Eaten up by anxiety, my back tight and stiff, I resolved to take a walk this morning. I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw on a sweatshirt, and stepped out into the alley. Maybe I could get out of this area without someone asking me for money.
I’m whispering out loud, telling God about my problems, when whom should I see but the man my coworkers and I have been helping out for months, the one who used to live in this very alley. I tell him hello, he asks the time, and inquires into what I’m doing. I tell him I’m going on a walk, and he says, “Mind if I join?”
As we walk, he talks to me about his drinking problem, and how he still believes in God.
I talked to an atheist once. He said, “Why you believe in God and live like this? Don’t you think God is after you for the things you do?” I said, “I choose to drink. That’s not his fault. I don’t blame God for anything.”