TITLE: Grass, Sand and Sparkles
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
RATING: PG
POSTED: Feb. 6, 2006
SUMMARY: Churches, parks, whatever.
NOTES: For Ria, who requested Joan and God.
DISCLAIMER: Read

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God didn't need churches. Or temples, or mosques, or, or tents, or whatever other people used, although Joan was pretty sure that "temples" covered a lot of religions. Anyway, she'd figured out that much.

So coming to a playground shouldn't feel like walking in to talk to Father Mallory, and it didn't -- too much laughter and way too many colored balls -- but still. It felt more right to drop her bag against the fence and sit on that than it probably would've to ride the bus around Arcadia for however long that would take.

An hour later and no sparkly-ball headband in sight, and Joan was beginning to wonder. Plus her foot had fallen asleep, like, three times already, even though she'd uncrossed her legs and decided that grass stains were better than sitting on her very hard math book.

Joan propped her chin on her hand and sighed, watching the boys who had been crashing two trucks together in the sandbox decide that throwing sand at each other was more fun. When a woman -- a mother from the high, worried tone she was shouting in -- ran over, waving her hands, Joan winced and ducked her head, trying to not look too much like an adult.

She wasn't here to demand an explanation or anything, like demanding ever got her anything more than a peppy wave, but God always showed up at just the right moment, just when she needed a couple words, a push, a...when she needed help, when everything else was crashing on her head, and--

"I'm not exactly on call, Joan."

Joan straightened so fast she caught her hand in her bag strap and fell over, only keeping from faceplanting on the ground thanks to a grab at the fence.

Frowning slightly behind her glasses, God tilted her head. The sparkly balls waggled. "You need to get more sleep."

Joan cleared her throat and shoved her hair out of her eyes. "Yeah." And she didn't really know where to go from there.

"Nothing is absolute. You should know that by now," God said.

"Not even you?" Joan asked, then bit her lip when God only calmly blinked. "Sorry. Sleep, needing more."

God walked closer. She stopped when they were eye-to-eye, and Joan was kind of glad to still be sitting; looking down at God was always more than a little freaky. "I don't exist to provide comfort or promises," God said. "People keep asking. You would think that several thousand years would prove a point."

"I know...but it's not like I ask--" Joan stopped herself. "I don't really ask," she corrected, and then admitted, because look who she was talking to, "Most of the time it's just, well, if you'd throw an explanation out there every once in a while, like even just for squid or something, that would be nice, you know?"

God's expression didn't change, but then she nodded and held out her hand, and Joan automatically took it.

"Walk me home," God said.

Joan gaped at her. "Home?" she croaked. "But I'm not-- I'm not really ready for--"

God gave her a patient look. "Your home." She looked over Joan's shoulder, looking so intently that Joan twisted around to see what in the world could get that kind of almost-glare out of God, but there was nothing except all those kids and their parents and sitters and stuff.

"Or at least out of the park," God said. "Before that woman finishes cleaning up her son. I like you all, but she isn't going to buy that I can take care of myself."

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