I’ve never really cared to prove that God exists — before today. My son looked at me with his huge blue eyes the color of warm ocean and cried:
“If God is real, why doesn’t he stop all the bad stuff? Why Mom? Why?”
I felt as if I’d been slapped hard across the face by the innocence of his question. It is something that I try not to think about. I try not to dwell on that now as I sit here enjoying my expensive coffee, in my warm house, in my comfortable chair. As I sit at my computer which is connected 24/7 to the world, I try not to think. Or feel how much that stuff hurts. It makes my comfortable life not — so — comfortable when I turn on the radio and they tell me of people being beheaded. Or a woman who had acid poured into her face. Or that going for firewood in some places in the world will get you raped. Or that girls are still unwanted in many places in the world.
I try not to feel how bad that makes me feel. I try to not be in that moment because it hurts. It hurts me! There I said it.
It makes my stomach hurt when over and over, I have to tell my kids to eat their dinner and be grateful. How very lucky they are that they have something to eat and a glass of milk to wash it down. And when they complain that there is no desert, I try not to feel bad that I didn’t indulge them. And won’t remind them, again, of how much they have. I makes me hurt when my smart, but bored kids bring home reports of below average work, when they complain about homework, I try not scream at them of their lost opportunities. And remind them of the children in many parts of the world that will never go to school. Or children in our country who cannot safely walk home from school in their own neighborhood. I try not to scream. I do. I try not to, but we have so much. It makes my stomach hurt and I try not to compare.
Why could a good God make life so easy for you my son and so hard for so many? We are the 1% and we have no idea how lucky we are. Is it luck? Random stupid luck that made my kids healthy, and smart, and born into a well to do home? I cannot answer. I have — no– answer for my son when he asks me to prove God exists, because I agree! What kind of God would set things up like that?
My son was born into a white, middle class home full of privilege and opportunity, without the violence and cruelty so many children face. He was given for no reason of his own doing good health, and wealth, and I believe God intends that he does something with it for others. My son, along with you and I, we prove God exists by seeing the pain that others suffer from and hearing the cries of those born with less. We prove God actually loves the world. We are his love. We are his hands and feet. We the one percent are a part of the his answer. No, not just me. Not my son, only.