God plays, and picks up sticks.
Where is God right now?
he asked.
Me, as rendered by my three-year old son. I think it’s quite the striking resemblance, except I need a little more facial hair.
Where do you think?
I asked.
Is God picking up sticks?
he asked, which I thought was a good starting point for responding to an existential question.
He continued:
Did God make bad guys?
His sister, at six, used her three years of seniority to leap in:
Well, most people choose to be good. But some people don’t.
I thought this was a solid response.
Like robbers?
he asked.
Do robbers not choose to be good? Do they choose to be bad?
She continued.
Well robbers aren’t bad, or all bad, right Daddy? But some are. Some robbers robbed Mama’s wedding ring, didn’t they?
Yeah. I said. They did. That was not good. That was bad, I think.
Yeah.
they agreed.
So you think God might like picking up sticks?
I circled back around.
You think God is good at finding and picking up sticks?
Yeah.
he said.
Hey!
I unnecessarily pivoted.
Since it’s my birthday week can we talk about something I’m good at?! What’s something you guys think I’m good at?
You’re sort of good at picking up sticks,
he said slowly.
You’re good at climbing trees, and you’re handsome, and you’re a good writer!
my daughter said enthusiastically; a sentence and phrase and presentation which I shall hang onto with my last reserves of memory forever.
Sort of,
my son mumbled.
But you’re not a very good storyteller.
Yeah, I totally know, I gotta work on that,
I said.
We walked along in silence for a while, and then there was some rustling in the deep forest close by.
Maybe God’s looking for new sticks,
I thought helpfully.
——
