Dear God,
\nI can\u2019t say that I like today\u2019s reading in Luke \u2026 about the rich man and the poor man, Lazarus, who sat at fat daddy\u2019s door devouring the banana peels and chicken bones falling from the feasts of Mr. Selfish while the dogs licked the nasty scabs all over his body. They both go to heaven, and no this isn\u2019t a joke. The wealthy dude with a 30 BMI (body mass index) is a tad uncomfortable (in HELL), and calls out to God\u2019s waiter, Abraham, to kindly get Lazarus to “dip the tip of his finger and cool his tongue.”<\/p>\n
“You\u2019re serious?” Abe asks Mr. He-Doesn\u2019t-Get-It.
\n“Come on,” the sweating millionaire begs Abe. “The temperature down here would spoil milk, especially organic milk, in less than three minutes. What are you guys trying to accomplish?”\n<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/p>\n
“For one, a lesson,” Abe says, pulling out his chalkboard. “And here\u2019s a clue \u2026 you should have thought about all this back when you were inhaling KFC and Godiva chocolates. Back when poor Lazarus was dog food and you watched as if the lickings were a good Dr. Phil show. I hate to be the one to drop this blazing bomb on you, Bro, but there isn\u2019t exactly an international exchange program, no co-op arrangement between our two little worlds\u2014yours of flame and fire and torment, and mine of Ben & Jerry\u2019s. There\u2019s no crossing between sides. Never. Ever. Get it?”
\n“Then at least send Lazarus to my father\u2019s house, to give the low down to my five brothers. Even though they\u2019ve pissed me off plenty times, I don\u2019t want them to fry in Betty Crocker\u2019s oven, as well.”
\n“Don\u2019t worry, they got the God Squad<\/a> (the ORIGINAL ONE)\u2014Moses and the prophets.”
\n“Uh \u2026 yeah, and they\u2019ll listen to them about as much as the Jehova Witnesses biking to the front door or the guys selling “Parenting<\/a>” magazine for $1000 a pop. They need someone else, someone they recognize, someone from the dead.”
\n“All you loaded guys are the same. I\u2019m telling you …. if they don\u2019t listen to Moses or the prophets, what makes you think that they\u2019re going to listen to some freaky ghost of the past? On second thought, don\u2019t answer that question.”\n<\/p><\/blockquote>\nOkay, God. I may have changed a few words, but I get the whole point of this story, and, frankly, it scares the hell out of me. Or, I guess, the hell in me. Because you know me \u2026 rather well as my creator, in fact. I\u2019m a self-doubter. A natural ruminator. An original nutjob. How do I know I\u2019m doing the right thing? The holy thing? The thing that will earn me a pass to Ben and Jerry\u2019s delicious shop in heaven?
\nI always know when you are getting my attention. But I can\u2019t read the fine print. You turn me around to face you, and then you don’t say anything.
\nI remember that flight to Boston in 1988 with my dad. The unnerving turbulence had me thinking that getting into Boston College should be down a few notches on my priority list, and praying for a safe landing should be first.
\nIn fact, I remember my thought process on that flight: “If I die today, my life would be a waste. For the past few years all I\u2019ve been doing is numbing the pain, quieting your voice, so that I can survive on a superficial level and not feel anything too deeply. But I think I\u2019m called to more. Something in me says that I can make a difference, maybe even in a small way, if I turn around my life now and stop drinking, smoking, eating compulsively, lying compulsively. I promise you, right here and right now, that if this plane makes it to Boston, I will redirect my life.”
\nWe landed, and two hours later I had renegotiated our contract. Until, a year later, I meant it.<\/a>
\nYou got my attention a week ago, when my endocrinologist suggested that my pituitary tumor might be growing again based on my blood work. Because brain surgery doesn\u2019t fit into my school-year calendar.
\nAnd yesterday I hardly chatted with anyone else but you. I don\u2019t think I\u2019ve prayed that hard since little David pushed his two-year-old buddy into 15-feet of freezing water<\/a>.
\nLet\u2019s review.
\n6 AM Katherine wakes up with a cough and a fever. No big deal.
\n2 PM It\u2019s getting worse. I schedule a doctor\u2019s appointment.
\n3 PM I\u2019m loading the kids into the car when I see that Katherine can hardly breathe. She\u2019s trying to tell me that she can\u2019t breathe, but she can\u2019t speak. That scares her, so she\u2019s crying, but not really making any noise except for wheezing, because she looks like she\u2019s suffocating.
\n3:05 PM I panic and call 911 and explain that my 3-year-old can\u2019t talk, and can barely breathe.
\nThey ask me questions:
\n“Does she have a fever?”
\n“Yes, 102.”
\n“Can she talk? ”
\n“No.”
\n“Did she eat something different or swallow something?”
\n“No.”
\n“Does she have asthma?”
\n“No.”
\n“Does she have any allergies?”
\n“No.”
\n“Is she clammy?”
\n“Yes.”
\n“Is she starting to turn another color?”
\n“Sort of.”
\n“Is she alert?”
\n“She\u2019s beginning to fall asleep, or pass out, I don’t know.”
\n“Wake her up. Keep her awake….Just try to keep her calm until we arrive.”
\nNow, God, if by making me watch my little angel breathe through an oxygen mask as a couple of paramedics wheel her gurney down the hall yelling “three-year-old with respiratory distress,” you wanted me to come to my knees, you certainly succeeded. Given that my dad died prematurely of a bronchial pneumonia, you knew where my paranoia lay.
\nYes, I remember promising you everything yesterday.
\n“I promise I won\u2019t whine so much about my kids. I\u2019ll be more patient when they draw on the walls. I will laugh, and not cry at the nail polish on the baby grand piano. You\u2019re right. You\u2019re so right. It doesn\u2019t matter. I won\u2019t get mad at them for pooping. I\u2019ll try to smile when they scream. I\u2019ll do anything, ANYTHING, God, if you spare her life. I will give half of Eric\u2019s salary to Catholic Relief Services<\/a>. I will spend every Saturday afternoon at the Lighthouse shelter. I\u2019ll go to daily Mass. I\u2019ll teach the kids the rosary. I\u2019ll call my mom more often and tell her how much I love her. What is it? I\u2019ll do it! Please!”
\nBut you must have known I was a tad desperate. Can we revise a little? The part about half of Eric\u2019s salary going to Catholic Relief Services \u2026. Let\u2019s say 5 percent for now, and the more wealth we accumulate (that\u2019s incentive for you), the higher percentage we will give them. Up to 25 percent. Okay?
\nAnd about complaining and whining, I\u2019ll try my best \u2026 I really will! But you know how this bipolar disorder is \u2026 it\u2019s worse than PMS \u2026 sometimes I just need to vent.
\nMostly, God, I need to know what exactly I have to do, or who do I have to be, and what my family has to do and be to picnic on the side of Lazarus, the shore of Chunky Monkey, Cherry Garcia, Pumpkin Cheesecake, New York Super Fudge Chunk and Coffee Heath Bar Crunch Ice Creams.
\nIn other words \u2026 please advise.
\nYour Friend,
\nBipolar Lady Who Likes Ice-Cream and Comfy Places with Healthy Kids<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Dear God, I can\u2019t say that I like today\u2019s reading in Luke \u2026 about the rich man and the poor man, Lazarus, who sat at fat daddy\u2019s door devouring the banana peels and chicken bones falling from the feasts of Mr. Selfish while the dogs licked the nasty scabs all over his body. They both…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":17,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-529","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-inspiration-and-prayer"],"yoast_head":"\n
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