My sleeping mind considers why the universe might exist.
We had spoken before, so I felt comfortable — no need for formality. I sat down across from Him. "So, um, why did You create the universe?"
He gestured to the waiter, who brought us each a half cantaloupe without asking what we wanted. "Try this first."
I guess that's how it goes when He appears: people know what He wants, what He means. Now, I've had cantaloupe many times, but when God tells me to eat, I dig in.
He watched me enjoy the meal He had provided. "Pretty good, isn't it?"
"Well, that's why I created the universe. So I could do that."
Again, cryptic, but not. He didn't need even Earth to have a melon, any more than He needed to spell it out for me. He needed it to house the people who would share in His creation. From my own experience, I understood. No creation is complete until someone enjoys it.
My head spun. Could I be that important? God created the cosmos just so He could share things with me? I thought about that as the real world came back, with the bed, the ice cream bowl I had eaten from before my nap, and my cat Mickey and his bugs-bunny coat. I gave Mickey the bowl, watched him lap up the goodness. As I shared with my cat — partaking in God's favorite activity — I considered. Like any other, that dream could be attributed to thoughts bouncing in a philosopher's head, bits of feel-good psychology that stuck together. Yet, over a year later, implications for life continue to present themselves.
One thing stands out: I can't refute the idea. What more reason would you need for creating anything?