My Four-Year Old Thinks God Has Tinted Windows
A preschooler looks for God in her daily life
Everyday when we walk the familiar path between our apartment and Bà Nội (Grandma)’s house, we pass a man called Mr. George. Mr. George has made his home outdoors on the corner of 7th and Washington for as long as most of the neighborhood can remember. He sleeps under a tent made of tarps at night, and by day he sits under an umbrella with an empty chair next to him, listening to his radio and watching the world go by on that busy corner. Mr. George’s gift to the world is his availability. People of all walks of life stop by, sit in the empty chair, and have long conversations him. His blue eyes are sharp, full of humor and insight, and he’s a good listener. Sometimes he’s a little drunk, but never too drunk to make you feel like he doesn’t see you.
The kids know him well and talk to him every day. Too young to fully understand social stigmas, my kids recognize that Mr. George sleeps outside and doesn’t have a lot of opportunities to shower. These details, however, are much less important than the way he regards them with delight. They run up to him and show him whatever they are carrying in their backpacks that day. Sometimes they draw him a picture or bring him something we baked. He always ends with “Tell Grandma I said hello,” and we continue on our way. Long Beach, CA is a city of paradoxes and unexpected characters, and to me George is one of the most interesting. He never asks for money yet he always seems to have what he needs. He sleeps outside under tarps, yet he has more friends than anyone else I know.
Our vantage on Mr. George shifts when we go home after dark in my brother-in-law’s black Toyota Highlander SUV. Walking in this neighborhood at night isn’t safe, so Uncle David gives us a ride home most nights. As the kids pass George’s corner, they press their faces to the windows and wave at him, calling out “Hi Mr. George!” just as they always do when we walk by. This time, though, they get no response. George sits on his chair motionless, his gaze fixed elsewhere as if they were watching him through a movie screen.
Night after night on the drive home, my daughter Eva asks me to explain why we can see Mr. George but he can’t see us. Tired after a long day, I try to explain the concept of tinted windows: they let us see out, but prevent others from seeing in. Why? To keep us safe. From the outside, Mr. George and others only see a black window. Something about the sudden separation between themselves and this familiar person troubles the kids. Perhaps on some level they feel a new difference between Mr. George and themselves: they get to retreat into an insulated space where no one can see them or reach them, while George does not. When night falls, they feel their distance from this man who they met eye-to-eye on the street level a few hours before. I can tell this feeling jars them, and opens their minds to the problems of power, visibility, vulnerability, and hiddenness.
Earlier in the day today, Eva was sitting at the table at Bà nội’s house eating lunch and asking those huge religious/philosophical questions that only preschoolers ask. “When we die, we lay down and don’t get up again, so how can we walk around in heaven?” Gazing at the crucifix on wall, Eva asks, “Where is Jesus right now?” Having handled enough of these questions, I decided to let Bà nội and Uncle David give it their best shot. When Bà nội explained that Jesus is with us all the time and can see us, Eva looked puzzled and asked, “Then why can’t I see him?” Uncle David tried to explain that Jesus is in our hearts etc. Half-listening to these explanations, Eva reached for her own way to understand. Her eyes suddenly brightened as she grabbed hold of a concept that worked for her: “Oh, it’s just like tinted windows!”
I stopped eating mid-bite and looked at my daughter. Oddly, this made a lot more sense than the conventional religious answers: some kind of barrier between God and us that enables God to observe us undetected most of the time. The idea of God gliding by in his late model SUV with AC and music blasting while we sit out in the elements maybe isn’t the concept of God I want my child to have. Still, my daughter has put her finger on the differences of perception that vantage point can create, and her mind is open to the idea that just because we can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there. If walking down the street is immanence, than the black SUV is transcendence. I can see that she prefers to walk on the street level, and I hope that as she grows she recognizes that she can glimpse God there too, sitting under an umbrella with an empty chair next to him.