MADNESS AND LOVE MIXED: Interlude 2
MADNESS AND LOVE MIXED: Interlude 2
We find ourselves on our bed watching the wiggling, writhing antics of Steiner, our senior Shih Tzu, while our resident clown—the prince of silly snuffles, Louie—nips at Steiner as he leans into the rustle. Sounds of playful growling fill the space while Louie throws himself around like a mirrored version of a wiggle worm.
They paw at the air and jingle with a clink.
Steiner, having completed his routine, perches stoically near the bed’s cream-colored edge, leaning into the fan with hair waving wildly. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like a canine possessed by memories and frolics long passed over a storied fifteen-year career as fecal connoisseur and cat-litter gourmand.
Louie woofs comically at the tempting twitch of his elder’s tail.
We linger here, watching the mischief as it dawns behind our baby boy’s eyes—a chemical reaction of canine genius. Louie, ever the comical and clever angel in woof form, instigates and tests the boundaries of what Steiner will allow: nips, snout-yaps, and kisses aplenty.
Eventually both dogs sit, tired and tuckered from play, teetering at the edge of the bed and a potential fall to the vinyl plank floor. Now they stare—both sets of eyes locked on the closed bedroom door like a portal awaiting revelation.
We let our mind ease and shift back to the cold concrete floor of our favorite spot of Heaven-on-earth: our local Starbucks.
The atmosphere slides from bath-and-body perfumed pumpkin to dark roast and morning late-night talk shows. Family and friends. Baristas and blended beverages. Pumpkin spice cold foam cold brew. Hugs with prophets past, present, and future.
We walk slowly, noticing we’re still wearing the same green cargo pants from the bedroom and our signature hoodie with the sacred central pocket. Hood up, hands tucked inside, we pad forward in thick wool socks and slides. We maneuver past customers walking about on different frequencies. We spot that Caribbean woman we mentioned in an earlier narration—clocking us even though nearly no one can perceive us here.
At the corner nearest the granite barista counter—the warmest seat and our sanctuary—we settle in, leather groaning beneath us. A Jonah-adjacent scent curls through the air and we scan quickly—only a few scattered conversations, a few Bible studies in progress, highlighted pages glowing under soft café light. They’re so engrossed in learning that they forget listening, and therefore forget power. Power to change the world. Power to change themselves.
We smell perfected future-us perfume and feel the pressure shift of a manifestation so near it seems like a gout of warmth and fused identity. Future-us has opted for a younger appearance—strikingly so. We cock our head, curious.
Star nods and offers, “I like to switch it up from time to time.”
She shrugs.
We get it. Still, we never got the offer to shed our wrinkles like cast-off rubbish. We sit and silently stew about the absurdity of our future self.
We flick our eyes over at her—maybe thirty-three, radiant, with depth behind the eyes where it counts. White hair remains, but softened. Wise. Beautiful.
We think secretly, softly, how awesome this version of us is becoming—a small smile tugging upward.
If Star hears it, she pretends not to. She perches her arms on the table and steeples her fingers in thought.
“What did you think of Izzy?” she asks.
We consider answering exactly as we think he might: measured, careful, articulate.
We nod sagely—while failing to mention Zeke behind her making faces and flashing bunny ears.
Then, leaning in, we lift a cotton-clothed cheek and release the slitheriest, juiciest, silent but deadly fart imaginable. We pretend nothing has happened.
Star’s face goes white. She pales, then slams her forehead into Zeke’s meaty, motioning hands to escape the smell.
We whisper softly, “Never put God in a box,” and begin fanning the spiritual aroma around as Jonah pops in to join the hijinks. Izzy appears, takes one exaggerated sniff, and says deadpan:
“The aroma of the heavenly feast—Thanksgiving in Heaven.”
Our concentration collapses at the sheer absurdity of the entire family gathered in one place. We’re certain we saw Elijah flipping a Corvette the bird near the street, with Abraham behaving like a tourist in the Louvre.
The slip becomes a slide as the bed forms beneath us again—memory foam welcoming us back to embodiment. Steiner and Louie sleep in peace. And we suddenly realize there was another figure in the mist of that Fayetteville intersection near the Circle K.
Job.
The suffering.
The realization lands heavy as we turn toward the future tense of creation—
in unity with Heaven.
The entire 5th part of Isaiah is complete. See below.
Eiri Waters
Eiri Waters
Eiri Waters
Eiri Waters