My good friends Stella and Wella are going through some really crappy things lately. Wella was first diagnosed with a case of Bell’s Palsy about two weeks ago, then the diagnosis got changed to Ramsey Hunt Syndrome, which is considerably worse.
To cheer them up, I wrote them the following email, addressed to God. I enclose it here, because, well, my head’s still spinning. It would be disingenuous to say that what Stella and Wella are dealing with is not occupying a major amount of my brain space. And since Stella and Wella aren’t their real names, I don’t feel I’m disclosing something they would prefer to keep private. They’ve already sent out a lot of emails calling for prayer, and they need all the prayer they can get. If any of you would like to take two seconds out to pray for people you don’t know, go for it. I sometimes wonder if maybe those prayers count more, as there’s no subconscious agendas attached to them.
Um, okay to be perfectly honest, God, I'm gritting my teeth here. Why hide it, right? It's not like You don't know these things. It's never been hard to be drop dead honest with You.
So through these gritted teeth, I say thanks. A sincere thank through gritted teeth can still be sincere, methinks.
Thank you that Wella does not have a brain tumor. Thank you that the drugs he needed to be taking were exactly the drugs he was taking. Thank you that they have health insurance. Thank you that they have doctors (although I'm still pissed about the misdiagnosis, but at least they got him on the drugs he needed to be on.) Thank you thank you thank you that he has the amazing Stella at his side.
But, um, God, here's the thing, HE STILL NEEDS FIXING! It's like when they lower the paralytic from the roof and Jesus looks up and says "Your sins are forgiven!" and I'm absolutely positive somebody in that house called back, "Great! How 'bout fixing his legs!?"
Ramsey Hunt Syndrome, God? Really? Seriously? I know the uselessness of asking "why" questions, because Your answer is always, "Because." But seriously, God, this sucks. This fucking fucking sucks, and yeah, that's me saying the F word for Wella, he said I could. This fucking fucking sucks, God, and I know You know this, but I still need to express myself or else I'm going to go kick the bed, choke my roommate, or yell at my director for not returning my emails (okay, I might still do that.)
Oh bllllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh! I know what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to be the good little Christian who trusts in Your purpose and plan that just happens to involve great big heaping gobs of Scary News and Anxiety and Potential Future Physical Pain for some of my dearest friends. I'm supposed to pray every day, and ask all my small groups to pray, and email The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much in Alabama and get the church there to pray.
And I will absolutely do all of that, God, don't get me wrong. But, seriously, this fucking fucking sucks. I know absolutely that You're in control. I know absolutely that You've got a plan. But I will be DAMMED if I don't express my anger here to You. Don't ask me to be a Happy Chipper Christian about this one.
Because there was a point in my life where I thought that if I expressed the slightly bit of dismay at any bad news in life, I had somehow failed a God test, and that if ONLY I had kept a stiff upper lip and remained kind, gentle, and good in an Attracting Small Animals Who Would Clean My House In A Disney Movie kind of way, the bad news would magically dissipate, or better news would come leaping over the mountains and hills to sweep me away to a better life.
I know better now, God. I know that's a type of superstition that has no place in our relationship. And it's unrealistic.
Just as the walrus looking guy said, "I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees!" I'm Amy The Writer, and I'm speaking for all the Happy Chipper Christians (or not Happy Chipper, or not even Christian) in this situation who really wanna blow it out, but aren't quite as comfortable with the ways you can use the English language to comedic profane effect (I'm sure that's not what The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much had in mind for me to learn when she raised me, but oh well with that one.)
So on behalf of all of us, we're saying THIS FUCKING FUCKING SUCKS! WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM!?
In Happy Chipper Christian terms (just so I can prove that I can do it), we're saying "What are You trying to teach us here, God?" We're saying, "What lessons are You, Wonderful You, trying to impart? Could there perhaps be a less painful option?"
Did you really need to have Stella and Wella draw THAT MUCH CLOSER to You? To rely on You MORE!? Because, y'know, given what You've put them through the past twelve months, I think there were already there. Just sayin'.
I think they're due for a windfall of good news, Lord. I really do. They're fucking OVERDUE.
Stella and Wella are much better people than I am, Lord. They're more Godly, more devout, and more spiritual, and much more knowledgeable about You than I am, which is why it pains me to see them go through this. Whatever Your plan is from here, it's pretty fucking nuts, God. Unless the plan was to demonstrate a modern day miracle of spectacular healing, in which case...cool beans! Go for it! Thy will be done!
I know I'm a foul mouthed brattykins, and You don't have to listen to one second more of this (and I wouldn't have blamed You if You had left the building at the first round of "this fucking fucking sucks.") I'm just so livid that Your plan is going this way, that I had to let You know.
And now, as I coast on the downside of emotion, I do please please please fucking PLEASE beg You to heal Wella completely and utterly. Erase the virus. Restore his face. Let his pain be manageable. Stop the ringing ears. Stop the drug withdrawals. Give him rest. Give him nice dreams, instead of hallucinogenic ones. Let Wella and Stella be strength and hope to each other. Let them be each other's biggest fans (well second biggest, because You're the first biggest fan of them, and if You are, why are You allowing this to happen...never mind, I'm shutting up now.)
Just please please please fix this quickly. For the better. (I feel I have to clarify that lest You think "Fix this quickly" somehow means "Make it worse." I know You don't. I'm just a spazz right now.)
thank You thank You thank You, in Jesus' name, Amen.
Amy The Writer