Introduction

Once upon a time, in a place that's not so far away, there was a five year old named Anna. She 

lived with her Dad, her Mom, her little sister Kara, her baby brother Isaac and their good old dog Tecumseh.

She was a child of many words, indeed, words became her passion - huge words, huge ideas and huge questions were a constant tumble of curiosity that rippled like a great sea. Her vibrant imagination cultivated many brilliant ideas - and quite a few unnecessary catastrophes.

Sometimes her parents didn't know what to do with their dramatic child, but they loved her and prayed her through the school of hard knocks as she learned important things. (Like why not to suggest matrimony to a freshly widowed neighbor and how learning to control one's temper will save one from many a sore lip.)

Enclosed, you'll find a copy of the whole word - the way Anna sees it. Her opinions are iron, her grief, not to be scorned, and her love to be continued, unbounded. Thankfully, she's been blessed with a good memory, and her clear recollections (down to the smallest detail of her most sensational daydreams) have required very little embellishment. Be prepared for a journey into the very soul of a young girl to whom the world is brand new; it may prove to be quite shocking.

Without further adieu, I present this collection of tales which are, in her own words:

The Thought That Counted

Light. Glorious, beautiful light.

     I threw my arms over my head in a ginormous stretch. This was Monday and I liked it already. Pushing off the quilt, I jumped out of bed and flung my arms wide. I spun in the sunbeams until I was dizzy. When I stood still, the room continued to dip and swirl around me; a pleasing curiosity that I never tired of. Eventually, I knew it would stop and I could pick out my clothes for the day.

As my surroundings slowly sank back into their usual positions, I realized that something was missing from my morning routine. Mamma. She hadn't come in to wake me up. I ran out into the living room to find her, but she wasn't there. I traipsed through the dining room, kitchen, laundry room...no Mama.  This could only mean one thing:

Carefully, I tip-toed to her door and peaked into the dim interior. "Yes." I whispered to myself, full of glee,  "She's still asleep." What an opportunity for me. I would make her a surprise - but what? Quietly, I moved back into the hallway toward the kitchen. It was so still - like it was waiting for us. The refrigerator's motor rumbled to itself, the linoleum glistened in the daylight, and the faucet seemed peacefully preoccupied with the morning's disuse. I opened the cabinet that held our tableware and took out a white bowl; I was going to make our breakfast, I decided. I'd seen Mom do it lots of times.

"Let's see," I bit my lip, trying to think.

Before I'd gotten very far, I heard light footsteps coming down the hall. Dad was at work already, I knew. Mom and the baby were asleep in her room. This left only one other option.

I slammed the cabinet shut and whirled around to face the door, waiting. It could only be Kara. It was. Her big brown eyes blinked sleepily, still half-closed. Wild brown hair framed her small face and a gray, over-sized Mickey Mouse shirt hung past her knees. She yawned.

"Listen," I marched over to her and placed my hands firmly on her shoulders, "Mom's still asleep. I'm making breakfast to surprise her...and if you go in there and wake her up, I'll...I'll..."

She made a bored face. "I won't."

I breathed a sigh of relief, "Okay, then. Why don't you get a book to look at until she wakes up." I turned and began to work again. She shook her head, "I'm going to help you."

"But you can't help me; you're too little to know how to cook!" I opened another cabinet and my eyes searched for ingredients - something Mom would use. There was a clamor beside me while hands, knees and small feet scrambled up onto the counter.

"Hey..." she said, leaning on my shoulder and peering into the cupboard, "Those look good."

"No, can't use those," I stepped away from the counter and opened the fridge. "Mom uses eggs a lot though." I pursed my lips and thought...Yeah, that's where I needed to start - but how many? I counted slowly, there were three of us who could eat real food. The gray cardboard was rough and scratchy, and I shuddered while my fingers opened the carton; three eggs.

With  much effort, I tapped each one on the counter's edge to crack it - like Mom did - and pulled the shells apart, so their slimy, golden yolks could slip out and splash into my bowl. I opened another cabinet door; we needed more than just eggs to eat for breakfast, didn't we? I grabbed a box of crackers, opened it and pulled out a pack. I liked crackers, so they would probably make a good ingredient.

"How 'bout this?" Kara held out a bag of sweetened coconut flakes. (Mom liked to eat those with chocolate chips and nuts) "Good idea..." I said, crumbling a handful of crackers over the eggs. "Put it on the counter and I'll use some."

By the time we were done adding all the ingredients, we had acquired quite a sum:

Eggs - Everyone knew those were important.
Crackers - They had to be good.
Coconut Flakes - Mom liked 'em.
Sprinkles - I loved those.
Chocolate chips - because every thing tasted better with chocolate chips.
Yogurt - since we ate it for breakfast sometimes.
Cereal - just because.
And a little bit of milk and water.

Kara and I were sure this meal was going to be delicious, so I stirred it all up with a spoon, while she set out a few bowls, spoons and napkins; I sprinkled in some nuts. Just as I was wondering if there was anything else that we should add, I heard a delighted voice behind me, "Well, well, well..." and Mom's arms were around me. "What do we have here?" Kara stood by the table, grinning and biting her lip at the same time.

For some reason, I felt a bit shy, but I did my best to act like a grown up. "We made you breakfast this morning," I said, as if it were an everyday occurrence, "Do you want to sit down and try some? Of course she did. Mom and Kara sat down and I proudly carried the bowl to the table and dished it all out. In spite all of the colorful ingredients we had put into the concoction, I was surprised to see that the mixture was white... "Well, no matter," I thought. This was sure to be delicious.

Mom prayed for our food and took a bite. "Mmm," she said. "Thank you so much girls! Would you like me to make some eggs and toast to go with this?"

"Oh, no, that's okay - we put eggs in it already," I replied, quickly.

Pushing a spoon into my serving of "Breakfast casserole", I popped a bite into my mouth. It was then that I realized something was terribly wrong. An explosion of bland sourness overpowered my tongue. I sat very still for a moment, looking silently at Mom and Kara. When I had finally managed to swallow the stuff in my mouth, I agreed that some eggs and toast would be fine.

We all laughed while Kara and I headed to our bedroom to get dressed and Mom got out the frying pan.

Gimme Hands

Everyone has their bad days. All humans, great and small, occasionally just need to have a nice, long nap before they bother with the world's challenges. I had never been an exception to this rule and on this particular day, there had been no time to take one - nor did I realize the need for extra sleep. All I understood was that people were being overly testy on my poor nerves: using my things, getting in my way, and forever creating inconvenient issues for me to solve.  It wasn't fair, nice or desirable and in turn, how could anyone expect me to meekly give in?

In other words - I was crabby. I had only recently been introduced to that word. It had been a day equally as dreadful as this one. My cousin Samantha and I had freshly graduated kindergarten and our mothers had contrived a celebration, complete with decorations, friends, and cake. To my chagrin, Samantha's name was written on the cake before mine and that obviously lowered me to a less important standing than hers, which immediately dampened my spirits.

The party was nice and all, but it's hard to enjoy yourself when your spirit feels damp and moldy - which, to be truthful, was how mine felt.

I was upstairs playing with a friend who, like everyone else that day, decided to be unkind to me. I wouldn't stand for it. "You're awfully crabby today," she sulked. (I didn't know what that word meant, but it was obvious to me that it was some form of a sophisticated insult.) "I am not!" I spit the last word like a bullet.

In the car, after a few silent minutes had passed, I piped up from the back seat: "Mom? What does 'crabby' mean?"

She explained it easily enough, "But where did you hear it?" I sighed, easing the pent-up frustration. "Sarah called me that," and I repeated what she told me. "Well," Mom replied, "Were you crabby?" I was more than indignant and replied with a firm "NO." "Well, you should try to be a little nicer to your friends, then they wouldn't say things like that."

I had known it was very true on that occasion, but today was such a terribly irritable affair that I was too busy to remember about being nice when others weren't.

We were visiting family and, as usual, a few of my many cousins were present. A couple of us decided to play in the back bedroom; our fun had just begun.

That is, it was fun for the first five minutes. Mostly fun, until Kara took the Minnie Mouse doll that I happened to need. She wouldn't give it to me, so I (peeved at her for being so mean) took it from her hands. Unfortunately, as soon as I had taken care of that issue, one of the cousins stole a baby blanket that was also a vital necessity. This cousin wasn't as compliant as Kara, however, and let out a howl that brought Mamaw to investigate.

My indignant cousin explained her side of the story while Mamaw listened, then tried reason with me. In my eyes, this situation was black and white - there was nothing to reason about. I needed the blanket, she had it and wouldn't give to me. She wasn't sharing.

"Now, Anna," Mamaw bent down close to me, "Don't you think you could let her play with it? She had it first. In a minute she'll be done and you can use it."

I shook my head. "I want it now."

All of a sudden, Mamaw's big golden-brown eyes grew very wide as she slowly reached around me and felt my back. I was terrified.

"Oh!" she gasped, "I feel a gimme hand starting to grow."

Gimme hands. Everyone in our family knew what those were. The idea came from a story that we all knew quite well: A selfish little boy wanted all of his friends' things and was forever grabbing them away from his playmates. His habit became so horrible that every time he went to grab something from someone, a new arm popped out to carry his new possession; he kept grabbing until he looked very much like an octopus, waving coveted treasures with each tentacle. In the end, nobody would play with him anymore.

I looked back into Mamaw's eyes and clawed at my back with the two arms I already had, trying to feel for any lumps. She had never lied to me before - in fact, she always taught us that lying was a terrible sin - so I knew she was incapable of it.

"No, there's not..." But as I spoke these words, I wasn't sure what to think.

She touched my side this time, "Ooh, and there's another one." I looked down, incredulously, patting my ribcage. There was nothing there. I didn't say anything, but it shocked me that Mamaw would stoop so low as to tell a direct lie to my face; Did she really think I was that ignorant?

Eventually we settled the argument, but I was stunned by Mamaw's untruth. Only time and attained wisdom would show me how Mamaw was actually trying to teach me a lesson and settle the dispute - she wasn't intending to tell a falsehood.

Really, my problems weren't anyone's fault but mine. Too often we blame our troubles on other people, when, really, if we just asked the Lord to help us with our attitude about things, life would be a whole lot easier for everyone.

Tempering my Temper

Summers in Ohio were hot. Real hot. Dad said there were times when he could look outside and actually see humidity hanging around the hills like a haze. While I don't ever remember seeing it like that, I certainly felt it.

Today was Saturday - my favorite day of the week. I loved Saturdays because Dad was always home and everything was more fun when he played with us. Today he took all of us to a big parade in town. There were horses, flags, and candy galore, and I was greatly impressed. My new aspiration was to be in a parade, someday, somehow - but, preferably, sooner than later.

Now we were home again and I was bored with the quiet. Kara and I had followed Mom out to the clothesline where she started to pin on the socks, tee-shirts and underwear. The sun glared down on us and I could feel it reflecting off of my hair (bleached blond from previous summer days). When I reached up to touch my hair, it burned my fingers.

The sky was blue with puffy white clouds that sat above us like lake lazy cotton balls. Not even a tiny breeze blew; the heat waves shimmered as far as I could see. The day was still except for us, the birds, and the tiny bugs that made noises in the tall grass beyond our lawn.

I blew air into one side of my cheek, so it puffed up like a balloon, and held it. It was too hot to do anything fun.

Kara was quiet, as usual, handing Mom clothes to pin on the line. Her hair was fixed in a single ponytail that stood straight up on her head. How could she seem so content with nothing to do?

The grass felt prickly under my feet while I meandered over to the wagon that we had left out yesterday. I grabbed the handle and began pulling it towards the clothesline. It rattled and clanked over the hard-baked yard and the sound reminded me of a wagon train going west. Struck by this inspiration, I cracked an invisible whip, pretending to drive a team of oxen. "Getup ya slowpokes!" I shouted mercilessly, "We must go west!"

Mom was smiling and I proudly drove my team toward her. Obviously, she was proudly admiring how strong and brave I was.

Without warning, my oxen must have stumbled, because, in spite of my heroic encouragement, the wagon jolted to a stop and I nearly fell over.

I looked toward Mom, annoyed.

"Dumb wagon," I growled, completely furious that it had made me look so foolish while Mom and Kara were watching. "Take that!" I heaved the wagon tongue back at my offending foe with all the strength of my five years.

The one problem with this hasty act of vengeance was that when plastic hits plastic at the speed my wagon tongue hit the wagon, the said wagon tongue will fly straight back to where it came from. So, as I stood there in my blind rage, feeling victorious and smug, out of nowhere the hard plastic tongue flew back in retaliation and smacked me in the mouth with stinging force. I was dumbstruck; unable speak, laugh, or even cry. Numbly, I turned to face Mom.

My Mother - who said she loved me, who kissed me goodnight through good and bad, who hugged me when I cried - stood before me now... laughing at me.

Laughing at me.

I looked at Kara. She was grinning from ear to ear.

"That's what happens when you lose your temper," Mom chuckled.

Laughing at me.

Completely and thoroughly offended, I stalked off with as much dignity as I could retain. My pride was shattered, and my attitude turned from rage to remorse.

This was one of the many lessons I had to endure before I learned to control my temper. Years later, I would look back and laugh at the incident - but, long before that, Mom gave me another Bible verse to memorize.

Proverbs 16:13

 He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.

Beautiful Me

For as long as I can remember, there has been a law etched somewhere on my heart of hearts that has been absolutely impossible to disobey. It states, in the most irrefutable terms, that personal beauty is to be maintained, no matter the cost.

1. It is far better to freeze than wear an ugly coat.
2. It is far better to arrive late than to arrive ugly.
3. Nothing that causes one to look large around the middle will do.
(And my five-year-old vanity added it's own sentence:)
4. There shall be no lumps, poofs or puffs in one's hair, for they are incredibly ugly.

Unfortunately, Mom didn't understand this code of ethics and, therefore, on every Sunday and Wednesday, a grievous battle began as she opened the closet doors to choose my church clothes.

With dread, I watched her while she slid the plastic hangers, one by one, to the right side of the rod.
My destiny, dignity and happiness were passing through her fingers like so many pieces of knit, corduroy and floral fabric. " Please God," I prayed, in my head, "Don't let her pick the pink jumper. Please, just not the pink jumper."

Three more hangers and she would see it. How I hated that jumper; it was made out of crinkly, light fabric with buttons (I hated buttons) and, even worse, a pointy collar. The thought of having to wear it again made my stomach muscles clench.

But she never got that far. Today she stopped one hanger short of it and pursed her lips, considering.

Holding my breath, I realized that this option was just as bad, if not worse: A sweater - with a whole row of flower-shaped buttons marching down the front. There was nothing grown-up or beautiful about it. Furthermore, it was really loose looking, and I knew I would feel awful with it draped over me.

"Lord, please let her go on. Not that sweater, not today," I pleaded, alarm growing inside me.

Matter-of-factly, she took it off the hanger and headed for my dresser to find a skirt.

"Mom," I followed her across the room, trying to stay calm, "Do you think, maybe, this dress would work?" She looked up from the middle drawer and eyed me from neckline to hem. "No."

I could feel my eyes go wide. "But Mom," I was so scared that my voice trembled, "This one has lace on the sleeves. See, it's long and pretty..."

"Nope. We're getting pictures taken today and you need to match Kara."

I tried again - maybe if I was brutally honest she would understand. "But  Momma, I can't wear that! It's ugly and I'll look fat."

"No you won't, Anna," she chuckled a little. "This is a very nice outfit." She pulled out a turtleneck and closed my drawer. "You'll look absolutely beautiful in it." She laid it all out on my bed. Skirt, sweater, socks - everything, then straightened up to go.

"Hurry and get dressed so I can fix your hair." And with that, she was gone.

"Fix my..." I stared at the vacant doorway, stricken...a nightmare. That's what it was. I fell to the floor and I lay there, draped over the bed for a few minutes, consumed with frustration.

Finally, I turned over to view the outfit again. "Maybe..." I fingered one of those juvenile buttons,  "Maybe, it won't look so bad when I put it on." Still, my thoughts were grim as I stood up and yanked the turtleneck over my head.

I felt like screaming - it was choking me.

A few more seconds and I had donned the whole thing. Standing in front of the mirror, I surveyed myself from head to foot. Mussed hair, red eyes, pouting lips and a sweater big enough to clothe an elephant.

I inhaled a shaky breath, trying to be calm. "You look beautiful," I said to the girl in the mirror. "Everybody will think you're adorable..." It wasn't working, for the last word came out in a low growl. 

This was too much - a surge of helpless fury swelled with sickening force. I began to leap up and down before the mirror, repeatedly pouncing on the floor in a blind rage. Yes, the floor! 

"Anna?" Mom called from the hallway, "Come here and let me see."

I stood still and a hot tear slid down my fevered cheek. I wiped it off, angrily. Mom was so mean - she probably did this so I would never get married.

With great sorrow, I opened the door and my feet carried me out of it and through the hall. Mom stepped out of the open bathroom door, "You look lovely!" she said, sounding delighted and reaching down to button the top two buttons of my sweater. "Dumb buttons," I thought.

"Come here, now." She gently took hold of my shoulders and steered me to the huge bathroom mirror. The drawer that held all my scrunchies and hair-bows was open; she picked one up and grabbed the brush. I waited, muscles tense.

This always hurt terribly. The brush would start through my hair with quick little jerks, then reach up to the top of my neck with several long, powerful strokes. Next came the worst part of all: the brush would come to the side of my face and pull the hair taunt against the skin. I would try to escape, but Mom never gave up and I was forced to stand still and take the brutal punishment.

Horrified, I watched her part my hair on the side and clip it back with a barrette; it was poofed.

My beautification complete, we piled in the car and drove to Walmart's photo center where, in spite of my horrific appearance, I forgot to be grumpy while the lady took our pictures. Everyone did think I was adorable, and a few months later, I realized that I actually liked that sweater - but by the time I accepted this revelation I had outgrown the despised article and it was too late.

Mom had a funny look on her face when I mentioned that, "I told you it was beautiful, but you wouldn't believe me," she smiled, shaking her head.

Truth be told, this happened a lot before I finally figured out that Mom and Dad really knew what they were doing. Parents have a lot more knowledge and experience than we do, even though we don't understand that sometimes. As I grew up, another verse I had to memorize was:

Exodus 20:12

"Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

Guilty Pleasures

All at once the new day burst upon my senses; warm sunbeams made patterns on my bedroom wall and caressed my face...the heavy, sleepy feeling would go away soon.

I lay still, soaking in reality, while memory and the world's existence began to dawn behind my bleary eyes. As usual, there were the typical Sunday-morning sounds of our house: Dad talked to Mom out in the kitchen...the bowls and silverware clinked as they were spread out on the table. All of the sudden, I sensed something different...what was that sweet smell? I couldn't remember having smelled anything like it before...

Then it all came back.

Completely awake, I twisted onto my side and kicked off the warm, tangled sheets. Without hesitation, I threw myself off the side of the bed, determined. Hanging upside down, I planted my head on the carpet to look underneath. It was dark under there, and as I continued to hang upside down I could feel the blood tingling down to my head. My throat got tight and the corners of my eyes felt like they would burst. I reached one hand down and felt around, frantically.

Carpet, carpet, carpet...I swung my arm in a wide arch across the floor. Aha! There it was. My fist closed on the small, hard object, and I pushed myself back onto the bed, relieved.

A shaky sigh came from my throat. Nobody knew I was up yet, so I could take my time. Gingerly leaning back against the pillow and crossing my legs, I smiled, holding the pink tube of chapstick. But the longer I looked at it, the worse I felt. A strange sensation settled in my chest - it was heavy, and I felt nervous. Why? I hadn't done anything bad, had I? I stared up at the ceiling, going through the scenario in my mind.

We had been at my babysitter's house yesterday. I was usually home with Mama all day, but sometimes she would drop me off at Hannah's big house on top of the hill and let me play with her, instead. I never knew why I was being sent there, but it always seemed generous of Mom to let me go.

Hannah was cool. She was older - I didn't know exactly what her age was, but she must have been a teenager, and teenagers were cool. Very cool. Sometimes she would take me out to the big shed at one side of her driveway where there was a wagon and these weird creatures, orange and green - well, they might have been animals - that had big painted eyes.

On this visit, however, I hadn't gone alone; Dad, Mom, Kara and Isaac had come, too. It wasn't quite as much fun as it normally was.

Hannah wanted to sit and talk with the grown-ups, so we didn't play nearly as much as we normally did. I finally coaxed her into taking me upstairs - that big staircase was so exciting to me. But Hannah lacked her usual enthusiasm and got up with a sigh, the way most grown ups do.

We were almost to the stairs when she stopped to listen to something the grown ups were saying. "Not again," I thought, annoyed. I held onto the railing and tried to slide across the wooden floor with my socks. Why on earth did big people have to talk so much?

Then another idea dawned on me - one that was almost as good as going upstairs. "Hannah," I ventured, sweetly, "Could I have some chapstick?" She held up a finger, for me to be quiet...while I hoped against hope. For Pete's sake! If we couldn't go upstairs, it was the least she could do.

I looked up the stairs again; they gleamed in the warm light and there were little rugs on each step. My eyes stopped on one of them. Whoever had decided to put them there must not have thought about it long enough. Those braided rugs might slide around on the polished wood and somebody could fall. I was an expert at hurting myself, and it was easy for me to imagine what would happen if one of them slipped out from under me. With a shudder, I pulled my mind away from the unnerving idea of empty space and a hard crack on the back of my head.

I patted Hannah's elbow.

Finally, she turned and looked at me, "Please?" I begged, raising both my eyebrows in (what I hoped) was a plaintive look. She sighed, grabbed her tube of chapstick off of the end-table and handed it to me.

Glorious victory! I took the cap off and held it to my nose, savoring the smell; almost as sweet as roses - but ten times better.

I tried to look very old and important, as if I were a teenager putting on her chapstick; a teenager who had lots and lots of chapstick, and didn't really care about the smell or putting it on because she was so old and grownup and busy. I held it a minute longer, rolling it around in my hand, taking the cap off, then putting it back on. I wished I could take it home with me - how wonderful that would be.

The longer those adults talked, the harder I thought, and the harder I thought, the more I was certain that slipping this chapstick into the pocket of my dress wouldn't be a bad idea at all. So I did. All night, every time I stuck my hand down into my pocket, something seemed to respond inside. A wild surge of excitement leaped like a giant wave inside me, then ebbed away as I let go.

What would happen if I just didn't tell anybody I had it? Really, it would kind of be like forgetting and forgetting wasn't wrong, was it? If Hannah didn't ask me to give it back, it would almost be like she gave it to me, and if she gave it to me, it would actually be a present. With smug satisfaction, I agreed with my own logic and let Hannah show me the lava lamp in her sister's room.

The evening progressed until, finally, the grownups finished talking and Mom had me put on my coat. It was then that the finality of my "present taking" surprised me with a stab of guilt. What if it was bad? Stuffing my hand into my dress pocket again, I convinced myself that it was alright. She hadn't asked for it back, had she?

As I got into the car, my heart  was beating wildly - partly in fear of what I had just done and partly because I was ecstatic over having my very own tube of chapstick. Dad drove home, Mom got me ready for bed, prayed with me and turned off the light. Now morning was here and I didn't feel so good about my decision - almost sick.

"Anna?" Mom leaned through the doorway with a smile, "Hurry up, Susy Q! Time to get ready for church. I already have your outfit laid out, so come get in the bathtub."

My fist quickly closed around my stolen treasure so she wouldn't see it. As she left, I rolled out of bed, but I didn't hurry up; I felt too sluggish. In the hallway, I stopped... "Maybe if I put it somewhere else - somewhere Dad or Mom would find it, then they'd ask me about it and I could tell them the whole story. Maybe they'll tell me nothing is wrong..."

The Repentance

Dad and Mom when I was born.

I tried to look nonchalant as I mosied my way into the living room. Dad was in the kitchen and Mom was running bath water. Fast as lightning, I slipped the chapstick up on the window and sat down to wait. I slowly rubbed my feet on the carpet...back and forth...back and forth.

Dad walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. He was singing a church song and His black hair was wet and sticking up all over. He smelled like something deep and spicy and he looked happy.

My back stiffened, but I tried to look relaxed. As hard as I tried, I just couldn't push away the heavy feeling around my heart. "It's not fair that Dad is so happy this morning," I mused. "On this morning when I feel so terrible" - more terrible than I'd ever felt before, truthfully. What had I done? Oh, what had I done to deserve this?

I leaned against the arm of our big chair and looked at my feet. "O-oh," Mom bent down to give me a big hug. "What's the matter with miss Anna today? Are you still sleepy?" Her voice wasn't the serious one she used for talking to Daddy or any of the adults; this was one especially meant for cheering me up - but it would take more than a light tone of voice to make me feel better.

She let go, and I decided to play the I'm-too-tired-and-grumpy-to-talk-right-now trick, so I buried my face in the arm of the couch and moaned. "Mmmmm..." in the tiredest voice I could muster. Mom straightened up, and a long curl of pretty brown hair fell over her shoulder. "You'd better get a move on, girly; breakfast is almost ready!"

"Hey, Lily." Dad stopped singing and was calling from the kitchen.

"What, Hon," Mom stepped through the entry way, but I stayed where I was, insides quivering.

"What smells so good?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I smell something really sweet...Do you have new perfume?"

"No..."

I wanted to faint or be sick - no, maybe I could just die. Surely death would fit the terrible feeling that lay so heavy on my chest, like a big wool blanket.

"Well, I don't know, Hon," Mom was saying, and Dad started humming again.

He walked to the door and looked down at me. "He has no idea what I'm suffering..." I thought, feeling very alone and very terrible. He mussed my hair with one of his big hands, then turned down the hallway again.

This was too much; if they didn't find the chapstick soon I was going to have to show them.

Slowly, I stood to my feet and, slowly, I tiptoed to the kitchen. Putting my hand on the doorway and leaning in, I called very timidly. "Mom?" But she didn't hear me and kept working.

 I said it louder, "Mom." She didn't stop what she was doing but replied, "What, sweetheart?" At my silence, she turned. I watched her bare feet come over the blue and white linoleum, then leaned forward and threw my arms around her skirt. Agony and despair swirled inside me, and I couldn't help myself; tears slipped down my cheeks, and I shook all over.

Surprised, Mom bent down and took me in her arms. She carried me into the living room and sat down in the big chair. She rocked me back and forth, patting my back. "What's the matter?"

How could I tell her. I buried my head in her shoulder and bawled.

Finally, when Dad had come back, and I had calmed down enough to talk, she pushed me gently back, so she could see my face, and put her hands on my elbows. "Now. What's the matter?"

Furiously, I rubbed my wet eyes. "W-well," I started, "Last night - when we were at Hannah's house..." and the whole awful story came out between hiccups and bursts of tears. I felt relieved when I was finished, but still had to look away from their eyes, ashamed of what I had done.

Pensively, I waited for what they'd say. Almost as much as that, I dreaded the thought of how I'd be punished. Surely, most definitely, I'd be spanked.

Surprisingly, they weren't angry - not at all; just a little bit sad. I was confused and relieved all at the same time.

"Anna," Mom said, "Do you remember the Ten Commandments that you've been memorizing?" I nodded, solemnly.

"What does God say about stealing?"

The mood didn't feel right for me to talk yet, so I just looked at the floor and squirmed - it seemed adequate.

"Thou shalt not steal," Mom quoted, slowly, looking into my eyes.

"So, what do you think you should do to make it right?" Her brown eyes were wide-open, waiting.

I wasted a few seconds before making a reply - talking too soon would spoil the affect of my repentance. "Give it back?" I quavered, sincerely frightened by the very thought of having to apologize.

"Mmhm... But you need to ask Jesus to forgive you, too; it hurts His heart when we don't obey His plans for us."

I nodded.

"So let's kneel down here, and you can pray."

And we did; there in front of the chair, I told God I was sorry and would try not to take anything that wasn't mine ever again. Before church, we drove back to Hannah's house where I relinquished the treasure that had caused me so much pain. I was ashamed, dreadfully ashamed, but, when I finally gave it back, relief washed over me.

There's a freedom that comes with making things right. Through my growing-up years, there have been a lot of times when I've had to stop and apologize. You never stop making mistakes, but Jesus is always ready to forgive a repentant heart and make you free from the guilt that comes from wrongdoing - no matter what you've done.