"Where does my help come from..."

The boys were in the playroom, living it up in their post-lunch pre-nap freetime. I heard lots of laughing, stubborn crying (which does not cause me to come running - since it is vastly different from hurt crying), jumping, throwing, and more laughing.

And then.

"Help us! Help us! Please!"

That will get my attention.

I opened the basement door and called, "Is everything okay down there?"

"Oh, there's Mommy. Ask her."

(Turns out, they hadn't been talking to me.)

"Mommy, can you hep us fix the train track? We've been asking God to help us, but he won't."

Or perhaps God has afforded them a mommy who knows how to fix the train track. Help is on the way, boys.

At least they know whom to go to first.