I love being a parent. Having children is something I have wanted since I was a child. My mother tells me that when I was as young as 5, I talked about "my babies," their names, features, etc. 

These three daughters of mine are by far the best thing I have ever done and raising them to be decent, compassionate, loving, caring, socially conscious human beings is by far the greatest task I shall ever face and accomplishment I can ever hope to achieve. I am doing a good job. I know this because I am regularly faced with the part of parenting that I hate, that of not having adequate answers.

A prime example: When Turkey was rocked by a devastating earthquake several years ago, I watched the news with my oldest daughter, explaining in child-ese what the reporters were relating from the scene. 

Having survived a hurricane as a baby, she is always fascinated by natural disasters and even at the tender age of 7 had a deep respect for Mother Nature.  She asked if the buildings looked the same after the hurricane as they did on CNN in Turkey. I told her that they did. She wondered out loud if the Red Cross was going to help them the way they had arrived to help us. I assured her they were on their way. 

She then turned her huge blue eyes to me and asked how God could let so many people be hurt and killed. My silence frightened us both and she then asked if there really is a God.

There is no manual, textbook or class to prepare you for the questions that the open, innocent, answer-needing child can ask. This is especially true when you find yourself pondering questions about philosophy and theology. 

I was gifted with a strong foundation and belief system as a child. But I also grew up thinking about Him mainly on Sunday mornings when my parents would drag my siblings and I to church. Like many, I have also been guilty of turning to God in times of need and strife, starting too many prayers with, "Please God... ."