IT WAS THE FALL of 1979, and the preschool I operated and taught at in South Bend, Indiana, had opened for the year just after the US Labor Day holiday in September. The following month, a young family from Iran came to enroll their four-year-old son in our school. The boy's father was a former Iranian Air Force pilot, and they were planning to make their home in our community.

Two weeks later, the Shah of Iran was ousted, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini returned to Tehran and proclaimed the Islamic Republic, and Iranian students stormed the US Embassy, taking 66 Americans hostage. Our newcomer Iranian family found all their assets were frozen. I worked with them on a plan to keep their son in school through a scholarship that was available.

The boy was quiet and spent most of his time observing others, but he would work with me on a one-to-one basis. As the school year continued, I observed that he was not communicating or joining with the other children in their activities. At first, I decided to let him make these connections on his own.

Meanwhile, in our community we were seeing a lot of hatred expressed toward Iranians and Ayatollah Khomeini. News reports were showing Iranian students burning American flags and yelling, "Death to America," and local university students began wearing T-shirts that proclaimed "Death to the Ayatollah." Iranian students studying in the US were being harassed.

I prayed daily for my school and the children. I realized I needed to prevent that hatred from making an impression on my own consciousness. This little Iranian boy in my preschool was God's child, and he needed all the love and support I could give him. I strove to obey Jesus' command to love my neighbors as myself. Praying along these lines, I found that I no longer harbored hateful thoughts about the Ayatollah and the Iranian people. And I was full of love for this new student.

During the two-week Christmas holiday break, I asked God to help me find the best way to help this boy. He still spoke no English and had continued to keep to himself. When school took up in January, on the first day back, it came to me to ask the children if they had pets. Many hands went up as each one told me about his or her pet. I asked how they communicated with their pets, since they didn't speak our language. Many hands went up. The children told about how they loved their cat or dog—how they played with them, fed and hugged them, to show these pets their love.

I then talked about our new friend from Iran, that he did not speak our language and didn't understand when we talked to each other. How, I asked, could we help him? They immediately responded that they could love him in other ways as they did with their pets.

The next day, during free-play periods, some boys went to the Iranian boy and brought him into their play. The girls also were friendly toward him. Each day this expanding care continued, and soon he became a part of all their activities. By March he was speaking English with the other children, participating in every way, and having a wonderful time.

The following month I had conferences with the children's parents. The boy's mother arrived wearing beautiful Iranian clothes. She began to praise me, and with tears in her eyes asked how we had taught her son to speak English. Her older son, who had gone to school in England, was still having trouble with English, while the younger one now spoke it well. I told her that I had prayed about how to reach him, explaining what I had said to the other children and how they had responded with love. She was so grateful, and we parted friends.

Mary Baker Eddy wrote about the power of love: "Love is not something put upon a shelf, to be taken down on rare occasions with sugar-tongs and laid on a rose-leaf. I make strong demands on love, call for active witnesses to prove it, and noble sacrifices and grand achievements as its results" (Miscellaneous Writings 1883-1896, p. 250).

I feel the refusal to let hate into my thoughts or into the classroom, and the determination to have only love in our hearts for the Iranian people and their leader, helped heal this situation.

There's a sequel to this experience. At that time I was renting the facilities of a Brethren church for the preschool, and had been there about ten years. That same school year in which the Iranian family arrived, the church board had been thinking of not asking me back the next year, because they didn't feel the school was reaching out into the community. Also, a beloved minister of many years had retired the year before, and a young minister had taken over.

The new minister and I often talked after school. He confided that the church had not accepted him. When the end of the school year came in May, I felt led to tell him about my experience with the Iranian boy. I emphasized the prayer that I felt had made all the difference. The new minister was delighted and asked if he could incorporate my experience into a Sunday sermon. I was happy to have him do so. As a result, the members' thoughts about the school shifted. They felt we were truly serving the community and said they wanted the school to stay. The minister also began to feel accepted by his congregation.

It was the love that God freely gives which made a young child feel at home in a new country. It was this same love that brought a wider sense of community to a church.