God Is the Child in the Backseat of the Car

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When I first met Frog Girl, she was old enough to be in Girl Scouts and young enough to need to ride in the backseat of the car.

As we drove, we talked.

At times I lived vicariously through her, seeing the world anew through her eyes as she navigated school and extracurriculars and a family and a social life.

And at times her questions and insights forced me to reflect on my own life - past, present, and future - in a way that I hadn't anticipated. She talked to me like I was Someone Who's Gone Before, like I had wisdom to impart, but so many of her ideas encouraged me, entertained me, and made me appreciate being alive.

While I waited for her to finish gymnastics or swimming, I would sit and muse about whatever wise, witty, funny, wonderful things she had said so far that day.

When I had a pen handy, I wrote them down. I did the best I could to capture her words and the inflections of her voice on a scrap of paper that couldn't do her justice.

Sometimes she'd said so many clever, quotable witticisms that day that I knew I was forgetting some of them.

One day during my time working with this family, I thought back on my experiences of God - and, more specifically, my experiences of the silence of God. I had been struggling to make sense of a dark night of the soul that defied easy explanations. At first I'd known little except that it was somehow part of my journey.

Maybe, I thought, God is not so unlike the child in the backseat of the car who surprises me day after day with her interest in my life and her sense of humor and her thought-provoking lens.

When there are lulls in our conversation, the silence is still companionable. Just another part of our travels. No less real or appreciated.

And besides, it gives me a chance to savor all the gems I want to remember.