Meeting God in the Kitchen

This blog is called God at the Kitchen Sink because that’s where I first met him and, later, at another sink, had something of a conversation with him.

I’ve never thought much about God. As a kid, everything about him was just confusing. The Baptists I learned to tolerate in Mississippi said, essentially, that God was mean, not all of the time but enough to make people scared enough to behave so they could get in Heaven and that only those that had been saved (from what?) could go to Heaven anyway. I didn’t remember much about what the Methodists had to say about God but could remember that in their church, there were cookies at Sunday School. There was too much stand-up, kneel-down, and confusion as to what Catholics thought and once I’d had a taste of the wafer (that I snuck into line for because I thought for sure it was a cookie, which, clearly, it wasn’t), I didn’t give the Catholic version of Him much more thought. I was aware of the name when my cursing was chastised and during post-orgasmic discussion with lovers about why we say, “Oh, God!”, during sex and I did occasionally wonder why folks often didn’t spell God as God but would skip the middle letter, G_d. Like everyone didn’t know what the gap actually was. If he existed, which I was on the fence about, he wasn’t a grey-haired asshole who could see everything, turn people into salt and be a benevolent father-figure at the same time.

Then, in the early autumn of 2007, while at the kitchen sink picking salmon skin off the pan before scrubbing, an otherwise invisible someone showed up. Not a word was spoken, there was no knee-quaking or “OhGoding”, only an awareness of something bigger than me, purposefully present, and then gone. I walked into the living room where the then-husband was watching MSNBC and said, “I just met God.” I went back to doing the dishes without much more thought other than, “Why?”, followed by a snarky comment about not staying to help with the dishes.

Months later, after I’d put 1500 miles between me and the husband, I was at the kitchen sink washing out the coffee pot. That energy coalesced next to me and asked, “How will you define yourself?”. As I was wondering a very out-loud, “What the fuck are you talking about?”, he left. No hello, no good-bye, context or other conversation and he’d certainly not offered to help with the dishes. This time I only had the dog to tell about it.

Since then, the conversations with God have been pretty damn one-sided and often involve me calling him an asshole, grey-haired or not. Other beings that many consider deities are regulars in my world and I’m sure he’s floating around there somewhere but there’s not been much direct contact, though he did whisper in my ear last week.

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