Can I Prove God Exists? Yes I Can.

I am starting to write for Provoketive, an online magazine, and this article will be published there tomorrow.  I’m really not supposed to post the same thing here therefore, I’ll leave an excerpt but direct you there…for your commenting pleasure. I’ve never really felt a need to prove that God exists.  Before today that is, when my tawny-headed, freckle-faced son looked up at me with his enormous blue eyes and cried If God is real, Mom, why doesn’t he stop all the bad stuff?  Why Mom, why?

Feeling like I’d been slapped hard across my face by the earnestness and veracity of his question, I realized I don’t want to even touch that question.

Honestly I try not to dwell on that now as I sit here with all my advantages – I enjoy my life, drinking my expensive coffee, in my warm house, sitting in my comfortable chair, at my computer that is connected 24/7 to the world.   I try not to think about my fortunate life or those that have so much less.

No I don’t want to touch those questions.  But sometimes that awareness aches inside me and makes my comfortable life not — so – comfortable.  I cannot escape the world when I turn on the radio or television or get online.  It is there that I find out about people being beheaded.  Women who had acid poured on their face.  That going for firewood in some places in the world will get you raped or assaulted.  Or that being born a girl is still something unwanted in many places in the world.   much less and more importantly why God put me here.  Why I am so seemingly blessed?  And others appear less so?

To read the entire post, …

We Are The One Percent

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.

Each of us reading and wondering about this today.   We are God’s love.  We prove he exists.
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