My Gabby for Me

“Chaw-kuh-late…Date…Nuh-ut...Skwuh-skwerhs.” Five-year-old Gabby carefully ran her right index finger along the top of my open recipe book. She looked up at me. “Is that what we’re making?”

I leveled off a cup of plain flour and handed it to her. “Yup. Like it?”

Gabby nodded eagerly. “Uh-huh. You make the best squares! You’re my best sister baker! I told Stuart so yesterday.”

“You what?”

“I told Stuart.” Gabby repeated affably. “Why?”

“Nothing. What made you tell a grown person like him that?”

“Oh, ‘cause he played with me after church, and told me something funny, about when he burned a whole tray of cookies! Then I remembered, and told him how you’re a good baker, except for that one time you burnt my birthday cake.”

“Then what did he say?”

“He said he wants to taste your cooking one day.”

“Oh, I see.”

There was a pause. “Why are your cheeks so red, Natalie?” Gabby wondered innocently.

“It might be ‘cause of the heat in this kitchen, Gab. Here, can you mix this for me, please?”

And with that, the topic was dropped.

Around the dinner table, the ten-year-old twins quizzed Dad and Mom with their new-found jokes.

“What do you call a baby kangaroo that can’t jump?” one of the twins asked.

“I know! I know!” Gabby suddenly made up for the poor joey’s lack of bounce.

“Gabby, don’t!” I tried to stop the little girl. I would probably have had more success in slamming on the brakes at the sudden appearance of a kangaroo on the road than trying to stop Gabby.

“It’s offspring!”

Micah glared at his little sister across the table. “Gabby, you spoiled it! I’m gonna tickle you!”

Morris looked perplexed. “How did you know, Gabby?”

“I read it!” Gabby replied indignantly. “The joke book was on the couch. So I read it myself.”

“Gabrielle Hope!” Dad began, quite severely, though I thought I could detect laughter in his voice. “I know it’s fun to know the answer of a joke, Gabby, but if the joke is not asked of you, don’t answer it, okay? Answer it only if you’re asked to.”

Gabby’s brown ponytails nodded repentantly. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Gabby’s reading real quick now.” Dad murmured to Mom and me above the children’s chatter. “We’ll need to make sure she always has good material to read.”

An hour later, the twins gladly escaped from the kitchen, while I put away the last plate. With a sigh, I settled down at the dining table. Beside me lay my draft encouragement letter for my “baby sister” at church. This ministry of letters, gifts, and prayer was one of the ministries at our church, where each girl and woman would “take a paper out of a hat” and so have a “baby sister” to “adopt” for that whole year. The fun part was that this was to be done anonymously by the “big sister.” That’s why Rhianna didn’t know that it was I who was praying for her this year.

“January, 2010…” I carefully wrote on stationery in a disguised hand.

“Natalie, what’s this word?” Gabby tapped my elbow.

“Hmmm...?” Absently-mindedly, I glanced at the book she had pushed across the table. “It’s ‘beckoned.’”

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

Gabby moved one chair closer.

Suddenly she broke the five-minute silence. “Is she your secret sister, Natalie?”

I started. “Wh-who?” I stammered confusedly.

“Rhianna. See? There.” Gabby pointed to the top of my draft letter.

NO!! Gabby you didn’t read it....

“Huh?” I tried to stall the inevitable. I was silent for a while, and kept on writing. Then, “Did Mom call you to take a shower now?”

“No. Is she, Natalie?”

I sighed. “Well...yes...” I admitted reluctantly. “But you mustn’t tell anyone, okay?”

Gabby’s ponytails bobbed eagerly. “I won’t tell anyone!”

How about everyone? I thought.

Dad’s eyes twinkled above his newspaper. “Oops.”

The twins looked up from their joke books. “Gabby!” Micah scolded. “I’m gonna tickle you!”

“Don’t, Micah,” I warned. “Gabby promised she wouldn’t tell.”

Micah frowned at Gabby.

“Micah.” Dad said.

Gabby suddenly remembered something. “Rhianna’s gonna be my Sunday school teacher this year!”

I groaned inwardly. A five-year-old with a secret eleven months long, to keep from her Sunday school teacher? Quite an interesting predicament. Especially for Gabby.

Dad looked at me significantly. “Oops.”

“Dad!” I cried helplessly. “Don’t rub it in, please.”

Dad buried himself behind his newspaper again, choking.

“Sorry, Natalie,” he managed, “that’s Gabby for you!”

Gabby was baffled. “What does that mean?”