The Dogs and The Crumbs from the Table: An Email to God

Father:

I lift up this cup to you, for the bile has begun to overflow; it has begun to soil my sleeves. You will hear me. You always did. You must.

I bring you this cup from the forgotten lands where life still haunts the dead. You know the place that I write about here: that forgotten land where the sun shies away and nights dread to enter. 

This cry is familiar to your forgiving ears. You were there too.  

I know you hear me. I know, because you felled the tens of thousands around me. You held back the mighty heavens and chided Hades into quietness – just so I could walk in safety and victory to the place you chose for me. You know that place more than any of us will ever know. You were born there.

I do not seek to hear your voice: on my table, is your answer. The Bible watches me with a smile with the answers, ready, even before my lips had begun forming these screams that shred me to wretched tatters.

Maybe the thorn was mine to bear; that there are wonderful mysteries just not destined for me? Maybe faith has yet to find a home in me to stay. Maybe, I must have to wait a bit longer so you perfect your great plans for me. I understand that my life remembers not to reflect you. That I am a wretch, like the grime of food long lost to the elements.

Nevertheless, Father, I wait – pacifying my intolerant rage by remembering your conversation with that Canaanite wretch.

She came and knelt before you, Father.

"Lord, help me!" she pleaded.

In your grace, quiet power and palpable authority you spoke:

"It is not right to take the children's bread and toss it to their dogs."

The universe stopped in its path. Israel could only help not crumbling to dust at your profound words. The winds across the mighty mountains of Canaan paused, afraid to move lest their breathless awe provoked you. Since the chronicles of life began, the master of the universe had never withheld his grace from a mortal being.

I saw the entire heavens stop in single minute of eternity, troubled and waiting just what the master meant, and what you would do. I saw the sun hold its light across your universe, rebuking the night from intruding into that fathomless moment.

Then, I saw the woman lift her chin, reverent, yet undefeated.  

Then the woman spoke.

Divine creation and created creation listened.

"Yes, Lord," she said, "but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table."

You smiled, and gifted the woman your universe. The heavens rejoiced you.  

Yes, Father, even dogs wait for the crumbs to fall off the table. I wait for the crumbs to fall of your table…

The windstorm is unforgiving, Father. The battle is not bloody any more – there is no more blood to pay. The allies now draw their swords with my enemies. The more the victory, the farther my allies wander from me. My love now fights beside my foe. Life has sucked the heavens out of my comrades. My ancient armor is broken. I keep losing sight of you amid the bloodied multitude.

I keep falling, Father, and I stand alone in pretend poise and shallow strength as the endless expanse jeer from behind the mountains. Father, all I ask is this: I need a little hand here.  

I do not seek reprieve from this battle. I will not run from this. I will not lay down my sword ever. 

Let my armor splinter and shatter. Let the winds dry the blood along its edges. Let the storm come and lay down its terms of challenge. Let it dare, and I will stand against it.

However, Father, there is something I am desperate for. I do not seek to hear your voice. You already talk to me in your Holy Word.

All I seek, Father, all I seek, is a little hand here. All I seek is a little help here, Father. Help to not giving up. That is all I ask.  

Yes, Father. For, even the dogs waited for the crumbs to fall off the table. Even dogs eat the crumbs that fall off the table.   

Your son,

© 2014 An Email to God Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie