Elephant Talks to God (4 page)

The butterfly had tried to explain basic aerodynamics to the elephant, particularly concentrating upon the fact that the elephant's ears were deployed in the wrong section of his body no matter how wildly he flapped them. And indeed, the elephant was making valiant efforts to rise from the earth through the use of his massive ears. He raced along, tilting his head and moving his ears at a frantic pace, the butterfly flitting a few safe feet from his trunk. Due to some garbled information he had received because of the noise his ears were making, the elephant was under the impression that his tail played an important part in the whole procedure. He waggled it back and forth erratically. He thought that if
he aligned his tail to the correct angle of the updraft he hoped to create with his ears, he would soon be soaring with the effortless grace of the butterfly. But just as the elephant was starting to worry about his trunk getting caught in the treetops as he flew past, he realized that the end of the clearing was alarmingly close.

While he dug his feet down to his toenails into the earth, he watched in amazement as the trees loomed ahead of him. The butterfly had wisely veered to the left and was lifting quickly into the air as the elephant's all too solidly earthbound body crashed through the brush and undergrowth, snapping a few of the more spindly trees in the process. He finally came to a jumbled and humble heap at the base of a large mahogany. The butterfly hurriedly fluttered over to see if he was all right and was reassured by the foolish grin on the elephant's face. The sight was quite comical, causing the butterfly to titter slightly as it flittered over the elephant's head. The elephant's massive ears picked up the laughter, and as he squinted to find his friend, he noticed the cloud for the first time.

“Oh God,” sighed the elephant under his breath.

The butterfly was hovering over the elephant's trunk, wondering how to help. She looked up to the sky also, then glanced quizzically at a large eye while flapping air into the elephant's face.

“Thanks,” said the elephant, getting slowly to his feet. “I'll be back shortly,” he said, winking his eye and
causing ripples along the butterfly's wing. He walked across the clearing as the cloud came closer.

“Hi,” said the elephant.

“You never fail to amaze me,” said God.

“Free will,” reminded the elephant.

“Flying elephants were not exactly what I had in mind.”

“It would make it easier on my feet,” said the elephant.

“You'd play havoc with my birds,” commented God.

“There's an awful lot of sky up there.”

“You're an awful lot of elephant.”

“Yeh,” agreed the elephant. “I'm finding that out.” He reached around with his trunk to rub a bump on the side of his head. “These aren't the wages of sin, are they?” he asked, touching the tender spot.

“Oh, this is hardly sin,” reassured the cloud. “Folly is a much fairer description. And although the Bible has much less to say about folly than sin, it makes some interesting comments. One which may give you pause for thought is in Proverbs 15:21: ‘Folly is joy to him that is destitute of wisdom: but a man of understanding walketh uprightly.'”

“I don't mean to cause offence,” said the elephant cautiously, “and I know that you are the expert, but I feel it's only fair for you to listen to II Corinthians 11:1: ‘Would to God ye could bear with me a little in my folly: and indeed bear with me.'”

“Touché,” chuckled the cloud. “You certainly make use of that memory I gave you. Now if you would only be content with God's gifts as they are, your health would be the better for it.”

“But I look at the butterflies and —”

“You don't look closely enough,” the cloud shifted slightly; there was a pause. “The butterfly is light and properly proportioned. Its wings were created to take benefit of the air. Its weight allows it to soar with the currents; its movements take it through its life.”

“In the sky it's so beautiful.”

“You have your beauty.”

“Not like the butterfly.”

“No, you don't have beauty like a butterfly, but you have as much beauty as the butterfly.”

“It's not the same.”

“Had I wanted you all the same, I would have created everything the same and settled for boredom.”

“I want to see what it's like up there.”

“You haven't been listening,” said God.

“Yes, I have, you know,” the elephant smiled. “You haven't said that I'm not to try.”

“No, I haven't.” There was laughter sparkling around the words. “Free will, remember.”

“So you don't mind?”

“No,” said the cloud, starting to rise. “You won't be the first not to listen.”

“And I might succeed,” said the elephant.

“Yes, you might,” agreed the cloud. “Such things can happen. They're called miracles.”

“I think I know more of a real miracle,” laughed the elephant, pointing toward the butterfly with his trunk. “She wants me to show her how to uproot a tree.”

“You make a grand pair,” called God, now distant in the sky. But the cloud did not move immediately away, for miracles really are rare, and they are interesting to watch.

The elephant was standing in the special clearing watching the fluffy white cloud come lower and lower out of the sky. He felt mildly more agitated than usual and was wondering how he would approach God this time, for this query seemed far more foolish than any of his previous ones. Yet, God seemed to have an inexhaustible patience, and the elephant reasoned that any Deity who could put up with the incessant chatterings of the monkeys day in and day out could put up with anything. The cloud's shadow was shading the elephant's face when he cleared his throat.

“Ah, hello,” said the elephant.

“You know,” said God, “any sound of life gives me pleasure. That's why the monkeys don't bother me.”

“Really?” The elephant was taken aback. “All that noise?”

“It isn't noise,” said the cloud. “It's glorious life. I hear you breathing,” added God, “and it soothes me.”

“Really?” repeated the elephant, far less apprehensive than before. “I can do that for you?”

“Yes,” said God. “You please me even with your questions; so what is it this time?”

The elephant looked stupidly at his dirty feet and then looked back to the cloud. “I've been feeling awfully content about things lately, and …,” he paused. “And it worries me.”

“You're worried about feeling too good?”

“Yes,” answered the elephant. “I'm sorry.”

“I could give you a toothache,” said God.

“I'm serious,” insisted the elephant.

“Worry is an extreme I never meant to be,” said God. “Caution, yes — I think you should be careful. And preparation, yes — you should have some interest in what's going to happen and be ready to make the most of whatever befalls you. But I never thought these would be taken to an extreme and create worry.”

“I'm sorry,” said the elephant.

“Another extreme,” responded the cloud. “You're lucky I'm not much for brimstone, or you might get a fiery swat on your big behind.” The cloud chuckled a moment. “Although I suppose it would hardly sting.”

“You did give me a tough hide,” reminded the elephant.

“Another expression is ‘thick skin,'” said God.

“Am I to take a hint from that?” asked the elephant.

“Take the hint,” said the cloud as it rose back into the sky. “And take your muddy feet, the warm sun, your full belly, the beautiful day, the joy of life, and my good
blessings; and savour them and everything else down there totally until it's time for you to croak.” The cloud was high and moving rapidly. “Now get going,” said God.

The elephant took the hint.

The elephant was standing in the heart of the grasslands.

As far as he could see (and he turned deliberately in every direction), the verdant surroundings bowed and rippled at the whim of the wind.

“I'm a speck,” said the elephant.

“In a manner of speaking,” said God.

“Right smack in the middle.”

“Somewhat compassably inaccurate,” noted the cloud, whilst moving about to take measurements.

“Everywhere I look is just grass.”

“As high as the elephant's eye,” agreed the cloud.

“I've never felt so small, even when I was looking over the ocean.” The elephant stared straight at the cloud. “Even when I gazed at the stars.” The elephant shook his head. “There, I felt a part of something.” His voice turned doubtful. “But here, I feel surrounded.”

“That may be because you are surrounded.”

“God!” the elephant snorted. “Sometimes you're not much help.”

“Yes, I sometimes hear that.” The cloud came lower over the elephant. “But probably not as often as you'd think.” The cloud chuckled. “At times, not even as often as I would think.” The cloud paused in thought. “I've given you a piece of truth — a truth which you yourself perceived. If you get truth under your big feet, you can stand up to anything.”

“But I already know the truth about my situation.” The elephant pointedly looked around him. “I'm a dot on the landscape, and I feel afraid.”

“Truth,” agreed God. “But a partial truth. Why do you feel afraid?”

“Because I'm apart from everything around me,” said the elephant. “And because I'm not a part of what surrounds me.” He stamped his foot on the ground. “And because the two things are not the same.”

“No,” agreed God again. “They're not.”

“Is this some great truth?” asked the elephant.

“All truth is great,” said the cloud. “No matter how small.”

“So … so … so,” sputtered the elephant. “I get to know the truth — or a trunkful of truth.” He abruptly pointed with his trunk. “Or a grassland full of truth. How does that get rid of my fear?”

“I didn't say that truth would eliminate your fear.” The cloud came closer to the elephant. “Fear is an active part of all life, serving many purposes.” The cloud caused the grass to wave. “You would not be well-served
if I suddenly blew away your fear. If you stand afraid because you stand alone — well, big fellow, your fear is justified. You do stand alone.”

“This does not seem to be much comfort from a God of love.”

“The last time I looked,” responded the cloud, “neither truth nor love were very comfortable situations.”

“Yet you keep telling me …” The elephant was almost lost for words. “You insist that I hunt for the truth.” The elephant stared at the cloud. “And we all want love. We want to give it. We want to get it.” The elephant stamped a massive foot. “At the end of these persistent quests, we are not supposed to be comfortable?”

“Comfort has its place.” The cloud rumbled. “But, if your life becomes comfortable; you are not learning. And if you are not achieving a new understanding of the life around you — the life inside you — then you are not really living.”

“That would keep me in a constant state of flux.”

“Yes,” answered God. “Just as are the world and the universe around you.” The cloud darkened slightly. “If you haven't noticed, the only things which are static are dead.”

“More power to them,” said the annoyed elephant.

“From my point of view, I couldn't agree more,” said God. “But from your standpoint, I would suggest that your opinion is both inaccurate and unwise.”

“Perhaps hasty,” conceded the elephant.

“Perhaps hasty,” modified God. “A trait of yours which does you both ill and good.” The cloud chuckled. “As I know only too well.”

“Me too.”

The elephant turned his gaze back to the grassland. He stared for such a long time that he felt he could count the waving grass blade by blade. He wondered if he would reach numbers which actually did not have names.

It was in the midst of these musings that he snorted, raised his head abruptly, and trumpeted in a surprised manner.

“Yes?” asked God.

“If I'm a speck then so are they.”

“If you wish to view things in that manner — then yes.”

“By which, I suppose you mean, that if they are all specks then none of them are specks.”

“Yes again,” agreed God.

“My size doesn't matter.”

“Perhaps, if you spruced up on the theory of relativity,” suggested God.

“The grasses and I still have something in common.”

“In the eyes of God,” said God, “all are equal.”

“So, at worst, I'm out of place.”

“You eat grass, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are hardly out of place.”

“And talking to you,” the elephant winked, “can make a fella hungry.”