God’s Got An Outfit

Lord, please let me know the details. Allow me to dress. Don’t keep the notice on the hem of a baby cow where, disappointingly, everything natural that I have seen can be replicated in a pair of eyes because they are so delicate and full of space. Don’t waste me, don’t shatter me. I am not the shoes of Jesus. I have in fact cut my hair. Let this tender miracle be as it appears to be; nothing but a stroke of luck inside another pair of jeans.

When cows are born they fall out like nothing expected it. Then they stand. Then that is most of the challenge in their life done, overcome. I don’t want to end up like them; sentenced to easiness. I want to put my hands in my pockets and look clever at the edges of parties. I want to feel depressed when I know other people are in love and I am not in love. I want to arrive at airports and sleep impolitely on the floor. I want to dance talentlessly at weddings and devise weathering conversations to ineffectively fill each frightening space. Happily munching for the rest of this life just won’t suit me. So God, please, dress me up nice. Make me a man or a woman or something near to that. Anything. As long as it can imagine it has a meaning.