They Were Praying in a Circle—But No One Taught Them How
It was just after snack time. I was rinsing out some paint cups when I noticed something… off.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Anyone who’s ever been around a group of 4- and 5-year-olds knows silence is rarely a good sign. These kids usually treated noise like an Olympic sport.
I peeked around the corner into the play area—and froze.
Four of them—Niko, Janelle, Izzy, and Samir—were sitting cross-legged on the rug, hands clasped, eyes closed, heads bowed. Formed in a perfect little circle, as still and focused as I’d ever seen them.
They were whispering something I couldn’t quite catch. I thought maybe it was a made-up rhyme or one of their giggle-filled secret club chants. But when I leaned in closer, I realized…
They were praying.
Real praying. Whispers of “Please” and “Help” and “Amen.” Janelle even crossed herself at the end like she’d seen someone do in church.
And here’s the thing—we don’t teach religion in our classroom. It’s a public kindergarten. No prayers, no holiday hymns, no Bible stories. Nothing even close.
I’d never seen them talk about faith before, let alone mimic it.
I crouched down beside them, careful not to disturb whatever sacred moment was unfolding.
“Hey,” I asked gently, “what are you guys doing?”
Izzy cracked one eye open and whispered, “We’re asking the sky to help us.”
“Help with what?” I asked.
Niko simply pointed at Janelle. “It’s for her mom.”
Janelle didn’t say a word. Just looked down at the floor.
I didn’t press. I told them it was okay and let them finish. But something in me ached the rest of the day.
Later, at pick-up time, Janelle’s usual ride didn’t show.
We waited.
By 4:30, the school office was dialing every emergency contact we had on file. No answer. The classroom emptied out, one cheerful goodbye at a time, until it was just me and Janelle sitting in the golden hush of late afternoon.
She curled up on the story-time rug, quiet and small.
“Are you alright, sweetheart?” I asked softly.
She shrugged. “Mommy said she’d be here…”
I tried to reassure her. “We’ll get in touch with someone, I promise.”
We called her grandma. Then her aunt. Still nothing. That same tightness returned to my chest.
At 4:45, my phone rang—an unknown number.
I picked up without hesitation. “Hello?”
A gentle voice replied, “Hi, this is Nadine. I’m Janelle’s neighbor. Her mom just called from the hospital. She asked me to pick Janelle up. Is she still with you?”
Relief washed over me like a wave. “Yes, she’s here. Thank you so much for calling. Is her mom okay?”
Nadine paused. “She’s stable. Dehydration, dizzy spells. She didn’t want to scare Janelle, so she asked me to take care of her tonight.”
I looked over at Janelle and smiled. “She’s in good hands. Come by anytime—we’ll be here.”
After I hung up, Janelle searched my face. “Is Mommy okay?”
“She’s not feeling well,” I said, kneeling beside her. “But she’s getting help. And Ms. Nadine is coming to take you home.”
Her eyes lit up just a little. Then she whispered, almost to herself, “That’s why we prayed.”
Nadine arrived a little after five—kind eyes, worried smile. She wrapped Janelle in a warm hug and reassured her everything would be alright.
Before they left, I touched Nadine’s arm gently. “Please keep me updated. We care about Janelle so much.”
“I will,” she promised. “Thank you for staying with her.”
They walked into the early evening light, Janelle’s little backpack bouncing with each step. She turned and gave me a tiny wave.
And just like that, the room felt too quiet again.
The next day, Janelle didn’t come in.
I taught shapes and letters with my usual enthusiasm, but kept glancing at the door, hoping she might appear with that shy wave of hers. She never did.
During circle time, Izzy tugged at my sleeve. “Where’s Janelle?” she asked in a whisper somehow loud enough for everyone to hear.
“She’s with her neighbor today,” I said gently. “Her mommy’s not feeling well.”
Izzy’s face crumpled. “But we prayed,” she said. “Why didn’t it work?”
That question hit hard.
I’m no theologian. Definitely not a preacher. Just a kindergarten teacher trying to hold space for tiny, fragile hearts.
“Sometimes things don’t get better all at once,” I said softly. “Maybe we just have to keep hoping. Keep being kind. Keep loving each other.”
Izzy nodded slowly and turned back to her puzzle. But I could feel the weight still sitting in her little heart.
Around lunchtime, we got an update. Nadine called to let us know Janelle’s mom was doing better. She might be discharged by that evening, and Janelle would stay with her one more night.
I shared the news with the class, and Izzy lit up like a sunrise.
“That’s because we prayed, right?”
Samir and Niko crowded in to hear. Their eyes bright with hope.
I thought about explaining doctors and IV fluids and rest. But I couldn’t bring myself to quiet their sense of wonder.
“Maybe,” I said, smiling. “Maybe your kindness helped in ways we don’t fully understand.”
And for them—for all of us—that was enough.