Heaven: A Letter to God
by Kari Morris

If I could unzip my humanity and take it off, like a suit; if I could hang it up in a closet for awhile and let my spirit breathe real air; if I could escape through a wardrobe, or a Phantom Tollbooth, or a tornado and a pair of slippers; and for just a moment-see heaven-I would have all that I need. I blame the world, my friends, my family; I believe it’s their responsibility to fill this God-shaped hole. But trying to squeeze a hexagon into a square is a fruitless exercise; both remain what they are, and the squeezing just causes the disintegration of their unique edges. I blame You for not bringing me my home, for not bringing me to it. My spirit pushes and pounds inside my flesh, stretching me to my capacity. “It’s time!” it says. But You still say, “Not yet.” And I hate You for it. I do admit. I am left in a world of hatred, greed and war. Every man for himself. The powerful and the powerless. The abusers and the victims. Those less than human because of how they look, where they come from, or who they love. Dollar signs and billboards dictating worth. Disease. Self-hatred. Self-deception. Self-diminishment. I live here, in a world that my spirit and my flesh-most times-feel hopeless against. I used to pride myself on my ability to remain calm and cool during a test. I could ace them like the back of my hand, with work and the proper attitude. How ironic that in the biggest test of all, my work is my attitude. For the screaming I sometimes I can’t give a name to; for the sadness I sometimes can’t cheer up; and for the emptiness I can never seem to fill; simply put, Lord, I want heaven.

 

©2006 Kari Morris


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