So my son is home from school today. He has a cold. Apparently man-flu starts waaay before a kid hits puberty.
And as is par for the course, by the middle of the afternoon, he got bored.
We’d done Finding Nemo and Wreck-It Ralph while he convalesced. Car tracks had been built and left rejected as they lost their charm. We’d even played frisbee and horsy rides on the trampoline.
And so it was that Minecraft called his name.
“Great!” thought I. “I can get some writing done.”
Oh no, not today. Minecraft is much more fun when you have someone to play with.
And so it came to be that, despite much protestation, I found myself being trained how to play Minecraft.
I was a dutiful student. I learned how to fly. I lit torches and built little stone walls. I even found time to die twice.
And then I suggested that it might be time for mummy to stop playing for a little bit. Truth be told, the retro, pixellated look makes me feel a bit sick!
And what do you think my six year old made of that? Did he take it lying down?
For the next 30 minutes he coaxed and coerced and as a result, enjoyed an extra half hour of company in his fictional world.
What if the way we chatted with God was a bit less like we just threw up the King James Bible and more like a child talking to her dad?
What would that look like?
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