I mean the clanking of the door knocker, clank, clank, clank, followed by the persistent ringing of the doorbell, ring, ring, ring. Then more clanking, followed by pauses, and finally more ringing. These persistent efforts to be let into our house are made by Brightynn, a cute, blond, six-year-old girl who lives down the street. She has been put on this earth, partly, I sometimes think, to drive me around the bend—or at least to spur me on to greater levels of sanctification. At first I thought she