Have you ever read a book that just takes you on a roller coaster of emotions that leave you not knowing which way is up?
This is one of those kinds of books. It gets you by the throat and pulls you close, hypnotising you so you can’t put it down. Nothing else matters, this book is everything. Compulsive, addictive, intoxicating?
It will make you grin. You’ll smirk, you’ll giggle and laugh until honestly, you might even wee a little bit. Then it’s going to take your breath away and astound you. It will humble you and leave you in awe. It will make you cry. Not gentle little tears but great bellowing snotty sobs of loss and grief.
It’ll make you feel privileged that you found it and ultimately, peaceful. You think you know about love? This will teach you more.
I re-read it yesterday. Yes the whole thing. Not for the first or even the 21st time – it just never gets old. Honestly it’s going to be hard to think of anything else for the next few days. I challenge you to read this and not be changed by it.
This is an excerpt to give you a taste
Mister God made everything, didn’t he?”
There was no point in saying I didn’t really know. I said “Yes.”
“Even the dirt and the stars and the animals and the people and the trees and everything, and the pollywogs?” The pollywogs were those little creatures we had seen under the microscope.
I said, “Yes, he made everything.”
She nodded her agreement. “Does Mister God love us truly?”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Mister God loves everything.”
“Oh,” she said. “well then, why does he let things get hurt and dead?” Her voice sounded as if she felt she had betrayed a sacred trust, but the question had been thought and it had to be spoken.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “There’re a great many things about Mister God, we don’t know about?”
“Well then,” she continued, “if we don’t know many things about Mister God, how do we know he loves us?”
I could see this was going to be one of those times, but thank goodness she didn’t expect an answer to her question, for she hurried on: “Them pollywogs, I could love them till I bust, but they wouldn’t know, would they? I’m million times bigger than they are and Mister God is million times bigger than me, so how do I know what Mister God does?”
She was silent for a little while. Later I thought that at this moment she was taking her last look at babyhood. Then she went on.
“Fynn, Mister God doesn’t love us.” She hesitated. “He doesn’t really, you know, only people can love. I love Bossy, but Bossy don’t love me. I love the pollywogs, but they don’t love me. I love you Fynn, and you love me, don’t you?”
I tightened my arm about her.
“You love me because you are people. I love Mister God truly but he don’t love me.”
It sounded to me like a death knell. “Damn and blast,” I thought. “Why does this have to happen to people? Now she’s lost everything.” But I was wrong.
She had got both feet planted firmly on the next stepping stone.
“No,” she went on, “no, he don’t love me, not like you do, its different, its millions of times bigger.”
I must have made some movement or noise, for she levered herself upright and sat on her haunches and giggled. The she launched herself at me and undid my little pang of hurt, cut from the useless spark of jealousy with the delicate sureness of a surgeon.
“Fynn, you can love better than any people that ever was, and so can I, cant I? But Mister God is different. You see, Fynn, people can only love outside, and can only kiss outside, but Mister God can love you right inside, and Mister God can kiss you right inside, so its different. Mister God ain’t like us; we are a little bit like Mister God, but not much yet.”
It seemed to me to reduce itself to the fact that we were like God because of the similarities, but God was not like us because of our differences. Her inner fires had refined her ideas, and like some alchemist she had turned lead into gold. Gone were all the human definitions of God, like Goodness, Mercy, Love, and Justice, for these were merely props to describe the indescribable.
“You see, Fynn, Mister God is different because he can finish things and we cant. I cant finish loving you because I shall be dead millions of years before I can finish, but Mister God can finish loving you, and so its not the same kind of love, is it?
Fynn – Mister God, This is Anna