He must be as kind as me on my best days, plus many times more. If he isn't, who will take the reed from our hands, say "Enough, Honey, stop the penance," and tuck us into bed when all we need really is a nap?
He must be as strong and determined as my father to protect me from evil, and as feisty as my mother and sister to protect me from the occasional asshole.
He must be as able as the people I love best, to laugh at the weird and absurd, and to find animals highly amusing.
He must be half male, half female, half they, half trans, half hermaphrodite and half still-figuring-it-out. (He must not be obsessed with mathematical accuracy and fractions).
If he - nay "they" was Creator, they must be all of us and more. Otherwise, how can we believe they made us or understand us?
If I've spent hours imagining holding a twee tiny sparrow or a sassy round robin, they must have spent a week, and consider it time well spent.
If my blood boils and a dull headache begins when I think of injustice...when I think of how people or their bodies have been used by other people and other bodies, then I'd need god to want to throw down lightning and slam thundering fists together in rage at the thought.
I'd need them to look at a sleeping child's unfurrowed brow, and weep with remorse knowing ours were intended to look like this all day. But I'd like god to weep also with hope, knowing we can learn this.
This seems so little to ask.
