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teaching English lessons to Spanish-speaking children?”
    “It’s more diverse than that. I’ll tell you as we go.”
    She followed him into the kitchen. The room was large enough for a round pine table flanked by six mismatched chairs. Bright green cushions unified them. The center of the table was taken up by a plastic caddy filled with art supplies. She picked up a felt-tip marker, one of dozens in a variety of colors. “The art room?”
    “Also the snack room and the place where we’ll teach nutrition basics. Come see the dining room.”
    The dining room was no longer for dining. Four small tables sat in the middle of the narrow space, and bookshelves lined the walls and stood under two windows. Each table was large enough for four small children. Some of the books looked new; some looked as if they had come from a rummage sale.
    Sam stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, as Elisa silently scanned the titles. She chose one to leaf through as he spoke.
    “One of our members works as a school administrator here in the county. One day we were talking, and he told me what a disadvantage Spanish-speaking children have when they enter the local schools. There are more of them each year. The schools do what they can, but it’s not enough. He told me that without extra help, the kids just can’t catch up and keep up, and not because they aren’t bright. Because they need an extra boost with the language and the culture.”
    “So you decided to start your own program?”
    “We’d been debating what to do with this house. Our former church secretary lived here until a few years ago, but no one has lived here since. It needed too much work to continue as a rental. Some people wanted to tear it down and build a four-unit apartment as extra income for the church. Some wanted to sell the house and property. Of course others thought we should preserve history, not sell or destroy it.”
    “History?” she asked, curious as to how much he knew.
    “It’s a very old house. Pre-Civil War, at least the main portion of it. The original family and their descendants lived here until the 1930s, when they sold their farm, and the church was built on what was once their front cornfield.”
    She was glad, very glad, that the developers in the congregation had not won out. “You were one who didn’t want to tear it down?”
    “I convinced our lay leaders that using the building as an outreach program for local children would be the best use of the property.”
    Judging from the incident with the sign, she was certain that had not been a battle without casualties. But Sam looked like a man strong and determined enough to weather them. “And it has been successful?”
    “We open once school opens. We’ve spoken to the authorities, and they’ve promised to put us in touch with the parents of all the children who can use our help. The school will bus them here if the parents sign permission slips. We have two donated vans we’ll use to take them home at the end of the afternoon. We have a dozen tutors who have signed up to take shifts, a Catholic nun who has agreed to supervise, and a retired Presbyterian minister who is coordinating transportation and communications with parents.”
    She was impressed. “So many different churches?”
    “It’s our building, but it’s the community’s project. You should have seen how many people turned out on the weekend we painted. People on the roof, people clearing away badly overgrown shrubs, people scrubbing floors.” He seemed to think better of his enthusiasm. “I’m sorry. It’s a subject close to my heart.”
    “Do the tutors speak Spanish?”
    “Unfortunately, no one speaks much. We’re hoping that will change as the community gets more involved. I’m working hard on mine. Right now, if any child needs to know where the bathroom is located, I can direct him in his own language. That’s about it. For good or for bad, I’m afraid it’s an English immersion