Friday, February 26, 2010

Hallowed be What's-His-Name

The Almighty sulked ascetically in his throne, while the angels and saints tried not to acknowledge such, even though he would instantly forgive them.

Michael, in all his haughty glory, voiced without fear, "Oh God, what's

you're problem?"

Omniscient and thereby patient, He tolerated the irreverence--He'd tamed a bit since the fall-out with Luci--and reminded Himself of the promise not to "bottle it up" anymore.


The cork flew and He bubbled quickly, stung by the reminder of His own words, "Why don't they say 'please' in any of their prayers? And when they improvise, it's always 'Lord we

just ask...'; 'We just wish...'; 'We just!'"

Then as any good father would, He laughed it off and soldiered on, grateful to be beloved enough to be taken for granted.


Originally posted at my 6 Sentences account, a social network for writers.

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