Vignette: Letters to God #1

Letters to God #1

Hi God,

It’s me, Daniel Staker. Not the one in West Jordan, Heber, or Melborne, but the one at 1616 Pleasant Bird Way, in Draper. You know, big with a beard.

I’m starting to worry that there is no plan here, or perhaps that I deeply misunderstood the concept of a “the plan.”

My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are our resumes, credit scores, and BMIs the same. Forgive me if my point of view is flawed, but, as near as I can tell, so far the plan for me consists of me making shit up as I go. And I’m no good at it. It’s like bad jazz, featuring a stupid white guy. (In this metaphor, I am the stupid white guy.)

Did I over hear too many country songs growing up? Wasn’t every failure suppose to launch me closer to bliss? So far, the failures just feel like failure. I’m deeply sad and unfulfilled. It hurts. And weren’t all those country stars singing about the plan made manifest by things not going according to plan millionaires and celebrated in the fields by age thirty-two?

How dare they! That’s stolen failure.

Is there a different kind of pop music that more accurately teaches the workings of the universe? Or is country music accurate and the problem is I didn’t buy a truck?

You probably can’t tell because I’m brilliantly defusing the situation with humor, but, just in case omniscience isn’t enough, I’m dying here. It feels like I’m holding my mind together with duct tape and bailing wire. The center cannot hold. The edges aren’t doing so hot either. The whole thing is falling apart.

Sometimes that in which we persist in doing becomes easier, other times it just makes you worm deeper and deeper into the lives you will hurt.

I suppose if I don’t know much, I can’t be too sure all is lost. I’ll just say that from where I’m planted, things look grim. I’m tired. I’m tired of working all week on a job that makes me feel bad about myself—that disapproves of and punishes a good portion of the few things I used to like about myself. I’m tired of using my energy and talents for things I don’t care about. I’m tired of sitting at home each weekend waiting for something fun or interesting to happen. I’m tired of feeling second rate.

-Daniel