As you know by now, I was raised Roman Catholic, and raised hard. Kind of like Pinkie in Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock, except that I didn’t become a killer. I just write about them. My mother taught for peanuts and wooden nickels at St. Patrick’s parish school. There were priests, nuns, and brothers in our house all the time.
Not once but twice, a Christian Brother borrowed one of our cars and crashed it into a tree.
These days—the days since COVID arrived—I don’t know exactly what to make of God. I don’t know if He or She or They know what to make of me, of us, and whatever it is we’re collectively doing to destroy the Earth.
I personally don’t think we can have intimate conversations with God.
I don’t believe or understand why we should expect a prayer to help our favorite football or basketball team win its next game. (Sue prays for the Wisconsin Badgers, but that’s her problem. And actually, it seems to work a lot. Except when they play Ohio State in football.) Anyway, I also don’t believe that God wants to hear from me on a regular basis. Of course, if God does want to know my story, God can just read this book.
No offense meant.
Hopefully, none taken.