I was five years old, a bundle of innocence and curiosity. My mind was filled with endless questions, and my mom was my go-to source for answers. Despite her occasional grumpy responses, I knew deep down she loved me dearly. But sometimes, her actions left me puzzled.

"Mom?" I asked for the tenth time, my wide eyes fixed on her. "Why don't I see any pictures of Christ in the Bible?" I couldn't help but wonder why such an important figure was absent from its pages.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, she replied, ask me once more and I won't be liable. Son, keep it up and I'll whip your butt again and I won't be judged by Jesus because he knows I'm not without sin.

But mom, won't Jesus be upset if you whip my hide? What would Jesus say if he heard me hollaring in the night?

I'm hungry mom, what's for dinner? She said, "I'm not cooking anything since you are a sinner."

Digging muddy holes in my lawn, and burying grannie's underwear. What's a mom to do when her kid doesn't seem to care.

"Mom," I was helping granny, she's too old to wash clothes, that dumb old washing machine is broke.

So I dug a hole, filled it with dish water, and the rest you know.

Anyway, mom how do you supposed...