Are You Made of God?

This is an experience of mine that I've been wanting to write down for some time. I wrote it down for a sister in a ward I was serving in shortly after it happened, but not really for myself.

I was a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, serving in the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community in Arizona. The reservation is large, but wedged tightly between Mesa and Scottsdale. Consequently, it's not entirely what many people picture when they think of an Indian reservation. The major roads are paved and wide, many of the homes are modern, and the community is divided up into family homesteads, regular streets, and subdivisions. The grid system that is typical of the surrounding cities extends itself into this community. Some parts of the place resembled the wealthiest neighborhoods I ever saw in Arizona, while others could have been third-world. Out there, we were known informally as "church people" in spite of the large LDS congregation on the reservation and the presence of many other churches. At the time this happened, I'd been there long enough that I could ask for someone by name at every residence, almost without exception.

My companion and I went to the house a couple we had met before with the intention of setting a teaching appointment, but discovered only a group of young children playing in the yard. The children of the tribe(s) were playful towards us in general, but also very respectful, so we were not surprised by their unashamed, almost reverent staring as we walked by. On our way out of the yard, however, one boy of perhaps seven or eight years old asked me something that did surprise me.

"Are you made of God?" he said.
"No," I replied, not knowing what else to say, "just sent by Him." The boy's eyes grew wide.
"God sent you here?" he asked with wonder.
"Yes. We'll come back at a better time, okay?"
"Okay." He paused, then asked quickly, "Next time, can you bring God with you?"
My companion and I looked at each other, touched but trying not to laugh.
"We'll do what we can," I answered. When the boy made no answer we began to walk off, but at the edge of the large yard he called to us in words I couldn't quite make out.
"What?" I asked, turning around.
He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Tell God I love Him!"

I can't describe the feeling I had as I walked down the street, pondering the gift that had just been given me. I asked myself what I would have to do to answer those questions differently the next time I was asked them. What did it mean to be made of God? How could I ensure that I was on His errand and that my timing was right? What did I have to do in order to bring Him with me? Most importantly, how could I be certain that He knew of my love for Him? I was sure that he knew of the little boy's, but I told Him about it anyway in my silent prayer.

The answer to the first came easily, for I knew then and know now that God is love. I could go on and on, waxing philosophic about that and other answers to those questions, but I think instead I will simply quote the scripture that came to my mind immediately following that revelation:

"Wherefore, my beloved brethren, pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that ye may be filled with this love, which he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ; that ye may become the sons of God; that when he shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is; that we may have this hope; that we may be purified even as he is pure. Amen." (Moroni 7:48)