We Humans, Not Built to Last

what good is a god? what use is a deity who sees but does not intervene, who watches as we his children place our hands in the fire to see if it's hot— to see if it hurts, to see if one hurt soothes away a thousand more. to see if a small hurt cancels the worse hurt, if our hands now pink and raw can hold each other better without the past crimes imprinted into our fingerprints between us. what good is a god when we humans, made of disposable parts, tear and break each other without intervention— as though breaking something weaker makes us strong. as though ripping up a flower at the roots will stop it spreading its beauty with those who have already seen it! some days i believe in a god like a government tap wire, listening in but only for keywords, only for a chance to strike. this god will burst in, boots on the door. he has never cared about those with footprints on their back, only those who are fighting back. what use is a god who watches as we turn ourselves inside out in search of something unknowable? who sees us reach beyond grasp, again and again, like a child on tiptoes searching for a light switch on the wall of their darkened bedroom. some days i believe in a god like a lightning strike: i felt one once and it burned me, hurt me, made the hair on my neck stand on end and tore my feet from where i firmly stood. some days lightning strikes make glass. others they cause fire; here we stand as the world burns. what good is a god who tosses us a ball in the form of water and land and watches as we fumble? when we drop to our knees and beg for guidance and around the corner someone is crying. around the corner someone's last breath leaves their lips and around the block a baby takes her first breath. two doors down a man has his head in his hands and static in his mind. some days i believe in a god who set us a-spin and let go, moving on to some better part of the universe to try the creation thing anew. this was just practice! what use is a deity who, when compelled, would only help those who beg sweetly? half of those pleas, somehow lacking, go unanswered in a cosmic plan no one has bothered to examine or explain. the sample size is large and the study quality is poor. some days i believe in this: we humans, not built to last, are reaching for light in a universe known for containing (mainly) empty space. on the darkest nights we tell each other stories around a cosmic campfire, taking one another's hands and looking up at a universe which we may never know— which may never know us back. we humans, small against infinity, send love letters into space in the form of radio waves. we humans, mere specks in vastness, hold our hearts in our hands and await someone or something who will say they love us back.