October 2020

An exchange occurred between two of my most favorite humans - my sister, Nichole, and her daughter, my niece, Immy. It went like this…

Immy: Mom, if God made everything, who made her?

Nichole: Is God a woman?

Immy: Mom, God listens to everyone in the whole world at the same time, and gets them everything they need, right?

Nichole: Yes

Immy: Uhhhhh, God is definitely a woman. 

later in October 2020

On the phone with Nichole one day, she tells me the above story. I laughed hysterically. Then, she asked if I knew how to answer the question. The question: If God made everything, who made her?

Anna [this is me, just in case]: You’re asking me, do I know where God came from? And can I explain it to a seven year old?

Nichole: I am.

Anna: I’ll think about it.

November 2020

In response to Immy’s question, I wrote a poem…

Before there was light
and time and trees, 
before there were even ideas of these,
a whisper was carried upon a breeze
and God was created
from a soft, sweet, “Please.”

She loves you so much
that she came from your needs.

She made all those things 
that make you smile - 
flowers and kittens and, of course,
the candy aisle.
She made laughter and sparkles
and she even made style.
She makes peace for your mom
when it’s still for a while.

The whisper traveled through the trees, 
outside of time, upon a breeze. 
And from that whisper
she made EVERYTHING - 
even the joy
that you feel when you sing.

Because God loves you SO SO MUCH
and she cares about all that you need,
she was formed from a whisper
filled with hope -
FAITH, the size of a tiny seed.

She came so that you
could know that you are 
mightily loved and made to go far, 
created perfectly,
a most precious, shining star.

She came from a whisper
that moved through the trees,
and that’s why she always 
sends love in the leaves,
and peace too, and strength - 
these are God’s guarantees. 

So thank her for the goodness.
When you ask, say please.
And always keep your heart open
to the voice in the breeze.

“Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand”

Don McLean, my friends!