Exodus, or, Leaving the Church of the Ceiling Squirrel

Despite what you may have heard in the Apostate Bars and Anarchy clubs, people who live under the Great Ceiling Squirrel are just like anyone else. They get up in the morning, same as you. They work and worry, same as you. And at night they listen as their Benevolent OverSquirrel gnaws open the walnuts of their sin and–well, okay, …maybe that’s not the same as you.

Dear reader: an admission. Not long ago I realized that J9 and I have been living under the Ceiling Squirrel. It somehow happened without our conscious knowledge. For months, maybe, he had occupied the highest place in our household. In truth, J9 tried to tell me before, but I didn’t want to hear it; didn’t want to deal with it. I guess she’s just more tuned-in to to those sorts of things. Regardless of my failure or inability to accept the truth before, I came to terms with it a few nights ago. J9 and I lay in bed, late into the night, listening to the still, small sounds that the squirrel made in the night. I confess, at first I tried to rationalize it away. I considered it a sign that I lacked faith. If I found His presence in my life to damnably hard to tolerate, I reasoned, maybe I didn’t deserve it. Silently, I begged Him for forgiveness.

I couldn’t sleep.

In frustration, I pounded on the ceiling. “Leave us alone!” I cried. The scritching subsided, but only for a moment. “We don’t want you here! We like our walnuts where they are, dammit, in the yard!” Again, a brief quiet, only to be broken by the sound of His Divine Foreteeth. Immortal bushy-tailedness must have granted him immeasurable patience.

I got out of bed and went downstairs, but still I knew the squirrel was there. I knew my wife was right, but I was… well, I guess I was afraid. Friends, I’m not afraid anymore. We got the squirrel out of our lives forever, and you can too.

It’s not easy to peek into those dark places you’ve never looked before.
I had to use a sawzall.
At first, like many, I was timid; I made just a small hole in the ceiling. But I soon came to see that there was no going back. I pressed on, thrust through the cobwebs and peered into the darkness. Nothing. Only a breeze from the hole He had chewed in one eave. The Ceiling Squirrel was gone, and it wasn’t emptiness I felt but freedom.

Backsliding goes both ways. It was difficult to take these steps; to learn that that life goes on–even when the Ceiling Squirrel scratches your name off the list of His Divine Nuts. So difficult, in fact, that I wanted to be sure that the little bugger never chewed his way back in. A bit of wire mesh, some plywood, and six bucks’ worth of aerosol insulation were all that was required.

Our ceiling bears a few scars from the encounter, it’s true–but our souls are stronger, our spirits are lighter, and at night we sleep like little giddy heathen angels. And the squirrel? It sleeps in the goddamned tree.