I’m languishing over a latte while watching the pouring in, the settling, and the pouring out of cafe creatures. Two by two they enter and exit the zoo.
I sit on my stool, trying to read. Around me the tables are cluttered with conversation, cups, and culinary smells. Cell phones buzz like blowflies.
“God is like breathing,” said some mystic. God as a verb. So I sat sipping, pondering, and godding.
God as a collective noun came in, looking rather stressed. They clutched their diaries and stridently made for the tables outside. Some animals need space. They talked business and didn’t laugh. They’re from a mission agency I believe, Protestant variety. God is deadly serious.
God as an adverb was at the table opposite me, energetically devouring a fluffy. Bubbly, giggly, and sparkling. Her mother, heaven be praised, was not big on restraint. The little girl was the rainbow every ark needs.
A regular comes over. We were both at a baptism recently. “Noah would have needed more than two dung beetles.” He’s been reading. “Yeah, think about it. 40 days and nights of rain plus 150 of swollen waters. Living on board with camels, horses, lions, jackals, goats, guinea pigs, wolves, boars, warthogs, ... You would know better than to shovel the stuff overboard, when the waters receded you would need topsoil. Still, that’s a lot of work for just two dung beetles. Better make it four.”
Don’t you love people who deal in practicalities? I still can’t get past Noah’s God drowning the vast majority of the planet.
Time for another latte.
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