Yesterday on the drive home, Georgia pipes up from the back seat that I need to turn the radio off.  When I ask why, she says that she needs to pray.

Georgia has never struck me as uber-religious, but who am I to stand in the way if a little girl wants to have a chat with her creator?

So music goes off and from the back of the car I hear (add a lisp and a small speech impediment for effect):

“Thank you God for my mommy …

Thank you God for my mommy’s mommy …

Thank you God for my mommy’s mommy’s tummy …

Thank you God for my mommy’s mommy’‘s tummy where my mommy Celeste was…

Thank you God for my mommy’s tummy where Connor, Isabelle and me lived …

Thank you God for my mommy named Celeste ….

Thank you God for the pretty houses made of bricks …

Thank you God for the animals on the farm ….

Amen”