To my younger brother on his 54th birthday . . .
|. . .or crying works, too|
It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the Stringam household.
The older kids were at school.
Dad and the hired men were outdoing . . . ranch stuff.
Mom and the two youngest children were in the house.
Anita asleep in babyland.
Blair, known for playing quietly, playing quietly in the basement.
I should point out, here, that two-year-old Blair was being toilet-trained.
The lessons were ongoing.
With mixed results.
Mom was busy in the kitchen.
Her 'mom alarm' went off.
Time to check on Blair's progress.
Or lack thereof.
She stood at the top of the stairs and called down.
“Blair! Time to go potty!”
Okay, so subtle, we weren't.
Her little tow-headed boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Definitely not making eye-contact with his mother.
“Blair! Did you wet your pants?”
The answer was quite obvious.
Mom sighed. “Blair you come up here this moment!”
Obediently, the small boy started up the long flight of stairs.
On little hands and knees.
About midway, he paused.
Looked up at his mother standing like a nemesis at the top of the stairs.
Then put his little hands together.
Bowed his head.
And squeezed his little blue eyes tightly shut.
“Heavenly Father. Please bless Mommy, Daddy, Brothers and Sisters. And Blair.”
He looked up.
His prayer had been answered.
By this point Mom was sitting on the top step.
Laughing too hard to even consider another lesson in toilet training.
Who says prayer doesn't work?