Dearest Children, (and that includes all of you, even non-believers):
The holidays are here, and I'm reviewing this past year. I feel a bit guilty, as I've been terribly remiss about keeping in touch. I love you all dearly, but I'm really lazy when it comes to correspondence. Some of you have complained about the formal style of my writing so, to accommodate you, I'm going to skip the "verily, verily" and "It came to pass ..."
I'm feeling really bad that the world has been beset by such chaos and tragedy. Once again, I'm approaching the Christmas season with substantial "mis-givings,"—and I'm not referring to little accidents, like a lacey bra for Harry and a Lionel train for Grandma.
The choruses of my herald angels—I personally wrote their lyrics—have largely lost their meaning. Frankly, it's hard to feel like celebrating this year, because peace on Earth has been in such short supply. You'd think that sending down that little Bundle of Joy would have taught you kids something about love, but even that seems to have missed its mark.
Since I consider every one of you to be very dear and precious, I thought that I might take a moment during this holiday season to reassure and comfort you: Yes, I'm still here. As you can imagine, my hectic schedule keeps me swamped. Every day, it seems that the time is gone before I even get started.
My responsibilities are staggering. I faithfully watch Utah football—they're my favorite—and I've even booked my flight to Pasadena. Just so the soccer and hockey teams don't feel slighted, I also try my best to watch those competitions as well.
Just like in eons past, I'm really frustrated that I've been unable to solve mankind's worst problems. Over-population still threatens my plan, and the U.S. Supreme Court didn't help on its Roe v. Wade decision. (You know, I tried my best to keep that cry-baby Kavanaugh and People-of-Faith-Amy crackpot off the Court, but that little devil, Trump and the stuffed-shirt Christian Right got in my way.)
My pet project—how to slow human reproduction to a tamer level—takes a great deal of time and effort. I've been wracking my brain for the best course of action. I've even experimented with adding a little estrogen into the beer supply.
Wars, of course, work really well, but I can't stand loud noises, and the sight of blood makes me queasy. My contingent plan is to find a way to make women less attractive, and I just hope that the cosmetics industry will stay out of my way.
Just in case I can't adjust human sex drives, I am tirelessly trying to find a more effective plague to reduce the human load. Sadly, I'm making little progress. I guess you realize—especially you heretic scientists—that man has been thwarting my intent. I'm trying so hard to find a way to compensate for overpopulation, but, every time you develop another vaccine or cure, or pass more anti-abortion legislation, you're really messing things up.
I'm so at my wits' end; I may have to take some drastic measures. I've been forced to consider whether—tough choice—I'll have you kill your first- or your second-born. I don't know why there's so much resistance to pro-choice, and I'm flabbergasted to learn that those misguided zealots are trying to save the same clumps of cells I'm trying to get rid of.
Look at it this way, my children: It was the apple that started the entire human race, but that doesn't mean you're killing a child each time you take a bite of one. Oh, people are so silly.
Being God has always been damned—excuse the expression—hard, but the 8-billion-strong population has made it virtually impossible to give you the personal treatment I wish I could afford. I created the world and never intended it to sustain that many people.
If you want to show me that you worship me, please stop having so many kids. It's driving me nuts. I'm tired of trying to field billions of prayers a day, and I don't even have the time to rescue a kitten from a tree. (If your prayer wasn't answered, now you know why.)
And the notion that I see every sparrow that falls is, at best, laughable. Once in a while I'll notice an eagle, but a sparrow—you've got to be kidding.
Most of all, I want you all to know that I love you. but I also have to admit that, as much as the struggles of humanity upset you kids, I'm finding much of what's going on down there to be very entertaining.
As a matter of policy, I've elected to interfere as little as possible in the dealings of mankind, and, let's face it: Bad things are bound to happen. It's all part of the random probabilities I calculated during the creation. You know, of course, what I'm talking about. Yes, him—the man with the windswept orange hair and the wife who looks so much like my favorite moth. When I created him, I knew his heart, and I intentionally shorted him on brains to make him less dangerous. Now I can see my plan failed and that stupidity, in the final assessment, was even more of a threat to the world.
That said, I am trying my best to take Trump "home" early—sending him burgers instead of manna—but there's certainly no room for him here with me and the devil has already said, "No way!" All I can say is, I'm working on it.
The prayers of the Christian Right have been fizzling in the sky nearby—a lot like Kim's missiles—but I am receiving the petitions of my good kids and I promise you: I will deal with it.
And by the way, you smug Christians, I'm sending a similar letter to all my religions and people, so they'll know I haven't forgotten about them either. Just keep in mind my favorite saying: This too shall pass, so never, ever give up hope and have a happy holiday season.
Yours truly,
God
The author is a retired novelist, columnist and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and the beloved ashes of their mongrel dog.
