Last night, Turner woke up from a dead sleep crying loudly for me. I went into her room and asked her what was wrong. The following conversation ensued:
"I don't want to go to heaven, Mommy."
"What? (Trying to catch up with her...) Why not?"
"I want to stay with you and Daddy."
"Turner, honey, don't worry. You won't go to heaven for a long, long time. And we will all be together in heaven. "
(Still crying) "Will Jesus have a beard in heaven?"
"Not if you don't want him to, sweetie. "
"Will he shave it for me?"
"Yes. He will."
"Ok."
"Goodnight. I love you."
"Goodnight."
I wonder where this deep-seated fear of facial hair came from...
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