The God I believe in laughs. A lot.

He’s a 12-year old boy contemplating the universe as he stares into a bowl of Lucky Charms. Tell him a joke after a spoonful and milk shoots from his nose, the debris of marshmallows departed coating the table in a fine spray.  He gets bored at times with the reality TV program that is Humanity, and wanders outside to fly a kite, or chase squirrels, or simply stare at clouds as he delves into blatant forgetfulness. He jumps on soda cans he filled with water just because, uses extra ketchup on everything, is the one that put the firecrackers in your mailbox, believes a dessert can only truly be appreciated when eaten first, never turns down a cartoon, sings songs despite the fact he doesn’t know the words and can’t carry a tune, is impressed by everything, and finds the idea of cleanliness much better next to him than on him.

He’s the first to point out a hilarious sign, the one giggling during a call for silence, and the last to go to bed because he can’t stop reading.  He loves to finger paint, gets Play-Doh everywhere, runs into walls, trips over toys, chews with his mouth open, stares sullenly out the window when it rains, isn’t to be trusted around a garden hose and an ant hill, and always sings the alphabet to remember the V does, in fact, come before the W.

Without him there would be no roller coaster. Knock-Knock jokes would not exist. People would fart and nobody would care. Everybody would not poop. There would be no snickers when someone proclaimed “it was their duty.” Nobody would count the stars.

This is the God I believe in.  He doesn’t want me to be religious. He wants me to be silly. To laugh along. To enjoy my life. And though I struggle mightily with the latter, I feel I do pretty good with the first two. And I think he’s okay with that, even if a little disappointed.

Have a sense of humor about life while you can, folks. Be silly. Tell Jokes. Relax and remember why you play. Doesn’t matter who your God is. He didn’t promise you a tomorrow.