I WAS REMINDED THE other day of a conversation I once had with my oldest son – about Santa and God and stuff like that. He was only four at the time, and I’d just snuck him out of bed to watch the Christmas lights with me – a bit of father-and-son bonding.
Anyway, in the darkness he started asking questions about God … and I tried my best to answer him. I told him that God was everywhere and we can talk to him anytime – just like I was talking now.
Figuring to lead by example, I started trying to have a conversation with God. But a few seconds into it, my boy suddenly stopped me: “No, Dad! Just talk to him – don’t pray!”
Having just been put in my place by a four-year-old, I suggested he should have a go, since he obviously knew how it went …
“What are you doing?” he asked, just moments later. And, thinking he’d directed the question at me, I started to answer. But, with a stern look on his face, my son told me to “Shush, Dad. I’m talking to God!” … and went on to indicate that God wasn’t answering.
My pride, by now, was slightly dented. And I was searching for an opportunity to regain some dignity when he suddenly turned to me, eyes all wide and excited: “He talked to me!” he announced.
“Well, what did he say?” I asked.
“He said he’s making a coffee … for his mum!”
So there you go. In the space of a few minutes my boy was on talking terms with God, discussing the important things in life!
And who would’ve thought that God’s mum was a coffee drinker?
