This might just be my earliest memory. I was about five years old. We lived in Detroit, Michigan and I was in Kindergarten. I had two older sisters and a younger sister and
brother. But none of that mattered on this particular day. This was between me and God.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table. I was finishing my cereal and toast for breakfast. I really didn't want to eat the crust of my toast. Such a delicate palate at that young age. I knew I had to eat everything on my plate, what with all the starving children in Biafra and all. We were raised in a pretty strict Catholic home and you did what you were told. So I had to eat my crust. What to do?

And then it came to me. I'll give my bread crust to God. He'll eat it. He loves little children. What a grand solution! So, I climbed down from my big chair and went through the door to the basement. I stepped down a few steps and stood there in the dark staircase. I lifted my hand up, arm outstretched to the heavens and said, "Here God, you can have my crust." I waited. Nothing. I waited some more. Nothing. "No, really, ... You can have it." I waited. Still nothing. I finally brought