And What About God?

My mother worried about God, and rightly so.
Her god was not a god of love,
but a destroyer
with knowledge of what would become.

When I was three, sick and expected to die, 
my mother gave me over to God,
committing me 
to be a medical missionary to Africa.

That is not how my life turned out.

I did, indeed, begin medical training, 
loved the study of embryology 
and evolution,
but soon wearied of ridges on bones. 

So what went wrong? 

Seduced by classes in logic and ethics, 
I found my calling
in the study of philosophy, theology, and the Bible.
My mother was appalled, 
even called it the work of the Devil.

Then, I made things worse. 
I went to work for the War on Poverty, 
my specialty employment training. 

This was my forty-year contribution 
to the elimination of poverty in America, 
my personal response to God,
to my father’s love and approval, 
even to my mother.

Now, I’m simply a poet. 

The only issue left was, finally,
to forgive my mother,
to appreciate that her single-minded hate
came of fear and love.