Today is Good Friday. I took O into the village to buy stamps and we happened upon a group singing hymns by the river. We joined in and were given Hot Cross buns afterwards, which almost made up for the embarrassment of singing without accompaniment in public, while people walking their dogs stared at us as if we were some crazy cult.
“I don’t get it,” said O as we walked home, eating the buns, “So God was the Dad of Mary, yes? And Mary was Jesus’s mother, yes? So how can God be the Dad of Jesus too?”
“I thought God was a She,” I said, harking back to an earlier conversation as a diversionary tactic, away from the complications of the immaculate conception. My mouth was full of Hot Cross Bun, but that's not really an excuse - there’s never a good time to answer a hard question.
I have a friend who told his toddler right from the start that Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy were just fibs made up by adults. I want to be truthful and give answers with integrity but she’s making me appreciate just how trivial my mind has become – I’ve given up even questioning the big questions.
“I don’t know, lets find out,” might become my mantra, in future.