99 Stories of God

99. The Darkling Thrush

The Lord was in a little town in Maine, inland Maine, at the humble home of a psychic. There were dishes in the sink and unwashed clothes in the hamper. The calendar on the wall was not of that year. There were lots of small stones in little woven baskets, and dog hair, though no dog seemed to be present. The usual.

Outside it was raw and windy. The trees were broken and shorn of leaves. The ground, too, was broken and stiff. There was a faint fusty odor everywhere, and cold. All was cold. Still, some solitary bird was flinging out its frail song.

The psychic tried to see the Lord, but nothing was coming through. She thought: This can’t be that unusual.

The silence was not uncomfortable, but it was getting late.

Finally she said: You always wanted to be a poet.

This sometimes worked with her more difficult clients. Or not difficult as much as … reclusive. Brought them out a bit.

Nothing. Still nothing. She couldn’t see Him. She needed to find the anchor chain.

Then she thought: Maybe she didn’t have to see Him. Maybe she was putting the cart before the horse in this case. Maybe she should just go directly to the question most everyone had and visualize from there.

What’s going to happen after I’m dead?