“A squirrel holds an acorn in its praying hands, offering thanks, it looks like.

The broken shells fall on the grass, and the grass looks up and says ‘Hey.’

And the squirrel looks down and says, ‘Hey.’ I have been saying ‘Hey,’ lately too

To God. Formalities just weren’t working.”

—RUMI, TRANSLATION BY DANIEL LADINSKY IN LOVE POEMS FROM GOD

I’M A BIG FAN OF VICTORIAN NOVELS, especially veddy, veddy proper British family sagas. Even before I had children of my own, I admired the level of respect the young folks in these books had for their elders. Their households ran on the adults’—not the kids’—schedules. And the little ones didn’t seem any worse for being fed early in the nursery and trundled off to bed before their parents had their evening meal. But the flip side of this formality was the emotional distance between the generations. When Mr. Banks in Mary Poppins finally flew a kite with his offspring, it was a monumental event (and most likely the household reverted to form the next day).For decades, my relationship with God closely resembled this paradigm of a benevolent, yet distant patriarch and a subservi­ent, respectful child. I knew God loved me, but I never imagined God having supper (egg and toast) in the nursery or flying a kite with me. I stayed in my spiritual lane, reserving my extravagant real-world affection for my earthly mom and Nana. I felt safe with my human family, confident that my missteps would always be forgiven, and that they would delight in my first words, first steps and school successes. In the religious realm, as a Catholic, the closest I came to this feeling was my devotion for the Blessed Virgin Mary, Jesus’ mom. I never put her on a pedes­tal, but she was “Mama.” I felt safe confiding in her in prayer.

But there came a season in my life when this once-removed-re­lationship with God became inadequate. I was in my early 30s and searching for a church home. While I was glad to make a change, I felt a bit unmoored. If I wasn’t a Holy Mama’s girl, who was I? I found the ELCA to be a warm and welcoming group of believers. Lutherans loved Mary but didn’t rely on her as their go-between to God. And God, to them, wasn’t the oh so prim and proper Mr. Banks, either. Here God was a totally approachable, dinner-in-the-nursery God. For me, becoming Lutheran was almost like meeting God again for the first time.

I vividly remember reading Brennan Manning’s Ragamuffin Gospel during those months. I was fascinated (and a bit scandalized) by Manning’s reference to our Creator as not a distant patriarch, but “Abba” (Aramaic for Daddy). I felt a seismic shift in my attitude. Yet I remained uneasy. What if I was wrong? What if God took offense at my over-familiarity? What then? But, for me, as for the mystic poet Rumi, “formalities just weren’t working.”

Once I started down that path of cozy familiarity, there was no going back. I was not going to introduce my babies to the proper Victorian Father God I’d found so hard to love. I wanted their world to be filled to the brim with open-hearted affection. I wanted them to think of their world as a kind and comfortable home, with a God who loved them utterly, just as they were. This image of God that I shared with them got down on the rug and played with Lego, shared meals and dried the tears on their dirt-streaked faces.

As my kiddos grew, I contin­ued talking with them on their level about God as a sweet and devoted Daddy. I realized this level really worked for me as well. God loves you and is always so happy to hear from you. God is always with you. God loves you exactly as you are. God, I told my children, and later my Sunday school stu­dents, is immensely approachable, delightfully kind and caring, and comfortable as an old shoe.

Did my level of respect and reverence decrease? I know that’s a common fear among those of us who grew up with a rather differ­ent image of God. Did “bringing God down to our level” destroy God’s power and majesty? On the contrary. Instead of feeling rather estranged from this strait-laced Mystery Deity, I now admired God all the more because I felt truly loved in a real, reciprocated relationship. Did I respect my own parents less because I was so comfortable in their arms? Of course not. So why had I ever been concerned about the ramifications of a closer, more relaxed bond with my Lord?

My prayer life quickly became less of a prostrated confession and supplication to an emotionally reserved Father Figure, and more of an easy, familiar conversation with my Heavenly Dad. One bonus of this shift has been the ease with which I reach out to God each day. In the past, I hesitated to knock on God’s study door, fearful of interrupting Almighty doings. Now I fling open the door and run in, arms open wide, bursting to tell God what is in my heart.

Nowadays, when I sit in worship and sing the chosen hymns, I am more aware of tradi­tional lyrics calling God a Mighty Fortress; Holy, Holy, Holy God of Power; Eternal Father; Strong to Save (and as the mother of a Naval Academy graduate, I have a true affection for that one!). Are some of my fellow worshipers wrong to be uplifted and reassured by these images? Not at all. God is big enough to encompass any and all human experiences of God.

For me, though, this new way to think about God has been life changing. Don’t get me wrong—I still love reading theology books and pondering matters of faith. Spirited debate with my church family, seekers or those with no faith at all helps me to figure out where my understanding fits in the continuum of reactions to God.

Now, when times are tough, when my heart aches, when I REALLY need God, I call out in the way my kids shout “Hey, Mom!” from the next room. It’s informal, intimate, expectant. “Hey, God!” I shout. And I will always believe that my loving Parent comes running.

Elise Seyfried is the author of five books of humorous spiritual essays. Elise recently retired after 20 years as director of spiritual formation at Christ’s Lutheran Church in Oreland, Pennsylvania.

This article appears in the September/October/November 2025 issue of Gather. To read more like it, subscribe to Gather.