Image credit: Photo by codepo8 on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

Most kids (at least those who grow up in safe, middle class, American neighborhoods) don't see every new face at the front door (from evangelists to pizza delivery guys) as a potential threat.  But Austen is not most kids.  Unless they come bearing an Amazon.com box with a video game in it, he is not a fan of strange people on our front step, and he reacts more like a defensive pit bull than an eight-year-old boy.  Intruders!  They startle him.  They frighten him.  They alarm him.  And he makes it clear.

He'll eye the door warily when he hears a knock, and like a dog sending out its initial warning bark, he'll demand "Who is it?!"  Because it could be a UPS delivery guy with a package full of games (sure, it's highly unlikely, but as far as Austen is concerned, you never know), he always hesitates and waits for more information before rushing in ferociously to drive the miscreants away.

A few weeks ago, there was a knock on my front door.  "Who is it?!" Austen demanded anxiously.

"I don't know, buddy.  I'll find out." I said.

He followed me, and as I opened the door to reveal two smiling elderly women holding Bibles, Austen stood with his body huddled slightly behind mine, clutching my arm and glaring around my side.  My daughter Janie, curious, peeked around the door frame smiling up at them and grabbed my other hand.

"We're here to talk to you about the love of Jesus," one of them said.

"Thank you, but now is really not a good time," I said as Austen pulled on my arm trying to simultaneously get my attention and drag me from the door.

"We understand you must be busy.  What lovely children."

"What do they want?!" Austen growled.

"Thanks, yes, I'm sorry.  I really need to go."

"Maybe we could stop back sometime.  When are you free?"

"What do they want?!" Austen yelled, continuing to tug furiously on my arm.

"Yes. Um..."  At this point my brain was struggling with several competing demands.  I wanted to tell Austen who these people were to reassure him.  But more than that I wanted to close the door between him and the offending strangers who were not bearing video games.  In order to do so, I needed to figure out how to extricate my hands, one of which Janie was holding and the other Austen was tugging on.  And of course, part of me was automatically trying to process the question that had been posed to me.  When would I be free?  Good one.

I decided to answer Austen's question to buy me some time to process the rest of it.  So I said, calmly, with a warm glow in my voice that lingered on the word "God" and was meant to come out like a comforting verbal version of a motherly hug, "They want to talk to us about God, buddy."  At which point Austen screamed, so loud that it shook the foundations of neighboring homes, "I HATE God!"

Ok, oops.  Didn't expect that.  Apparently I got the order of operations wrong.  It should have been extricate arms and shut door first, then explain.

The two elderly ladies gasped and their smiles faltered.  "Well, God loves you anyway," one finally stammered.

"No!  There is no such thing as God!  I HATE God!" screamed Austen furiously.  He had stepped forward, advancing to drive off the enemy and in doing so had (mercifully) released my arm.  He was standing, leaning forward slightly, stiff and straight as a board, fists clenched with his arms tight by his side, face screwed up in rage.  The women looked shocked, clearly convinced that my house was demon possessed and I was poisoning my child's mind.  So much for that verbal motherly hug of mine.

"Um, ok.  Well, maybe-when-the-kids-are-back-in-school-then-thank-you," I said in a hurriedly cheerful voice as I shut the door.  The women have not come back.  And I'm considering a sign that says "Beware of the 8-Year-Old."