Free Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! by Robin Jones Gunn

that.”
    I wanted to say, “Oh, come on, Amy. We shouldn’t bother God with our mess. Hes probably as tired and frustrated as we are. Letsjust keep going and take care of this ourselves.”
    But she started to pray before I could protest. Without closing her eyes, Amy took a deep breath. “Papa, You know everything. You know where our suitcases are right now, and You know that taxi driver even if He doesn’t know You. You can do anything. If You want to get our luggage back, You can make that happen. If You want us to go without our things so we can trust You in new ways, thatsokay, too. May Your kingdom come and Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.”
    Amy smiled at me, and I found a small smile inside my quieted heart to give back to her. It was a good thing she was the one who prayed instead of me. My prayer would have come out a little more … well, aggressive.
    Years ago when I heard Amy address God in prayer as Papa, I had questioned her. The term didn’t seem appropriate or honoring. But then I was still reading only the King James Version of the Bible with all the thee and thou phrases I’d grown up hearing in church.
    “Calling on God as my Papa changes everything for me,” Amy had told me soon after she discovered the Romans 8 reference to Abba Father could be translated to mean “Papa” or “Daddy” in English. “Don’t you see? I never had a relationship with my earthly father, so it always was difficult for me to picture my heavenly Father as being there for me or wanting to love me. But when I saw God as my Papa, I felt I could trust Him and come close to Him any time, and He would never desert me.”
    I knew that everything Amy said to her heavenly Papa in prayer she meant. She trusted and adored God in a way I’d never been able to grasp. She believed her heavenly Papa could direct the heart of a Parisian car thief to tum around and return our stolen luggage. Her simple faith humbled me. Especially because she believed enough for both of us.
    The irony was that even though I was the one who gave Amy her first Bible, she was the one who continually gave the Bible back to me every time the truths of God’s Word came springing out in her life like a fountain of fresh water. Whenever they did, I drank deeply, unaware until that moment how desperately thirsty I was.
    Continuing on our trek to the police station, I forgot how hungry, tired, and angry I was. We studied the hand-drawn map together and turned right at the next corner.
    “There it is. On the right.” Amy led the way down the narrow street lined with small parked cars.
    Entering the unassuming police station, I felt as if we were entering a parallel universe to
The Andy Griffith Show
but with some peculiar twists. The two officers on duty were watching
The Simpsons
on a small television with the volume turned low. One of them was smoking. He immediately put his cigarette behind his back, as if one of us were his mother and had stepped into his bedroom unannounced.
    Both of the men stood up straight to greet us in their freshly pressed uniforms. They couldn’t have been much older than twenty
    Amy explained our problem in chopped-up French. She added a stream of apologies in English for all the words she couldn’t remember. Then she apparently asked for something to drink.
    The officers responded immediately The shorter onepulled a bottle of wine out of the desk drawer and went looking for glasses.
    Amy called after him in French requesting water.
    The other officer reached for a pad of paper and asked Amy a string of questions. She tried to keep up with the translation for me, explaining that the men had received the dispatch of our situation and needed more details from us.
    Two glasses of lukewarm water were offered to us, and I discreetly didn’t drink mine. I doubted it was bottled water, and I didn’t want to get sick my first night here.
    Amy tried to explain the questions the officer was asking