I had a friend, who had a cousin. We were all the same age, sitting on the same couch, watching the same dull children’s movie in the humid cool of summer’s midnight. The cousin’s father was an alcoholic. We were all bored of the movie we watched solely because there were children totting around. He asked me, “Do you believe in God?” And I, being the naive, sheltered child, responded, confused, with a yes. He asked me, “And you just go along with the idea that God created the world?” And I shrugged, not knowing where he was going with the conversation. He asked me, “Then who created God?” And then his aunt, my friend’s mom, came in, telling him it was time for him to go back home with his father. I remember him crying. He didn’t want to go home. He repeated that through his tears. That was the only time I had ever seen him cry. It’s always stayed with me, the crushing reality that made a ten year old boy question God, while I was questioning which of my friends would be home for me to play with. The unfairness he had been through, to see through the stories of love and equality that God provided. He never mentioned if he believed in God, he only left me with questions. And I still think about that day.