A while back, I was babysitting two boys I know, Declan and Luke. They are total sweethearts, and both have the exact same haircut. Anyway, Luke likes to draw pictures of ninjas fighting zombies, the kind where there are detached limbs and gushing blood and everyone is smiling. So Luke is showing me his fighter Legos, and all the monsters and swords, and grotesquely ugly faces that are somehow replicated with total cheer into tiny pieces of movable plastic, when Declan wanders in. He settles dreamily beside us.
“Becca, what is your favorite thing to talk about?” he asks.
It is a surprisingly hard question. “I think I like to talk about things that have happened to me, and stories about people I know,” I said finally. “What about you?”
“Oh,” he said. “I like to talk about God and the origin of the universe.”
Yep. Declan, age seven, who still says origin like “owigin” is pondering the deep questions of life, and I, this very moment, am recounting yet another story of something that has happened to me and people I know. But I do have a purpose, more humble perhaps than explaining the beginning of the world. Behind these kind of anecdotes is a kind of happiness. A “Look, I’m alive, and things happen, and it’s great/absurd/wondrous/crushing/coincidental/fascinating: in other words, I see it.”
So that is what this blog is about. And maybe along the way, I’ll figure out the origin of the universe. But it’s probably better that I don’t have a blog about that, because another time, when I was babysitting another kid, she asked me, “How did the world start?”
And you know what my answer was? I said, “Well, some people say God started it. And some people say there was this thing called the big bang, which was a big BA-BANG!, and then the world started.” Luckily, by that point, she had stopped listening.