The Conditions of Will

by Jessa Hastings

“I don’t have a drinking problem.” I frown. Oliver’s eyebrows get tall, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, Georgia, that’s your fault, not mine.”

and I hope the universes freezes and I’m forever stuck in the arms of the world’s hottest alcoholic, dancing on the grave of a bigot.

I don’t know anything, except that I think God is the kind of guy who when someone dies, he’ll sit there and sift through every heartfelt thought, every drunken prayer, every desperate plea for help, every Mumford & Sons song that you’ve sung to look for a hint of a confession that you believe in him.”

I think the only thing that qualifies you to talk about the gospel is admitting you need it.

The concept of the gospel is counterintuitive and much easier to digest if you adhere to a strict regimen of shallow perfectionism, like Debbie does, or my mom. It’s in this hollow I think most of the church resides, but I think the place God would like us to be is in the gutters or the libraries asking questions about why a good God would make a world so fucked up.

“Before, you were a mirror where he saw something painful in and of himself, and then eventually, you became someone who could see him in a way he did not want to be seen.”

“And I know you’re upset, and I know this is hard for you and you’re not doing good right now, and I want you to be good and healthy and okay, but if you talk to her like that again, Oliver—mate, we’re going to have a problem.”