Ezra's God

What Ezra couldn’t wrap his wits around was how they could all be so certain that God existed when no one had ever seen him; and not only that, how they could all be so certain that he had not seen Him?

Well, at first Ezra had not believed what he saw either, of course.
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On April 13, 1996, going on 2:30 in the afternoon, in a sunny clearing not half a mile from the small red house where he lived with, and took care of, his aging mother, Ezra Wildmark, precisely fifty-one years and fourteen days old, met God, and God was Eskimo.

That is, God was shortish, couldn’t have been an inch over five feet. He was slim, relaxed and smiling. His face was red leathery skin where dark eyes sat deeply among creases in the permanent sort of squint you get from smiling a lot or from bad eyesight (or from too much sun on snow). His hair was jet black, grown long and pulled together in the back to a tail. Very white teeth. Very Eskimo. And very smiling.

The way Ezra could tell this was God, and not some other apparition, or just plain illusion, was that He appeared out of thin air the very moment Ezra said, or shouted rather, while fisting the sky, “If you want me to believe in you, then you had better fucking show yourself.”

Which is what He then (and promptly) did.