I’ve been thinking about God a lot lately.

Not in some kind of deep, formal, liturgical way. No in more of a blue jeans, come over for cake, I’m sorry that that happened to you way.

I feel like I’m getting a vibe from him. That we are speaking the same language. Communicating. Dishing. Commiserating.

Commiserating because it occurred to me the other day that God is, above all, a parent. A parent to all of us. Poor God.

Do you remember the heart ache you caused your folks? I do. Lots and lots of heart ache. Slammed doors, broken curfews, angry yelling, resolute sullenness of the variety that should be admired. And, that was just when I was a teenager. Don’t even ask for a list of the ways I hurt them when I became a young adult. Yikes. A married mom with kids? I was a jerk. Sure that I knew everything. Haughty and arrogant and hard to be around. But, I think I hurt my parents the most those times I hurt myself. Did things I knew weren’t good for me. Took all of their good advice, threw it away and continued on my self-destructive path.

Why? I don’t know. I wish I did.

What is it in us that makes us do those things? To not look out for ourselves? To continue on paths we know are leading no where fast. To run towards bad even when we fully recognize it.

I was telling my husband the other day I sometimes feel like people I love are blindfolding themselves, climbing into a greased luge, pushing themselves off a steep incline towards a cliff that falls to deep waters where piranhas and alligators are waiting and just at the the moment they are about to go off that cliff they look at me and beg, “Please help me.”

I bet God feels like that too.

I bet he bows his head and rubs his eyes tiredly.

Maybe sometimes he wishes he could just take me by the shoulders and shake me. Ask lovingly and exasperated, “Why? Why do you have to do everything the hard way? Why will you not let me help you? Why don’t you just trust me?” I bet he wishes he could auto-pilot this stubborn girl. Drive my life to only good places.

Instead he gave me choice. A free will. Instead he loves me in spite of myself.

I get that. I spend sleepless nights trying to get other people out of the messes they have created. I cry over them. I do everything I can to help. But, if I’m honest, sometimes I give up. I get frustrated to the point that i quit calling. I quit offering advice or help. I quit believing that anything is ever going to be different. I act like me. But he doesn’t. No matter how stupid I am or all of the creative ways I think of to mess up my life he loves me.

So, honestly, I really do wish I could have him over for cake and apologize for how difficult I am. For not listening. For causing him sorrow. I wish I could clear away my humanity and just follow his lead. I know it’s a life long process. I know I’m not even close to being there. I know it would take an infinity of cake dates to apologize for all of the ways I have hurt his parent’s heart, but I wish I could try.

So, I say a little prayer. I say I’m sorry. I ask for a kinder heart and for a little more wisdom and to surrender even more. I promise I won’t start smoking and I make my bed.

He will get me there.

If you have been reading my blog for very long you know I grew up on the Navajo reservation for a good part of my childhood.

My family of seven lived in a tiny, hideous cinder block house that made up what neighborhoods were out there. Forget green lawns and a local playground. We played on butane tanks and cattle guards.

Fun was walking to the trading post, catching horny toads and spending time spinning the chair in my dad’s office. He was an educator. So, he went to the reservation to work. It was an interesting way to grow up. I saw and experienced lots of things that are a part of me now. Good things. And, I learned a lot. You can’t help it. It is a place with lessons to teach.

Growing up there you know what a night sky looks like in the middle of nowhere. Stars that don’t have to compete with anything. As far as the eye can see. Turn in a full circle. They never stop.

You know what a dirt road feels like when you are riding in the back of a pickup. All the bumps and washed out spots. You know what it feels like when your parents stop to pick up a hitch hiker on one of those roads and he climbs into the camper with you. You and your siblings sit with your backs against the metal of the truck and keep a watchful eye on him. Your nose burns with the tangy scent of sweat and liquor, and when he smiles a gentle, watery eyed smile at you you smile back.

You know what it feels like to stand in the middle of a crowd of people and not understand anything they are saying. Their words are a strange mix of clicks and guttural sounds. Not one word makes sense, but you understand the humor in their eyes and the little bits of fry bread they hand you. You understand these people like you.

You understand what it’s like to be chased on the playground and what it’s like to be pushed down so hard that your knees have little pieces of gravel stuck in them. What it feels like to feel someone tugging at your long blonde braid and then to see part of that braid fly over your shoulder and land in the middle of your math paper. From the rubber band to the tip is now laying there separated from the rest of you. You know what it feels like to turn around and see the girl who sits behind you look at you and not like you. You haven’t done anything specifically to her. She just doesn’t like you. You are the thing that doesn’t belong. You are white. You are a bilagaana.

You know what it feels like to run to your dad’s office crying.

You know what it feels like for him to pick you up and put you in his chair that spins. You know what it feels like to cry so hard that you can’t tell him what happened. You know that when you try to tell him he stops you.

You have said in your childhood anguish that a Navajo girl cut your hair. You are wailing. You want to go to live at your grandma’s. “They are all mean!” you say with a sob. And, that is when he stops you.

“Who is mean?” he asks.

“The Navajo girls. They are mean to me.” You are doing your best with your wails to make sure he understands the hurt of it all.

“That’s not true.” he answers in his quiet way.

You stop then and look at him in disbelief.

It is true.

The end of your braid is laying in your hand. To you, it looks like something hurt. It is the greatest tragedy you have ever beheld. The end of life as you knew it. You wipe your arm across your running nose and wait for him to say more.

He asks you one question. “Who was it?”

“I told you!.” you say angrily.

“You said it was the Navajo girls. You said the Navajo girls are mean to you. Is that true? All of them are mean?”

You sit in his spinning chair and look at the hair in your hand. Slowly you start to spin the chair. You need a minute to think. You think about how your friend Charlene walked down the hall with you and held your hand while you were crying. You think about the weekend you spent camping in the mountains with her family. You think about the smell of a campfire on a chilly morning and the sound of goats wandering around outside of camp.

You think about the women in the clearing in the middle of a little gathering of houses. How they try to help your mom learn to make fry bread and how they coo over your little sister. They way they smooth your hair and braid it so tight your head hurts. You stop spinning the chair and you touch the hair in your hand again. You shake your head. Then, you answer your father.

“No, not all of them. Just one mostly. Everyone else is nice.”

Your father reaches out and touches the tip of your nose.

“Exactly.” he says.

He tells you that the little girl who cut your hair has a name and it’s not “the navajo girls” and that is important.

You don’t really understand what he means, but you feel better so you jump out of his chair and run out into the hall where Charlene is waiting. You hug her and then you both go play tether ball.

And, even though you don’t know it, your dad has given you one of the most valuable gifts you have every received.

You learned something important that day.

You still know it today.