A Beer with the Almighty
So last Saturday I’m out back in the orchid shack, trimming old growth and spent flower stalks from my little plants, and around noon I decide to take a break at my lavish Wal-Mart plastic patio table and matching vacuum-formed plastic green chairs. This is a pleasant activity for me as I have a cooler filled with ice and more than a few of my favoritest-in-the-whole-world beers. It’s sweltering hot, but the perspiration on my forehead is that of anticipation as I begin the mini-ritual of beer-to-glass pouring. It may be silly—but it enhances the beer drinking experience (notice I did not say; beer swilling. I shall leave that to my oafish friends and their Iron City. No offence.) This is a quality imported German Weissbier. Yummy!
Clean glass. Freshly washed and wet. (Pouring a quality beer into a dry glass is a crass no-no, akin to a teenager suddenly French kissing their unsuspecting grope partner. It’s never pleasant.) Tilt the glass. Tilt the bottle. They meet in subtle motion and the amber ambrosia flows gently. Halfway—ease into an incline; the bubbles, excited, finish off in a well-executed head. ahhhhhh! It’s art even before the first sip. Set the tall glass down and admire the handsome fellow, its slice of lemon bobbing in effervescence—now with its own chilly perspiration in the dappled Florida orchid shack shade.
I love my orchids. And most of them are descendants of others, cut and propagated, trimmed and fed with love—but not over-loved. That’s how most people kill their orchids. They fuss too much. Contrary to the old stand-by that orchids are delicate and impossible, I have found the inverse to be true. They are tolerant and forgiving creatures, able to get by on whatever circumstance leaves them. But too much indulgence, too much molestation…and they crap out. I give mine seasonal attention, and they seem to do just fine, rewarding me with flowers of such complex design, colors, and grace; one might think they are from another world.
But every once in a while, I will get one that just does not look like its going to make it. For whatever reason it appears as if any moment it might swoon and end it all, leaping from its perch. One of my vanilla orchids looked just that way. Not good. Pretty crappy. One foot in the compost, as it were. I know its sickly, but I tend to it anyway—such is my love for orchids.
So I’m halfway through my first beer in the shade and the Almighty stops by.
“Hey.” Says God.
“Hello, Lord.” Says I.
He motions to my cooler, “Hot today. Can I?”
“Please,” I insist, and the Lord plucks a cold one, but before I can say anything he pops the top and sips from the bottle. “You really should use a glass, drinking from the bottle robs the aroma.”
God lets go a long “ahhhhhh,” smacks His lips, and shrugs His shoulders, “I’m a regular guy that way, don’t need nothing fancy. This a lager?”
“No,” I smile; suspect of the Almighty feigning ignorance, “It’s a wheat beer. You know that. You know everything.”
“Yeah, I did,” God smiled, “But I like small talk. Always did. Ask Adam.” God then pulled up one of my ratty plastic chairs and sat hard even as I warned Him that there was bird poop on the back of it. He didn’t seem to mind and slouched as he looked about my garden.
“Nice work.” Said the Lord.
“High praise coming from the Almighty.” I joked.
“Say, you’re a funny guy,” God smirked, then he pointed his bottle at me, “Feeling better these days? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, “I was really bad until about six months ago, and then, bang! I started feeling better all the time. Now, I’m just about symptom free. I’m good.”
God just keeps smiling at me. Looking and smiling. Smiling. Smiling…
Then I realize my galactic faux pas. “Oh…” What a jerk I am.
“Thank you…” I say sheepishly.
I suddenly don’t know how to say thank-you properly to my God. My tongue has turned to a lump of Play-Dough, and I am turning red with shame.
God takes another workingman swig of His beer, and waves me off. “Don’t mention it. And don’t fret about it. It happens all the time. I know where your heart is.” God comforts.
I stammer. “I’m sorry…I…I didn’t thank you enough. I didn’t think about you enough. I was so caught up in feeling better. I…”
God interrupts.
“Hey. You remember when you were like a toddler of about, oh, I don’t know, two and a half? And you were running around on the concrete by the fire hydrant they had rigged to spray for all the kids that summer?” God asked.
“Yeah? No? I don’t know.” I said.
“Well, do you remember falling and scraping your knee? It wasn’t that bad, but it hurt and you, being a little kid, screamed your fool head off.” And God chuckled a hearty, good-natured laugh.
“Um…no, Lord. I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember your father came walking into that water spray, swept you up in a flash, set you on his knee on the park bench, and soothed you until your choking sobbing suddenly stopped and you were pulling away from him, wanting only to go back to the water?”
“No.”
“Did you thank your Dad at that moment?” God questioned.
“I was a little kid. I wouldn’t think to…”
“Did you ever thank him for it? Even later?”
“Specifically that? No, I…”
“So you never thanked him for that, but he loved you anyway.”
“He was my Dad. He loved me no matter what…”
“Yeah…its like that,” God smiled and clinked my glass with his bottle, “Being a Dad.”
I felt better.
“Sorry, God. I guess I just don’t know how I feel sometimes. Like, even though I’m in remission, I think…I worry, will it come back? What if I get sick again? What if it’s worse, next time? What if…” I was yammering. God bent down and stirred the cooler ice, fishing for another beer. Mine was already warm and mostly untouched. He found another wheat beer and looked up at me.
“Be still.” He said.
“Hunh?”
“Be still, and know that I am God.” He said and winked. He saw my confusion. “Maybe I should have said, ‘Be still and enjoy the view’ or in today’s lingo, ‘Chill, I got your back.” And he popped the top of his beer.
I understood. The Lord was giving me peace.
And He also needed a glass.
“You really should use…”
“Use a glass. Yes. You told me once already.” God smiled and put the bottle to His lips anyway. “Look, don’t worry about this or that. I’m always here for you.”
“Sometimes everything seems dark, the future, and I have night-sweats, and I fear being sick…and alone.” I was opening like a book to God.
“You’re never alone, boy.” God said and stood up to examine my orchids closer, “Did you grow all of these?” he said.
“Yes…most of them. Some I bought.”
“Ah. And you care for them?” God asked, “Even this sickly one? It doesn’t looks so hot. Might be a goner.”
“All of them. They’re my orchids. I love them…” I said.
Then I realized.
And God was smiling at me. He finished my thought for me. His thought for me.
“Even the sickly, but I tend to them anyway—such is my love for my children.”
He pinched my cheek and wandered off into my garden.
I smiled at my God.
And I was still.
— My name is theGardener, I have two dogs, a cat, and sarcoidosis.