Kevin fights a case of the wiggles,
stands-up on the pew, looks back
at me—still towering over him.
We stare each other down—
like it’s high noon. The flannelled toddler laughs
like a maniac, leans into his father, flashes
his miniature teeth in a wry grin, and pokes me
in the stomach: “Big belly! Big belly! Big belly!”
Kevin jumps off and crawls under the bench.
His sister stands on her dad’s lap,
points to patches of white
in his thinning hair and giggles.
I offer a prayer of thanksgiving:
I am only their Sunday school teacher.