With God

There is a language we can speak where we are not fighting. When we speak unambiguously and determined. Speak clearly and from our own truth.
"We are all little gods," Lana says as we are driving home.
Erica and I are frustrated with Mom and Dad for bringing up Jesus in ordinary conversation.
"I am so devastated by Lance Armstrong lying for so long.."
"Because he didn't have Jesus in his heart." Mom says.

We're in the desert. Looking over the gorge. Dad wants to talk about money. Mom tells me I should petition Jesus. I tell them I don't want to talk about money. Then I remember.

There was time, ten years old, I would go to church by myself. I would read the bible to my parents to try to get them to go. There was a time the priest lectured on why we should dress nice when we come to church.

I fantasized about going up to the pew, to the front, by the alter, and shouting,
"God doesn't care what I wear. God doesn't care how I look. God loves me the way that I am!"

I'm channeling Patti Smith now. "Who was ever hurt by how I dressed? I'm not hurting anyone!"

In my fantasy two old men stand up and pull my off the steps, (where women aren't allowed to stand anyway, papal doctrine decrees they stand on the lowest step) and I am shouting,
"Look at them God! They are taking me away! They are taking me out of your house!"

I'm telling this story to Mom and Dad.

I tell them, what God wants us to do is be as authentic to our true selves as possible. Because we are made by God we are divine creatues. God loves us how we are.

"God loves me when I dumpster dive. God loves me when I wear dirty clothes. God loves me when I yell at people for telling lies."

Dad asks me if I pray. I told him I prayed yesterday. I caught Humphrey in my hands and held him until he stopped vibrating with fear. His breathing slowed and I opened my hands and he stayed. We watched each other, studied one another for a long time thinking our thoughts with no words.
We were alive and breathing and it was amazing to witness one another.

Dad told me I should start my prayers with, "Dear Heavenly Father," and I told him, "I don't pray like that."

My God doesn't love in heaven. There is no heaven. When we die we die. What is God is the vibration within us. The pure most authentic parts of ourselves. It is the smiling Buddha and the mischievous Hanna. God is in my paint brush and

The conversation ends when you are telling me I'm wrong. Why are you telling me I'm wrong? I will not tell you you are wrong, even if my experience disagrees with you. There are moments we spend alone, when are in our heads, when we are connecting to the divine, how can I say this is not real to you? How can you tell me my moments are wrong?

My fight is not your fight but we are both fighting.