorably in that direction.

The worst thing visited upon Mr. L when he turned 50 was the AARP card which arrived in the mail. His body wasn't preprogrammed to turn on him after half a century of mainly peaceful co-existence. (We won't include that nasty butt occupying cancer that showed up two years ago. He was well past 50 by then and Shakespeare's Witches the Misses Lorri have always attributed that whole thing to my meatloaf anyway.)

What I'm talking about here, God, are my new life companions The Hormones. As in the ones who have recently awakened in the dark shadow of a fiftieth birthday this month. The ones that make me spit fire and speak in tongues (not in a Godly way either) in almost the same minute that I've teared up during a rerun of Married With Children.

As the Great Creator I think you have a little liability here for those bitches. And their evil intentions. At the very least I expect a free pass in the confessional for certain hormone driven transgressions. An absolute lack of tolerance for *&^$## idiots people. Moods that can go, within about 20 seconds, from Perfectly Content to Wants to Dismantle a Cute Furry Woodland Creature. With no obvious provocation.

I'm hoping you'll cut me a little slack on those or at least understand when I reach around the confessional screen and girl slap Father a few times when he assigns a stupid penance like trying to see the good in everyone or being more patient in the grocery store line.

Yours in Faith---Lorri


So, God? Can we talk?