I'm sitting peacefully at my breakfast, eating my egg and feeding the baby cheerios and pureed apricot, when I hear the dreaded squeal from my daughter: "A roach!" She had been sitting on the couch when the thing crawled out from underneath and toddled across the floor. (Keep in mind that when I say "roach" I mean "palmetto bug".) So I sigh and go into the living room where, sure enough, this two-inch-long roach is skirting the bookshelves. He's obviously looking for a way out. While he's on the far side of the room, I gingerly tiptoe over to the door and open it about as wide as it can go, then I hightail it back to safety behind the piano. The roach tries to make a foray up a baseboard, flexing its wings in an alarming fashion, but turns again and heads across the wall with the door.
I don't know what it's teaching my children about the value of prayer that the whole time I'm murmuring, "Oh dear sweet Jesus, please let him go out the door. Please, dear Lord, let him find the door and go out."
But -- God be praised! -- he follows the light, climbs over the jamb, and goes outside. I shut the door, carefully. If I slam it he might get startled and fly.
For the next few moments my jumpy nerves are preyed upon by the small fry who think it's funny to sight "bugs" everywhere and give shrill little shrieks. Not funny, ladies. Not funny.