At 6:30 this morning, I stumbled downstairs for some coffee when a small voice echoed from our closet-sized bathroom near the kitchen.
"Hi Abba."
"Hi boo," I responded, sweeping sleep from my eyes, trying to focus. The door was wide open, revealing my five-year-old daughter seated on the toilet, legs dangling, hands resting on her knees.
"Did you know God is everywhere?"
I looked at the clock and shook my head. "No. No, I didn't."
"God's everywhere," she moaned, exerting herself. "I promise. It's true."
"Really?"
"Yeah," she squeezed out. Kerplunk.
I stood silently, ruminating on which teacher might have planted this theological nugget in her sprouting synapses, not yet alert enough to engage in such a discussion.
She gazed into the toilet, then looked up at me with a sly smile. "Abba?"
"Yeah, boo."
"You know what?"
"What?"
"God is in my poop," she said, giggling.
I suppressed a smile and turned away.
"God's in my poop," she repeated, vibrating on the toilet with laughter. "Right, Abba?"
"Sure, I guess."
She smiled and considered this, then asked, "Should I flush God?"
I had no words.
"Should I flush him?"
I looked into her eyes as brewing coffee gurgled from the kitchen and inhaled, silently thanking the God in her poop for this moment of existential comedy.
"Abba, is it okay if I flush God?"
"It's okay," I responded, smiling. "He won't mind."