Anyone can pray—including you

By Cheryl F. Ranson

IT was time to walk home from school. And I was feeling afraid again.

I used to love the walk. In the fall there were many-colored leaves to scuff through or pick up. In winter, snow-convered shapes were funny or mysterious, and sometimes ice decorated every branch and twig. Spring was best of all, with its sweet fragrances and new green shoots.

But this spring things were different. A big boy had begun hiding behind a tree after school, waiting for the youngest children to pass by. Then he would charge at us with his head down, like an angry bull. He made frightening sounds, too. Every day we scattered and ran in fear.

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