So, as you know, recently my husband’s father died, at the ripe age of 107 years. My daughter is aware of her grandfather’s death and that Dada recently went back to Ghana for his funeral. In Ghana children are not sheltered from reality and upon his return my husband showed us a film of Baba’s body as they took it from the morgue, wrapped in cloth and placed it onto the truck to take to the burial ground. My husband was showing me but our daughter was there too. She looked on in interest. She knew it was her dear Baba.
Another recent event, relevant to this post, is Easter. At my daughter’s Pre-School one of the mum’s came and talked about the death of Jesus and how he rose again and that he was the son of God etc. Now, if you’ve read about me you will know I am a Buddhist and my husband is a Rastafarian. Rastafarians follow the Old Testament of the Bible, Buddhism does not. While I must selfishly admit I would much rather my daughter choose to be a Buddhist, when we pray at the dinner table I am glad she ‘om mani padme hum’ like me and not ‘Amen’ like her Dada, I am, however, cool with my daughter learning these Christian stories because I would much rather her know ‘why’ we celebrate Easter as opposed to her recent answers of ‘Oh the Easter Bunny comes and gives you chocolate…just because.’
So take these two stories and you’ll understand the sweetest thing my daughter said after viewing the video of her grandfather.
“Mama, I wish Baba could come alive again like that God”
“You mean Jesus?”
“Yeah, I wish Baba could come alive again like him. I’d like that a lot.”
My dearest daughter, if only I could make it so. For you, I would.