Millie's Question About God

A light conversation between a Christian mother and her daughter.

‘Who is God to you, Clara? God is your Father, your Friend and inhibits every role of kin. God is your Ideal-- if you do not know what that is I wouldn't mind to explain it-- your Love and your Cornerstone, Clara. God is everything to you,’

Clara shuffled her flesh globe around to face mine, quarterly, with her soul pools grand and full of brilliant ideas, to say to me innocently: ‘But what is God, mama?’ Her question was filled with that certain unmistakable tone of humility and wonder conjoined in a pot which produces a solution only granted to one's young years and expires soon after, only a child, one unacquainted with worldly limitations, could inhibit. The accentuated ‘is’ burdened me an indefectible duty to make sense, in elementary terms, of the nature her curiosity gravitated towards; the nature, that is, a light shining brighter than her infantile pondering-- a brightness that only the source of her ineffable goodness begotten. My forthcoming reply was dissatisfying to me, but of course not to her unbeknownstly, ‘God is the unseen.’

Oh Clara, your awe-struck mien belied to rouse annoyance in me, a matter dull mothers submit to; it is too resplendent to me, never disappointing when charged to arrest me in glee and satisfaction, with fantastic great knowing that it was I who birthed you. Clara maintained her humourable survey of my thoughts with funny looks; it was a sight: her two brown marbles socketed into a larger but lighter brown marble, all displayed in an unapologetically intellectual gaze; until another modest circuit evidently flitted into her mind. ‘And what does that mean?’
'What mean?'
'Unseen.' Clara asks me, her flesh globe rotating again but just enough to make me the feature of her attention, which is a rare occasion when she is occupied with a toy. Clara has little consideration for her mother’s head on weekends; she ought to save her radical curiosity for the one who enables it, that is, her teacher.

I exhale as I and bring Clara closer onto my lap. My habit of petting my daughter ignites as I feel a motherly instinct to hold her -- the warmth from her back emitting into my stomach. It was a content and tender embrace, complimented by the warm ambience of our living room, with the fireplace acting as the crowning factor of our moment. Despite the surpassing glorious shine on her face which only I saw, that possessed a distinct mark that she shall know God, again, and plunder through inherent inclinations to iniquity that her Eve cursed her with; her infantile desire for God confirmed the scripture:

'For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.'

as well as Plato's ideas about anamnesis.

‘Well, when I refer to the unseen, I mean the things that we do not see with our eyes. Though do not think they are any less true than what you do see, Clara.’ I press my mouth to her hair then lift my head enough to view her small composition of magnificent creation, 'Clara, It may not feel real, because you cannot touch it. But let us think like this: can you touch mama's thoughts about you, can you touch mama's love for you. No, you cannot. You cannot touch my feelings towards you. You cannot touch my solicitude that I give to you, Clara. The intangible is not less worthy than the tangible. Just because you may not quickly understand it, doesn't mean that you ought to deem it as unworthy.’

Clara, your hum at the end of my speeches always make me smile.