THE DAY I MET GOD
Posted by Ben Myers
Communication with God has resulted in mass murder and monasteries, revolts and rebirths, conceptions and misconceptions. Until I met God, I was curious as to why he drives folks in opposing directions with his commanding words and callings. Now that I've received his word, I understand that he works in mysterious ways -- and is not to be questioned. I found God to be a sloppy fellow without a definitive muse, humble and salty. Nevertheless, his advising was life-changing.
I met God under a dry-domed day of late summer at a fish hatchery on a Cherokee Indian reservation in the mountains of Western North Carolina. His beard was larger than I had imagined, as if inspired by Santa Claus' grooming. He emitted a pungent stench of fish guts so full-bodied that it acted as an expectorant and caused mucus to cake above his moustache. After shaking his hand, the same one that was immortalized and outstretched in Michelangelo's fresco The Creation of Adam, I required an entire bottle of Purell sanitizer to rid my palms of the funky scent.
God appeared to be an average human of moderate proportions with friendly demeanor. Had I not known he tended the hatchery tanks, I would have greeted him with a casual, "Waddup Dude," and continued on passed the putrid smell. But this was not the case, I was aware of his presence thanks to the waitress at the IHOP. Between topping-off my third cup of coffee and bringing an extra side of grits, she told me where to find him. You could say she put me in the presence of God.
When you meet God, it's impossible to subdue the temptation to start asking questions.
As we shook hands, I politely said, "Good afternoon, God." Realizing that calling God, God, was both presumptive and corny.
"Call me G," he thuggishly replied.
"As you wish. How about Old G?" This was my first question.
"Whatever, Son."
"So you are The God? THE G.O.D.?"
"Word to your Moms," he shot back.
"Proper." I could jive.
He wore a white robe and Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. I was hoping he'd remove the shades so as to get a more accurate read on the creator of the universe by inspecting the visage of the only individual to have seen all eternity.
I cupped a liberal quantity of fish food pellets and tossed them into the nearest tank God had just finished cleaning. The water churned as tails and fins violently lashed to-and-fro in a feeding-frenzy.
I continued my interrogation. "So G, why are you chillin here? This place is wack"
"I'm on the lamb, Son. Laying low, biding my time before making some power moves."
"So this is like the seventh day in Genesis when you rested after creating the earth. That's hot."
God chuckled.
"Laying low?" I questioned. "What possibly would you, the almighty, have to hide from?"
"There's Jihad fool! I'm not tryin to catch a one-eight-seven. The insurgency rolls deep."
The G was right. This fish hatchery was the perfect safe house and a clever ploy in avoiding Jihadist warriors.
"Yeah G. You got mad game," I said praising him.
"I created the game, Young Blood," he replied condescendingly.
"True. True dat."
It was time for the questions of substance.
"Being so wise in the ways of life, what do you suggest I do with mine? What are your intentions with me?"
"No matter what happens, we all must face our moment of truth. Keep that rap shit tight, and move forwards, never backwards."
"But G, Tending to the Roots of Wisdom, my acclaimed collection of Chinese wisdom, dictates that only after one step is taken backwards can two be taken forward."
"Communists!" he exclaimed.
"And what's this about keeping my rap shit tight? What are you saying?"
"You know, kicking rhymes son: spitting verse, freestyling, battling and eating MCs, flowing, dropping it like it's hot; you must be a prophet and a true lyricist."
"I'm a white boy from the suburbs," I retorted desperately.
"Don't argue with the all-powerful, all-knowing, all seeing! Man-up son, and represent. You're not keeping it real; you're keeping it wrong."
I was speechless. God had grown frustrated with my lack of faith and turned his back on me. He was more interested in cleaning tanks with his dirty rag.
As I left the reservation, weary and confused, I wondered if Biggie, Tupac, and Nas had had the same doubts when they became cognizant of God's will.
This day confirmed that God works in mysterious ways.
And I'm out.
SHOUTZ OUT 2:
My family yo, cause they is always holdin it down. My university peeps, professors, and ladies. Big willy, Law Dawg, G-Nut, G-Unit, and Master-G. Lapsley. Ignatius and my Quincy Asians. The Mattapan Pistol-Starters. The Yinchuan, China possee and breakdancers. The I.R.A. bros and my ancestry. Word. Keep it tight. One Love.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Wednesday, July 26, 2006.
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