By Mark Walden
(September 8, 2003)
Dear God:
You might read this letter and say:
"Swinish gluttony
Ne’er looks to heav’n amidst his gorgeous feast,
But with besotted base ingratitude
Crams, and blasphemes his feeder."
I hate to think that I’m driving you to quote John Milton, but I have to get something off of my chest. I’m having a hard time handling a few of the blessings you have given me of late.
In January, you graced me with a two-story townhouse and, since moving in, I have had to resort to the home warranty three times: once for the heat pump, once for the toilets, and once for the dishwasher. That’s about one service call every two months and I can’t afford to keep that kind of pace. Record rainfall threatens to flood my new basement—the same basement in which the previous owner installed 15 halogen lights, each of which requires a $10 bulb. Half of them are burnt out; the other half are soon to follow. You do the accounting.
Not long before moving into this new home, through your aid, we managed a satisfactory deal on a new Honda Civic. We crossed 36,000 miles last week and now the gas gauge isn’t working properly. Since that high school student plowed into us last December (it wasn’t his fault, God—he was talking on his mobile phone) there are a number of nerve-wracking rattles. They constantly change location and although their tone suggests that they can be found and stopped, I can never discover the source.
I drive that car to work. I have always said that my job is stable with good benefits even if the pay is…less than competitive. As a former classical history major, I should be thankful that my vocation doesn’t require me to wear a hair net, but the office you have given me has absolutely no windows. We’re in the basement down here, God. Sensory deprivation requires me to run to the coffee pot for stimulation several times a day and the lining of my stomach can’t handle much more! Can we discuss natural lighting?
You have sent two beautiful boys for me to raise, both born without incident, complete with ten toes, ten fingers, and all organs functioning within acceptable parameters. But, God, did you have to give them implacable attitudes? The three-year-old screams every night at bedtime for an hour and a half. We’ve read all of the parenting books and not one of them has helped to solve the problem. He says "why" and "no" interchangeably. I’m convinced that his vocabulary extends beyond these two single-syllable words, though I have little evidence to back me up.
The two-month-old is still in the bedroom with me and my wife. We said we would put him in his nursery when he was down to one feeding a night. Although he has reached that milestone, he uses his time before and after the single feeding to practice his grunting and crying skills. There’s no way we can put him in the room next to his brother if he’s going to be making all of that noise.
About my wife: she’s beautiful, intelligent, articulate, and miserable. Eternally half-way through her Ph. D., she used to sit with colleagues discussing cognitive linguistics and the target-subject relationship between words like "asteroid" and "geoduck." Now, she runs around, twelve hours a day, trying to convince an infant to eat and a toddler to nap. We only have one car so she’s shut up in the house all day with the progeny. She can’t drive them to the mall or the park; they’re driving her crazy. I have a difficult time handling all of the crying from the kids; when she starts in (understandably) after they’ve gone to bed, I just about combust. I am helpless and can’t fix her situation.
As you know, Father, my in-laws are Adventist. Unlike my own family, they don’t think I’m going to roast in Hell for my curious religious beliefs. It’s a good thing because I’ve spent the past eight years going to the Branson/Ortner Sabbath School class down here at Sligo and I’m afraid I’ve only gotten worse. My unconventional faith has been shaped by personal reflection, a variety of books, and an hour a week with the liberal remnant. It allows me to believe that, although I’ve spent somewhere around eight hundred words crabbing about the fact that I have a snug home, a spirited family, and a job that provides me with the means to support them, you’ll understand.
Should I be thankful for my healthy child or angry that he responds to my love with a left hook? Should I rail against your wicked sense of humor in making George W. Bush my president or should I sing your praise for allowing me to live in a country where I can try to vote him out of office? Platitudes don’t help when you are confronting the cognitive dissonances of everyday life. Help!
You’re a strong, silent type of deity, more likely to lead me to an answer than give it directly. Or maybe there is no answer. In any case, thanks for letting me vent. Since you created me, you’re aware that, although I’m calling on you in exasperation, I’m also eternally grateful. Perhaps (not too soon, please) we can sit down soul to spirit and hash this out.
Sincerely,
Mark
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