My girl clambered into the minivan after school, heavy backpack on her shoulders, heavy thoughts in her heart.
She waited for my daily question, “How was your day?”
And then she spilled the news about “this boy in my class.”
“This boy” was loud and disruptive and didn’t follow the rules. He cost them rewards in art class and never obeyed the teacher. He did inappropriate things and wouldn’t stay in line.
She finished her story, pronounced a loud “harumph” and slammed her arms criss-cross around her chest in a sign of definitive anger.
So many of our conversations take place this way, me angling the rear-view mirror to see faces, shouting back Mom-ly words of wisdom from the driver’s seat.
The minivan is prime time for deep conversations.
“You know what we need to do,” I hollered to the back seat. “We need to pray for him and for your…
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