I met God last night.
He was a black man standing on the corner of a street as I took an aimless walk. Half hidden in a five o’clock shadow, he was feeding a stray in front of a dilapidated house that had probably been used to produce crack sometime during the 70s. I felt an overwhelming aura of divine energy envelope me as I approached the dark figure.
My belief was confirmed as he turned around and I saw that he looked like Morgan Freeman. He looked up as I slowed to say hello. I felt my cares and worries melt away like a slippery, shedding skin as he broke into a freckled smile and greeted me in turn. The sun grew brighter for a second as he shook my hand. When he let go, it seemed like I had died a little, like I had gone a little bit of the way to heaven and had been dragged back to the ground suddenly. Not cruelly, but suddenly.
As he walked up the stairs to his house, I was struck by a sudden craving for pancakes. I could smell it on the air. Following the odor upwind to a diner, I floated in and ordered a full stack of their finest blueberry pancakes from an impossibly cheerful waitress. I have never eaten better pancakes in my life. It is unclear what the magic was. Maybe it was the syrup, and maybe it was the mix. Maybe it was an accident. I don’t know, and I don’t think I will ever know. I went back there today to find out. There was nothing there where the diner should have been, but an empty plot of land bursting at the seams with weeds, fenced in with rusty steel.
Whatever it was, today, I can still taste those pancakes, and cannot help but be whisked into a warm summer settling near deep blue-green hedges in the country.
Thank you, Morgan Freeman, for the best day I’ve had in many a year.