As I have written before, those early years with three preschoolers were a blurry fog of insanity for me. On top of that, I had a daughter who made the strong-willed child Mr. Dobson described look like a pansy picking daisies. One of the greatest mercies was sleep– they all slept at night pretty well. One night when Memphis was about four, I had dried her off after a bath and sent her to put on her jammies while I finished Cora Jo’s bath. When I went to check on Mem, she was already snuggled deep into her quilt and fast asleep. I put everyone else to bed and collapsed myself.

Around two a.m., Memphis staggered into our bedroom, naked and angry.

“Momma!” she cried. “You didn’t pray for me last night before I went to sleep and just look what happened! I’m naked!”

There was no sense in trying to explain that she had forgotten to get dressed, because I had no intention of going three rounds with her at two a.m. Plus, how could I shatter the faith of a little girl who believes prayer can keep her clothes on?