i don't know if i believe in God

When I was 9 years old, my dog died. She was 2 months old and ran into the road and a car came too fast and took her to heaven. At least that’s how my dad told me the news when I left school early to say goodbye to her. I remember thinking she was lucky that God chose her to go to heaven, He must have thought she was special. He needed her. When I found out about heaven as a child, I was excited to go there, and I worked hard every day to make sure I would end up there, I didn’t mind when that would be – the earlier the better, I guessed.

I was a very gullible child. I made houses for fairies in the garden, left my tooth under the pillow and wrote notes to the tooth fairy, a 4-year-old girl told me once when I was 3 that if you sleep with your feet out the covers a clown will come and bite them off. I slept tightly under the covers as small as I possibly could for 8 years. The night my dog died I sat crossed legged in bed, put my hands together and sobbed, looking up to the sky (my night-light lit ceiling), and I prayed to God to let me speak to my dog. I then told my dog how much I loved her and missed her already, and that I would speak to her every night. And I did, for 5 years.