Mouths Of Babes.

It dawns on me while I am lying mashed into the mattress waiting for my alarm to go off. My eyes fly open. For someone who thinks about themselves and who they are becoming as much as I do, it surprises me to ever be surprised. But not only do I not believe in god now, but I never did. Not as far back as I can remember. You see, now I have reasons. Logic. And it’s not a sad thing. It’s not a hopeless thing, or a world-hating thing. It just is what it is.

But back when I was four and five. My mother taught Sunday school for twenty something years but we were never a strictly religious family. I didn’t have negative experiences as a child with the church. And it’s not about anger when you’re a child, either.

I just never . . . bought it.

I remember sitting in those little classroom chairs every sunday feeling mischievous thinking that everyone else, even the teacher, felt the same way. We just shouldn’t say it out loud. I was always waiting for them to get serious.

And I still don’t buy it.