The first time I met God,
I was small enough to fit in his oil-stained hands.
He sang Elvis songs for lullabies
and caved every time
I begged him to read one more story.

The first time I saw God cry,
he was pushing my fishhook through his thumb
because I, over-eager, tugged
on the line before he had my worm secured
and there was no way out but through.
Rest assured,
he tried to keep me from seeing.
But his tears flowed as freely then
as at my graduation.

The first time I remember asking God for directions,
I didn’t listen.
I was certain he’d tell me not to go
where I wanted, so
I ran ahead of him til
the sidewalk snagged my shoe
and I skid to a stop,
skin raw.
He was two steps behind,
not quite fast enough to catch me, but
he carried me back to the house
and tended to my tenderness.

The first time I heard metaphor and aphorism and simile
I was at God’s knee.
He was the “hand of knowledge” applied to my “seat of understanding,”
the “brick wall” I’d be slamming into if I was wrong…
that would also be backing me if I was right.
He taught me that “Gordons don’t lie”
and that excuses are like rinds around baloney:
some might chew —
no one swallows.

The first time the God in Heaven and I got on bad terms
I only found my way back
because of the God I knew first:

The God who sings.
The God who bleeds.
The God who heals.
The God who teaches.

Here. Human. Holy.

My father,
God.