I was once told that asking good questions
Is like using a shovel well.
Digging deeper until you arrive at the sight
Of something new, or old, or unseen.
Sometimes, I ask God questions.
When I used a shovel
At the beach,
I thought I would find
The other side of the world,
Only to discover that some discoveries
Are not unearthed so easily.
How do I find you, God?
When I used a shovel
To make a space for vegetable seeds,
I waited to see them grow right before my eyes,
Only to accept that my sharp impatience
Is a sign of my desire for
Constant improvement.
When will I grow up, God?
When I used a shovel
To bury to my stepfather,
I called him my father
For the first time
Only to wonder why
I waited so long.
Were you my stepfather, God?
It’s no wonder we use shovels
To bury the dead
When we’re left with so many
Unanswered questions.
I wonder what has yet
To be discovered about you, God.
Do you ever use a shovel
To help bury the mothers and fathers
Of the sons and daughters
You created?
Or do you just watch?
Watch as we live and die,
As you live forever,
While we use our shovels
To find the answer
To the only question
We’ve ever wanted clarified:
Why are we here?
What more questions can I ask you,
God?
Do you ever ask questions?
Do you ever use a shovel?
Are you not perfect?