Simple

"When you sin does your body change a little bit?" she wants to know. Janie likes to hear the forbidden fruit story. Adam, Eve, the serpent, the fruit - over and over and over.

And then, "Mommy, the flood that God sent, did it touch the sky?" Every detail, exact, precise, weighed and measured and touching the sky. There she is picturing it all. I'm sure the tallest ladder or biggest building could surely touch the sky. Maybe even standing up on our roof we could reach that high.

She slurps milk and soggy cereal, from a Snoopy bowl. Dribbles collect on her chin. "God loves me," she announces, "because he wanted a person like me." It's almost presumption. I watch her suck down the dregs. She tilts her head, grins, doesn't seem to be posing for her mind's eye. She's probably wondering how big God actually is. For her it's just so normal the milk dribbles, the grin, the flood that touches the sky, a God that wants her, a creator that made her just to like her. Simple.


















And then, "God's teaching me not to lie. He's saying 'Janie, I'm gonna give you treasure in heaven, but I'm first gonna teach you not to lie.'"


















So, I keep asking, "What's he teaching you now?"

She says, "I can't tell until I read my Bible and have my special drink and listen for a bit."


















Listen.

Simple.