True Believer
By Charles Green
I was at the putting green one day with my four-year-old cousin when he said something quite peculiar.
We were sitting down on the grass taking a short break, and Michael was observing the blades around him. He held out his small hand, touching the turf and said to me in his high-pitched, little-kid voice, “I wish I could make grass.”
I thought about this remark for a few seconds, wondering how to respond. I never encountered a situation like this before, and Michael had caught me completely off-guard. But before I really thought about exactly what to say, I blurted out, “Well, you know, only God can make grass.”
I don’t know how those words came out of my mouth. I hardly ever thought about God, and when I did it wasn’t as a creator. I didn’t believe that stuff when they taught it to me at religious school, and I didn’t buy it now. I hoped Michael would drop the subject and we could continue golfing before I made a fool of myself.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. Michael said “Oh,” was quiet for a little bit, then asked, “What’s God?”
Well, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, I thought. There was no turning back now. Michael had committed us both, so I might as well run with it.
I looked at my cousin, with his long eyelashes, and short, black hair, and said “God made the whole world. He made the grass, He made the trees, He made the water. Everything.”
“Oh,” replied Michael. I wasn’t sure if I was making any sense, and part of me hoped he would grow tired of this discussion. After all, how much does a four-year-old know about “the whole world?” But then he asked, in an almost disbelieving tone, “God made the country club?”
“He sure did,” I answered, smiling, enjoying this theological discussion, but slightly worried where it would lead to. I’ve gone this far, I said to myself, let’s see how far Michael wants to take it.
“God made the country club,” I continued, “He made all the animals, He made . . . ” I took a deep breath before I completed my thought, concerned that this listing of divine powers might frighten him. “God even made you, me, and your mommy and daddy.”
I closed my eyes, not sure at all how Michael was going to respond. My cousin glanced at the grass, me, his hands, then asked quietly, “Is God sweaty?”
I smiled. He’s a blasphemous little imp, isn’t he? I thought, as I tousled his hair and kissed him on the forehead. Now I felt quite at ease talking over these matters with him. So confident, in fact, I decided to tease him.
“Yeah, God gets sweaty. In fact, when God gets really sweaty, it all drips down onto us, and that’s where rain comes from.”
He looked at me again, then said “Oh,” and smiled, as if he knew I was making that last part up.
“You want to putt again, Mike?” I asked him. He nodded, so we both got up and went back to the game.
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