A few days ago I picked up a book based solely on its title and book cover. I was drawn to it like a moth to a free swinging light bulb. The title of the book? Where The God of Love Hangs Out. It is a series of short stories by Amy Bloom, stories that paint the picture of love and loss, of lives intertwined and torn apart or so says the jacket cover. I haven’t started to read it yet. But I was too intrigued by the title to pass it up. I’ll give an update later.
Where The God of Love Hangs Out. What comes to your mind when you hear those words? Where have you seen the God of Love hanging around? The phrase causes my imagination to spin. It also causes me to take stock of the many places where I have seen the God of Love hanging out.
I am certain the God of Love hangs out in nurseries or any place a baby is born into the world. I can imagine this Being dancing about, celebrating another ‘yes’, blessing the moment and the life of yet another possibility. I am also pretty sure the God of Love hangs out in most preschool and kindergarten classrooms, willing the young ones to hold onto their deep awe and curiosity, allowing their giggles and hushed surprises to splash about the dance floor bringing unspeakable joy.
The God of Love also walks the halls of hospitals and stands at the bedsides of those in hospice care. I know this to be true because I’ve witnessed that hanging around through the hands and hearts of caregivers, washing pained and weary bodies, drying tears that roll down cheeks. I’ve felt the space being held in peace and tenderness.
In homeless shelters and soup lines across this wealthy, privileged nation, the God of Love walks around with a look of confusion. Moving among the mats lying on cold, hard, gym floors, serving up thin, tasteless soup, the God of Love pours slowly over those who have had a hard luck turn in their lives, have fallen off the wagon, have lost their way. I image that, as the lights are turned out and the mats become filled with fitful sleepers, the God of Love stands watch over these beloved ones as a parent perhaps did once.
While I have never been on a battlefield, I imagine the God of Love walks silently among those whose work is war, chosen or not. I can almost see the God of Love trying to help hands reach out across political, ethnic, racial, religious lines, hoping beyond hope that the sight of eyes looking into eyes will mend hearts and make enemies into companions.
As I reflect on it, the real trick is to imagine where the God of Love does not hang out. Even in the darkest, fearful, hurting places of the world, I can still imagine the God of Love standing by, waiting patiently to be noticed, to be known, to offer healing.
The truth is that I don’t usually like short stories. I always feel as if they are over too soon, that I have just begun to give myself to the story, just truly connected with the characters, and then it ends. There is something poignant about them that creates a melancholy for me so I avoid them.
But at least this once I will read this book of short stories with anticipation. Anticipation for more ways I can see the God of Love hanging out in a world that is often fragile, rarely simple, and always fleeting. Perhaps the more this God of Love becomes visible, the more I can hang out in the places where I can nudge those around me, encouraging each of us to be awake, encouraging each of us to just hang out together.