Requests had been made by the kids that someone go to bed with them, at least for a few minutes, so Maile got down on the floor where they sleep when we are at her parents’ house. It was a wide stretch of blankets and pillows and a few stuffed animals who had somehow made the trip.
Maile had almost fallen asleep when Lucy nudged her.
“Mom, look at Abra,” she whispered with a huge smile on her face.
Abra had risen to her knees and was swaying front and back, her little blond hair swinging back and forth slowly. Her mouth moved, releasing unintelligible words in a constant stream.
“Is she praying?” Lucy asked, her smile turning into something akin to awe.
Happiness surged in Maile’s heart (alongside a tinge of pride). We weren’t completely ruining our children. They would follow in the faith of their ancestors. Perhaps, based on this sign alone, Abra was destined to be some kind of religious prodigy who would lead the people in prayer and thanksgiving.
Abra opened her eyes and, seeing she had an audience, laughed and ducked under the covers.
“Abra, come here,” Maile said, touched by that special moment.
Abra swam through the blankets to Maile and Lucy.
“Abra, were you praying?” Maile asked.
Abra giggled and nodded. So it was true. But then Abra spoke.
“I was praying to Santa Claus.”
Sigh. ‘Tis the season.