by Kit Duncan
"Silas," I asked. "When do I get to meet God?" I had been putting off asking for some time, but felt the time was finally right.
The three of us had just returned from a softball game. It was my last game pitching, and we had walked two days to a town whose name I couldn't pronounce. Chang was coming home in a week. We hadn't won a single game all season, but no one complained. We just had a lot of fun playing.
Sallie was washing out all her canning supplies and Silas suggest we might want to stay outside that afternoon. We were sitting on the front porch.
"God?" he repeated.
"Right," I said. "When I first met you, I thought you were God at first. Do you remember that?"
Silas chuckled a little. "I remember you confusin' me with Simon Peter. You confuse me with God, too? No, I don't remember."
"Maybe you just didn't hear me," I said.
"Maybe."
"So anyway, what about God?" I asked again. "I'd like to say hey to Him. Or Her."
Silas laughed a little at me. "Here," he offered me a peach. "Want one?"
"No, thanks."
"Suit yourself. I'm going to have one."
The juice dripped down the side of his beard as he bit into it, and he hummed a little delight. "Oh, that's tender," he purred. "Nice an' soft, just the way I like my peaches and my women!"
"You're pathetic," I teased him.
Silas wiped his hands on the sides of his overalls, sucked in a deep breath of summer, and said, "Well, little Newbie, I'm still not sure you've been hearing so good."
"I don't know what you're saying," I protested. "I haven't mentioned God one time since the day I met you."
"But God's all we've been talking about since you got here," Silas said. He didn't sound at all impatient with me, like I might have expected. His voice was gentle, kind.
I hated to risk his wrath, but I really didn't recall a single mention of God in any of our conversations. I told him so.
Silas raised his thick, white eyebrows and started rocking a little more quickly. But when he spoke, his voice was even, stable.
"God is everywhere," he finally said. "In the chirp of a baby bird, the beating of the waves at sea, every blade of grass dancing in every breeze. When you shake a man's hand, you're shaking the hand of God. When you hug a sick child, you're hugging God. When you're eating a piece of Sallie's apple pie, you're eating God's love, for that's what she puts in all her pies, you know." He winked at me.
"Even the religions on earth, for their occasional confusion, they get this part right. God is light. God is the beginning and the end. God is love. Everything that exists is God. Joy and sadness, pain and suffering, hope and faith and love, laughter and tears. There is no speck in all of creation that is not fashioned of God.
"God is not a dogma or a denomination, and God is certainly not anything to do with damnation. These things are divisive, and God is unity, not division.
"Folks speak of God as being omnipresent, and they are blind to God's presence. They talk of the omnipotence of God, and they deny the power of God. They'll tell you of God's omniscience, and they live like God is ignorant.
"God ain't no pronoun. God is all. God is one, and we are all one, every bit of us is God. Not a morsel of God, but God." Silas shot a tiny frown at me, daring me to be confused, but I just listened, and he continued. "You get this piece, little Newbie, and everything else is gravy. Whatever you see, hear, taste, smell, feel is God. You look at someone else, anyone else, you're looking at God. You look in a mirror, you see God's reflection."
I looked deep, deep into Silas' eyes, and he looked deep, deep into mine.
Then he added, "You sure you won't have a peach?"
I said thank you, no.
"Well," Silas said, reaching for the bowl. "I believe I'll help myself to another one!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
