I was just 4 years old, and in a foster home. I remember standing on my pink candlewick bedspread covered bed, and singing (in my sweetest possible voice designed to melt hearts) a self composed song about Jesus loving me (aaah) because I was sure somebody did!. Unfortunately it was a bit like the sky falling on Chickenlittle's head, because an unexpected hairbrush came crashing down (oops). My hosts obviously didn't appreciate my middle-of-the-night contribution, and the ensuing chorus from myself was a payment they bought upon themselves. Needless to say, today I am an agnostic, normally intact, and reclaiming the sweet sounds.