By Dawn Onley

I love the time that I get to spend with my six-year-old son.

There’s not a lot of extra time during the weekdays, with daily homework and often karate and drum lessons consuming space in our already busy schedule. But whatever time we can get, I see as important, and we utilize every minute.

During car rides home from school is when we discuss things that he has been saving in his developing brain, especially for me. We talk about God, the Evil Witch of the West, what’s for dinner, the sacrifice that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. made for our basic civil rights, the Chinese New Year, and not too long ago, Antarctica.

Our conversations are as random and varied as two strangers making each other’s acquaintance on the street, yet there is an earnest desire to learn and get answers to quandaries he has already invested significant time on.

Recently, we talked about God. He wanted to know if God talks to us and if so, what His voice sounds like.

“Does God have a deep voice,” he pondered.

I told him I believe God speaks to us but not in the same way that one of his friends might talk to him. He then asked how he would know it was God talking to him.

I asked him if he ever wanted to do something one way and a voice inside of him told him that another way was better? He asked me what I meant. By this time, we were nearly halfway home.

I gave him an example.

“Sometimes, I get lost and can’t seem to find the directions to get to the place that I’m in search of. God has helped me, in these instances, determine the right path. It’s like a voice inside of me that helps me figure it out. I call that voice God.”

“Oh, so God helps you not get lost?” he probed deeper.

“Yes. He gives us the directions and shows us the right path. It’s up to us whether we will follow him or go in another direction.”

“Hmmm. Interesting. I like this,” he said, sounding much wiser than his grade.

So do I, baby boy.

“Mom, do you know this is the year of the pig?”

“Yeah, I read that.”

“Well, I was born in the year of the dragon,” he goes on.

“That’s cool! We’ll look up what that means when we get home.”

Silence, until one minute later when he has another burning question.

“Does God like the Evil Witch of the West?”

“He’s working on her,” I say.

“Mommy, did you know that I can fly?”