Why Does Mental Illness So Often Mean Belief In God

We take the dogs for a walk, early.

It is a sunny, crisp, cool morning

I can see him coming from across the road, the wide eyes of the mentally challenged are easy to recognise.

Then almost on cue, in rapid fire delivery.

“I saw you in church brother.”

“No, you didn’t,” I say.

“I saw you in church brother.”

“No, you didn’t,” I say.

“Don’t you go to church, brother?”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“You don’t go to church, brother?”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“Do you pray in church, brother.”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“Do you pray in church, brother.”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“Do you believe Jesus, brother.”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“Do you believe in Jesus, brother?”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“Do you believe in God?”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“Do you believe in God, brother?”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“You don’t believe in God, brother?”

“No,” I say.

“I’ll pray for you, brother.”

“Don’t waste your time,” I say.

“I’ll pray for you, brother.”

“Please don’t,” I say.

“You don’t want me to pray for you?”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“You don’t want me to pray for you, brother?”

“No,” I say.

“I’ll pray for you brother.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’ll pray for you brother?”

“It means nothing to me,” I say.

“I’ll pray for you, brother.”

“Suit yourself,” I say.

There, he got what he wanted.

And then he was gone.