The morning sun hadn't even cleared the treetops when Mama came into my room, her voice soft but firm.

"Rise and shine, Emily," she said, pulling the curtains open. "It's Sunday, and you know what that means."

I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. I liked church, mostly, but waking up early wasn't my favorite part of it.

"Come on, now," she said, tugging at the covers. "We've got to get there on time, or your Papa'll be complainin' about sittin' in the back row again."

That got me moving. Papa always liked to sit up front, claiming Pastor Wilson's words hit better the closer you were.

By the time I was dressed in my Sunday best—a simple blue dress with a bow in the back—and had my hair brushed and tied into neat pigtails, the smell of biscuits and bacon was wafting through the house.

"Better eat quick," Papa said, sitting at the table in his crisp button-down shirt and polished boots. "Can't have the Lord waitin' on us."

Mama set a plate in front of me, then sat down with her own. "Before we dig in, let's say grace."

We bowed our heads, and Papa led the prayer. "Lord, we thank You for another beautiful day and the chance to come together as a family. Bless this food, bless this day, and guide us in Your light. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed, and soon the sound of forks scraping plates filled the room.

The ride to church was peaceful, the truck rumbling softly as we drove along the dirt road. I watched the countryside roll by, the morning light glinting off the dew-covered grass.

When we pulled up to the small white church, its steeple reaching toward the sky, the gravel parking lot was already filling with cars and trucks. Folks in their Sunday best milled about, chatting and laughing as they greeted one another.

"Morning, Timothy!" called Mr. Daniels, tipping his hat to Papa as we climbed out of the truck.

"Morning, Daniels," Papa replied with a wave.

Mama smoothed the wrinkles from her dress and took my hand as we walked toward the church doors. The scent of fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers filled the air, and I could hear the faint sound of the piano playing inside.

Inside, the sanctuary was bright and welcoming, with rows of polished wooden pews and sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. I loved the windows—they were colorful and told stories I didn't fully understand, but they felt important.

We found our seats near the front, just like Papa liked, and waited for the service to begin.

As the piano music grew louder, the congregation quieted. Pastor Wilson, a tall man with a kind face and a booming voice, stepped up to the pulpit.

"Good mornin', everyone," he said, his voice filling the room. "It's a blessing to see y'all here today. Let's start with a hymn—'Just a closer walk with Thee.'"

The congregation stood, and the sound of voices rising together filled the church. Mama's voice was soft but steady, and Papa's was low and deep. I sang along, even though I wasn't sure I hit all the right notes.

I am weak but Thou art strong;
Jesus, keep me from all wrong;
I'll be satisfied as long
As I walk, let me walk close to Thee.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

Thro' this world of toil and snares,
If I falter, Lord, who cares?
Who with me my burden shares?
None but Thee, dear Lord, none but Thee.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

When my feeble life is o'er,
Time for me will be no more;
Guide me gently, safely o'er
To Thy kingdom shore, to Thy shore.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

After the hymn, Pastor Wilson led a prayer, thanking God for the day, the congregation, and the blessings they'd received. Then came the sermon.

Pastor Wilson talked about kindness and forgiveness, about loving your neighbor and doing what's right even when it's hard. His words were simple but powerful, and even though I didn't understand everything, I could tell they meant something to everyone around me.

When the service ended, the congregation gathered outside, chatting and catching up.

"Emily!" called Mrs. Anderson, one of Mama's friends, as she came over with a plate of cookies. "I made these for the bake sale, but I thought you might like one."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, taking a cookie and biting into the soft, sweet dough.

As Mama and Papa talked with neighbors, I wandered around the yard, playing tag with some of the other kids. The churchyard felt alive with laughter and chatter.

It always took forever to leave church, especially because Mama and Papa loved to talk with just about everyone they ran into.

Papa stood near the steps, leaning on the railing with his hat tipped back, chatting with a group of men about the weather and the best way to fix a sagging barn door.

"I tell ya, Timothy," Mr. Daniels was saying, "you're gonna need more than a couple of nails to keep that thing upright."

"Well, I reckon I'll find out soon enough," Papa replied with a chuckle.

Meanwhile, Mama was near the oak tree at the edge of the yard, laughing with Mrs. Anderson and another woman about some news in town.

"You mean to tell me she brought three pies to the bake sale and didn't even bake them herself?" Mama asked, raising an eyebrow.

"She sure did," Mrs. Anderson said, shaking her head. "Store-bought, every one of 'em. But bless her heart, she tried."

I sat on the church steps, watching the other kids play tag in the grass. A couple of them tried to wave me over, but I didn't feel like running around in my Sunday dress. Instead, I picked at the dandelions growing by the steps, blowing their fluffy seeds into the air and watching them drift away.

Every now and then, I'd glance over at Mama or Papa, hoping they'd finally say, "Time to go," but they never did.

"Emily, why don't you go play with the others?" Mama called over after a while.

"I'm fine," I said, trying not to sound too impatient.

She gave me a knowing smile but didn't push me. I knew she and Papa were enjoying themselves, catching up with their friends and neighbors.

Eventually, Papa clapped Mr. Daniels on the back and tipped his hat to the group. "All right, we'd best be headin' home before the whole day's gone."

Mama took a little longer, wrapping up her conversation with a warm smile and a promise to drop by for tea sometime soon.

By the time we climbed back into the truck, the sun was high, and the heat was starting to settle in. I let out a little sigh of relief as we rolled down the road, the wind from the open windows cooling my face.

As the truck rumbled down the driveway and came to a stop in front of the house, I noticed something strange. The yard seemed alive with movement—little flashes of green and brown hopping through the grass and onto the porch steps.

"Frogs!" I squealed, bouncing in my seat.

Sure enough, there were frogs everywhere—big ones, little ones, fat ones, and skinny ones. Some were perched on the porch railing, while others were hopping around the garden, blending in with the leaves.

"Well, would you look at that," Papa said, climbing out of the truck with a grin. "Emily, looks like your dinner just delivered itself."

I was out of the truck before he could say Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, running toward the yard. "I can catch them for dinner?" I asked, excitement bubbling in my chest.

Papa nodded, his grin widening. "Sure can. Frog legs fry up nice and tender. Let's see how many you can catch."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mama groaned, stepping out of the truck and putting her hands on her hips. "Timothy, do you have to encourage this nonsense?"

"Come on, Bev," Papa said, chuckling. "It's good eatin'. Don't knock it till you try it."

"I'll knock it all I want," she said, wrinkling her nose as a frog hopped onto the porch step near her shoe. "This is disgusting. I'll be inside making a proper meal. You two can do... whatever this is."

I laughed as Mama headed toward the house, muttering under her breath about "swamp critters" and "ridiculous ideas."

"Let's get to work," Papa said, grabbing an old bucket from the shed and handing it to me.

I spent the next hour running around the yard, chasing frogs and carefully scooping them into the bucket. They were slippery little things, hopping out of my hands a few times before I got the hang of it, but I managed to catch enough to make Papa proud.

"Well, I'll be," he said, inspecting the bucket full of frogs. "You've got a talent for this, kiddo. We're gonna have ourselves a fine supper tonight."

I grinned, wiping the sweat from my forehead. "Can we fry them like the gator tail?"

"You bet," he said, carrying the bucket toward the shed. "But first, we gotta clean 'em. Go wash up and tell your mama we'll be ready for supper soon."

I ran inside, where Mama was chopping vegetables at the counter. She raised an eyebrow when she saw me.

"Don't even think about putting those frogs in my kitchen," she warned.

"I won't," I said, washing my hands at the sink. "Papa's taking care of it. But he said they'll be real good."

Mama shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "You two are somethin' else, you know that?"

As I washed my hands at the sink, Mama glanced over and let out a dramatic sigh.

"Emily! Look at your dress!" she said, pointing to the smudges of dirt and a small green streak from where I'd wiped my hands earlier.

I looked down and winced. I'd been so excited about the frogs that I'd completely forgotten to change out of my Sunday dress after church.

"Oh no," I said, biting my lip. "I forgot!"

Mama put down the knife she was using to chop vegetables and crossed her arms. "That's why I tell you to change first thing when we get home. Now look at it—it's a mess!"

"I'm sorry, Mama," I said, twisting the fabric of my dress in my hands.

"Go change into your play clothes before you get into any more trouble."

"Yes, Mama," I said quickly, hurrying out of the kitchen and up to my room.

I swapped the dress for a pair of overalls and a T-shirt, then brought the dirty dress back downstairs. Mama was waiting, her arms still crossed but her expression softer.

I handed the dress to Mama, who clicked her tongue as she examined the stains.

"This is gonna take some elbow grease," she said, grabbing a basin from under the sink. She filled it with warm water, added a bit of lye soap, and set it on the counter.

"Go fetch the scrub board from the porch," she said, rolling up her sleeves.

"Yes, Mama," I replied, hurrying outside to grab the worn wooden board that leaned against the porch wall. It was smooth in some spots and rough in others from years of use. I brought it back to the kitchen and set it beside the basin.

Mama dipped the dress into the soapy water, then began scrubbing it against the board with quick, practiced strokes. The suds turned gray almost immediately as the dirt and grass stains started lifting from the fabric.

"This is why I tell you to change after church," she said, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow.

"I know," I said, watching the water swirl with tiny bubbles. "I just forgot."

She sighed but didn't say anything more, focusing on the dress. Once she was satisfied, she wrung it out and handed it to me.

"Go hang this on the line," she said.

I took the damp dress out to the backyard, where the clothesline stretched between two tall posts. The breeze was warm, and the sun was still bright in the sky, enough to dry things quickly. I used the clothespins to clip the dress securely to the line, watching it sway gently in the wind.

When I went back inside, Mama was wiping her hands on a towel. "That'll teach you to remember next time," she said with a small smile. "Now, go see what your Papa's up to. I'm sure he's gotten into some kind of mess with those frogs by now."

I skipped across the yard, the warm grass tickling my bare feet as I headed toward the shed. I could hear Papa whistling a tune, the sound mingling with the occasional croak of frogs from the bucket nearby.

When I peeked around the corner, there he was, sitting on an old stool with his sleeves rolled up, a knife in one hand and a frog in the other.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said without looking up, his voice easy and cheerful. "You come to help, or just to supervise?"

"Help," I said, stepping closer and wrinkling my nose at the smell.

"Well, you've got good timing," he said, setting the cleaned frog legs into a bowl. "Grab that other bucket and rinse these off for me."

I picked up the smaller bucket he pointed to and walked over to the spigot near the side of the shed. The cool water gushed out, splashing my hands as I rinsed the frog legs one by one.

"What's Mama gonna say when she sees this?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder at Papa.

He laughed, wiping his knife on a rag. "She's already said it. Plenty of times. But she'll eat 'em. She always does."

I wasn't so sure about that, but I didn't argue. Once the frog legs were cleaned and the pile in the bowl was growing, I couldn't help but feel a little proud.

"Do you think I'll get good at this one day?" I asked, bringing the rinsed bucket back to him.

"Darlin', you're already good at it," he said, giving me a wink.

I skipped back to the house, ready to tell Mama that lunch was long overdue. When I stepped into the kitchen, she was already slicing a loaf of bread and setting out jars of preserves.

"Lunch first, then we'll deal with your frogs," she said firmly, not even looking up.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, setting the bucket down near the door and washing my hands at the sink.

"Grab some plates and set the table," she added. "Your Papa'll be in here any second, saying he's starving."

I laughed because she was right. As if on cue, Papa's voice called from outside, "Y'all better not have started without me!"

By the time he walked in, wiping his hands on a rag, the table was set with thick slices of bread, butter, and jars of strawberry and peach preserves. Mama had also sliced up some leftover ham, arranging it neatly on a plate.

"Let's say grace," she said, sitting down and folding her hands.

We all bowed our heads as Papa spoke. "Lord, we thank You for this food and for the hard work that went into it. Thank You for another beautiful day and for keeping us safe. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

Lunch was simple but satisfying, and the kitchen was filled with the sound of clinking forks and cheerful conversation. Papa told us about the time he tried to fry frogs as a kid and ended up burning the skillet. Mama shook her head, muttering something about "boys and their wild ideas," but she was smiling the whole time.

After we cleaned up, the afternoon stretched out quiet and lazy. The sun was high, and the air felt heavy with warmth. Papa pulled his whittling knife from his pocket and settled into his rocking chair on the porch.

"What are you making, Papa?" I asked, sitting cross-legged on the porch floor.

He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see."

The soft scrape of the knife against the wood was steady and soothing. I watched as little curls of wood fell to the porch, and slowly, the shape of a small animal—maybe a dog, maybe a rabbit—began to emerge. As I sat there, I felt a strange thought bubble up, one I didn't often say out loud.

"You know, Papa," I began, watching his hands work carefully, "sometimes I feel like I'm not just me. Like, some days I feel like Emily—the way everyone sees me—but other days, I feel like maybe I'm more like you. Like I could be a boy if I wanted to."

Papa paused for a Moment, his knife still against the wood. He glanced at me, his eyes soft and curious. "That so?"

I nodded, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. "Yeah. I mean, I like climbin' trees and catchin' frogs, and all the boys do that. But then there are days I like wearin' dresses and sittin' quiet with Mama. It's like I'm both, but not always at the same time."

Papa smiled, his hands starting to carve again. "Well, kiddo, you just keep bein' you. Doesn't matter what anyone thinks, so long as you're happy."

I felt my chest loosen a little, like a weight I didn't know I was carrying had lifted. "Thanks, Papa." Mama came out with a glass of iced tea and sat on the swing, her book resting in her lap.

"This is the best part of the day," she said, letting the swing rock gently.

I nodded. Even though the frogs were still hopping around the yard, I decided they could wait. There'd be plenty of time for adventure later, but for now, the soft rhythm of the porch and the warmth of the sun felt just right.

As Papa continued whittling and Mama sipped her iced tea, an idea popped into my head. I stood up and grabbed the jar of pennies from the side table by the rocking chair.

"Let's play the penny game!" I said, holding up the jar with a grin.

"The penny game?" Papa asked, looking up from his carving.

"Yeah! We see who can toss their pennies closest to the edge of the porch without them falling off!"

Mama shook her head but smiled. "And what's the prize for winning this high-stakes game?"

"The winner gets to pick dessert tonight!" I declared, spilling a few pennies into my hand.

Papa chuckled, setting his knife and carving aside. "All right, I'm in. But you better watch out, kiddo. I've got a steady hand."

We each grabbed a handful of pennies, taking turns tossing them toward the edge of the porch. Some stopped just shy of the edge, while others tumbled into the dirt below. Mama's tosses were careful and precise, Papa's were strong but wild, and mine were somewhere in between, sometimes landing too far, sometimes not far enough.

"Looks like I win!" Mama announced after her penny stopped just a hair from the edge.

"No fair!" Papa said, pretending to pout. "She's got a sharpshooter's eye."

"It's called precision, Timothy," she said with a laugh, brushing her hands. "Now, I'm thinkin' peach cobbler for dessert."

"Peach cobbler? Fine choice," Papa said, leaning back in his chair. "But next time, I'm takin' the win."

I laughed, scooping up the pennies that had fallen and putting them back in the jar. It wasn't a big game, but it felt like one of those Moments that mattered, one I'd carry with me for a long time.

By the time dinner rolled around, the air outside had cooled, and the frogs—many of which I'd caught earlier—were ready to be fried. Mama sighed as she set the table, muttering about swamp creatures and her kitchen being taken over by "wild ideas." Papa, on the other hand, was in his element, standing over the cast iron skillet with his sleeves rolled up, a grin on his face.

"Frog legs fry up quick," he said, flipping a batch with practiced ease. The smell of crispy batter filled the house, mingling with the scent of cornbread Mama had made to go along with it.

We gathered around the table, the plates piled high with golden-brown frog legs, cornbread, and a fresh garden salad Mama had insisted on adding. As usual, we bowed our heads before digging in.

Papa led the prayer. "Lord, thank You for this meal, for the hands that prepared it, and for the blessings of this day. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

I picked up a piece of frog leg, the crispy batter warm against my fingers. I took a bite, and the flavor surprised me. It was light and tender, with a hint of the seasoning Papa had added—a mix of salt, pepper, and a little cayenne for heat.

"Tastes like chicken," I said, grinning.

Papa laughed, reaching for another piece. "That's what they all say. But it's better than chicken, isn't it?"

I nodded, chewing happily. "It's really good."

Mama took a small bite, her expression skeptical at first, but then she nodded. "Not bad. Still not my favorite, but not bad."

Papa smirked. "Told ya."

We ate until we were full, the conversation bouncing between frogs, funny stories from the day, and plans for tomorrow. By the time we were done, the plates were nearly empty, and the only sounds were the crickets starting their nightly song outside.