The Book of Dylan

While the chances of Dylan joining the priesthood, or a nunnery, or holding any mid-level non-secular job seem as unlikely as the Seahawks making it to the playoffs Superbowl, she has been, lately, infatuated with Baby Jesus and God.  I think the trifecta of Grady's baptism, Christmas, and a steady dose of religion from Grandma have piqued her interest.

Has Dylan reached a level of holiness that we cannot fathom?  Is she the Golden Child?  No.  She still beats our pets with sticks and regularly throws tantrums that make the neighbors lock their doors.  But, once she puts down her weapons and dries her eyes (and we unlock the door), she'll ask questions like, "Where's God?"  If we respond with "Everywhere," she starts listing.  "Our house?" "Yes." "The barn?" "Yes." "Julie's house?" and on, and on, and on.

Last weekend I took Dylan snowboarding.  Since I usually go on Sundays, going to the mountain is often my church, and maybe that feeling rubbed off on Dylan.  On the way there, she asked if Baby Jesus would be on Mt. Shasta.  I told her that He would, but He'd probably be spending most of his time boarding the backcountry.  He's hardcore like that.

Questions about God or Jesus come up all the time.  For now, we can give her pretty much any answer and she's happy.  But if she gets a little more biblical knowledge, Regina and I will have to brush up on our religion.  Here's an example of a typical theological conversation between Regina and myself:  So ... Moses.  He's the guy with the whale, right?  Maybe.  Wasn't he the baby, floating down the river?  And then a whale ate him?  Yes?  And that reminds me, we need to pump up our inner tubes so we can float the Scott River this weekend.  Awesome.

Somewhere (Grandma's) Dylan learned that we shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain.  When she's around, we can't say: Jesus Christ, Jesus H. Christ, Jesus, Jeeze, Young Jeezy, Cheese Whiz, or Chimichunga.  If we utter any one of those, she'll reprimand us.  I love it when our Catholic cousins slip with a "Gee."  Dylan's right on top of it and scolds them.  "It's not nice to say 'Jesus.'"  It's like catching a Mormon saying "crap."  A rare and treasured gift.

Dylan still gets time-out on the pew on our front porch for all sorts of bad behavior, so I'm pretty sure she isn't ready for the convent, yet.  I'm trying to clean up my potty mouth and hopefully we'll strike a balance.  And in the meantime?  Go Seahawks.