My dear son,
Not long after Easter, we were eating dinner and you looked at me, mid-bite, suddenly serious.
“Is Jesus still alive?” you asked.
“Yeah, he is,” I replied.
“Me thinking . . . is him real?”
“Yes, he’s real.”
Your face broke into a grin. “I knew it!” And you returned to your pasta.
You seem content with that answer for now, but I’ve been thinking about our conversation ever since. What does it mean that Jesus is real? That he’s not like a unicorn or a dragon—a cool mythical being that we wish existed? Or that he’s not like a dinosaur, something that once walked the earth but is now a mere memory?
I don’t have the theology to grasp this fully myself, let alone explain it to someone who wears his shoes on the wrong feet. But maybe, if I’d had more presence of mind in that moment, I could have said something like this:
Yes, him is real. You may not be able to see him with your eyes. But you can see the daffodil he crafted, with its fluttery, buttery petals. You can see the sunset he stretched across the sky, with hues that would make your Crayola box jealous. You can see the ocean he formed, stretching so far it kisses the sky.
You may not be able to hear him with your ears. But if you get really quiet, you just might be able to hear his whispers in your heart: I love you. You are my beloved son. I am so glad you’re mine. I would choose you every time.
You may not be able to feel him with skin or hands or nerve endings. But when you’re scared or lonely, you just might feel the breeze on your face or the sun on your neck and wonder if there’s more to this world than mere atoms and molecules.
You may not be able to catch his scent directly, but one day you might get a whiff of peace you can’t explain. Or maybe, right when your life seems bland and you’re hungering for something deeper than you can name, you’ll get an unexpected taste of grace.
When these things happen, my son, I hope you still have the heart of a child. And I hope you say, like your four-year-old self, “Yes, him is real.”
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