The Hat of God

Neve and I are on our way to the grocery store. Windows are rolled down, and we're stopped at a red light. We are at the "crazy corner" in Atlanta. (I'll let other Atlantans guess which one, as there are a few.) It's not the first time I've heard people yelling, holding signs, asking for money, boldly washing your windshield before asking if you'd like their service, or doing homeless hankerchief dances.

Today there is a man with long dark brown scraggly hair with a trucker's cap perched on top preaching his delusions of grandeur.

"I AM GOD! I MADE YOU, THEREFORE I LOVE YOU. BUT I CAN ALSO KILL YOU! YOU CAME FROM ME!"

Luckilly, the light turned green before I had to do the embarrassing window-roll-up or car-door-lock. In front of God, no less.

One-Mississippi.

Two-Mississippi.

Three-Mississippi.

Four-

Neve: "Mom?"

Me: "Yes?"

Neve: "That man said he was God." (confused grin on her face)

Me: "Yeah. That's pretty silly, huh?"

Neve: "Yes. He's not God!"

Me: "Nooo."

Neve: "Why?"

Me: "Why isn't he God? Um, well, because he's not- well, you know..."

Neve: "Because God doesn't wear hats?"

Me: "Mmm hmm. Does that cloud look like Dora?"

Another toddler theolgy case closed, just like that.