It may take a village to raise a child, but some villages do better than others. And what about the Walt Whitman multitudes within each of us? Who’s in charge of those inner children?
For instance, when things aren’t going her way, or malevolent forces get too close, my own inner child growls and nips like a protective dog. I scold and apply sanctions. Sometimes, she’s contrite. Other times, she clamps her teeth down on my forearm and leaves marks of unrepentance.
God babysits occasionally. My inner child likes to sit on his lap, braiding his beard, poking at his eyes, and pulling on his large, floppy earlobes. The entwined snake tattoo on his temple is one of her favorites, but his various piercings bother her.
Yesterday, she was having a tough time, so she found God and crawled up for a cuddle. He was dozing, a summer novel splayed across his chest. He didn’t rouse himself fast enough to suit her, so she grabbed his limp hand, bit him, and squirmed away. God sat up, put his finger in his mouth, and lumbered after her like the ancient, doting grandfather he is.
“You don’t need to bite, honey,” he said. “That’s not what those pretty teeth are for.”
“How would you know what my teeth are for?” she retorted, pointing at her gleaming incisors. She’s feisty like that.
Gently, God put his hand over her gaping mouth. She kicked him in the shin.
“So that’s how it is,” he said. He winked at me and began dancing around like a boxer. My inner child wore herself out swinging and missing. She finally dropped to the ground, winded and sweaty, her fists still punching at nothing, her ruffly dress torn and dirty.
“I hate you,” she screamed. “You’re a nasty old man. A pervert. Don’t touch me again or I’ll call the police.”
God leaned down and handed her his phone. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” he said.
She slapped the phone from his hand and dissolved, howling and gnashing her teeth. She knew she was bested, but she didn’t seem able to stop the tantrum.
At last, night fell around her, stars came out in forgiving droves, and a holy breeze cooled her miserably enraged body. She and her demons rested in the arms of the river. God stretched himself out on the sandy shore, forearms cushioning his head.
“I love that little hellion,” he said, as if talking to himself. But he knew I could hear him from my mature hiding place in the willows.
“You can come out now,” he added, his voice tender. “She’s asleep.”
Short visits with an honest God 