FatherLoad

“Did Jesus eat coconuts? Yes or no?” The car has always been the place to get your best conversations started. I don’t know where that question came from, but I remember we were coming home from your weekly gymnastics class on a pitch-dark winter evening. Out of the darkness came that blunt question and the need for a black-and-white answer. I don’t remember my answer. I couldn’t even acknowledge what a good question your first question was because the second one was so courtroom lawyer-y, and no five-year-old should be so pushy about getting an answer to even the best of questions. For the record, I was driven to look up the information online, and learned that coconut trees grow in tropic and subtropic areas, not the desert, so I would have to say no, Jesus did not eat coconuts. When you were three, Daddy had a CD playing in the car – Tom Waits. “Daddy? Who’s singing? Is it cookie monster?” I hope you know Tom Waits, because that makes it hilarious. In kindergarten, again coming home from gymnastics on a dark, moonlit night: "Daddy, is there air on the moon?" "No, John. Earth is the only planet that has air." "Why?" "Because that's the way God decided to make it." "Why did God only want earth to have air?" "I don't know. Maybe we could ask him some day." "How? Do we have to go to heaven?" "I think that's the way it works." "Who will get there first?" "I don't know, John." "If you get there first and you ask Him, will you tell me what He says?" "Sure, John. I'll try." "How? How will you tell me?" "I don't know, John, but I'll try to find a way. Maybe in your dreams." "What if we're all there together some day...can we talk about it?" "Sure, John." When you were two going on three, you sat in your high chair, eating dinner, exhorting Daddy to do “that trick.” You were eating popcorn chicken. In my dim and fading memory, there was some buildup; we were in high spirits and both of us laughing frequently and deeply. And this was the grand finale. I plucked a piece of chicken off of your plate. Underhanded, I lofted it with enough force that it nearly scraped the ceiling before arcing back down to me. Feet apart, weight shifted forward to the balls of my feet, I took a half-step right, corrected a little back to my left, opened my mouth, and caught it cleanly, started chewing. I didn’t have time to straighten up before you were pounding the tray in your high chair, chewed food spraying out of your mouth as you laughed hysterically and shouted “THAT’S what I’m TALKING ABOUT!” Nobody else gives me conversations like that. These laughs happen every day. More gifts. Thank you, Santa.