I sit here. An only child. Satan and God are battling for custody. I have two daddies! But they are not together. They have never been together.

I sit staring straight ahead, but my concentration has the strength of a dead dandelion. One suggestive exhale and the seeds of doubt loosen and drift, land and root.

Satan’s outfit is a scientific study of cool. Classification: self-consciously careless. The tight tailored black pants with extra length that gathers around the boot. The oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The slicked-back hair with a few strands falling forward. Some would say he’s always closing a deal; he would say he’s always “gaining agreement.”  He walks to my side, gently curls the hair behind my ear and speaks softly into it. The words are fur handcuffs – individuality, dignity,  rights – that seem sexy, until you can’t squeeze out of them.  He places his hands on my shoulders, his body leaning into my back. The body heat is a current – natural, justifiable, persuasive – that makes me lean back into him.

God’s outfit? Even in the early ’90’s, in Seattle, it wouldn’t have been cool. Shapeless robe stitched of rags. Unshaven. Hair to His waist. Clean, though. And those eyes – the warmth and danger of glowing coals. I have a lot of time to look into those eyes, because they’re always looking at me. He doesn’t talk nearly as much as Satan; when He does it’s clearer, but more confusing. The words are ropes – submission, humility, self-denial – that bind and strengthen. He stands and opens His arms to me. The posture is a cross – humiliating, absolute, restorative – that draws me to Him.

I look for a judge, a jury, a door – there are none. Then I remember. The three of us have always been here. We will always be here. And my choice changes by the moment.