A classroom chock full of children in blue uniforms greet me with an exuberant, “Hello. Welcome Auntie!”

I’m instant family. This feeling is great and speaks volumes because family is important to me.

As I look into the Indian children’s shining eyes and smiling faces, I realize I’m immediately being looked up to and respected. I am family, and the incredible part is that they don’t even know my name.

In each class I visit, it’s more of the same — “Auntie … Auntie … Auntie.”

At the mobile school, where children from the slums of Kolkata come to learn, they coax me to sit with them. We sing together, hold hands and, of course, we declare “thumb wars.”

A girl wearing a navy kurta, the traditional Indian shirt that reaches calf length, made her way around the cement classroom. She bosses the boys, powders the recently showered younger children, and uses the communal comb to tame wild stands of wet hair. She acts much older than she is and much older than I’m acting.

She is an auntie at the age of nine. She dutifully takes care of the younger ones. I quickly see that I’m usurping her role. I’m the “fun aunt” who comes and spoils the kiddos with fish faces but leaves the hard work for someone else. This girl is the “hardworking aunt” who takes care of the daily needs of her nieces and nephews. She makes sure their necks are powdered to staunch the soon-to-come summer sweat stream. She makes sure their hair isn’t tousled and the boys aren’t picking each other’s nose. This aunt doesn’t get the accolades — I do. I get the cheeky smiles, giggles and squeezes.

I’m a daughter, sister, granddaughter, cousin and niece. Now, for the first time, I’m an auntie.

What responsibility do I have as an auntie to these kids? How can I be their auntie in absentia?

I can carry them around always in my heart. I can pray for them to grow up to love and accept Jesus as their Father. I can pray that one day, in heaven, they’ll call me “Auntie” once again.