"Ribbon"

Imagine if it had been a belt that made me call Jormungand to mind, and what that would mean for the poor sap who unbuckled his belt on the way to the washroom.

 

In Norse mythology, Jormungand, the Midgard Serpent, grew so large that he was able to wrap  around Earth's fat middle like a belt and bite his own tail. According to the Norse, the world is bound by Jormungand's body; the day he releases his tail is the day the world will end.

Oddly enough, it wasn't the sight of a belt that made me think of Jormungand. It was a picture of a ribbon tied around a package, holding in the surprise, and the idea that someone, upon receiving a beautifully wrapped gift, might think of Midgard and hesitate a second before undoing the bow.

"Risen"

 

The Lord Jesus Christ stood next to me in the kitchen while I waited for the oven timer to ring.

"You know what's really a miracle," He said, "is how someone figured out to add raisins and cinnamon to the dough. Human creativity is never going to stop amazing me."

"I'll just be amazed if this comes out right," I told Him. "I've never tried this recipe before, and baking isn't exactly my strength."

The timer went off.

"Done," I said. "I think."

"'A time to every purpose under heaven,'" He said. We both crouched and peeked through the window.

The dough had risen and was now transformed from a flat, pale mass into a loaf of bread, its golden crust set perfectly above the pan. I slipped a pot holder onto one hand and grabbed the door handle with the other. Before I opened the oven, though, I turned to the Lord.

"I'm not a Christian," I told Him, "though I imagine You know that already. I mean, I respect that it works for some people, makes sense to them and helps them behave better, but for me...." I shook my head.

"I know," He said. "And, you know, I'm sad about it, of course, but I understand. It's cool." And I understood that it was: in His hand he produced a dish of real butter, sweet cream, no preservatives, for us to use--the good stuff. Truly, I thought, this love knows no bounds.

Together we took the pan from the oven and set it on the counter to cool. "So, this is my mom's special cinnamon raisin bread," I said. "Um, take and eat?"

He laughed. "Please, trust me when I say this," He told me, "it smells divine. Now, do you happen to have a couple of fish around here that I could, you know, multiply and serve as well?"

I stared at him.

"Ah, I'm just playing," Jesus said. "That would be nasty. Let's give this bread a try, shall we?"

For a second, I was almost ready to put my faith in miracles. The bread was perfectly cooked on the inside as well.

"Lights"

 

God said, "Let there shine light in the vault of heaven, to give light on earth." And God made the stars and saw that they were good--for a little while, anyway. Before the fourth day's end, several of the stars burned out, just darkened in a fizzle, dissipating like what would come to be called smoke; and the almighty Lord swore, because the place had really been starting to come together, and already there were a bunch of things piling up that He still had to do, and He had spent so much time on this project--why couldn't things just fucking work like they were supposed to?

Later, days after He had assembled the heavenly host into being and given His breath to man, God said, "Let's tell that guy down there that the seventh day is for resting. There's this thing called 'housework' that's going to come about, and it'll be really interesting to see how he fits it all together."