What the Fuck Prayers

I just prayed a holy prayer. I think I can transcribe it. It went like this. “What the fuck, God????” There was screaming involved. Also, snot. And sobbing. And a lot of other “s” words that stand for unpretty things people ooze when they are throwing tantrums.

You wanna know the weird thing? It got answered. My what the fuck prayers always get answered. The meltdown prayers that sound nothing like a page from a holy book and everything like the way I sound when I mean what I say, when I am too freaked out to put a pretty face on my acne ridden soul. God, it seems, is not so into cover-up. Or expensive shoes. God wants to see the cracks in your varnish, not the precious pot of flowers you slapped on top to cover the broken places up. At least that’s the way I would feel if I were God. Which I am not. (And I am too. We all are. But I digress.)

The fact that God seems to answer what the fuck prayers makes me think that God may be more into truth than fiction, reality than perfection. Of course, I am fully aware that every human creature must find his or her own path to truth. But maybe the quest for truth doesn't even begin until you actually tell the truth. Everything before that is rehearsal for the quest for truth. You aren’t even playing the game ‘til you get real. Maybe God is more into What the Fucks than Hail Mary’s. Maybe God digs the kids that plop themselves in his/her big fat lap and say, “You know what. I don’t fucking get it. You have some ‘splaining to do, Lucy.” Maybe, even though God is six jillion times bigger than us, and sees things way more clearly than we could ever hope to, he/she indulges our little whims. Maybe she smiles and says:

Ok, sweet child of mine. (Maybe he sings the sweet child of mine part, like a rock star.) Take a deep breath. Calm down. Now, here is a piece of candy, just to let you know I am thinking of you, I’ve got this covered. I’m not unrolling the whole plan for you all at once. I’m not ruining the surprise. But here’s a little something to say thank you for being real. Cause you know, every time one of those other kids crawls in here on her knees begging me not to smite her, I start to get a little down on myself. It can make a guy/girl a little insecure, all your children trembling every time you step into the room. “Hey, guys, I got you a surprise!” you shout, and they all start screaming, and not in a good way. What am I, freaking Frankenstein? (God runs his/her fingers through her fiery hair. ) I like you kids who aren’t afraid of me.

Maybe God gives the unafraid kids kisses on their angst ridden, wrinkled foreheads. Maybe those are the kids that remind her of herself. Maybe God wasn’t sure how this whole universe thing would pan out, but he did it anyway, cause he likes a good adventure from time to time. What if God doesn’t know the end of the story either, cause we are helping him write it? But what if, when you plop yourself in her lap and say what the fuck and kick and scream until you fall asleep, she can finally pick you up and carry you off to a safe place, the place you were supposed to be all along. Maybe God is into what the fuck prayers because they lead her children, eventually, to a place of rest, and she can finally help them out. Which is the thing he has always been trying to do. But when the kids say, “No, go away, I do it myself,” God lets them. Like any good parent would.

The what the fuck moments are coming home moments. That’s why God likes them so much.