I have conclude God has a sense of humor.
Not a ha-ha humor. Not a sitcom laugh track humor. More like the kind of humor where He leans back, folds His arms, looks at the angels and says, “Watch this.”
I have trouble kneeling. Can’t walk very far and use a wheelchair. My fingers tremble like an addict overdosing on caffeine. My hands ache. Spine aches. Knees ache. Got cancer. Still have cancer. Have Parkinson’s. And my right foot, who went to sleep perfectly fine on January 16th, tendered its resignation on the 17th. “Dude, not working today. And by the way, not sure when I’m returning.” Trust me, this stuff was never on my childhood vision board.
Meanwhile, my persistently aloof brother jogs five miles every day.
Five. Fucking. Miles.
Every. Day.
No limp. No wheelchair. No mysterious clicking noises when standing. He casually hints winning the health lottery as though one might casually say, “Oh, I built an entire home at work today and grabbed a case of beer on the way home. What one?” I’m not saying I resent him—but if I were God, I would at least have given matching symptoms, if not in fairness, but for symmetry. I often think of what happened on the assembly line. You might presume the system would distribute aches and pains evenly. Heck, you might even believe there’d be a cosmic spreadsheet (with pivot table): “Okay, this guy gets bad knees, that one gets shaky fingers, and so on. Everyone gets something.” Nope.
For some? Sampler Platter.