He Is It

If you cut Him in little segments (which can't be done), all you'd see would be love. Miles and miles and acres and worlds of it. Universes. Cosmic displays. Starfields that multiply and multiply and multiply."

LIFE IS A SERIES OF POTHOLES interspersed with flaming fire pits and slime fields. Rats dance around the rim, holding tails with crocodiles, the whole atmosphere one of purification. There’s a devil behind every fence post and ten holding hands in the town square. They cheshire cat grin on the faces of secular financial thieves and deluded government pundits are so many over-inflated golf balls aimed for the head of the next decent person to speak up.

Love is a figment, a purple dinosaur that sings to children three decades ago. A slow song penned by a lonely country artist, his shirt buttons undone, his belt buckle shining in the moonlight. A dance, mid-1940s, by a star with legs that will twist better ‘n a pretzel in a plate of mustard. Laughable, enjoyable, replayable.

We hunger for love. We suck in devilish notions. Then a few of us open the Word of God and search between the thees and thous for a tiny little red heart. Some preacher in ripped blue jeans strides across a multi-million-dollar platform, not one hair moving, while another in a suit, every bright light on at the same time, leaps down the steps toward that woman on the front row who’s always there. So much calisthenics.

Okay, none of that. Love and hate fight a tennis match with rocket launchers, the good guys against the bad guys in a match to the death, and the whole world’s going to explode one day, all apocalypse now, one giant fireball by a God who is either going to remove us beforehand, leave us in halfway to suffer, or leave us all the way and let us fall as we may.

Or it could be we’re all donkey rumps who don’t know what the Word says at all, or that He is love. HE IS IT. If you cut him in little segments (which can’t be done), all you’d see would be love. Miles and miles and acres and worlds of it. Universes. Cosmic displays. Starfields that multiply and multiply and multiply. He’s forever multiplying. He can’t stop multiplying, and He can’t stop loving.

And though He’s dead to some and laughable to others and a jerk to yet another group, to me He’s the best, most wonderful, loving, gentle heroic Savior ever. He’s all the power of the universe which radiates from the throne of God and into eons of time, and the most powerful Father seated on a throne atop a glassy sea beneath the cries of holiness from the weird creatures that circumnavigate Him.

Minister Jesse Duplantis went there. Said God breathes out babies and they beg to come to earth. Some don’t believe this. Except Jesus was a spirit in heaven and was sent to earth to be a baby. He already existed, then was human, so it fits the image. Jesse said the power of heaven drained his strength, there was so much of it. He said those weird creatures that flew around the Father saw something new every time they circled His head, and to think they been there forever.

And will be there forever, and either you’re going to go see Him because you have Jesus in your heart, and He does exist, or you won’t, and you’ll wish you did. Me personally, I hope you do. I hope you see the flowers that turn and look at you, and the gems that line the streets, and the babies that the world decided to kill. I hope you hold them and love them and laugh with them. And swim while breathing, because they say you can do that. And stand and stare at the cosmos and wonder how you ever thought this wasn’t real.

I hope you meet my grandmother. You’d love her. And my grandfather. He’ll sing to you. And my husband’s grandparents, who will laugh you silly. I hope you go and meet my dog … dogs … all 1 million of them, and the squirrels, and the cat. And you enter a home so big you can’t find yourself, and you get one of your own.

But most of all, I hope you see Jesus, and that settles your heart on the fact He’s real and He loves you, and all that trash where there’s potholes and street sweepers and rotten confetti is just so much devil gas. Pfft. Phew. Because beneath it all is soil, dirt, that we’re formed from, that we’ll go back to, both men and women, although she came from him, in perfect unity, and he came from her as a response.

God did that, too. God did you.

Image by kinkate from Pixabay


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Suzanne D. Williams, Author
www.suzannedwilliams.com
www.feelgoodromance.com