"He's visiting his grandma down the street." Blurts the oldest, the self-appointed spokesman, as he rummages through the gun box for un-chewed-by-the-baby ammunition.
"He has a transformer!" the next child chimes in with the most pertinent news. "It can't transform very much, but it's nice. I bet it costed forty dollars!" He adds in awe.
"Wow. Nice" I can't help smile at their enthusiasm. "What's his name?"
"Don't know." They throw the words behind them as they select their plastic weapons and hurry out the door. "We keep forgetting to ask."
Later that night, we pray before bed. "Thanks for all the boys on the street." I say, truly grateful for local playmates that I didn't personally have to birth.
"Yeah, thanks for boys!" Shiloh interrupts to agree. He lists several names. "And thank You for the Other Brother with the transformer. He is nice, God."
I smile in the dark.
The new friend, undefined by where he comes from, how he dresses, or what he plans to be when he grows up, is simply welcomed in, handed a gun, and made an official part of the troops for an hour before bath time.
How like God, who welcomes us to be part of the family, no matter who we are. Because it doesn't matter. Just come.
Thank You, Lord, for the other brother.
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