I, being the perfect shade of vanilla, have no memory of my ancestors or knowledge of herbs beyond cooking very basic meals. I know nothing of traditions beyond the usual holidays that are part protestant and part government. I also do not participate in Christianity, as I was raised by those who had already turned their faces toward the substances of relief rather than the folded hands of prayer. I’ve never been bothered by this. Gods many houses are beautiful but I never felt like god was there.
This peculiar thing about God’s pronouns also gave me pause. He, being a father, is all well and good when you need a father but I thought we needed bigger and better words for God, or whatever, what is there? How do you say, well, anything besides father? A few Hebrew choices are offered but those words mean no more to me than any others. So, leaving words like God behind I favored words like Spirit.
Spirit was when God was more like a flower, like a wave rushing up to the shore or thunder crackling through the rain soaked sky. Spirit was when my dog had puppies and was there still when one of the puppies died. Sometimes Spirit wore the face of a woman or a girl when I looked at my own reflection, when I looked at other women and sometimes Spirit looked like a man but I was by this time so separated from the word god that even when I saw him I didn’t call him that.