Isaiah held onto his mother’s hand, his eyes wide up at her as they walked. “Mom,” he said, young voice betraying that he was going to ask a question before he ever started forming it, “What is god like?”

Isaiah’s mother had a warm smile spread across her face. She told him about the things in scripture, and how the Church of Saints — their church — viewed god.

A frown — a pout more like; childish disagreement — worked its way onto Isaiah’s face. “Why did you choose this?” he asked, “Why didn’t you choose something else? Why don’t you change? Does being in the Church of Sinners make you a bad person?”

Why, why, why.

Isaiah asked the questions in such quick succession that his mother couldn’t answer them fast enough. But the last question made her stutter.

“Mom, could I choose that other church?”

He asked it with childish determination. He wanted an answer, and he wanted it right then. He stared up at his mother, his green eyes wide, and clear, and sharp.

Isaiah’s mother didn’t have an answer. “How about we talk about something else, sweetie?”