The Face of God
by Margaret George

The face of God? I’ve seen God. She lives right down the street. I bake zucchini bread for her when her great grandchildren are coming by and she’s too tired to get up. Her eyes are incredibly bright blue and, even now, her long eyelashes can flicker like those of a young girl who wants so much to be in love. Now, don’t get me wrong. God can get cranky, especially when her arthritis is acting up, but mostly I can see the love in her eyes even at some of the worst moments.

And, God lives around the corner, too, in a wheelchair with an awesome set of biceps. He’s young and he gets around, sometimes bitching while he’s wheeling, but too proud to give up and let me push. He wasn’t born that way; it happened five years ago on the night of the senior prom when God was driving home and didn’t quite make that sharp curve on Smith Road. God likes to drive fast. 

Then, you know, God’s over on the 1700 block of Friendship Street toward the railroad tracks.  His house is a terrible mess both inside and out.  In fact, God stinks. I’m not sure if the city turned off the running water at God’s house or if he just doesn’t bathe. Of course, if I spoke Latvian or Russian or Serbo-Croatian – or whatever it is he speaks – rather than just hand signals and guffaws, I might know better just why God smells so bad. But he’s very kind. I heard he’s a baker.

God’s getting ready to move out of the Rosen’s this week, too. They live across the street. God has leukemia and he has to go home now. He just can’t stay any longer. He’s been weak for months now, but his smile remains beautiful. At five, God has small evenly-spaced white teeth and he just can ’t seem to remember that he’s sick. He smiles and says there’s an angel waiting nearby. Who am I to question God?

Just yesterday, God drifted on to my cap as I walked underneath him. His skin was smooth and soft and his color was bright orange. When I reached up to bring him to my eyes, he forced me to look up and see him everywhere in yellow, and red, and orange, and brown. Then he waved, all at once, and I saw the face of God looking at me from every vivid dying leaf and their promises of spring. I took God home and put him between wax paper for my nephew.

God’s face is also on the beach looking up at the brilliant light of God’s face shining down. God has hundreds and hundreds of beautiful bodies and different shapes, all wearing the most colorful little outfits. And, in the winter, when God stays in near the fireplace, the force of God is in the water and the moon pulling, tugging and pushing with rhythmic deep breaths and some terrible roars.

Although I don’t attend myself, I hear God gathers in large groups on Saturdays and Sundays and he sings with one sweet voice and she prays loudly and then the full love of God pours out of the heavens and into the streets. I’m not sure what happens on Mondays, though, because the seven o’clock news sounds like God forgot his own Sabbath.

And, God’s in the grocery store and in the operating room – on both sides of the scalpel. I’ve seen him in my back alley going through my trashcan and she’s visited at the front door with pamphlets promising to save me. God’s heart is in his face and it is lively enough to check me out of the express line, humble enough to eat what I’ve thrown away, and generous enough to save my soul.

The face of God?  Oh, yes, there’s the mirror …

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