For the first ten years of my life, I heard my dad begin his prayers by saying, "Our Father HORT in heaven."
I idly wondered what HORT meant. I had heard people say "Our Father who art in heaven," which I understood. But at my young age I didn't make the connection that HORT actually meant who art, not even given the fact that he grew up in southern Idaho. (Aside: In southern Idaho, people often get their short a sound confused with their short o sound. For example, they pronounce the word fort as fart, Lord becomes Lard, and Mormon becomes Marmon. Don't ask me why.)
One Saturday morning over our typical pancakes, fried eggs, Sizzlean, and cherry Kool-Aid breakfast, I asked my dad, "Dad, what does HORT mean?"
He looked at my sideways. "What do you mean, HORT?"
"You know, when you pray, you say 'our Father HORT in heaven.' What does it mean?" I pressed.
He banged his fist down on the table and groaned loudly. Red Kool-Aid sloshed out of his glass. He thought I was making fun of him.
"Why is it that you always have to question my auth-ARE-ity?!?" he yelled. Then he smacked me up side the head. I think it was at that moment in time that I started hating breakfast. Especially pancake breakfast.
He sure showed me not to ask fresh questions, didn't he?