The Guest

The Guest

Last night I dreamed that God had come to visit.
He was here in my house, relaxing on the daybed,
quite at ease and comfortable,
wearing white cotton pajamas,
in the Indian style.
For us, it was a bit of an occasion to have him here,
and we weren’t quite sure how to behave.
It was like being with a distant relative--
that unexpected level of comfort and familiarity
around someone that you don’t really know and haven’t spent much time with.
So while it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have him here,
it was also a little strange and awkward.

All he asked, but he didn’t use words for this,
was that one by one, we go to his side,
touch his hand,
and in doing so, receive his blessing.

But some people didn’t even want to do that,
which seemed odd to me.
It was such an easy thing to do
and he was asking so little of us.

Now that I think of it, he seemed a little weary
and I can certainly understand that.
I don’t think he ever tires of loving or forgiving,
but he still has to put up with us,
and we can make things so difficult.
No wonder that from time to time
he needs a little rest.