You Better Believe I'll Take the Wheel

Do you prefer meme me or Revelation me?

I’ve watched the vine thousands of times,
all seven seconds of it: a kid’s 
just driving along to Carrie Underwood 
when I suddenly float my white-robed arms 
through the window and start to steer. 
You can’t see my feet, but I imagine 
I’m sort of waterskiing on the asphalt 
at 50 mph (try that, Peter!) as I tuck
my blustery hair behind my ear in vain.

It’s a hoot.

I also know this lady—leads women’s
Bible studies, homeschools, always smells 
of clary sage oil—who shakes her head
at nonsense like this. People have lost 
respect for me, she says. She prefers
Revelation me: sizzling eyes, hot metal feet, 
a ten-foot, double-edge sword protruding
from my mouth to slash through sin.

She’s not wrong. And I love her to bits.
But verily, like the little girl from the ad 
about soft versus hard taco shells, I ask: 
Why not both? Why can’t I hold the stars
in my hand and snort-laugh at memes at once?

It’s kinda the whole point of me. 

Heal a child. Flip a table. Blast the universe
into being. Squeeze through a teenager’s 
birth canal. Dip bread with some smelly 
dudes then three days later flick away 
a two-ton stone and ascend to the heavens.

My sweet clary sage woman, you of the star-
charted memory verses and daily intensive
quiet times, you who have perfected the art 
of perfecting the art of following me, I adore you. 
And sometimes I just want you to let go.

Today, hop in the minivan like you do 
every Tuesday to fetch Isaiah from piano,
but this time, take the passenger seat. Hold on 
to that little bar thing on the ceiling, and prepare 
your heart to fly! Where're we going? 
I’ll surprise you. And sure, we can listen 
to K-Love on the way.