Wednesday, February 24, 2010
God Loves Donuts
"Momma, dere's the cemetawy. Dat's where people go when they die. But I'm not going dere."
I've learned to keep my answers short, or to answer with a question. I don't want to complicate matters, and most of his questions/statements aren't answerable, anyway.
"You're not going there?"
"Nope. I'm going to stay a kid forevah, because I don't want to go in da cemetawy, and I don't want ahmpit hair."
"Everyone grows up, hon."
"Not me. I talked to God about it, and He said dat's okay."
"So what age do you want to be forever?"
"Seven. Like Sissy. She gets to go on da bus."
Last week, as we passed the cemetary, he was uncharacteristically quiet. I peeked into the backseat: his head was bowed and his lips were silently moving.
"What are you doing, Finn?"
"What are you praying for?"
"For da people in Heaven."
My heart swells. "That's nice, honey."
"Yeah. I was telling dem dat I won't see dem in Heaven because I'm nevah going to be a gwown up."
I don't know where this is coming from, because we haven't lost any family members recently, although our kitty, Coalie, died in November. I asked him if he was praying about Coalie.
"No, silly. Coalie had da nine lives. So he is wif another family now."
"When da sand runs out, somebody dies," he said.
I gulped. Here I am again: one of those parenting moments where I'm completely clueless. Is this a big deal? How do I respond?
"It's just a timer for a game, sweetie," I finally reply. "Nobody dies when the sand runs out."
He looks up at me. "Yes dey do!" He's grinning. He doesn't look sad, or traumatized, so I decide to let it go. A few minutes later I'm in the next room, and I hear his little singsong voice. Curious to see what he's saying, I peek around the corner. Oblivious to my prying eyes, Finn is looking at the hour glass, and singing a little prayer:
"It's okay, it's gonna be okay. God and da angels are in Heaven, and da Holy Spirits, and da bootiful clouds and da people and God and da angels are wif you. And da Holy Spirits. And God loves you, and God loves me, and God loves......" he pauses, ".... and God loves..... God loves....... DONUTS!"
I want to swoop in, hug him, tell him everything will be okay. But, of course, I can't promise that. And besides, he doesn't need comforting. He's okay. In his own little 4 year old way, he's working through his thoughts and fears. Or maybe he isn't afraid at all, maybe I'm just projecting my own fears into his innocent world.