Somehow it never seems completely dark in Madeleine's room. Part of that is the nightlight shaped like a snail that sits at the corner of her bed and casts warm light in a halo around her pillow. But there is more to light than its very existence. There is also the intangible brightness that comes from the life in her room, the leopard gecko hunting crickets in its tank, the pet rat rustling in its bedding, the ball python exploring its confines, looking for escape. Their noise lends credence to the idea that her room is a safe place. Comfort somehow illuminated without the help of light.
And there is also the intangible brightness that comes from my daughter, nestled into my shoulder and burrowed under the covers. She picks nighttime to talk about the Big Things, and tonight's topic is one of the Super Big Things. "Mom," she begins, kicking her feet a little as she arranges the covers just so. "Logan at school said he believes in God. And I told him there isn't a God, and he said, 'You don't believe in God?' And some other people said I was wrong. And they said there is a God! But I'm not wrong, right?"
"Well," I hedge, considering my response. Not for the first time I wish I had something solid to tell her, something steady and sure she can hold on to. "I don't really know if you're wrong or right," I finally tell her, cursing my own lack of a clear belief system. "I have no idea if there is a God or not."
"But you don't believe in God, right?" She is drawing this from a talk we had ages ago, where I thought I had been careful to say whether I did or didn't believe. And No, I don't, is the thought that burbles up now in my mind just as it did then, unbidden, and just as quickly my mind sends it back down. This feels like a deeply treasonous thing to think, much less to say. Almost immediately I am thinking of my mother, who sent my sister and I to church sporadically when we were younger. I am thinking of the Bible camp she sent me to when I was younger. I am thinking of my mom on the phone earlier in the week, imploring me to take my girls to church on Easter, to teach them the real meaning of the holiday. To say I don't believe in God is to reject something intrinsic to how I define my mother. It is to let her down immeasurably.
Before I can answer, Madeleine is speaking again. "What?" She scoffs. "Do I think there is some big man up in the sky who will take me up to the clouds with his big old hand and take me to the snow cone truck up there?"
"Snow cone truck?" I ask, and Madeleine giggles. "Yeah! What? Am I going to eat clouds? I don't believe in that. I don't believe there is a big castle up in the clouds." She is impassioned, gesturing with her hands now. "I don't believe it because I can't see it," she says. "It doesn't make sense to me because you can't even see that!"
"You believe in fairies and you've never seen one," I point out. "What about the tooth fairy?"
"Yeah, but I've seen the stuff that the tooth fairy leaves me," she says. "It's hard to explain, because I haven't seen a fairy, but I know they're there because you see their stuff sometimes. Like the glitter in the backyard and the fairy steps and the money under my pillow and stuff."
I suppress a wince, because these things -- these things are things I have fostered. Sprinkling glitter in the backyard because I know when the girls find it they will be delighted that magic was left there. Calling the fungus jutting out like steps from the trunk of a tree "fairy steps." Writing tiny notes from the tooth fairy thanking the girls for taking such good care of their teeth. I have fostered in them a belief in magic but not a belief in anything spiritual.
"That makes sense," I say carefully. "But some people say that life itself is proof enough of God. Someone could look at a snake winding through the grass and say, 'Look at that amazing creature! Only an amazing God could create something like that.' Or they might look at a beautiful sunset and just feel really glad that there is a God who would make something so lovely."
Mad considers this. "No," she finally says. "That stuff is just nature."
I don't argue this point because I mostly agree with her. And all the while my mind has been grappling for the proper way to frame all this for her. I've got mostly nothing. Except this: "I think the thing about God is that it doesn't really matter," I say. "All that really matters is that you're a good person in the world. So at the end of everything, when you're very, very old and it's time for you to die, you can die knowing that you were good for the world. That you always tried to do good things. And if there is a God, great. He'll be very happy. And if there isn't, then awesome. Because you and the people in your life will be happy -- because you were good to the people you loved."
"Yeah," Mad says immediately, as though this is something she's thought of before."But why do people even believe in God? It doesn't even make sense!"
And now I am thinking of Bible camp again, how I was inexplicably moved to tears at the evening service on the
last day, when all the kids joined hands and sang in unison, "Jesus,
lamb of God, worthy is thy name." I am thinking of the things people say and do to each other in the name of God. I am thinking of my cousins, devout Christians, who do their own thing and radiate goodness. How great it is for them to have that foundation. I am thinking of my own husband, who says he believes in God. "Mad, your dad believes in God," I tell her. "It makes sense to him."
"But not to us, right?" She says. "We don't believe in God. Maybe if we see him, then we can believe in him."
So now we're talking about faith. And we're talking about nature and we're talking about beliefs and values and it is 9 p.m. and she should be asleep already. And besides. Besides. I don't know the answers. Until I have something real, something concrete to give her -- straight from my heart, something I believe with all of my entire soul -- then I will at least have something she can hold on to. Until then, I have nothing but uncertainty to offer.
I believe in you, I think before I tell her we'll have to talk more about this later. I believe in this -- as I give her a hug goodnight. I believe that this life is pretty awesome -- as she snuggles closer and shuts her eyes. We are ensconced in the glow of her nightlight. And in the other light, too -- the way the sounds of her pets warm up the darkness and turn it into something safer, somehow. This isn't too far from the nature of faith, I realize. Recognizing the light of life in the darkness. Resting in a moment. Asking questions, filled with love. Maybe here and now is our greater power. I want to tell her this in a way she'll understand, but the best I can do is kiss her forehead and tell her I love her.
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