Every day,
a child small enough to still miscount her fingers
walked into the temple.
She stood very still.
Hands folded.
Lips moving like a secret breeze.
The priest watched her—
this four-year-old with no books, no prayers memorized,
no words grand enough for heaven.
Yet her devotion filled the room.
One day he asked, gently,
“Little one, what do you say to God?
You cannot read, you do not know the prayers.”
She smiled.
“I only know my letters,” she said. "My mother and the kindergarden teacher taught me
“So I give them to God—
A to Z, again and again.
And I ask Him to make from them
whatever prayer He likes.”
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