God

"This is something that a lot of people question among themselves," Janie says one day at lunch, "how is God made?" She leans on an elbow, bites into her sandwich.

"That's a good question." I slide onto the table bench. "What do you think?"

"I. don't. know." She chomps each word and then whispers, "How did God get made?"

I scoop salsa onto a chip, "No one made Him."

"How did He get there?"

"He's always been there."

"Interesting," she furrows her brow. I watch her look out the window into the yard.

"That's why he's worth worshiping," I say. If you knew how He got there He wouldn't really be worth worshiping."

"Why?"

I look at her sideways, "He wouldn't really be much bigger than you."

"Oh." She takes another bite of sandwich, looks back at me, "Do you think when we get to heaven we'll know how God got made?"

"I don't know."

Jack turns to us, "God might tell us," he says.