I was cleaning out some paint cups shortly after snack time when I realized that the room had become very silent. For a group of four and five-year-olds who often treated volume like a sport, it was too quiet.
I came to a halt when I turned the corner into the play area.
In a perfect little circle, four of them sat cross-legged: Samir, Janelle, Izzy, and Niko. Holding hands. Close your eyes. People bent their heads.
They were mumbling something that at first I couldn’t quite make out. Perhaps it was a song or one of their favorite rhyming games, I reasoned. But when I got closer, I saw that they were actually praying.
Like, praying a lot. making requests. uttering “Amen.” As she had observed in church, Janelle even crossed herself at the conclusion.
The problem is that our classroom does not engage in any religious activities. This kindergarten is public. Nothing—no Bible stories, no nativity performances. Furthermore, none of these four had ever discussed faith or even imitated such behavior before.
I knelt down and said, “Hey, what are you guys doing?” with gentleness.
“We’re asking the sky to help us,” Izzy muttered, opening one eye.
“What can I do to help you?” I inquired.
“It’s for her mom,” Niko simply stated, gesturing to Janelle.
I turned to face Janelle, but she abruptly avoided eye contact.
At the time, I didn’t push it. After saying “okay,” I let them finish. But for the remainder of the day, my chest felt constricted.
Janelle’s normal ride failed to arrive for pick-up later. We waited. and bided their time.
By 4:30, emergency contacts were being called by the office. Nobody was answering.
As the other kids departed with their parents or guardians, the classroom fell silent as the late afternoon calm descended. Each child cheerfully said, “Goodbye!” or “See you tomorrow!” as they skipped off into the hallway. Janelle sitting on the story-time mat, looking little and anxious, was unnerving.
I dropped to my knees beside her. “Are you alright, my love?” I asked quietly so as not to raise any alarms. She gave a shrug.
“Mommy promised to be here.” As she twisted a lock of her curly hair around her finger, she muttered.
I made an effort to comfort her. “All right, we’ll work things out. We’ll find a way to contact your family.
We attempted to reach her grandmother and an aunt, both of whom were on the emergency contacts list. No success. I began to have the same constriction in my chest as before. I didn’t know what was happening, but something was happening.
It was about 4:45 when my phone rang. The number was unidentified. I wouldn’t normally answer calls like that, but I was in a terrible situation. I made a swipe.
I said, “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Nadine,” a hesitant voice answered. Janelle lives next door to me. Her mother called me just now. I was requested to come get Janelle. Does she remain with you?
I felt a wave of relief. “Oh, I’m very grateful. “Yes, she’s here,” I responded, grinning at Janelle, who attempted to read my expression. “How is her mother doing?”
Nadine hesitated. Although she was admitted to the hospital, she is now stable. Something to do with dehydration and vertigo. She asked if I could babysit her tonight so as not to frighten Janelle.
My heart twitched a little. That clarified a lot. “All right. I appreciate you informing me. Would you be able to come get Janelle? She and I will wait at the school.
“Obviously,” Nadine replied. “I’m en route.”
After I hung up, I turned to face Janelle, who offered me a vague half-smile. She must have sensed my shift in attitude because she inquired, “Is Mommy okay?”
I lowered myself to meet her eye level. She went to see a doctor to obtain aid because she wasn’t feeling well, honey. We’ll make sure you get home safely, and Ms. Nadine will be there to pick you up.
A hint of relief lit up Janelle’s cheeks. Then she mumbled, “That’s why we prayed,” as though recalling what had transpired previously.
A bit after five, Nadine showed up. She was a sweet-eyed woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with a worried look on her face and a pocketbook hung over her shoulder. Without hesitation, she leaned down and embraced Janelle, assuring her that everything will be fine.
I gave Nadine a quick touch on the shoulder before they departed. Could you tell me how Janelle’s mother is doing? I want to know how she’s doing. Janelle is really important to us here.
Nadine gave a nod. “Yes, I will. I appreciate you remaining with her.
Janelle’s tiny knapsack bounced on her shoulders as they strolled out into the twilight. I waved back as she turned to wave at me. When they left, the school felt oddly deserted.
Janelle failed to show up the following day. I kept checking the clock, half expecting her to wave apologetically as she shuffled in late, while I was teaching the rest of the class about shapes, letters, and sounds. It didn’t occur.
Her absence was noticed by some of the children, particularly Izzy, who tapped my arm during circle time. In that four-year-old stage whisper that somehow everyone can hear, she inquired, “Where’s Janelle?”
I said softly, “She’s with her neighbor today.” “Her mother is quite ill.”
Izzy appeared devastated. With tears in her eyes, she remarked, “But we prayed.” “What went wrong?”
It was a surprise question. Particularly at a public kindergarten, I am not an authority on spiritual topics. However, I could see the concern in her eyes. I remarked, “Sometimes things get better slowly.” “Perhaps we should simply maintain our optimism for Janelle and her mother.”
After giving a nod, Izzy returned her attention to the puzzle she was working on. Her small heart was still heavy, though, and I could tell.
About midday, we received an update. Nadine informed us over the phone that Janelle’s mother was getting better and could be released by the evening. Janelle would spend one more night with Nadine.
At last I could let out a breath. “That’s because we prayed, right?” Izzy said with joy as I broke the news to the children. With hopeful eyes, the others gathered around to listen, particularly Samir and Niko.
I considered explaining that it was all about doctors and medical science, but I couldn’t bring myself to stifle their naive sense of amazement. I smiled at them and said, “Perhaps.” “Perhaps your generosity was helpful in ways we don’t fully comprehend.”
That response appeared to satisfy them.
A few of days later, Janelle went back to school. With an intensity I had never witnessed before, she ran through the door, beaming as if she had just won a prize. She said, “Mommy’s home, and she’s okay!” before I could even say good morning.
Izzy, Niko, and Samir embraced her tightly, and before I knew it, the four of them were seated on the rug in the same circle. Heads bowed, hands held again. They were whispering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” this time.
Their expressions of thanks were genuine, but I’m not sure to whom or what they were speaking. They eventually finished, opened their eyes, and burst out laughing. It resembled a secret they kept from the cosmos.
I gently inquired about Janelle’s mother’s health at around noon. In her sweet little voice, she informed me that her mother needed a lot of water and rest, and that physicians had given her a “pokey shot” to help with her vertigo. “We prayed for her, and she’s better now,” she remarked with a shrug as if it were no great deal.
The simplicity of the situation for these children brought tears to my eyes. When they realized there was a problem, they closed their eyes and fervently requested assistance. Nobody told them they should or demonstrated how. They simply did it. And it worked in their imaginations.
“I hope Mommy doesn’t have to work so hard anymore so she doesn’t get sick again,” Janelle continued, adding that she was thinking of another prayer. I gave her a gentle shoulder pat as I felt a wave of love for this adorable child who was so concerned about her mother.
I ran into Janelle’s mom at pick-up a week later. She appeared somewhat exhausted but healthier. She gave me a little wave and a smile. I approached her and inquired about her well-being.
She gave a nod. The fact that I was working two jobs ultimately caught up with me. During my lunch break, I fainted. I feel very ashamed. Her voice wavered slightly. However, I want to thank everyone who came to Janelle’s aid that day. She never stops talking about her pals and you.
I lightly touched her arm. We’re just relieved that you’re both okay. Please take care of yourself. Janelle needs you.
She nodded and turned to face her daughter, who was playing in the play area with Izzy, chasing bubbles. “I’ll.”
About two weeks later, I saw that same circle when I returned to class after lunch. But the group had expanded this time. Niko, Janelle, Izzy, and Samir have been joined by other children. When I walked in, they gave me a guilty smile and wide eyes, as though I had caught them stealing dessert.
To be honest, I didn’t mind. They were simply creating their own small community of care; they weren’t causing any trouble. Perhaps they didn’t require an instructor, but I had never shown them how to do this. Perhaps compassion is innate in children and we simply forget it as we grow up.
I took a seat in a chair close by and listened to the gentle murmur of their hushed requests—for someone’s dad to get a new job, for someone’s grandma to recover, or for someone’s lost kitten to return home. Heartfelt requests, simple prayers. I gave them their chance. They giggled and gave each other high fives when they were done.
I experienced a surge of warmth in that instant, as if I were experiencing something nice and pure. These children had discovered a method to express empathy, optimism, and love without any official training or coercion. A network of hands clasped together, small voices, and large hearts.
In retrospect, I see a lesson in life that I believe we adults occasionally overlook: caring for others doesn’t require instruction. Expressing love and hope doesn’t have to be scripted. Sometimes all you need is an open mind and the conviction that you can change things, even if only slightly.
Children naturally understand that. They want to do anything—anything—to help when they see a buddy in need and sense the sorrow or anxiety in their little group. And perhaps that very willingness to attempt is the true miracle.
Therefore, if there’s one lesson to be learned, it’s this: Never undervalue the strength of kindness and shared hope. Whatever you call it—prayer, positive energy, or simply caring—it has the power to unite people in the most positive ways. Those four-year-olds who joined their hands and silently wished to the sky without fear or shame may teach us all a few things.
I appreciate you reading this tale. Please think about sharing it with someone who needs a reminder that compassion can be found in the smallest people and in the most basic situations if it moved you. And feel free to like or give it a thumbs up if you enjoyed it. When no one ever taught them how to pray, a few kids praying in a circle might inspire someone else.
