God and His Zoo Pancakes

Sometimes I ask for a lollipop, and God shakes His great, shaggy head and whispers: "No. A lollipop is not what I have in mind for you, right now."

I look plaintively at Him and ask: "Why? I really want a lollipop."

God looks back at me. He furrows His brow. He could talk to me about a cavity in my mandibular third molar: how the sugar in a chocolate Tootsie Pop would grow the hole. He could talk to me about my health, in general: how a Tootsie Pop would hurt, not help, it. He could explain that He has a different (finer) plan for me: that He wants to fill my belly with something better for my body.

But God has lots of kids, and tons of the others are talking to Him, too, so He tells me, simply: "Because I said, 'No.' Just give me a minute, ok? Trust me."

I stomp my foot and yell: "I don't WANT to give you a minute! I don't WANT to trust you! I want a lollipop!"

And God booms out: "NO! I SAID NO LOLLIPOP!"

I burst into tears and withdraw, pouting, to another room.

Later, God calls my name sweetly and says: "Come and see what I have for you."

I peek around the doorframe and into God's kitchen. "What is it?" I want to know.

He raises His wild, gray eyebrows and says: "I made you pancakes."

I shake my head, insisting: "I don't WANT pancakes!"

"But they look like zoo animals," He says, and I can't resist. I run to God's table and eat up His giraffe- and monkey-shaped, whole-wheat pancakes. He's coated them in Parkay, sugar-free syrup, and light whipped cream, and they taste amazing. I eat them up every bit, and then I lick the plate.

God smiles at me and says: "See? I love you! I know what's best for you!"

And, tilting my head to the side, I smile back and ask: "Can I have a lollipop, now?"

Photo by Rachel Huff