Gatorade, Strawberries, and Theology

My boy barged in the house like a thirsty dog, and he threw open the refrigerator door in search of a Gatorade. He took a big swig of the good stuff, and then he said, “Mom, does God know everything that’s going to happen?”

It makes me laugh, the abstract pairings of his thoughts. I need a drink and some answers to theology.

I was standing at the counter, cutting strawberries and trimming the stems off grapes, feeling like an epic super hero for stocking my refrigerator with fresh produce.  (Seriously, this is no small thing.) I answered him, “Yep.”

He took another swig of Gatorade. “So, he knows everything I’m going to do?”

“Yep.”

“Before I do it?” Swig of Gatorade.

“Even before you know you’re going to do it.”

“Huh,” he grunted. I expected him to ask something about how God knows all of this, or perhaps something about the endless debate of how we think we get to make our own decisions if God knows what we’re going to do anyway.

But instead, he took another swig, and then he said, “I wonder why he wants it that way.”

He twisted the cap on the Gatorade and put it on the shelf of the fridge. The salad dressings and coffee creamers slammed against the inside of the door as he slammed it shut, heading back outside and leaving me to process his question over the grapes and strawberries.

I loved the peek into my thirsty boy’s mind. He raises a great question.

Not “How does he know,” not “What are the implications for me and my actual authority over my own life,” but “Why would God want to know?”

It’s such a good question.