TJ came sleepy-eyed into the kitchen, pulled herself up onto the stool, and stared at her 1/2 cup of juice and 'concentration' medicine sitting before her. Around the corner and into the kitchen came Bob. "Daddy!" she shouted."You're home!" She had forgotten that Bob had this President's Day off, but she still had to go to school. Darn those snow make-up days!
     Suddenly, her lethargy disappeared, replaced by excitement and enthusiasm. Daddy's here on a school day. Wanting to impress him with all her knowledge she began calling out words and spelling them. "Start . S...T...A...R...T. Start! Cat.  C...A...T. Cat!"  Another word or two and she switched to her new addition skills. "Two plus two is FOUR!" We applauded again. "Four plus four is EIGHT!"  More applause. But TJ had exhausted all her math knowledge. Thinking I would help her out, I asked 'what is three plus three'. She was stumped. Standing behind Bob I held up three fingers on my right hand and three on my left. She counted silently. "SIX!". She shouted, laughed with pride, and kicked her feet in excitement. I continued with one plus one. Stumped again, I held up one finger on my right hand and one finger on my left.  She knew she had this one. Her feet began flailing, arms waving, bursting with confidence she screamed, "ELEVEN!"
      In stunned silence, Bob and I - with my two pointer fingers frozen in the mid air - turned to look at her. She grew quiet wondering why there were no plaudits. The silence was broken by Bob's contagious uncontrollable laughter. In unison, and through our glee, we said, "It's two, you silly girl!" With that, TJ looked at my fingers, still hanging in the air, and burst forth in squeals of delight, giggling at her obvious mistake. "You"re right!" she said, "I am silly!"
     With that finally clarified, we got her ready for her day at school and sent her off  ready to face the challenges of one more day of kindergarten.
    

       "Momma! I don't want to go to Sunday School! I want to go with you!" Pregnant pause. Momma doesn't respond. "I HATE SUNDAY SCHOOL!"
       This has become our Sunday morning mantra. Of course I know TJ doesn't hate Sunday School. She is always bursting to tell us what new thing she learned about Jesus and to show off her art work. Her desire is to be with us, to sit next to us with our arms around her, or to sit on a lap and lay her head on a shoulder. It's comforting to her.
      With Bob out of town visiting his parents, it occurred to me that this may be a good opportunity for her to join me in church. This is the first Sunday for me to attend both Sunday School and church. Two and a half hours is a long time for a hyperactive six year old girl to be contained in a small room. Compromise. "TJ, you go to Sunday School, Anna and I will go to Sunday School, and afterward we will come and take you to church with us. Deal?" "DEAL!" she shouts.
     An hour later I rescued one excited little girl, took her by the hand, lead her through the maze of grown-ups to the Sanctuary entrance. I squatted in front of her, eye to eye and listed the rules: be quiet, no squirming, no gum or candy, don't dig in my purse, stay in your seat . . . and be quiet and no squirming. With TJ in tow, Anna and I made our way to our established seats in the balcony - 6th row up, center left, seats one, two and three.
     Worship started. The congregation stood. TJ watched in wonderment. It didn't take long before she was bored with it all and began pressing herself against me, wriggling herself into me, and wrapping her arms around my hips. When we sat, she quietly asked, "Momma, can I sit on your lap?" "No, honey, I am writing." She took an offering envelope and a small pencil and busied herself writing words and letters. Since the seat next to her was empty, she used it for a writing table. During the sermon I occasionally glanced at her to see her bent over the other seat, occupied with her writing. 'She is doing so well,' I thought.
     Half way through the sermon I felt a deliberate bump on my elbow. TJ thrust her hands in front of me, palms up, both hands thickly painted in chocolate. Stunned, I put my palm up to her to say 'I don't want to hear it' and my first thought was 'what must those people behind me be thinking!' As Anna quickly whisked TJ away to the restroom, I stared at the seat left vacant next to me . . . melted chocolate smeared between the two fabric chairs. The harder I tried to get it out, the deeper ingrained in became.
     After the service, I found Anna and TJ waiting for me in the lobby, TJ making herself small in the overstuffed chair. Again, I squatted in front of her, eye to eye. "I am not happy with you."
     "Why not?" she asked innocently.
     "Let's think about it for a minute. Why might I be a little upset with you?"
     "Because I had candy?"
     "And what did you do with your candy?"
     "Well," she was being very thoughtful, "the candy just fell out and got all over my hands."  I stared at her. "Well," she stalls and I continue to stare. "well . . . well . . . well OK then! I got candy in Sunday School and I opened it in church and squished it in my hands."
     "I think you need to wait for a year, until you are seven, before you try to come to church again."  With that she takes my hand, the three of us walk out of church and I wonder if we will have to have this conversation again next Sunday.

Life piles on top of life and before I know it three months of days have been spent: moments uncaptured and days unchronicled. Time washes out the tiny events leaving behind the intricate form of life. Even with an undocumented past three months, of this I am sure: my life is more colorful, more defined, more complicated and much richer with Anna and TJ in it. God has chosen to bless me . . . again.

Lunch with TJ

     6:00 AM. I crept stealthily up the stairs to wake TJ for school. Down the hall the baby had just fallen asleep after a restless, fussy night. I cracked TJ's door. The light from the hall poured into the bedroom. I peered around the door in time to see her lurch up in her bed, cast off her covers, leap to the floor, and begin jumping up and down on her tip-toes,
     "I didn't sleep at all last night, Mama! I couldn't stop thinking that this is the day you are going to come to school and eat lunch with me!"
    The baby began crying. "Shhhh. Whisper, please. The baby is sleeping. We can talk down stairs." I tried my best to subdue her enthusiasm, but she bounded out of her room and down the stairs talking in full boom all the way. I may as well have told the north star not to twinkle as told TJ to calm down. During the next 30 minutes of twirling and leaping, she managed to get dressed, brush her teeth, comb her hair, find her backpack, put on her coat, get out the door, and beat her sister to the bus stop.
     At 10:15 baby Dani and I arrived at the school amid myriad of other  moms, dads, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who had come to share Thanksgiving lunch with their kindergarten children. Class by class, the K5'ers paraded past the large crowd. When the searching eyes of the children caught sight of their family they grinned, waved, and waited for the signal to launch out of the line toward their kin. The adoring families eyes were soon diverted from their little ones to the bobbing of a blond head which rose rhythmically above all the others.
     "MAMA! MAMA!" TJ's voice echoed in the concrete hallway. "MAMA!"  The eyes of everyone were searching for the mama of this loud little girl who, unlike all the other good boys and girls, couldn't wait patiently.
     For me to acknowledge TJ would avert the gazes of the crowd of relatives, all the anxious children, the weary teachers, aides, staff, and volunteers toward me . . . the 59 year old, gray haired grandma, holding her her grand baby in her arms. This old woman would answer to 'Mama.' Questions will get bantered back and forth, quizzical looks arrowed toward me, and polite, obligatory nods of 'how nice that you have had a late in life child."
     I held Dani in the air for TJ to see and as inconspicuously as possible, hollered out, "Hi TJ." All eyes trained on me. "That's my daughter." Then the looks started and TJ continued with "Dani's my niece!" adding more confusion to everyone's already mystified minds.
     Soon, a tsunami of children came rushing forth. TJ grabbed my hand and drug me to the closest lunch line. The length of the winding line only added to my distress. TJ began jumping out of line and bringing her classmates over to me. "Brandon, this is my Mama." "Hey Karras! This is my Mom!" "Mama, this is Jordan," and on and on it went until I had met every kindergartner and a few parents as well. Somewhere in the long line of introductions it dawned on me that TJ is proud of me. It doesn't matter to her that I am older than all the other parents and older than some grandparents.
     All my pride was put to rest. I smiled at the lunch ladies and said 'yes, TJ is my daughter.' We found a crowded table on which to feast and the introductions continued, but I didn't blush any longer.
     TJ is proud of me.

Calling It Quits

     Sitting sideways in the old parson's bench, Bob stares thoughtfully out the window. His gaze caught by goats grazing lazily in the warm Indian Summer sun and the peacock strutting at chickens who ignore the glare of a hundred green eyes. "We just have to endure the next eight months. What else can we do?" After a year and a half our hopes for Anna turned to frustration and frustration has melted into resignation. We are left with a myriad of questions of which the two most burning are 'why' and 'why not.'
    Three years ago Anna appeared in my middle school math class, a vibrant 12 year old girl with a slight build and a broad smile. She befriended everyone and easily shared herself and her story to all who would listen. She like many of the other children, had been removed from her home by CSS, but her story had a disturbing twist. When she was three years old she had been adopted out of 'the system' and now, as a young teen, her 'parents' were giving her back to the state. I often heard her say she wanted a different life, to make something of herself, to prove everyone wrong, to become someone. She broke my heart.
     For months Bob and I prayed and discussed what role, if any, we should play in Anna's life. Taking on a teenage girl, possibly adopting her, would change our future and retirement dramatically. When all was said and done, the few years we could give Anna weighed heavier than the freedom of our retirement years. God, we were sure, would have us bring this young girl into our family.
     We were ecstatic over the possibilities. Anna would explore places she had never thought of going. Her front teeth, which appear to travel in opposite directions, and the overbite which accompany them would be brought into alignment. She would meet educated people who speak of ideas and view the world very differently. Anna was going to be submerged into the middle class.
      Anna, now 15, is happy she lives with a white family. 'There's not so much drama with white people.' and her friends think she is rich.  She has traveled to Pensacola, Charleston, Johnson City, Disney World and camped in the mountains and on the beach. She has taken our correction of her English well. She works hard at enunciating the consonants at the end of her words and self-correcting her 'I be ....' and 'he do...'
     But she hasn't made that 180 change she'd declared in middle school. As a second year freshman, Anna is failing her core classes. Her language at school is dis and dat, but mostly fu.... She lies about where she  is and what she is doing. She failed her last drug test and has indiscriminate sex at school. She has one or two girl friends, but her calling list is 90% boys.
     Bob sits sideways in the old parsons bench and wonders what else can we do. Are we of any consequence on her at all or are our prayers and efforts in vain? Can we impact the direction she is taking toward a life of entitlements or will she make something of herself? Will she acknowledge Jesus Christ as her Savior, which she so desperately needs?
     "We just need to endure the next eight months." After some thought Bob hears the Spirit of God; He is not finished yet. Quitting would be denying the power, plan and promise of God. Once again, Bob and I regain focus on the challenge ahead, putting one foot in front of the other.

Five year olds have no concept of time. Yesterday could mean yesterday or last May. Tomorrow might be tomorrow or next summer. Five minutes are equivalent to years; two days are less than an hour; this afternoon is tomorrow after the sun goes down or maybe it was yesterday.
I tried explaining the concept of time to TJ on multiple occasions. "TJ, if you count to 60 that is the same as one minute." With a little help she counts to 60. In my mama-teacher voice I'll extend the lesson and continue with "That's great TJ! Now, if you count to 60 fifteen more times, that will be 15 minutes and the cookies will be done!" Cocking her head, furrowing her brow, and squinting her eyes, she contemplates the idea of 15 more 60's making the cookies ready to eat. "THEY WON"T BE READY UNTIL TOMORROW!?!"
"No, Honey, they will be ready in 15 minutes."
She resigns herself to a "Whatever" and wanders back to watch Dora and the Map climb another hill.

Bob held one corner of the towel with his left hand and with his right he supported the center. Anna clutched the other corner and the two of them faced outward and moved to form two sides of a triangle, My substantive rear formed the third side giving TJ the privacy she needed. I dropped to my knees and simultaneously pulled her shorts and undies off and without a hesitation pulled up the bottom half of her swimsuit. In the same smooth motion, I clasped her t-shirt, pulling it over her head and easily slipped on the top of her tankini. Voila! TJ was ready to attack her first incursion into the Atlantic Ocean!

Anna released her end of the towel and Bob collected it revealing the wide, white beach at the edge of the expansive waters. Nothing could constrain TJ as she ran headlong down the beach into the oncoming waves: arms flailing and legs leaping. Bob, following behind her, raced her to the ocean and scooped her up. When  the water reached knee height he collapsed plunging into the sea with giggles and splashes . . . . And TJ gets her first taste of ocean water.

Meanwhile, back on shore, Anna decided not go near the water - after all 'EVERYONE IS STARING AT ME!' and ' I just spent 45 minutes on my hair!' She opted for dog duty rather than cooling off, and so she wrestled with Big Dog who struggled against her to follow his master into the waves. The tug of war went on for a good while, neither ever gaining the win. Even with Big Dog managing to get wet, Anna was able to stay dry . . . that is until . . . Big Dog sauntered right up next to her to say 'I quit but not giving up' and gave himself a good shake! Anna screamed, Big Dog now dragging his leash behind him, raced toward Bob.

TJ had her first foray into the ocean, Anna got wet regardless of her efforts not to, I found a shark's tooth, which seem to elude me with my worsening eye sight, Bob played the perfect father and Big Dog won. Who could ask for a better day!