Liv clambers into our bed as soon as she wakes, poking us with elbows and knees, wanting to know what they are doing in heaven today, to celebrate Good Friday?
She wants to know every single thing I don’t have an answer to.
It seems, these days, like Liv has taken those verses in Deutoronomy, the ones about teaching our children diligently, and turned them on their head. My own uncertainty about what to do with God’s words in our home does not stop her. She talks of them when she sits, when she walks by the way, when she lies down, when she rises.
Liv has an unflagging interest this year in Pilate. (Asking what his name was again, trying to get her tongue around it, giggling a bit, Pontius Pilate).
She sits in her booster seat as we drive to Asda and asks her questions.
She is trying to work out his responsability, what he decided, what he really wanted, if he was good.
“I would have decided that Jesus should die”, she declares, “because it brought so much good, in the end.”
So she clambers into our bed this morning, it’s Friday, and she wants to celebrate, because she is certain this story is Good.
“Even the stones would cry out!” she told us, wide-eyed, a few Sundays ago.
Yes, I think, even the stones, and even the six-year-olds.