It was just after snack time when I noticed something strange—the classroom had gone completely quiet. For a group of energetic 4- and 5-year-olds who treated noise like a second language, the silence was startling. I stepped around the corner into the play area and paused.
There they were—Niko, Janelle, Izzy, and Samir—sitting cross-legged in a perfect circle. Their small hands were joined, eyes closed, heads gently bowed. They weren’t giggling or singing a rhyme. They were whispering softly, earnestly. I heard words like “help,” “please,” and “hope.” At the end, Janelle made a small gesture across her chest, mimicking something she’d seen before.
In our public kindergarten, we don’t lead any kind of faith-based activity. But here were these children, creating a quiet moment of comfort all on their own. I crouched down and asked gently, “What are you doing?”
Izzy opened one eye and whispered, “We’re asking the sky to help us.”
“Help with what?” I asked.
Niko pointed toward Janelle. “It’s for her mom.”
Janelle looked away. I didn’t push. I told them it was okay and let them finish. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was going on.
Later that day, Janelle’s usual ride didn’t show up. As the clock neared 4:30, the office started calling her emergency contacts. No one answered. The room felt uncertain—the kind of stillness that comes when you know something’s not quite right.
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