God Weighs Like A Thousand Pounds

There is a boy in my program, aged eight, who is a terrible know-it-all, but who also lacks any self-confidence. He's always telling people things that he knows, and then repeating them over and over saying "Right? Right? The Sun is like a million degrees hot, right? Isn't it? Don't you know that? You know it, right?"

There is a girl in my program, aged six, who is repeating kindergarten and who is almost completely detatched from reality. Last year this girl composed and performed a song for our entire program with the lyrics, "I like fish/ in my dish/ MY NAME IS CHRISTOPHER ROBIN!" (you have to shout the last part). She is sweet, but also exceptionally dirty. You'll watch her dig her hand down her pants, and then she'll run up to you and try to put same hand on your face. You recoil, but at the same time you worry that you're hurting her feelings by shunning her.

This boy and this girl were discussing theology earlier this week when I picked them up from school.
"What?" the boy said, "You don't know about God? He's like the most best person ever. If you don't like him, it means you like the devil. God's really big, and he knows everything, and he's really really good and can do anything he wants."
"Yeah," said the little girl, her hair tangled, her face a mask of dirt and snot, "and he can turn himself into a tiger."