In God’s Basement

“Hello, can I talk to God?” said the voice on the other end.

I sighed — covering the receiver, of course, don’t want to discourage the girl. But they always call him that, and they hardly ever use his right name. But who am I to preach?

“Give me a minute, I’ll get him,” I said.

I wasn’t sure where he was, I mean it was a Sunday and he always gets up to something on the weekends. You know how men are with their little projects, not that I judge or anything, I mean they love to feel useful. So anyway, he wasn’t in the kitchen, wasn’t in the living room, and wasn’t even in his bedroom.

Eventually I headed down the creaky wooden stairs into the basement — if he likes to feel useful so much, there’s something he could fix. Well as soon as I go down there, I spot him in one of the musty corners of the place, kneeling on the ground with a tiny box in his hand, about the size of a matchbox.

“What are you doing down here?” I asked. Not harshly, mind you, I try not to be harsh with the boy, but sometimes he’s so strange I can’t imagine what goes through his mind.

“Just setting some cockroach traps, Mom,” he said.

“But we don’t have cockroaches!”

He shrugged.

I held out the phone, hand still over the receiver. “Anyway, there’s a phone call for you. A girl — woman, rather. Sounds upset.”

He took the phone. “Does she know who I am?”

I shook my head.

He nodded, shrugged again, and held the phone up to his ear. “This is God.”

It’s a wonder to watch him do it sometimes. The way he manages to give so much love and compassion to the ones who call to him. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but I know I never taught it to him — no matter how much I’d like to think so, it’s something he does naturally. Maybe it’s because he knows their pain, really knows it, and all he wants is to be able to take it away.

“Yes, it was horrible the way he did that to you,” he said, with a tenderness in his voice that let you know his heart was breaking for that poor woman on the other end. “I can feel how you must be hurting.”

Of course, he can only do so much. You know how humans are, after all. Most of the time they have to go on suffering because they wouldn’t know what they are, otherwise. And he understands that, you know, that’s what all the talk about free will really means when you strip away all the philosophical niceties. Most of the time they make themselves suffer because they’re caught up in thinking of themselves as that which inflicts suffering on itself.

“No, it won’t go away quickly. Things may never be the same again for you. If it helps you can…” he paused and gave me a pained look. (What was I supposed to say?) “If it helps you can think of it as a chance to grow stronger.”

What is there for him to do but love them as much as he can? He’s a good boy, after all, and he wants to feel useful, same as any of us. But he can’t live their lives for them, can’t take away the burdens they’re so eager to place on themselves. He can’t force them to do anything.

“I can’t promise it will ever hurt any less. But it will become easier to bear, because you’ll get stronger. You’ll find out you were more than you thought you were. You can bear more than you ever thought you could bear… and maybe there’s a kind of comfort in that.”

He’s at his best when he forgets about himself entirely. Becomes nothing but a reflection of what they most need to see in themselves — or what they would most like to see. Even what they see in the mirror is up to them, after all.

Most of them don’t understand him, don’t know who he is. That doesn’t matter much, because even when they don’t understand him, they can feel the love he has for them. Feels their pain — even in ways they may not even feel their own pain. And if all he can give is that love and good-will, well, maybe it will do them some good if they’ll accept it.

Some of them see, though. Some of them understand. Those are the ones that love him the most — the real him. And he loves them the most in return, because he knows the depth of their pain.

“It was good talking to you, too. Remember I’ll be here whenever you call. Whenever you need me. And please don’t forget… I love you. I love you more than you could ever know.”

He clicked off the phone.

Sighed.

Turned to face me. “Nothing to do but tell her what she already knows. Maybe hearing it in my voice will do her some good. Beyond that…?”

He shrugged. “No use telling her what she’s not ready to hear.”

I nodded. “That’s right, Death. No use at all.”

It pains him sometimes, the way they don’t understand him. But he’s a good boy, a sweet boy, and he loves them oh so much. And they’ll understand him sooner or later, anyway.

Death smiled wanly and headed for the corner again. “Well, I’ll get back to laying those traps.”