Time and time again, I come back to the story of the Judgment of Solomon. As a matter of fact, it brings me back to my childhood of frayed felt storyboards and stale goldfish. I heard this story for the first time when I was just in elementary school. A church that creaked and moaned, almost alive and breathing. I remember sitting in the “big church” and seeing the pastor squawking at the congregation in excitement. People clapping and wailing “hallelujah” at the top of their lungs every time the pastor breathed. I couldn’t ever quite catch the better part of what he spoke due to the fact that he was talking at a speed equivalent to that of a racehorse running. Consequently, I daydreamed about it through the week. One particular week I was
