At church this morning, I tell Emma to pray Michael on his birthday. She leans over, nods her head and says something to me. This is how I thought the conversation went:
Her (in a whispered tone): Yep, he's dead.
Me: What? It's his birthday, pray for him.
Her: He's dead.
Me: What? No he's not.
Her: (holding up 10 fingers) He's ten.
Me: (muffling giggles) Yes, you're right. Now pray for him on his big day.
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