question. answer.

“Momma, why don’t we ever eat at Burger King?” some back seat voice politely inquired over the gentle strains of Bach playing on our car’s stellar sound system as our family traveled the highway to yet another culturally enlightening event.

Wait.

Most of that first sentence was a lie.

Can I just start over?

“Momma, why don’t we ever eat at Burger King?” some back seat voice screeched over the sounds of the Avett Brothers and the other four mostly shouting children as our family traveled the highway in our shamefully dirty Suburban to the grocery store or to the dumpster or on some other errand our life requires.

Before I could turn down the radio’s volume to answer, Piper Finn handled the task for me.

“Because it’s unhelf-eee,” she stated.

“That’s true,” I agreed.

“Oh yeah,” Bergen assented.  “Plus, Aunt Emma doesn’t like their advertising.”

“That is also true,” I continued.

Mosely, the poser of the original question, took a deep breath and said, “Yeah, but Momma doesn’t care for McDonald’s or Zaxby’s or Wal-Mart or Chuck E. Cheese.”

“Hmmm.  That is all also true I guess,” I had to admit.

So I spent the rest of the car ride with the radio turned off,

trying to explain to my children,

the little arrows that fill my quiver,

why I avoid shopping at Wal-Mart,

how eating at McDonald’s makes my stomach feel just hours later,

and what Chuck E. Cheese actually does to the insides of Mommy’s brain.

Because their questions reminded me of something that I am guilty of sometimes forgetting.

All big ideas,

all good thoughts,

all lasting principles,

must first be made simple.

They must first be understood.

And if I cannot take my ideas, my thoughts, my visions, my faith

and simplify them into a simple sentence

(or a series of simple sentences perhaps)

then maybe that idea,

that thought,

that vision,

that faith

is not yet really my own.

If I cannot pass on the truths of me

like seeds

so someone else can

plant them,

study them,

water them

then that idea,

that thought,

that vision

will never grow.

It will have no life of its own,

no life beyond mine.

It will die with me.

I need to be able to answer the questions of my children.

I need to be able to explain the thoughts that drive my actions.

If I cannot,

are they really mine then?

The questions are endless.

The ones they ask.

“Why do we pray before we eat?”

“Why should we not throw trash out of the windows of our car?”

“Why can’t I hit my sister when she takes my truck?”

The ones they don’t ask.

“Will you and Daddy stay married forever?”

“How do I know God loves me?”

“Are we safe?”

The ones they haven’t asked yet.

“Why should I believe in God?”

“Why should I wait until I get married to have sex?”

“Why should I trust the Bible?”

I think,

until I can simplify the answers

until even my young children can understand them,

then I can’t really claim the truths myself.