Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(127)
“Dads don’t know everything.”
“Only God does.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mr. Schneiderman.”
“Who’s that?”
“My Hebrew school teacher.”
“Schneiderman. Right.”
“He said that God knows everything. But that didn’t make sense to me.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me, either.”
“But that’s because you don’t believe in God.”
“I only ever said I was unsure. But if I did believe in God, it still wouldn’t make sense to me.”
“Right, because if God knows everything, why do we have to write notes to put in the Wall?”
“That’s a good point.”
“Mr. Schneiderman said that God knows everything but sometimes forgets. So the notes are to remind him of what’s important.”
“God forgets? Really?”
“That’s what he said.”
“What do you think about that?”
“It’s weird.”
“I think so, too.”
“But that’s because you don’t believe in God.”
“If I believed in God, he would be a remembering God.”
“Mine would, too.”
Despite being as agnostic about God’s existence as he was about the question’s meaning (could any two people really be referring to the same thing when speaking about God?), Jacob wanted Benjy to believe. Or Dr. Silvers did, anyway. For several months, Benjy’s anxiety about death had been slowly and steadily ramping up, and now risked tipping from adorable to problematic. Dr. Silvers said, “He has the rest of his life to form answers to theological questions, but he’ll never get back this time of developing his first relationship to the world. Just make him feel safe.” That struck Jacob as right, even if the thought of evangelizing made him squirm. The next time Benjy raised his fear of death, just when Jacob’s instinct urged him to agree that an eternity of nonexistence was certainly the most horrible of all things to imagine, Jacob remembered Dr. Silvers’s command: Just make him feel safe.
“Well, you know about heaven, right?” Jacob said, causing a nonexistent angel to lose its wings.
“I know that you think it isn’t real.”
“Well, no one knows for sure. I certainly don’t. But you know what heaven is?”
“Not really.”
So Jacob gave his most comforting explanation, sparing neither extravagance nor intellectual integrity.
“And if I wanted to stay up late in heaven?” Benjy asked, now planking on the sofa.
“As late as you want,” Jacob said, “every single night.”
“And I could probably eat dessert before dinner.”
“You wouldn’t have to eat dinner at all.”
“But then I wouldn’t be healthy.”
“Health won’t matter.”
Benjy turned his head to the side: “Birthdays.”
“What about them?”
“What are they like?”
“Well, they’re never-ending, of course.”
“Wait, it’s always your birthday?”
“Yes.”
“You have a party and get presents every day?”
“All day every day.”
“Wait, do you have to write thank-you notes?”
“You don’t even have to say thank you.”
“Wait, does that mean you’re zero, or infinity?”
“What do you want to be?”
“Infinity.”
“Then you’re infinity.”
“Wait, is it always everyone’s birthday?”
“Only yours.”
Benjy rose to his feet, raised his hands above his head, and said, “I want to die right now!”
Just don’t make him feel too safe.
In Irv and Deborah’s basement, facing a more nuanced theological question, Jacob again resisted his instinct for truth in favor of Benjy’s emotional safety: “Maybe God does remember everything but sometimes chooses to forget?”
“Why would he do that?”
“So that we remember,” Jacob said, pleased with his improvisation. “Like the wishes,” he continued. “If God knew what we wanted, we wouldn’t have to.”
“And God wants us to know for ourselves.”
“Could be.”
“I used to think Great-Grandpa was God,” Benjy said.
“You did?”
“Yeah, but he’s dead, so obviously he wasn’t God.”
“That’s one way to think about it.”
“I know Mom isn’t God.”
“How is that?”
“Because she would never forget about me.”
“You’re right,” Jacob said, “she wouldn’t.”
“No matter what.”
“No matter what.”
Another round of expletive mutterings from the cousins.
“Anyway,” Benjy said, “that’s what was making me cry.”
“Mom?”
“My note for the Wailing Wall.”
“Because you were thinking about how God is forgetful?”