God's Vagina

Recently I went to a jobconference where Bishop Desmond Tutu delivered a keynote address. He was speaking to an organization that provides infrastructure for human services delivery; a group that helps people as its primary function. He was rumpled and grandfatherly.
He told the hundreds of helpers there that God needs them, God depends upon them. God must work through people to enter the understandable world, both the help and the gesture of help are God's need and delight. He spoke in a little tiny voice, "God says Help. Help me, children. Be my arms to one another. Be my voice, my comfort, my tenderness. I need your help!
You all here, you are God's hands."
And oh, I wanted to help God! when he asked, like I was a child in Sunday School again, hearing the voice of the Lord asking me a personal favor. A mission (Send Me!) to do a piece of work for Him in the world. Something tiny in the grand Plan, but significant, essential and I'm the one who can do it and who has to. Because of who I am, God saw my troubles and flaws, and they make me dented in just the perfect way for this special quest.
It was really like that for me, I was a pious kid. And am a pious adult as well, but I changed my God when the original didn't speak as clearly to me anymore. My new model is sexy and kind, raw and motherly, She loves us and doesn't give a fuck about us and uses us and ignores us and pleasures us. And, of course, She's too big for the whole monotheism suit. But the surge of longing and compassion, that trippy feeling of wisdom intertwining with surrender and power, those feel the same no matter The Bigness's shape we each prefer.

I am God's Vagina. We're all God's Vagina, yup, but I want to know it. I wear woman through and throughout, this lifetime right here -- my appreciation of the holy wonder of the vagina is fanatic and absolute.
I want to pull all the damaged ladies I've met (oh, Big Mama, I sure have met a lot) into a sweet embrace that soothes and fixes you up all right, safe and warm and healthy. I want to teach people with pussies and those without all about the GLORIOUS majesty of the vagina. I want to draw the power that pulses in roots twisting through soil and starlight beaming through time into my splendid cunt, to push it through my body backwards into a shudder, joy birthed into the world through my pleasure.
So I do these cunt-powered, vagina-loving things. I teach pelvic exams to med students by talking them through giving me a exam, I describe the location of the urethral meatus and the vaginal introitus by using my own home-grown as the model. I did phone sex in grad school, used the authority of seduction to teach basic anatomy, teaching men how to make other women come. I taught pregnant teenagers how to find their clitoris and why that might be fun to do.
And some of the sex that All Things Holy have led my way has been in service of healing the most intimate of needed repairs, mine or theirs. I'm in a 7 years-so-far-long process of connecting to a person and her vagina, an excavation of the depth of human capacity to love and nurture one another. And then there's that other bit...I worship a God that has a VAGINA.
I'm out of practice for this mission now, whew. My day job isn't deep and holy and juicy anymore, and my intensity is fading. My compassion, my libido, my drive to make a better day for women and girls, I'm rusty all around. I feel like I have arthritis of the vagina, yeah, a little. Cobwebs and self-loathing, doubt and apathy, that stuff can clog yer pipes. I need to renovate in here. But I can do this work.

And because I can -- you know it -- I must. God said.