Alice and I have a new component of our bedtime routine the last few days.  After we say prayers, have our last bathroom trip, drink sips of water, etc etc, she has been asking me to lay down next to her “to talk.”  Part of me thinks: okay kid, you’re stalling.  And part of me thinks: okay kid, you’re a genius.  Of all of the stall tactics I might be truly immune to after 2.5 years of putting her to bed, this one hits my soft spot on like three levels.  First, she’s inviting me to lay down next to her.  And I’m tired.  And I kind of do want to just lay down for a second after the half hour of bedtime struggle.  Second, snuggles are like kryptonite to mothers.  Don’t tell my kids this, but I would do almost anything if it resulted in wrapping my arms around them while they, likewise, wrap their arms around me, tiny heads nestled under my chin.  Laying still. Still.  It’s the holy grail of parenting, the toddler snuggle.  And she’s offering it to me at a pretty low cost.  And lastly, she wants to talk.  My darling Alice is her mother’s daughter, of that there is no doubt.  How can I resist the temptation to hear about what’s going on in that young but endlessly fascinating mind?  To impart my motherly wisdom and have it be the result of actual solicitation instead of imposition?

So yeah.  Alice and I have been indulging in a few minutes of snuggling and talking at night for about two weeks now.  I ask her what she wants to talk about, and she has never disappointed me in her topic of choice.  Surprised me, yes.  Disappointed me, never.

A few nights ago, her answer was God. I clarified: “You want to talk about God?  That’s kind of a big topic.  What, specifically, do you want to talk about?”  Her answer was heaven.  Where was it, why she couldn’t see it, if it was really in the sky.  I was surprised by that last part, as I don’t remember ever telling her that heaven was in the sky.  I explained it wasn’t something we couldn’t really see, we just had to believe that it was there, and that God was there waiting for us.  She wanted to know why God lived in heaven, and if heaven was God’s home, why we went to church (previously defined as God’s house).  She also wanted to know how Jesus fit into the picture, and where he was, specifically.  Finally, after I stumbled my way through an explanation that hopefully made some sense, she wanted to know if we could go to heaven.  Now.  Or at least tomorrow.  I guess I did a pretty good job of making it sound amazing, because she was ready to toss back her covers and head there immediately.

I will confess that this was a bit of an “oh crap” moment for me.  I try not to be anything less than honest with Alice, even if I think an explanation is above her head, but I confess I wasn’t really prepared to explain the concept of a soul to her.  I started out slowly, trying to give my brain time to work.  “Well no,” I explained, “we can’t really go to heaven like on an adventure trip.  In fact, your physical body can’t go to heaven at all.”  I said there are two parts to you: your body and your soul.  Your physical body is the part that we can touch.  The part that needs food, and takes a bath, and has a heartbeat.  This comment excited her enough that she popped upright in bed and said “Yes! Like my dog Rex has a heartbeat!”  Rex is her Build-a-Bear dog that does, in fact, have a heartbeat that is more than a bit creepy.   “Yes,” I said, “just like that.”

“The other part of you,” I explained, “is your soul.  It’s the part that feels things, and understands things, and has a capacity for love.”  This part was met with silence.  I waited.  Then I continued, “When we die, our physical body stays here on Earth and our soul goes to heaven to be with God.”  I had lost her at Earth, so I had to confirm I meant Leesburg.  “But I don’t want to stay in Leesburg, Mom.  I want to go to to heaven and see God.”  She may be a thoughtful 2 year old, but she is still 2, and it was here that she dug her mental heels in and prepared to fight me on my no.  I tried a few things:

“I want to go to heaven, too, but we have to be patient and wait until God is ready for us.  It’s not time to go to heaven yet.”  — this worked about as well as when I tell her I’m not ready to do something with her.  Which is to say not well at all.

then I tried:

“When we go to heaven, we don’t come back to Leesburg.  Our soul goes to stay with God forever.  Mom would miss you if you went to be with God right now.”  — She thought about this with a frown, then rebutted: “I’d come back, Mom.  Don’t worry.  I just want to go see if there are maybe any toys to play with there and have lunch with Jesus.  We can all go together like a family – Mom, Dad, Alice and Evie.”   I struggled between the urge to laugh outright at the immediate mental image this created for me — group family suicide with a note that said simple “gone to lunch with Jesus, back soon” — and the desire to help her understand more deeply.   I also couldn’t help but clarify: ” you want to have lunch with Jesus?”  “Yes,” she said, “We will have brussel sprouts together for lunch.”   First, I have no idea how she even knew what a brussel sprout is because I had never talked about them nor served them to her.  Second, if I was going to have lunch with Jesus, you can bet your hat I wouldn’t be ordering sprouts of any kind.

I don’t honestly remember how I finally wrapped up the conversation that was never going to result in agreement that yes, my logic was sound and she would stop asking to go to Heaven.  I probably did something very Mom-like and told her it was because I said so and she needed to stop asking and, by the way, go to sleep.  But in the days that followed, I have reflected many times on her passionate persistence.  Because when Mom didn’t give her the answer she wanted, she went to Dad the next day (David: “Ummm… why is our 2 year old asking me if she can go to heaven today?”) and the nanny (“So… there’s this one thing that Alice keeps talking about…”)  Her undeterable quest to peek around the corner of something she doesn’t quite understand and see what it’s all about.  She’s smart enough to know I haven’t explained it fully to her, and her solution is to ditch the middle man and just go check it out herself.

It makes me laugh because I see so much of myself in that behavior.

Thomas Carlyle once wrote: “Permanence, perseverance, and persistence in spite of all obstacles, discouragements, and impossibilities: it is this that, in all things, distinguishes the strong soul from the weak.”  I wonder as I think about that if he was intentionally describing 2 year olds, who exhibit these characteristics naturally.  I also wonder why – if we are all born with this quality, this strength of soul – do so many of us lack it as adults?  What is it about our journey through life that weakens us and allows us to be susceptible to obstacles, discouragements, and impossibilities?  I point to Lewis Carroll’s very popular “I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast” quote as well  (apparently he’s a very quotable man).  When did we stop believing in impossible things?   Or more accurately, accepting them as impossible?

A friend of mine recently sparked a very interesting conversation about whether it is our journey through life that defines us – through our experiences – or dilutes us from who we were originally born being.  Do we spend a lifetime figuring out how to become something new, or trying to get back to our original form?

I – clearly – don’t have an answer for that.  I don’t think there’s an absolute truth to it.  But I will say that in regards to passionate persistence and the willingness to reject the presence of obstacles and discouragements, I want to be more like Alice.  The strength of soul to be permanent and persistent.  So my personal challenge for now is to mediate on this goal – rather than be frustrated – when she sinks her teeth into an idea or path that seems to be singularly intentioned to drive me crazy.   And I know without a doubt that she will give me plenty of opportunities for reflection in the years to come.