Dear God,
I can’t say that I like today’s reading in Luke … about the rich man and the poor man, Lazarus, who sat at fat daddy’s door devouring the banana peels and chicken bones falling from the feasts of Mr. Selfish while the dogs licked the nasty scabs all over his body. They both go to heaven, and no this isn’t a joke. The wealthy dude with a 30 BMI (body mass index) is a tad uncomfortable (in HELL), and calls out to God’s waiter, Abraham, to kindly get Lazarus to “dip the tip of his finger and cool his tongue.”

“You’re serious?” Abe asks Mr. He-Doesn’t-Get-It.
“Come on,” the sweating millionaire begs Abe. “The temperature down here would spoil milk, especially organic milk, in less than three minutes. What are you guys trying to accomplish?”

“For one, a lesson,” Abe says, pulling out his chalkboard. “And here’s a clue … you should have thought about all this back when you were inhaling KFC and Godiva chocolates. Back when poor Lazarus was dog food and you watched as if the lickings were a good Dr. Phil show. I hate to be the one to drop this blazing bomb on you, Bro, but there isn’t exactly an international exchange program, no co-op arrangement between our two little worlds—yours of flame and fire and torment, and mine of Ben & Jerry’s. There’s no crossing between sides. Never. Ever. Get it?”
“Then at least send Lazarus to my father’s house, to give the low down to my five brothers. Even though they’ve pissed me off plenty times, I don’t want them to fry in Betty Crocker’s oven, as well.”
“Don’t worry, they got the God Squad (the ORIGINAL ONE)—Moses and the prophets.”
“Uh … yeah, and they’ll listen to them about as much as the Jehova Witnesses biking to the front door or the guys selling “Parenting” magazine for $1000 a pop. They need someone else, someone they recognize, someone from the dead.”
“All you loaded guys are the same. I’m telling you …. if they don’t listen to Moses or the prophets, what makes you think that they’re going to listen to some freaky ghost of the past? On second thought, don’t answer that question.”

Okay, God. I may have changed a few words, but I get the whole point of this story, and, frankly, it scares the hell out of me. Or, I guess, the hell in me. Because you know me … rather well as my creator, in fact. I’m a self-doubter. A natural ruminator. An original nutjob. How do I know I’m doing the right thing? The holy thing? The thing that will earn me a pass to Ben and Jerry’s delicious shop in heaven?
I always know when you are getting my attention. But I can’t read the fine print. You turn me around to face you, and then you don’t say anything.
I remember that flight to Boston in 1988 with my dad. The unnerving turbulence had me thinking that getting into Boston College should be down a few notches on my priority list, and praying for a safe landing should be first.
In fact, I remember my thought process on that flight: “If I die today, my life would be a waste. For the past few years all I’ve been doing is numbing the pain, quieting your voice, so that I can survive on a superficial level and not feel anything too deeply. But I think I’m called to more. Something in me says that I can make a difference, maybe even in a small way, if I turn around my life now and stop drinking, smoking, eating compulsively, lying compulsively. I promise you, right here and right now, that if this plane makes it to Boston, I will redirect my life.”

We landed, and two hours later I had renegotiated our contract. Until, a year later, I meant it.
You got my attention a week ago, when my endocrinologist suggested that my pituitary tumor might be growing again based on my blood work. Because brain surgery doesn’t fit into my school-year calendar.
And yesterday I hardly chatted with anyone else but you. I don’t think I’ve prayed that hard since little David pushed his two-year-old buddy into 15-feet of freezing water.
Let’s review.
6 AM Katherine wakes up with a cough and a fever. No big deal.
2 PM It’s getting worse. I schedule a doctor’s appointment.
3 PM I’m loading the kids into the car when I see that Katherine can hardly breathe. She’s trying to tell me that she can’t breathe, but she can’t speak. That scares her, so she’s crying, but not really making any noise except for wheezing, because she looks like she’s suffocating.
3:05 PM I panic and call 911 and explain that my 3-year-old can’t talk, and can barely breathe.
They ask me questions:
“Does she have a fever?”
“Yes, 102.”
“Can she talk? ”
“No.”
“Did she eat something different or swallow something?”
“No.”
“Does she have asthma?”
“No.”
“Does she have any allergies?”
“No.”
“Is she clammy?”
“Yes.”
“Is she starting to turn another color?”
“Sort of.”
“Is she alert?”
“She’s beginning to fall asleep, or pass out, I don’t know.”
“Wake her up. Keep her awake….Just try to keep her calm until we arrive.”
Now, God, if by making me watch my little angel breathe through an oxygen mask as a couple of paramedics wheel her gurney down the hall yelling “three-year-old with respiratory distress,” you wanted me to come to my knees, you certainly succeeded. Given that my dad died prematurely of a bronchial pneumonia, you knew where my paranoia lay.
Yes, I remember promising you everything yesterday.
“I promise I won’t whine so much about my kids. I’ll be more patient when they draw on the walls. I will laugh, and not cry at the nail polish on the baby grand piano. You’re right. You’re so right. It doesn’t matter. I won’t get mad at them for pooping. I’ll try to smile when they scream. I’ll do anything, ANYTHING, God, if you spare her life. I will give half of Eric’s salary to Catholic Relief Services. I will spend every Saturday afternoon at the Lighthouse shelter. I’ll go to daily Mass. I’ll teach the kids the rosary. I’ll call my mom more often and tell her how much I love her. What is it? I’ll do it! Please!”
But you must have known I was a tad desperate. Can we revise a little? The part about half of Eric’s salary going to Catholic Relief Services …. Let’s say 5 percent for now, and the more wealth we accumulate (that’s incentive for you), the higher percentage we will give them. Up to 25 percent. Okay?
And about complaining and whining, I’ll try my best … I really will! But you know how this bipolar disorder is … it’s worse than PMS … sometimes I just need to vent.
Mostly, God, I need to know what exactly I have to do, or who do I have to be, and what my family has to do and be to picnic on the side of Lazarus, the shore of Chunky Monkey, Cherry Garcia, Pumpkin Cheesecake, New York Super Fudge Chunk and Coffee Heath Bar Crunch Ice Creams.
In other words … please advise.
Your Friend,
Bipolar Lady Who Likes Ice-Cream and Comfy Places with Healthy Kids