"Jesus, Jesus," Betsy croones. I watch her from my bedroom just down the hall. She reaches through George's crib and holds his hand. He chirps. "Jesus, Jesus," she sings, jesting at Jesus Loves Me. She pulls a clumped wad from her elbow, blankie, and pushes it through the bars. "Jesus, Jesus, Georgie."
There moored on my bed, the smooth blue quilt an ocean of comfort, I watch her watch George. It's grace, a small grace, and enough.