Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,20

“Actually, she is, but not as a book. Hannah was…”

“Show me.”

Since Sam’s arrival, Payt and Hannah had wondered how best to address what Sam’s case worker had called “the nagging faith issue.”

Being passed from home to home had exposed Sam to smatterings of beliefs and nonbeliefs. More often than not, the other members of Payt’s family had tiptoed around the subject altogether, trying to placate the ever-changing moods of Sam’s heartbroken father.

Now Hannah was awed to have Sam climb up beside her, hold open the Bible and say so simply, “Show me.”

A lump rose in her throat. This was it. The awesome responsibility of helping a child find the way. It humbled her—and challenged her. On a gut level she wanted to push him toward the Gospels, to make sure he heard and understood the gift of salvation through God’s only Son. But that was not what he’d asked. He wanted to see the book that told of Hannah and her great love for God and for her own son.

“Where is Hannah in the Bible?” He prodded again. “I can’t find the name in the table of contents.”

“You won’t find it there. Hannah is mentioned in the Book of Samuel.”

“Samuel? That’s like my name, Sam.”

“Yes, it is. Hannah was the mother of Samuel.”

“She was?” His eyes got big. He held the book to her. “Show me.”

“Okay, give me a minute. I have to admit I’m a bit rusty with where to find a lot of things in the Old Testament.”

Sam jiggled his shoes while he waited.

Hannah hurried, conscious of the possibility of more static buildup and another shock. “Here. Here in First Samuel, the very first story is about Hannah and how she thought she couldn’t have children.”

“Is that like you?”

“Well, yes, actually, there were times I thought I’d never be a mom.” Then she looked down at him. “But I had faith, and now I have two wonderful children.”

He didn’t say a word to that, but concern colored his expression.

She read the story of Hannah’s prayer for a child and of Eli the priest hearing Hannah’s grief and telling her to “go in peace.”

“Like you again,” Sam pointed out.

“Uh-huh.” Hannah shifted in the beanbag and read on about Hannah having a son, concluding with 1 Samuel 1:20. “‘…and gave birth to a son. She named him Samuel, saying, “Because I asked the Lord for him.”’”

“That’s not like you.” This time the child spoke so softly she hardly heard him.

But his words imprinted on her heart.

Not so hard to do on a heart already tender from years of holding on to the very same pain—the fear of being unwanted. But Sam was not unwanted. And certainly not unloved.

“I love you, Sam,” she murmured, pulling him into a hug. “It’s true I didn’t ask God to send you to me. But I did ask Him to give me a family—and here you are.”

“Me and Tessa,” he said.

Ooooh, how she knew that tone. The double-edged emotions of sharing a parent’s love. Did she have to tackle the issue of sibling rivalry right now?

Sam provided her answer. He squirmed out of her arms, grumbling something about not getting all girly on him.

The moment had passed.

Sam leapt up and pointed to the Bible. “Did this help you with your procrastination yet?”

“Yes, it helped me procrastinate quite a bit.” She shut the Bible and set it on the cardboard box they were using for an end table. “But in a good way, at least.”

“Do you know what you’re going to write about now?”

“Nope. Maybe I just need something interesting to happen around here to get my creative juices flowing.” She stood up and rubbed her hands together like some mad plotter. “And it had better happen soon, before Tessa wakes up from her morning nap.”

Tessa was a world-class nap taker. Hannah’s sister Sadie told her to think of it as a blessing, but then Sadie didn’t have to plan her day around a baby who was four hours awake for every one hour asleep during the day. Then reverse that in the night. The whole thing had Hannah near the brink of exhaustion. Which wouldn’t be a big deal if she didn’t keep taking on new projects that pushed her over the edge.

Which reminded her—

“I didn’t finish frosting the cake yet. Mrs. Faison will be here in less than—”

Ding-dong.

“A minute?” she finished. She checked her clock. Almost an hour ahead of the time she’d said she’d drop by. Maybe the world’s most perfect mom did