DEAR MISTER SEAN:
I’m having doubtful thoughts with everything going on. I’m confused and disappointed. I want to ask you a question. Is God real?
Sincerely, REGULAR TEENAGE GIRL
DEAR REGULAR GIRL:
My God, darling. Why couldn’t you have asked me about my favorite brand of mayonnaise instead? I’m an expert in the field of egg-based dressings.
I am not, however, the fella to ask about God. I have few answers on such high-minded matters. I can’t even figure out which eleven herbs and spices go into KFC’s Original Recipe.
And believe me, I’ve tried.
Yeah, I know you’re confused about the current state of our world. I am, too. There is a lot of uneasiness right now. Try not to worry about it. Mankind has been fussing like this since the dawn of Duke’s Mayonnaise.
Once, I saw a fight break out in a Pelham, Alabama, beer-joint. The subject of tension: God.
A loud-talking man claimed that God was nothing but barnyard fertilizer. It offended my friend, whose mother sang in the church choir. Thus, he challenged this man—who was six-times his size—to a fistfight.
Before we knew it, my buddy went down under the power.
On the ride home, we four teenagers discussed mysteries of the eternal, using our serious voices.
Finally, someone asked, “You think God’s real?”
I answered without thinking. And in a sentence, nine-hundred-year’s worth of Bible-Belt heritage came out.
I said, “You damn right he’s real.”
And I sounded like a boy who needed help spelling his name.
The fact is, when some folks talk about God, they’re not talking about God at all. They’re speaking about miracles, greasy televangelists, faith healers, or a celestial Santa Claus with a white beard. I may be uneducated, but those aren’t God.
Nevertheless, you asked me a straight question, so here’s my answer: Cassidy.
She’s my answer.
Cassidy was nineteen. Beautiful. Her parents died. Her grandmother raised her. One day at a gas station, a man followed her to her car. He raped her. He beat her.
Police caught him. He went to prison. Nine months thereafter, Cassidy gave birth to a son. His son.
Years later, the man made parole. Cassidy organized a meeting with him—against everyone’s advice. She met him in a public place. She embraced him. She gave him the privilege of meeting his biological child.
Cassidy told him, “You tried to ruin me, but it didn’t work. I love my son. And I love you, too.”
Now there’s a person you should ask about God. Because she touched something. Something big. A thing so beautiful she wanted to share it with the ugliest soul she could think of.
Is God real?
You’re damn right he is, sweetie.
His name is, Love.