Prologue

When God first asked me to create this book, I was more than a little whelmed. It wasn’t as if I weren’t familiar with him, to some degree, but he…

Okay, hold up a minute. Before we get started with the story itself, I need to ask your indulgence on a few points. First and foremost: Ultimately, God is literally everything, everyone, everywhere, and all that stuff (we’ll address that in the first chapter) and therefore, ultimately, there is no actual sense of male, female, or any other form of gender identity. You could even argue that the plural pronouns could be used. However, since God changed his appearance any number of times during the course of our time together, I fall back on the male pronoun by default exclusively as a matter of personal convenience. (Goddess worshippers, please sheath your claws and weapons; believe me, I understand.) This is my chronicle, and there are going to be issues no matter how I try telling it. Pardon my politically incorrect conventions.

Also: This is not a story about religion. It’s about my experience of writing a book for and about God. There are a myriad problems with that statement as well, starting with that wonderful question Which God are you talking about? That in itself is a question of religion, worship, or similar versions of specific aspects of that which can’t actually be identified through those individual lenses. I don’t mean to be terse, but if I keep trying to “cover all the bases first,” I won’t be able to tell the story at all. Just keep reading, okay? I’ll do what I can to get through this.

Now, let’s see… oh yeah, God asking me to write this book. A Walk Through God’s Day was the way it was described to me. Quite the daunting assignment, no? I wasn’t really sure that I was up to it. I thought about it for a long time, and when I still wasn’t sure whether or not to take this on, I decided to seek some advice. That was when I realized I also wasn’t sure who I could talk to about it, which is funny, if you think of prayer or meditation as a means of “talking with God.” What I needed was someone to bounce this idea off of, help me get a better look at my feelings. I had a panoply of options, from every pantheon imaginable, some of whom I’d already met at one time or another. I considered Buddha, Anubis (Ptah was busy, and the Protector of Graves always wove good stories), Coyote, Moses, Muhammad, Odin All-Father, Gaia, even some of the more unpronounceable names from Aztec, Coptic, and the real beings that Lovecraft tried to represent in his writings (he missed by a long chalk, but the ideas are reasonably close for mortals in this realm). In the end, I realized that most of my life had been steeped in the many variations of You-Know-Who-Ism, so I asked Joshua to meet me once again at my local coffeehouse for a chat about this whole crazy idea.

It was a comparatively slow point of the day, so Josh and I got our drinks and commandeered a comfortable table in the corner. He wore some nicely worn-in blue jeans and a pale blue t-shirt reading, No, what would YOU do? I had my mocha, he had his usual double-caramel decaf latte. That sweet-fang of his is sort of how we met… but that’s yet another story. He had many appearances, in many species, in order to accommodate each variation of those who claimed to be his followers. He didn’t begrudge them that notion, and it allowed him to help make others more comfortable. For me, whether out of kinship or a teasing sop to my vanity, he always appeared as a fellow lupine: a red wolf, lithe, handsome, a lush mane of headfur, and an expressive tail. He seemed always to radiate an aura of acceptance and empathy, and that truly was his essence. I often found myself wishing that more folks in the western culture could really know him and take more time to emulate him… again, another part of the story.

Taking a sip of his brew, Josh held it in his maw as if cherishing fine wine. For the likes of us, it was better than wine; being awake has its advantages. “This is wonderful,” he declared. “I may have to ask that young vixen just what she does that makes this such a particularly good drink.”

“You mean you don’t know everything?” I teased him.

“That’s more Dad’s job.” He grinned, looking as if he might imitate a coyote chuckle. He didn’t claim exclusivity, calling God “Dad”; he has uncountable siblings… again, another story. The fine red wolf in front of me continued his thought. “Besides, everyfur deserves privacy. My curiosity isn’t about secrets, really — it’s about what she gives of herself. She will definitely be rewarded.”

I blinked. “It’s not like you to be totting up the brownie points,” I observed, sipping my hot mocha. “I didn’t think you were into all of the getting-into-heaven thing.”

“Actually, I’m not, despite rumors to the contrary. I’m talking about the rewards here on Earth, on this plane. It’s an entirely different thing. There’s a lot of the record I’d like to set straight, but that gets into the whole religion issue again.” He heaved a small sigh, shaking his head, his long headfur dancing gently about his face. “And in truth, that’s another reason why I think you should write this book. It would give everyone a chance to get another perspective on ‘what it’s all about.’ After all, there’s a lot of ‘it’ to be considered.”

Sipping my coffee gave me time to gather myself for my next question. “Are there things about your own story that you want to set straight?”

He paused, his eyes dipping gently to one side. “Yes,” he allowed softly, “although most of them would be sufficient cause for you to be hunted down by some of the so-called ‘faithful,’ to brand you as worse than a heretic. It would put you in grave physical danger, Tristan, and I would not have you risk that.”

“Isn’t there something about laying down one’s life for one’s friends?”

“There is… and if you read the next line of that ‘good book,’ I presumably said that my disciples were my friends as long as they did what commanded them.” Another headshake, and he looked into my eyes. “You know I didn’t say that.”

“Neither did they write it, according to various sources.”

He waved his forepaw gently, not dismissing me, just passing by the subject. “I have read your stories, good wolf, and I trust your statement, oft repeated, that you would tell nothing said to you that your characters do not wish told. With that assurance, you and I will discuss all such things another time, if only to ease your hungry mind.”

Smiling at me, he added, “I’ll give you one tidbit that you should be able to get away with telling. ‘Christ’ is not my last name. The literal meaning is ‘anointed one,’ from the Greek christos, the verb chrio, ‘to anoint.’ It came from a Greek Septuagint, a version of the Hebrew Bible — the Old Testament, including the Apocrypha — that was made for Greek-speaking Jews in Egypt. This was about two or three centuries before my time.” He grinned at me, knowing I would notate those centuries with the proper BCE. “It was adopted by the early Christian Churches, and christos was borrowed off of the re-translated Hebrew word mashiah, which meant ‘one who is anointed.’

“What this means, if you look at it, is that anyone who has been anointed, whether with water or oil is, by definition, a ‘christ’.” His smile was dimmed somewhat. “The original phrase about me was ‘the Christ,’ as if there could be only one. I’ve always preferred the idea of someone’s ‘christ nature,’ meaning the loving goodness in the individual as expressed through his life.”

I nodded. “I think I can use that explanation. I’ve preferred that idea, myself, since it puts you back in the place of being a good example to be emulated rather than The Only One Who Can Be That Good.”

His smile warmed again. “As I said… I really think you should write this book. Remember what I said earlier, about what you so rightly referred to as the ‘getting-into-heaven thing?’ There’s a whole lot to that concept; it would probably take up a few chapters at the least. Mitch Albom dedicated a whole book to the idea.”

“You mean The Five Fursons You Meet In Heaven? Albom was right?”

“Sure, he was. And so is everyone else. That’s sort of the point.” Joshua smiled at me, enjoying his tease. “It’s all about creation, Tristan, that’s what I’m getting at.”

“Easy for you to say,” I grinned. “You’re God!”

“So are you. And, strictly speaking, I’m not God, not in the sense that everyone keeps trying to saddle me with. I was as human as you, or the girl behind the counter, or the guy picking up your garbage, or…” He named someone (whose name he later recommended I not repeat, for reasons stated earlier), then he grimaced slightly. “Well, okay, maybe I went a little too far on that last one.”

“I guess I’m worried that I won’t understand it all,” I said. “I mean, there just seems to be so much to absorb, so much to consider, not to mention the sheer quantity of work in the assignment. How long is one day for God?”

His grin returned. “You’re thinking of that movie, aren’t you? Oh, and by the way, there is no truth to the rumor that Dad thought George Burns was too old for the part. It did, however, make a great joke.”

My whiskers rose up with my own grin. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.” I took a moment for another sip from my cup of mocha. Was it my imagination, or had it been refreshed a bit? Nah, that would have been cheating… right? “What, exactly, am I supposed to do, other than pretend that it’s Take Your Writer To Work Day?”

Another chuckle from Josh, and he saluted me with his cup, likewise taking a restorative sip before diving into the subject.

“When you called me, I asked God for a few moments, so that I could help you make up your mind. From what he tells me, he’s looking for a way to clear up a few points. Not demystify, mind you, because the mystery is built in; there’s always going to be something to keep mortal minds searching and seeking and trying to take a peek at the ending. It’s important because, without the urge to keep peeking, sapients get worse than lazy. They get complacent, restless, frustrated with themselves. Without continuing to grow their minds, sapients lose everything that makes them closer to God — understanding, empathy, tolerance, welcoming. Losing those literally divine attributes is what leads sapients down the road to hatred and violence.”

“According to the stories, you had at least one instance of violence yourself.”

I hadn’t meant the comment to sting, but the look on his face told me that it pained him. He raised a calming forepaw before I could apologize. “I might want to set records straight, but I wouldn’t want to deny facts. Experiencing a mortal life, being as much like you all as possible, meant that I could be fallible. I succumbed to my feelings of outrage, and I busted the place up. Not the smartest move in the playbook.” Another rueful smile. “It did help me to understand those feelings, though; it also let me experience doing a bad thing ‘in the name of God,’ and I learned how easy it is to succumb to that delusion. It is absolutely wrong, in all ways… and I did it, perhaps for the express purpose of experiencing those feelings.”

“What did it feel like, to you?” I asked softly. “Would you tell me?”

“Yes… and I want you to tell it.” A deep inhale through his nose, and he let it out slowly through his maw. His beautiful golden eyes sought mine. “It was all-consuming. I lost everything about myself that I cherished and tried to teach. Rage is a fire that can consume the soul. I think that’s why the stories of Hell speak of burning forever. The simple truth is that Hell is nothing more than the voluntary conviction that you are apart from God. He doesn’t condemn you; you do. Hatred, prejudice, lack of empathy, all the many masks of fear… that mask convinces you that God has turned his back to you. Nothing is further from the truth.

“That was what I learned from that rather infamous episode. I felt what it was like to give in to everything that was not God-like. It was…” He considered for a moment. “It was horribly exhilarating. It was its own drug, the rush, the adrenaline, the power… and all of it was false. It could only be maintained by feeding that fire, that rage, with yet more anger, frustration, destruction. It’s not easy to back away from, save for the fact that there was a limit to how much more of the temple I could destroy. Destroying the temple, to save it… That horrifying contradiction made me stop, look, and regret.”

He took my forepaw into his own. “That is another self-separation from God, Tristan. Regret. Because it makes you want to destroy yourself or, at the least, separate yourself from all the good you’ve done, the joy you’ve experienced, the positive differences you’ve made. Those things are still there, and you did them, you lived them.” He paused, softly emphasizing his next words.

“You created them.”

I felt my self shiver gently, remembering things I’d said about my writing, the things other writers, musicians, artists, actors and more, what they all had said about their own acts of creation. Josh raised my forepaw to his muzzle, giving it a quick kiss before releasing me.

“And that,” he said, “takes us back around to what we were talking about earlier. The commonality of creation in the stories told about God.”

“There are a lot of them,” I acknowledged, “from creating everything in the universe to other acts of creation, like floods, trials, plagues, and all that. And look at your stories of creation, like the wine, the loaves and fish, even walking on water before someone invented surfboards.”

“Nah, I just knew where the rocks were.”

We enjoyed a laugh together over the old joke. “Glad to see your humor returning!” he said, still chuckling. “That’s a little secret that shouldn’t be so secret: One of the best ways to reconnect with God is to laugh.”

I nodded. “I knew someone who believed in spirits experiencing different lives, perhaps on their way to being fully enlightened. The spirits told her that, when they left the body, they returned to a place where other spirits waited for their return, usually asking something like, ‘What did you encounter? What did you learn or discover? What was it like for you, this time around?’ It is, for the spirit, like waking up from a long and vivid dream. She was told that the most common response to this waking up is laughing, sometimes uproariously.”

“That sounds about right!” Josh agreed.

My laughter came to a stop a moment later. “Wait, do you mean that’s it? That’s what happens?”

“Probably.” He gave me one of his little smiles that made me think more coyote than red wolf.

I frowned. “That whole New Age thing, that’s the One Great Truth?”

“Along with perhaps a billion others.” Josh’s grin returned. “There are a few things that are genuinely universal, but no one seems to think about them that way. Do you remember the line from that movie — can’t remember which one — which goes that the greatest trick that the devil ever pulled was to convince the world that he doesn’t exist?”

“The Usual Suspects.”

“I do so love the nearly infinite database that is your mind!” he laughed. “Well, the greatest trick that sapients ever pulled was to convince themselves that there is One Great Truth and that Truth is either utterly unknowable or that it is truly universal and applicable to every human who does, ever did, or ever will walk the planet. If I could package that product in a bag, I’d have the greatest fertilizer ever known.”

Luckily, Josh had timed his joke so that I didn’t choke on my mocha, but it was a near thing. I set the cup down carefully, dabbed a napkin at my muzzle, and faced his not-quite-steady smirk carefully. “You’d better let that laugh out,” I said quietly, “or you’re gonna explode.”

He hid his muzzle in both forepaws, trying not to guffaw loudly enough to raise the rafters on the place. I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the red wolf to get hold of himself again, quietly wishing that he’d lose control of his form enough to change into one or more other species before he’d catch himself, hoping that no one else had noticed. Of course, dopey me… he probably appeared to every furson in the café as whatever species they would expect him to look like. They wouldn’t have known it was him, of course; their belief couldn’t have allowed that. I have learned at least one important thing about Josh and others like him: We see what we expect to see. It’s kind of a divine cloaking device.

When he finally regained his composure, he smiled at me. “That’s another reason why I think you should write the book,” he said. “Not just your humor; your sense of absurdity, your innate feel for the truth.”

“You do know that, in the eyes of a great many of your professed followers, you just committed an act of heresy?”

“That’s one of the things that needs to be addressed.” He leaned forward, his golden eyes holding great warmth. “Tristan, why did you ask to speak to me, specifically, rather than so many others that you know and so often speak with?”

“Maybe because you’re such a good companion for coffee. We’ve shared quite a few cups, over the years.” I smiled at him. “Maybe because I grew up with you, or so many variations of you. I was put into a Catholic school for two years; my high school years were spent trying to understand the students who represented at least four different Protestant variations; college was a bag of tricks where certain churches were actually a part of the campus. In these Ununited States, holidays that are supposedly based on a ‘Christian’ calendar are celebrated in ways that are more pagan than not, but the stories are told and retold so often that anyone raised here could probably recite the general ideas without having to look up the source material.” I raised a finger to make the point before he did. “Their officially approved version of source material, not the ancient Zoroastrian basis, or the other stories before that. It’s a long list.”

He pretended a look of hurt and disappointment. “You mean, I was just a default setting for you?”

“Well, at least you’re not a 404 error.”

That made him laugh. Josh had a reasonable level of computer savvy; he used the net to find the most intriguing minutiae possible. He got hooked on a Muzzlebook group called LADbible, enjoying their seemingly never-ending supply of reels about gadgets, games, and “life hacks.”

“Okay, dear Joshua, let me see if I’ve got the correct idea here.” I drew a breath and plunged in. “God wants me to accompany him through his day, like an interviewer might tag along with David Tennant or someone…”

“And just why do I think you’d rather tag along with David Tennant?”

“Somewhere between Doctor Who, Broadchurch, and Good Omens, I got far too hooked. Oh, and don’t forget his Hamlet and Casanova.”

“Among many others.” Joshua grinned at me; he was no less a fan than I, although he warned me not to let the actor think he’d gotten a sacred endorsement. “No fair pinching any material from Good Omens.”

“Perish the thought, although you know that I only steal from the best.” Smiling, I took up the thread again. “So I hang out with God, following him about as he does whatever he’s gonna do, and then write up a book about the encounters.” I looked at Josh over my cup. “Is that about the gist of it?”

“Fair attempt.” He grinned at me with that Coyote-like grin of his. “The good news is that you won’t have to take notes; God will make sure that you have a complete transcript.”

I blinked. “Physical notes?”

“No hard copy.” The red wolf moved his forepaws as if painting a picture, or the way a film director might set up a scene for his camera-furson. “When you go to type up a scene, you’ll have a complete recall of every aspect of it, from setting to dialog; you can reproduce it as you will, and even edit it a bit, if you wish. After all, as you trust your instincts, you’ll find that everything you write — in this book or any other — will be inspired, in the genuine sense of the word.”

“Divine breath.” I took another breath for myself, whether sacred or profane, and considered it. “It’s better than sitting behind a curtain, reading from golden plates.”

“Speaking of no hard copy…” Josh shook his head. “Sorry; cheap shot.”

“As you were saying, it’s another one of those One And Only Truths. It seems to be good, for some fursons.” I sighed, thought about it a moment longer, and then smiled. “I think it’s a great idea. As overwhelming as it might seem to me, I think it would be the most worthwhile project I’ve ever attempted. When do I start?”

As the red wolf looked at me with that irritatingly inscrutable smile that he so often adopts, I felt something happen inside me — a kind of subtle internal kick that happened so quickly that I wasn’t entirely sure that it had happened — and I gasped. I shook my head, making my ears rattle. I felt my fur shift all over me, my tail try to curl around me, and I held back a yip of surprise. Blinking, I stared wide-eyed at Joshua, who sipped at his double caramel decaf latte with a mischievous sense of calm and certainty.

“Better get home to your word processor, Tristan,” he said softly. “I think you’re about to have quite a brainstorm.”