Are You There, God?

Are you there, God? It’s me, Tricia. I’m flying down the road right now and I could really use some of that patience that you and Job have made into some sort of virtue. The Pterodactyl has unbuckled his seat belt in order to grab the Tyrant’s lunch box, and there’s no place for me to pull over, and I just uttered the words, “Son! If I get into an accident I’m going to be very upset with you!”
I realize you have no incentive for listening to me other than the generic promise of salvation. I have not been very attentive due to my experimentation with atheism, and I’m sure that if you do exist, you’re still offended by the Diva asking why there’s a “t” on top of every church. We are gradually working religion into our home-based curriculum, but she gets a little freaked out by the crucifixion so we’re taking it slow. Also, please don’t be mad about the Tyrant singing the blessing song while she sits on the potty. She’s only two, and it really is a catchy tune.
As you know, I have referred to myself as a recovering Catholic, which accurately describes my efforts to forget Mrs. Killeen the religion teacher telling me in 8th grade that she had four breasts.
But I’m also disillusioned with some of those weirdo philosophies. I’m glad you convinced His Holiness that babies who die without being baptized don’t have to hang out forever in limbo, but seriously, it took you long enough. I mean, my children haven’t been baptized - at least to my knowledge. I have a lingering suspicion that my father might have poured some water over each of their little foreheads and made the sign of the cross, which counts if a believer thinks another soul is in danger of eternal damnation.
At any rate, my children certainly haven’t done anything to warrant eternal damnation or being suspended in limbo, though at the moment I’m willing to have them suspended anywhere as long as it’s soundproof.
Which brings me back to the children and my request for patience. I’ve noticed that the Diva and the Pterodactyl, now 7 and 4, are at the age when it would be super-convenient to use you to explain a few things.
Like death, for example. Their grandfather died recently, and they want to know he’s in heaven. I’d like to have your permission, despite my doubt that heaven exists, to confirm that yes, Papa is in heaven, along with Boston the dog and the frog Daddy accidentally squished in driveway. The Diva wants to know how Papa’s bones and blood got up to heaven, and I told her that you’re magic, a little like Santa Claus, and can invisibly lift bodies up through the skies. I’m sorry, but I could not bring myself to tell her that Papa had been incinerated, his ashes put into a box and the box left overnight in the trunk of my sister-in-law’s car.
God, I tell them, is also the reason that people eat chicken, that animals in the wild kill each other and that thunder is noisy. (Their dad tells them the scientific explanation for thunder, but I can never remember it.)
I appreciate your understanding in this matter. In return, I will open my heart to any patience you want to send my way, and I promise to make Husband stop referring to surfing as a religion.
Please give our love to Papa, my grandparents, and Aunt Beulah, who are near to you if you are there. And give my best to Uncle Tony, though you’ll probably have to send him a message as I think he settled a little further south.