and he said: “I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven…. — Jesus
Becoming a child again would require putting five pieces of gum in your mouth all at once and not get caught, seeing the world through shaky lens, perpetually a passenger but never a driver, looking for God’s face in every drop of rain beading down your side of the window.
Becoming a child again means going wherever gravity pulls, wherever the wind blows, counting telephone pole after telephone pole, not knowing trees by their names, but imitating their outstretched arms when they clap their hands and dance for Abba Father, Yahweh.
Becoming a child again means believing that every tulip shell, olive shell, and shark's eye contains a sliver of sea where those who fall asleep float in Paradise, soaking up something better than sunlight—no more tears, no more sorrow or thorns and thistles to weed.
Becoming a child again means believing that there is God through thoughts of no God, that he is currently in front of me though all I can see are birch trees past their prime, an exhausted skyline, and a couple of mountains I can’t move.