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“I ain’t feard of nothin’!”
“I’m not afraid of anything”
“Whatever!”
My grandson sauntered away, holding his head up in that “I’m so much better than you” way that he does. How will I ever get through his stubborn little head? How does a gray-haired, worn-down woman like me raise a grandson to understand respect? How do I teach him how to speak proper English when he spends each summer day with those black-coat-wearing, gun-toting hoodlums out there in that street?
I try to hide behind my front door. I try to only peek now and then through the tiny peephole that my precious life-time partner put in for me long before he began his eternal journey with my sweet Jesus. (I still call him my husband but that grandson says I’m not cool. Says that I should refer to him as a ‘partner’ so I don’t offend anyone. He ‘gets’ that! Why can’t he get that he should respect his elders?)
I see what those boys do out there. Dangerous? Oh, that is just not a good enough word to describe the world they are out there making for themselves.
“Oh, my!
“Oh…Oh…OHHHH!!! NO! Don’t do that! Stop!”
Listen to me. Inside this house. Behind my safe door. Watching through my peephole. Whispering. Whispering what should be shouted. But I can’t shout. Can’t. Then they would know I was watching them.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
“Granny?”
“Yes?”
“Was that more gunfire?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see if anyone got hurt?”
“Can’t see for sure.”
“Granny?”
“Yes?”
“I’m feard.”
“Afraid … and that’s okay … and I am too. But you stay here close to me and we will be safe. Jesus has His angles camped all around us. Let’s move back here away from the door. Sing softly with me, OK? Ready?”
“He’s got the whole world in His hands. He’s got the whole world in His hands. He’s got the whole world in…” Jesus, thank you for giving this boy a respectful amount of fear.
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