At the doctors office the other day, while I was chasing my little girl around the waiting room, a nice man said to me, "She sure is a blessing." I smiled at him and responded, "She sure is."

I didn't mean it. 

My little girl is the most precious thing on the planet to me. I will stab, kick, slice, rip, murder, or maim anyone that ever aims to cause her harm in any way, and I will love and care for her no matter what decisions she makes until my soul is no more. But I can't bring myself to believe that God was responsible for her showing up here. I believe it was Love and a beautiful act of biology and cosmic fortuitousness that brought her to us.

I never mean it, either, when I habitually say, "God Bless You" when someone sneezes. I feel guilty for saying it because I don't mean it. Nobody says "god bless you" when someone farts, and what's the difference? Oh, right - that's "the devil's hole".

With my daughter being so young, and the prospect of prescribing her a religion for life on the horizon, one could see himself deciding if he wants the same for his children as he had. I've nothing but fond memories of my childhood, and that's what brings me to this crossroad.