When we are toddlers,
God pushes our stroller
in the cool of the evening.
We make mud pies together.
Then we dance together,
laughing,
our feet on top of God's feet,
our hands held high
and tenderly.When we are children,
God seems to withdraw
to the holy mountain —
a rumble over the P.A. system.
We sit outside
the principal's office,
slow of speech,
cowering from
the distant thunder.A few years older
and God seems even farther,
painted onto a
chalcedony throne.
As remote
intangible
fearsome
as the IRS.
As the Papacy.
As an irate curmudgeon
with a long white beard
who refuses to come down
from the Chapel ceiling.God, I pray you,
suffer me to toddle once more,
and dance with you
again and again
my hands held high
and tenderly
Your holy laughter
ruffling my human hair.