What follows is my personal, frail attempt to make sense of a devastating event.
Prologue
(because prologues are cool)
While dining at my sister’s house, I sat beside my nephew, Leader, who was seven or eight years old at the time. He is eleven now. Guided by a profound impulse, he decided to ask me a series of theological questions, which he has been known to do at odd times (for example, he once told me I had to “fight the dragon” so that I could become “a king of forgiveness”).
“Unky Adam,” he said.
“Yes?” I said, turning toward him.
“Do you love God more than money?” he asked, his smile as big as a crescent moon.
“Yes,” I said. I went back to my food, thinking that would be the end of it.
“Do you love God more than houses?” he asked, his tenor elevated. He seemed to know well enough that sequels should raise the stakes.
“Yes,” I said.
His smile broadened. I decided not to take the next bite, knowing that another question must follow in the series. To him, it was a kind of game where the questions must be part of a trilogy.
“Do you love God more than the world?” he asked, raising his volume to something like half a notch above inside-voice acceptable decibels.
I waited, wanting to give myself a moment to be honest even if it led to disappointment. Anyone claiming to be a believer would want the answer to be “Yes”. But I gave myself enough time for it to be a cold, cowardly “No” if the truth of my heart demanded it. I gave myself time to fall if fall I must.
“Yes,” I said.
As soon as I spoke, I knew I had done what for me had always been unthinkable. I had made a commitment. Leader smiled bigger, but not because he had trapped me. He smiled in a kind of child-like awe. You see, because I had affirmed my love for God above money, houses, and the world—because of these affirmations of faith, he seemed to think I was some sort of hero.
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