Angela Townsend

Hard To Be Sad When All The Kids Are Coming To Dinner

Of all the ways we make God sad, the worst is assuming we make God sad all the time. Bad ideas always start with someone. It was probably one of those guys with the gold foil tortillas behind their heads. You know the ones. Everyone in the painting is in a Byzantine conga line to heaven, but nobody is shaking their hips. They look as though they just heard that bluebirds have gone extinct, or the devil stole all the pancakes. Maybe they spotted Dwayne the heretic ahead of them in line, or Bobby the apostate telling Jesus a joke Jesus never heard before. It’s enough to make all the blesseds and venerables scowl. Everyone knows Bobby has been making God sad since he set some papyrus on fire just to watch it burn.

I don’t have my gold tortilla yet, but I’m not so sure God defaults to sad. God is brokenhearted, which is different. Brokenhearted is the only option when your surname is Love. We are atrocity factories who deny each other bread. Our surname is Love, too, but we have it legally changed no matter how many times God changes it back.

God knows the notary. God is going to get everyone home for dinner. We are not so proficient as we think at strumming the divine mood. I think God is already setting tomorrow’s table. I don’t think God is sad.

I think God is like those songs where you have no idea what Bob Dylan is saying, only that he’s having a great time. Keep listening, and you will have a great time, whether or not you read the terms and conditions. God does not need anything, but God felt it important to affix toupees of old man nose hair inside lynxes’ ears. God gave raccoons jazz hands in the event of a forest cabaret. God zippered tiny egos into zinnias so they would compete to be tallest. God booby-trapped corn with the power to explode into something superior. God foresaw tins of butter, caramel, and white cheddar and called it good. God laughs out loud every time someone names a yellow cat “Gouda.”

The frowns on the frescos may call me disrespectful. Would not God trade every walrus whisker for one cool droplet of human mercy? I say the winner takes all. God does not expect quantum mechanics from bandicoots. God hides allegories out in the open. Fiddleheads unball their fists into ferns on our front yards. Elephants lay down their lives for their neighbors. Angels do their own stunts on the kindergarten bus.

I do not have my gold tortilla yet, so it’s possible I am lightheaded from direct exposure to the sun. But from where I sit, God seems gladder than anyone on the conga line. God has already sent the save-the-date. We will get there. Everyone’s mouths will be so full of popcorn, there will be no more explaining to do.

Angela Townsend is the development director at a cat sanctuary. She graduated from Princeton Theological Seminary and Vassar College. She is a Best of the Net nominee, and her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Chautauqua, CutBank, Paris Lit Up, Pleiades, SmokeLong, and Terrain, among others. Angela has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 34 years and laughs with her poet mother daily.