My family has always been religious. When I was a child, my father told me every day that humans were built to worship. He said whatever path I’d choose to take, I’d always be led by ‘the spirit’, and that the outcome, no matter how outrageous, would be ‘God’s plan’.
What rubbish.
Much to the dismay of my fanatic family, I married an agnostic and moved to another city. I felt at peace knowing I was no longer expected to wear midi length dresses and carry a crucifix in my purse. I also vowed to never repeat the mistakes of my parents.
My son is my pride and joy. He’s six years old and I would never dream of forcing any of my beliefs on him. I don’t mention religion at all in his presence. Or in general, for that matter. After all, why fill his head with doctrines, when he should be focusing on things like math?
So, imagine my surprise, when he came home from school one afternoon and asked what it meant to pray.
“Well,” I began, playing for time, “Praying is when you talk to God.”
I didn’t like using that word, but there was no other way I could have explained it.
“What is God?” my son kept on; his little eyes wide.
I sighed. As much as I didn’t want to discuss it, I knew I didn’t have the power to shield my son from religion. It’s everywhere, after all. Even in everyday language.
“Well, a lot of people believe that a being called God created the universe, the planets and even the people. They believe in a place called heaven where people go if they follow God’s rules, and a place called hell, where they go if they don’t.”
I could see this newfound information going round and round in my son’s head and couldn’t help feeling like I’d said too much.
“What are God’s rules, mamma?”
“Well, things like telling the truth and praying…” I trailed off, hoping that would be enough to satisfy his curiosity.
“How do you pray?” my son piped up again.
I clicked my tongue impatiently.
“You don’t need to worry about that, sweetheart. Now, do you need help with your homework?”
He brushed past me, dragging his backpack up the stairs.
“No, we didn’t get any today,” he said.
Strange, I thought. I’d been under the impression that Mr. Davies, my son’s first grade teacher, gave homework every day. Or at least, that’s how often my son asked for help. Perhaps not. Thoughtfully, I returned to the kitchen, where I’d left my half-eaten sandwich and cup of tea.
After about an hour, I tried again.
“Do you want to watch TV?” I called to him, “Your show is on in ten minutes!”
Silence.
“Sam!”
Nothing.
I climbed up the stairs and paused by his bedroom door. I could hear a muffled mumbling coming from inside. I stuck my ear to the door and listened, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
“Samuel?” I rapped on the door gently.
The room fell silent.
I pushed the door open just a crack and saw him sitting on his bed and staring straight at me.
“Yes, mamma?”
I looked around the room, bewildered.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked, studying him.
“God,” he replied earnestly.
I bit my lip.
“What were you saying?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“I asked for no homework for a year and a new bike.”
I tried my best not to smile.
“I don’t think God works that way, son,” I said, “Now, did Mr. Davies really not give you any homework today, or were you stretching the truth a little bit?”
“Mr. Davies is sick,” he retorted, “We have a new teacher now.”
“Oh? Who is it?”
“His name is Gabriel.”
“Huh. Did Gabriel tell you about God?”
Sam shrugged, clearly wary of my tone.
“Sam?”
He nodded slowly, “Yes.”
“Right,” I said, unsure of how to react.
In one sense, I saw no harm in a teacher letting kids know about religion as a given part of society. On the other hand, I really hoped he wasn’t the reason my son had been praying for the past hour.
I expected Sam to wind down and forget about it, as any kid normally would. After all, kids have a notoriously short attention span, and surely, after discovering that God wasn’t as willing to give as he was to be worshiped, he’d go back to his usual hobbies.
However, when I opened the front door the following morning to see my son off to school, I saw a brand-new bicycle on the front lawn.
“A bike!” Sam cried, dropping his books and dashing outside, “God came, ma!”
I stared at it, dumbfounded. I mean, I knew it wasn’t really God who’d brought the bicycle, but then who had? My gaze darted from one side of the lawn to the other.
“Sam!” I called, running down the front steps, “Wait! Don’t touch it!”
But it was too late, he was already on the seat, pressing down on the pedal with his foot. The bike rolled steadily over the bumpy lawn, to the absolute delight of my son.
“I have a bike! I have a bike!” he chanted.
I wondered if the bike belonged to someone else, and perhaps they had left it on our property by mistake. But when my son came home that afternoon and found the bike still standing there, I had no choice but to let him keep it.
Soon enough, however, the bike was left on its side in the garage and my son had retreated into his room once more. I knocked on his door to ask if he needed help with his homework.
“I didn’t get any homework,” he said proudly, mashing the buttons of his console, “I asked God for no homework, remember?”
I rolled my eyes, unsure of how to tell him that his newfound fascination wasn’t real. He seemed to think he could ask God for anything, and he would come through.
“I’m going to pray now, mamma,” he suddenly said, turning his console off and dropping the controller on his bed, “Could you please close the door?”
Startled, I waited for him to tell me it was all just a big joke, but he seemed dead serious. And I couldn’t exactly tell him he was being silly. After all, Santa wasn’t real either. Or the tooth fairy.
“Okay, then,” I smiled, leaving the room, “Have fun.”
But this time I didn’t go anywhere. I stood by the door and listened in, eager to hear what kind of prayers they were teaching my kid at school. At first, the room was silent. After a few minutes, however, I could hear a quiet mumbling. It was so low and muffled, I wondered if he’d gotten into his closet or hid under the bed sheets.
“What did you pray for?” I asked, when he finally came into the kitchen half an hour later.
“A new video game,” he smiled, “The one all my friends have.”
I nodded, silently nursing my cup of tea. I didn’t want my son to be disappointed, of course, but I couldn’t exactly buy him toys every day. I figured he’d have to come to terms with it, when God didn’t grant his wish.
Except he did. The next day was a Saturday, and my son came running into the bedroom before I even had a chance to wake up.
“It came! It came!” he shrieked, leaping onto the bed.
“What came?” I managed, rubbing my crusty eyes.
He stuck the plastic case up to my face.
“The video game!”
That instantly jolted me awake. I grabbed it out of his hands and stared at it.
“Where did you get this?” I demanded.
“It was on the porch!” he seemed almost giddy with excitement, “God sent it to me!”
I stared at my son. Was this all a part of some elaborate prank I wasn’t in on? Who could have possibly given him the video game? Who could have known he even wanted one in the first place?
I got out of bed and pulled on my robe. In spite of myself, I felt a chill crawling up my spine. Of course, I’d never admit to my six-year-old son that I was afraid, but I couldn’t help feeling an overwhelming sense of dread that had been building up over the past couple of days. The praying, the mysterious gifts, the utter absurdity of it all was too much to handle.
I checked all the doors for any signs of forced entry, but nothing seemed amiss. I couldn’t stop feeling as though I was being watched and hated not feeling safe in my own home.
Could God actually exist? I shook off the thought, knowing full well that the notion was ridiculous. Not because there was no feasible evidence to support the existence of a higher power, but because a deity as such would surely have more important things to do than send my son bikes and video games.
On Saturdays my son and I usually watch TV. They play reruns of all his favorite shows and some family movies as well. However, that day he didn’t seem remotely interested in any of it. Granted, he had his new video game to play, but he didn’t really seem too invested in that either. He came into the kitchen for a drink, and I asked him what he was planning to do for the day.
“I’m going to pray for a dog, mamma.”
That was certainly the last straw. I tried explaining to him that we had no means to keep a dog, and that a pet was a lot of responsibility, but he wouldn’t listen.
“I want God to bring me a dog.”
He kept repeating it over and over, and I knew we were way past any kind of rational reasoning. As long as my son believed there was a God that would cater to his every wish, he wouldn’t stop wishing.
I followed him as he went into his room and asked him to show me how he prayed.
“I can’t do that,” he said solemnly, crossing his arms across his chest, “God said it has to be done in private.”
I blinked at him.
“God spoke to you?”
He nodded, equally surprised.
“Well, what did he say?”
“He said,” he took a deep breath, “He said that if I’m a good boy, he will bring me anything I want.”
“Well, why don’t we try praying together, huh?” I said, pressing my palms together. Of course, I didn’t believe him, but I was dying to see how he did it.
“What’s that?” my son asked, staring at my hands.
“What’s what?”
“Why are you holding your hands like that?”
He imitated me, putting his own little hands together.
“That’s how you pray, isn’t it?” I said.
He didn’t seem too sure.
“That’s not how Gabriel showed us…”
I swallowed.
“Show me how you pray, Sam…”
He hesitated, staring down at his feet.
“Gabriel said it has to be done in private…”
But I wasn’t having any more of this.
“Show me, Sam. Right now.”
He went over to his bed and stuck his hand under the pillow. Within a moment, he pulled out a small black cube. At least, that’s what it looked like to me.
“What’s that?” I asked, alarmed.
“I-it’s how I talk to God,” Sam muttered nervously, “Gabriel gave it to me.”
I pried it out of his hands to get a better look. My entire body was prickling, and my stomach was churning with the contents of my breakfast. It was a flip phone. One of those old, cheap bricks you could get anywhere for a tenner.
“Sam,” I whispered, “Does Gabriel call you on the phone?”
He shook his head.
“No, momma, it’s not Gabriel,” he said, “It’s God. And look-“
I broke out in a cold sweat as the small rectangular screen came to life.
“He’s calling right now!”