“Mommy, who made me?”
The question comes, as these questions always do, when I am tired, grumpy, and out of brain cells. At bedtime. Scrubbing my hands across my tired face, I try to think.
“Well, I made you. In my tummy,” I answer, patting my belly.
“My friend said that God made us,” she says, wrinkled brow revealing her confusion.
“She did, huh?” That’s what I say out loud. Internally, I’m thinking,”I am so f’ing not ready to have this conversation.”
“Yeah. Who’s God?”
Crap. I’m going to have to come up with an answer.
“God. Well, God is the force that creates everything: you, me, daddy…even the birds outside.”
“Is God a person?”
“That depends on who you ask.”
“But is he?”
She already refers to God as a he. Huh.
“You know what, honey? I’d love to talk about this with you, but it’s late, and you need to go to sleep. How about we talk about this tomorrow?”
“But who is God?”
Damn, she’s persistent. I blame her daddy for that.
“God is love, honey.”
Even as I say it, I know that’s not an answer that’s going to satisfy her.
“But who is he?”
There’s only one thing to do: distract her.
“What do you think you’re going to dream about? I’m going to dream about riding pink sparkly unicorns through a forest of chocolate chips and gummy worms.”
Thankfully, it works.
“I’m going to dream about the ocean.”
“Yeah. We’re going there soon. With Grandma Susie. And Papa. And Josh and Jazzmine.”
“We sure are. You have sweet dreams then, okay, sweetie?”
With that, I kiss her forehead and quickly make my escape. But I know it’s only temporary. The God question is sure to come up again. And I’m not sure I’ll have a better answer.
How can I?
I believe in God, but I’m one of those obnoxious people who’s spiritual rather than religious. I don’t have a good answer. A pat answer.
God just is.
It’s not like I have a standard judeo-christian belief system to fall back on. I’ve never been a regular church-goer. My parents are straight up atheists, so I came up with my religious views on my own.
And they? Are not what the Catholic (or even Lutheran) church teaches.
In my mind, God is love. I don’t think God really gives a crap about homosexuality, or abortion, or the politics of the United States. God exists on a higher plane – one that’s above all that crap.
I don’t know. Maybe she’d be better off if we indoctrinated her in the standard protestant belief system, rather than my hippy-dippy smorgasbord of religious views.
But to do that, we have to find a church. And I’ve never found one that resonates with me.
Which is why I find myself searching Amazon for children’s books that explain God, and everything that means.
You can, after all, find anything on Amazon.
Heck, maybe Amazon is God. Well, maybe a combination of Amazon and Google. “He” is supposed to be omniscient, and able to answer our every question, right?
And with that statement, I seal my fate. I’m going to Hell.
Maybe I’ll see Mitt Romney there.
What do you think?