I was born with a vivid imagination. That’s true for everybody. It’s part of our God-given skill to make sense of our strange new world.
When I was two, Daddy built a sandbox next to our gravel driveway so I could play with my cast-iron cars and trucks. Nobody told me I had to stay inside the box, so I imagined my cars speeding down our driveway. I used most of the sand in my sandbox to create a little paved road to the street.
If I was alone, I made strange sounds and talked to myself. If somebody walked by, I quickly shut up, lest people think I was weird. Actually, I liked talking to my invisible friend. He was my faithful companion—with me wherever I went—always eager to hear what I had to say—always understanding how I felt.
In school, I learned not to talk to myself. I was supposed to talk only to real people, and my imaginary friend wasn’t real. Those were sad days, but not for long. I found an even better friend who went with me everywhere and understood me better than I understood myself.
Since God knows my thoughts and sees everything I do (Psalm 139:2), when I imagine and talk to him, I’m communicating with someone real.