We trust that God will protect us or take us to be with him forever, I say, resigning in my own mind that that's what we do while planning for a proverbial tragedy, while standing face to face with a giant.
We are talking disaster on a sun-drenched, October-blue sky day for reasons about which I'm unsure.
He sniffles from the backseat, light streaming in through the windshield, and I think he's going to cry about the prospect of dying.
"I want to be with God now! I want to be in Heaven with Jesus now!"
My spirit soars at his devotion, his huge faith as my heart thumps and leaps into my throat at the thought of G going to his forever home, away from the space between my chest and my arm to space in between His at the age of four.
You will get to spend forever with Jesus after you finish living your life here, I reassure him,
as my thoughts wildly bounce from flesh to faith and faith to flesh
-- hoping selfishly that I won't see the day
where he goes ahead of me into the author's arms
and out of mine
--- hoping that I, too, would one day have faith
the size of a mustard seed
the faith of my child
who is so very four
so very beyond the very few years he's lived.