Ezra's God, a short story

Ezra's God

On April 13, 1996, going on 2:30 in the afternoon, in a sunny clearing not half a mile from the small red house where he lived with, and took care of, his aging mother, Ezra Wildmark, precisely fifty-one years and fourteen days old, saw God, and God was Eskimo.

That is, God was shortish, couldn’t have been an inch over five feet. He was slim, relaxed and smiling. His face was red leathery skin where dark eyes sat deeply among creases in the permanent sort of squint you get from smiling a lot or from bad eyesight. His hair was jet black, grown long and pulled together in the back to a tail. Very white teeth. Very Eskimo. And very smiling.

The way Ezra could tell this was God, and not some other apparition, was that He appeared out of thin air the very moment Ezra said, aloud and fisting the sky, “If you want me to believe in you, then you had better fucking show yourself.” Which is what He did.

Well, at first Ezra didn’t believe what he saw, of course, which led to a pregnant moment of mind racing to piece together the impossible. Logically.

But there was no tree from behind which he could have stepped, for this log he sat on and regarded Ezra with steady, thoughtful, if a little playful, eyes, was a long fallen spruce, alone in the clearing and at quite a distance from anything hideable behind. And there was no hole nearby from which he could have jumped. There was no overhanging branch from which he could have dropped. There was nowhere he could have hid and come from. There was nowhere he could have been first. He just appeared.

So, then, he was dreaming.

And at that conclusion the mosquito on his left forearm—on unsteady legs by now, so full of Ezra blood—began to pull the sting back out, which stung much worse than going the other way (unnoticed, as it happened) a moment ago, when Ezra was busy demanding God’s presence. And now, as with part smack, part squash, the mosquito exploded from blood already sucked and a crushing hand, the stinging sensation jumped about a million nerve endings to reach his brain in no time at all where it said, unequivocally: Awake.

And then, when Ezra knew he wasn’t dreaming, that it was in fact The Creator, just like the Cheshire cat, God began to fade. All of him bit by bit except the smile. Fainter and fainter the face and arms and legs evaporated into greater and greater transparency, leaving lips and white teeth to reflect sunlight. Nothing else. A smile. And then with a sort of plopping sound, as if they were dentures dropped into still water from not very high, they too were gone.

That’s when Ezra did a number one in his pants.

Then he walked home hoping very strongly he wouldn’t meet anyone.

“I had quite an experience today, Mom.”

Ezra held her arm as he led her across the floor to the kitchen table. He eased her into her chair, then sat down beside her and served her two filets of perch and three pealed potatoes. He mashed the potatoes for her with his fork, then put a forkful of butter on them and watched it melt among the little risings of steam.

She found her own fork and began the long process of feeding herself.

“What did you say, dear?”

“I had quite an experience today,” he said. Louder. Much.

“I’m not deaf just yet.”

“Sorry.”

“An experience?”

“Yes, mom.”

He waited while she brought the little load of potato to her mouth. Once it arrived and she began to chew, he said, “I saw God.”

In the silence that followed he served himself as well.

“You saw God?”

“Yes, mom.”

“You nuts?”

“No, mom.”

“Nobody sees God.”

“I did.”

“What he look like?”

Ezra thought for a while, then concluded, “He looked like an Eskimo.”

“You are nuts.”

“No, mom. I saw him.”

“And he looked like an Eskimo?”

“Yes.”

“Be a dear and pass me the salt, will you.”

The radio: “He sees you. He will always see you. He sees your heart and sees you dripping with sin, sees you choking on sin and He will not lift a finger to help unless you repent, unless you stand up now and repent, and say ‘Lord, forgive me, I am nothing but a filthy sinner and I don’t deserve your forgiveness but I am sorry, truly sorry, Oh, Lord, please, please forgive me.’ Not unless you open your heart to the Lord Jesus, put by God on this earth to suffer for your sins and bleed for your salvation. But only if you repent, only if you invite our Lord into you heart. Only then will the gates of Heaven swing open for you, only then will you know peace. Let us pray.”

He turned the volume down a bit.

“Don’t turn it down.”

“Sorry, mom.”

He turned it back up, but not as much.

“I can’t hear.”

“He’s praying, mom.”

“Silently?”

“Yes.”

“Amen. You know the number. Five-Five-Six, Eight-Two-Two-Eight. All lines are open right now. Well, not anymore. Just a minute. Hello. Yes. Okay. Agnes, line four.”

“Can Jesus forgive everything?”

“Can? Can? Of course He can. There is nothing our Lord and Savior cannot do. But does He want to, that is the question.”

“What will make him want to, then?”

“He will forgive every heart that asks forgiveness. Every heart that is truly sorry.”

“I am truly sorry.”

“How sorry?”

“I wish with all my heart I had not done it.”

“Sorry enough to help keep this station on the air?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much can you send us? Twenty? A Hundred? A Thousand?”

“Dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Ten maybe, I don’t have a lot of money.”

“That would not be very sorry, would it?.”

“Twenty then.”

“Fifty?”

“No, I need to pay the rent.”

“Is that how you thank Jesus, our Lord and Savior, for suffering death on the cross? Is your earthly abode more important that your immortal soul?”

“No, but . . .”

“You have the money but refuse to keep this station on the air?”

“Yes, No. I don’t refuse.”

“If you send us fifty dollars I think Jesus will see it fit to forgive you.”

“Fifty?”

“Yes, not a penny less.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Bless you my child.”

“And we have Ezra on line one.”

“Have you ever seen God?”

“’scuse me?”

“Have you seen Him? God.”

“Of course, my son. I see Him every day, in my heart.”

“No I mean, seen Him. In real life.”

“You mean walking around on the streets?”

“Yes. With your eyes.”

“You nuts?”

“No.”

“No one sees God.”

“So how do you know He’s there?”

“You know with your heart.”

“Not with your eyes?”

“We’ll see Him with our eyes when we enter heaven.”

“Not before, then?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ve seen Him.”

“You’ve seen God?”

“Yes.”

“And what does God look like, if I may ask?”

“Well, you had better sit down. He looks like an Eskimo.”

“Line three, hello, who’s there?”

“Ezra, what are you doing calling?”

“Just wanted to check.”

“Stop it this minute.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Ezra, you’re a little early.”

“I know.”

“He’ll just be a minute, though. Take a seat.”

“Thanks.”

He looked around the little room that doubled as waiting room on Wednesdays. Pictures of Pastor Johnson and his wife (who doubled as receptionist on Wednesdays) getting married, meeting the Governor, waiving to the camera with the ocean and many islands in the background, they must be high up somewhere. She was pretty then. Not as pretty now. Not bad looking, mind you, just not as pretty. Another picture showed Pastor Johnson talking on the phone, his wife busy typing. Both looking official. All black and white.

“Ezra.”

Pastor Johnson waiving from a boat, arm around his wife’s shoulder. Mrs. Johnson playing tennis.

“Ezra.”

“Yes.”

“The Pastor is ready.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Johnson.”

“How are you, Ezra? It’s good to see you again. Sit, please.”

“Thanks.”

“How is your mother?”

“She’s doing well, but slowing down. And I think her hearing is fading.”

“Well, she’s getting on.”

“That she is.”

“And how is Ezra doing?”

“Doing fine too.”

Pastor Johnson was getting on as well. Quite fat. Thick hands. Nice eyes though, through thick glasses. No hair to speak of. Smelled of cigar.

“And what can I do for you?”

“You probably going to think I’m crazy.”

“Well, try me.”

“Well, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just say it.”

“Okay. As it happens, I saw God.”

Pastor Johnson didn’t flinch. Perhaps he didn’t hear.

“I saw God.”

His thick hands crawled out onto the blotter and formed a little pyramid. Pastor Johnson looked at his fingers for a long time, index against index, long against long, ring against ring, then he dismantled the structure and looked up. Big eyes floating in those thick glasses.

“You saw God?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You wouldn’t be putting me on or anything?”

“No, sir.”

“You actually believe you saw God?”

“Yes, sir.”

The big eyes looked at him then seemed to slip away, sort of swim on, couldn’t quite maintain contact.

“Here on this earth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, Ezra, what did . . . , what did He, God, look like?”

“Well, that’s just it, He looked like an Eskimo.”

“An Eskimo?”

“Pretty much.”

Pastor Johnson swiveled a quarter turn on his chair and looked out the window, up. Ezra looked too. Not much to see but clouds. It would rain soon.

He swiveled back.

“How do you know it was God you saw?”

“It’s kinda hard to explain.”

“I want to know.”

“Well, I was kinda yelling at him, in the forest. Kinda telling him to show his face or else.”

“You were threatening Him?”

“Well, not really. Just sorta telling Him that if he wanted to keep me as a believer he’d better make an appearance.”

“And He did?”

“Yes, sir. That very instant.”

“And He looked . . .”

“Like an Eskimo, yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“He faded away.”

“Did He say anything?”

“No. He just faded away. Except for His mouth and His teeth.”

“Teeth?”

“Yeah, they stayed on for a while. Sort of a smile just hanging there.”

“And then?”

“It left too.”

“And that was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you on any sort of medication at all?”

“No, sir.”

Pastor Johnson stood up. He was larger up close than he was in church. He reached down for a cigar. He put it in his mouth but did not light it.

“It is very hard to believe.”

“Yes, sir. That’s why I’ve come to see you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because no one believes me.”

“Well, you must understand this is a little unusual.”

“I know it doesn’t happen every day.”

“No, Ezra, it does not.”

“But now I know that He exists.”

“As an Eskimo?”

“Well, that’s what He looked like.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Ezra looked up to see what he meant.

“No.”

Pastor Johnson clicked the lighter and brought the flame to the tip of the little brown torpedo in his mouth. He inhaled quickly two, three times and then billowed a formidable gray cloud out into the small office. It came over to Ezra and smelled very badly. The pastor sat down again and leaned back. The chair creaked under the weight. Another cloud came his way. The pastor was getting harder and harder to see. But his voice was clear.

“God is not an Eskimo, Ezra.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s what He looked like to me.”

“God is not a physical person, Ezra.”

“I saw Him.”

“I know you think you did.”

“No, Pastor Johnson, I don’t think I did. I did.”

“All right, you did. You’re convinced you did. But you couldn’t have.”

“Why is that?”

“Because no one sees God.”

“Why?”

“Because He does not have a corporeal presence.”

“What does that mean?”

“Corporeal?”

“Yes.”

“Physical.”

“Well, He does.”

“You think He does.”

“I know He does.”

“He does not.”

“Yes, He does.”

“I don’t think we’re getting anywhere, Ezra.”

“I just want someone to believe me. That’s why I came here.”

“I’m sorry. I believe what you say. I believe that you’re honest. But I don’t believe that you saw Him.”

“Why should that be so impossible? I don’t understand. The whole damn world believes that God exists. Right? Well most anyway. Well, nearly half anyway. But no one can see him?”

“No one has.”

“I have.”

“I know. I know.”

“Why can it not be possible?”

“I’m sure it’s possible.”

“Just not for me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No one, ever, has seen him. No one. Ever.”

By now Ezra could hardly make out the bulky priest through the smoke. But the last words came through crystal clear. No one, ever, has seen Him. No one. Ever. Well then, how do they know? How can they possibly know?

“How can you be sure then?”

“Of what?”

“That He does exist.”

He could hear Pastor Johnson smile.

“Look all around you.”

Not an easy task.

“So.”

“It’s His creation.”

“His, who?”

“God’s.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”
“Yes, but how?”

“With my heart, Ezra. With my heart.”

“Could be anyone.”

“What?”

“Anyone could have made this. Doesn’t have to be God.”

“Trust me. God created Heaven and Earth.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The Bible says so.”

“I know the Bible says so.”

“And the Bible is right.”

“I know we think so.”

“No, we know so.”

“No, Pastor Johnson, that’s just my problem. We don’t know so. We think so. We trust so. We believe so. We hope so. But we don’t know so.”

“Ezra, my boy. Maybe you’re having a spiritual crisis. Maybe you’ve been thinking too much.”

“Seeing God does that to you.”

“Maybe you should, perhaps, ah, see a doctor?”

“Pastor Johnson. I feel perfectly fine. I know what I saw. I thought you would believe me.”

“Sorry, son.”

“Why is it everyone believes in Him? That he exists. Why is it everyone believes He created everything, but that if you say you saw Him, you’re crazy?”

“Oh, Heavens!” From behind him. Ezra turned around and looked for the voice. Then he made out two flailing arms batting the smoke this way and that. Mrs. Johnson’s.

“Open the window for Heaven’s sake. You shouldn’t smoke so much without any air.”

Mrs. Johnson felt her way through to the window and threw it open. The smoke escaped. Rushed out on the draft. Ezra did the same.

He stood at the very same spot, but the log was Godless. Not a trace. Of course there wasn’t a trace. He knew there wouldn’t be. But there had been the hope. Now gone.

He sat down where God had sat. Looked around. Listened around. Smelled around. He liked this clearing. Just far enough away. You only heard forest here. Smelled green. And He had made all this. And you can’t see Him for then you’re crazy.

And then, out of nowhere, there He was again. Five feet away. Standing where Ezra had stood just a moment before, looking at him. He looked a little surprised to see him. But it was Him, all right. Short, Eskimo. Dark eyes.

Ezra smiled then. And as he smiled he felt himself vanish by degrees, as if only the smile was substantial. And then there was all that there was. Lips and teeth. And then with a plopping sound, as if they were dentures dropped into still water from not very high, they too were gone.

The Eskimo did a number one in his pants.

Then he walked home hoping very much he wouldn’t meet anyone.

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf

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