Confessions (or God is in the Ceiling) VII


When I was a little girl, I used to think God was in the ceiling. And so I slept close to him. I searched for him in the dark. My sister told me that if I stared long enough and hard enough that eventually I’d see him.

God was in charge of everything. God damn you! So help me God! God damn it! Who was this God and what was it? It was every thing: the counter top, the wall, even the pillow, or the book when it hit (or missed) the shelf.

Night after night I stared at the ceiling. I saw Colonel Sanders, or maybe it was Santa Claus. I thought, “Now that can’t be God. God is boss, and bosses don’t smile.”

I saw bunnies and stars and crossword puzzles. Sometimes night would become light before I knew it, or in between blinks. I saw letters and numbers, and spots. Finally I saw what had always been there – a ceiling with lots and lots of bumps. I didn’t get upset or accuse my sister of playing a trick on me. I had faith. And I didn’t blame God because, after all, he had enough on his hands not to worry about showing himself to a curious little girl who had already seen way too many things.

I knew God would one day show himself to me, when I was good and ready.

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