I dashed by my bed, snatched my skirt from it, and hopped toward my bedroom door slipping it on and yanking it up in place. Swinging my door open, I rushed across the hall and yelled down the stairwell, "Mom! Dad! She's here!"

     Mom's head appeared from around the corner. "Already? She's fifteen minutes early. Get your brother, Esther, and hurry down."

     I knocked on Mark's door. "Oh, brother dearest. Move it. Angela's here."

     Mark's muffled voice filtered through the door. "Slow down, man. I'm still in my underwear."

     "You better hurry. She's here now!" I banged the door to make my point.

     "Duh, Esther, you wouldn't want me to greet the new girl in my underwear now, would you, ditz-head?"

     I pounded on the door repeatedly. "Then get out of your underwear and get downstairs!"

     "Great idea. Then I'd have to greet her naked."

     "You know what I mean. Put on more clothes." I kept banging the door until it opened. My little brother posed before me in a long-sleeved white shirt and his Fruit-of-the-Loom maroon briefs.

     "Are you happy, dork brain?" he said. "Do you believe me now?"

     Spare me the view, I thought, gawking at the putrid color of his briefs. I pushed past him, charged into his walk-in closet, yanked a pair of black dress pants from its hanger, and marched out again. He strutted over to me with a big grin stretching his face.

     The little show off. I bet he fantasizes all the time about walking around in his underwear in front of girls. Twelve-year-old boys think only with their hormones … and all it does is make them do the stupidest things. But I don't care if he wants to parade around in his underwear. He's a jerk anyway.

     The bulge in his briefs caught my attention. I gasped as a shiver ran up my spine. I threw the pants in his face and scurried past him. Stopping by the door, I turned to see him pulling the pants off his head. "Just get your pants on. You don't impress me … child."

     I slammed the door and pattered down the stairs and into the foyer to discover my parents trying to run in all directions at once. Rushing to the window by the front door, I peeked out.

     Oh, no. Mrs. Braxton's opening the passenger door. I can see the girl. Like me, she's supposed to be fifteen. She's stepping out … what a pretty skirt. And that short-sleeved top is nice, too … what am I doing? This isn't a fashion show. I need to get the family ready.

     My father rushed into the foyer adjusting his tie as my mom scurried in from the opposite direction patting her hair in place.

     "Where's Mark?" my mother said.

     "He's coming, Mom."

     My father eased my mother and me together, shoulder-to-shoulder facing the door. "Come on. Let's look shipshape. Mark'll be along soon enough." He hurried to the stairs and cupped a hand by his mouth. "Mark. You get down here, pronto. Do you hear me, son? On the double."

     A faint voice drifted downstairs. "Coming."

     My father swung around in front of us. "Now remember, this girl's been through a lot. She lost her parents at age five and was raised by her great uncle the last ten years. From what I understand, she and her uncle were very close. He wasn't a churchgoing man, so she'll probably be a little difficult … of course we'll have to deal with that after we get her over her grief."

     My mother smiled. "It's all right, dear. This is the path God chose for us. It will be a wonderful thing to bring someone into the presence of the Lord who has been wandering so long in the pasture of darkness. I know she'll appreciate the light … once she sees it."

     My father patted my mother's shoulder. "Well spoken, Ruth. It truly is a wonderful thing to save a soul for Christ."

     The sound of a drum roll echoed behind me; and without looking, I knew it was Mark pattering down the stairs. A few seconds later, he popped into ranks beside me.

     Well, here we stand in a row; Mom, me, and Mark, soldiers in our father's army … crusaders for Christ.

     Images flashed through my mind-mostly sad images. I knew when the door would open, standing in it would be a tear-filled girl struck with the grief of losing her only loved-one. Little did she suspect that she had loved a goat in the meadow-a heathen-a Godless man who had led her in the wrong direction for most of her life.

     However, good feelings swept all that away, because I knew we were here to correct her past. We would lead her to a full life with Jesus as her savior. She may fight and struggle at first, but it will end in her thanking us-but first the tears.

     The knock sounded on the door, my father opened it, and in stepped Mrs. Braxton, the social worker, with one arm around Angela Vitali.

     I scrutinized my would-be sister. Angela's long chestnut straight hair appeared so soft, it looked as though it belonged on an infant. Her pale skin radiated all over her hundred-and-fifteen pound medium frame. She beamed beauty without makeup, something hard for any girl to do. At five-foot four she stood two inches taller than me. A glance at her bust struck a bad note.

     A 'C' cup. She's a full size bigger than me.

     But something seemed wrong-terribly wrong about her face. On it rested a pair of thin lips turned up into a big smile. Not a sign of grief existed anywhere on her person.

     Death had stolen away the only person she had ever loved since age five-and she stands there smiling?

     Angela set down a suitcase and nodded at each of us in turn. "Hi. I'm very happy to be here, and I'm pleased that you have decided to allow me to share your home."