God on the Floor

Never before have I felt crushed to the floor by God’s will. Tonight took care of that hole in my repertoire. Not only did I feel His command, once I was lying face down on the floor, I was hard-pressed to move. And I cried so hard, buggers dripped from my stuffy nose.

I’m not telling you this to gross you out. I’m telling you this because . . . well, in actuality, I’m really just talking to hear myself talk at this point. This is what is known as catharsis. What my old professor (he is old, but also is my former professor) called “mind sprints.” Not supposed to stop typing ‘til the cursor reaches the bottom of the page. And if it’s not coherent, so be it. Frankly, what is coherent to me is frequently incoherent to others, so it’s no real loss if a mind sprint finds its way into the “eh?” column of people’s Valonna dealings.

Anyway, before tonight, I had always been “able” to say, “No, thanks, God. I’m good. No need to put my face on the carpet in order to bond with you.” He was having none of that, would not take no for an answer, and other clichés. Instead, I admitted I was overwhelmed, with nowhere to go but down on the floor before I could move upward again, and it struck me: vulnerability reeks.

Like those filthy rags we’re warned about in the Bible.

Yet there I lay, admonished, knowing I had to acknowledge not only vulnerability, but fallibility. Where was my back-up plan, my self-reliance? My friggin’ I-am-an-island-ness. God had stripped that away, as surely as He had my address during my Peregrination Period. I begged money from my mom, only to have it absorbed into bank overage fees, leaving me nothing, no money whatsoever for transportation or food.

And yet my friends all state, “He never gives you more than you can handle.” His strength is made perfect in my weakness. Well, I sure feel weak, but I'm not seeing how I can handle anything prostrated on the floor. Except maybe a hunger strike.