by Allen Zadoff
I say it again. Out loud in the empty synagogue.
“God.”
The space feels less empty.
“Thank you,” I say. “Not because things worked out, because they didn’t. I pretty much got screwed on the Mom and Judi Jacobs front. And I won’t be graduating from B-Jew. So I really can’t thank you for that.”
My leg is falling asleep. I move on the pew, shift from one butt cheek to the other.
“And I can’t thank you for this pew, which is hard and hurts my tuchas.”
The eternal flame flickers. I wonder if God is pissed at me for saying tuchas in synagogue. Maybe he hates that I used a slang term for ass, or maybe he loves that I spoke Yiddish at all. But I can’t believe in a God like that, one who hates or loves according to an obscure set of rules. I have to believe in one I can say anything to. I can tell him the truth, I can be myself, and he doesn’t blink.
“I can’t thank you for making things work out, but maybe I can thank you for being with me while they didn’t.”
Was God with me?
I close my eyes and think about it for a while. I don’t get any answers.
Instead of pushing through and trying to figure it out, I hold the question in my head like the guru taught me. I sit with it. I sit with the idea of God.
After a while I look at my phone. A half hour has passed. I think it’s the longest I’ve ever been in a synagogue voluntarily.
I should leave now, but I don’t want to.
I want to stay.
I want to sit with God a little longer.