“Are we God’s dad, or is He our dad?” My three-year-old asks before bed.
“That’s a good question.” I encourage. “We believe God made us, so some people call God our father. Now it’s time for sleep my darling.” A few minutes later, from his bed, he calls. “Daddy, can you come here for a second?” “I’ll be right in,” I reply every few minutes. Until he falls asleep.
A forgettable amount of time later, I go up to the gates of heaven. I see why people portray this place as being completely white, even though it isn’t actually any color. It feels like a dentist’s waiting room. I’m filled with questions. I ask the ministering angels. “Who was right, that rabbi or me?” “Does God really want us to value tradition more than equality?” “Was there something I could have done to alleviate my depression?”
“God will be right in,” the angels respond every time I ask. I sit waiting. Unable to sleep.