Finding Humanity

His flat, round, unblinking eye is staring out from the bowl. It darts to and fro like a fish does, like he used to. His only other movement is the tremor of his body, his gills flapping laboredly. His mouth opens and closes in great, gasping gulps like he is out of the water. His bright gold scales are a sparkling wave of iridescence with every twitch of his dying body; they seem too cheerful, inapropos, for his dire state. Little red streaks from sepsis travel through his fins like road map to suffering.

A little girl in the class asks the other youth minister why God allows people to suffer. She is probably only six or seven years old, but she already recognizes the incongruity. He smiles her words away and offers the same tired platitude: God has a plan for us all. I remember a time when I could say those words with conviction.

My attention drifts back to the fish and his silent plea for mercy. I fancy that man must be the God of beasts, for like Him, we ignore their suffering. I let out a strangled bark of laughter that garners a frown from my comrade; I don't care. I pick up the bowl, the cool orb heavy in my hands, and I dash from the room. I run past the Christian nursery school, children seated semi-circle in rapt attention, their bright eyes focused on picture-book depictions of Jesus. The preist's sermon echoes incoherently down the hallway.

I am not certain of what I will do with this goldfish, but I am certain of one thing: I am tired of being a God. Today, I have found Humanity.