Bullies and Grade One
Then, while we were living in Calgary, Cliff received an invitation to become the lead pastor of a tiny church in North Battleford. He accepted immediately—this was the opportunity to finally live his dream.
We moved and settled into a modest bungalow that served as the parsonage, just a block from the elementary school. Even better, the perfect little friend for Candace lived two doors down.
Candace was five years old and in absolute heaven. She didn’t have to work to attract children from the neighbourhood—she simply had to walk down the street to her friend’s house, and beyond that, an entire school of children waited just one block away. She thrived immediately.
I, on the other hand, was not in a good place.
When Cliff and I married, it was understood that I would support him in pursuing his dream—whatever form it took—and that once he was established, I would begin my own quest. But now that he was finally living his dream, I found myself stuck at home in a small town that felt like the middle of nowhere, caring for two young children. The edges of postpartum depression began quietly creeping in.
In desperation, I threw myself into the one church program that truly appealed to me. As a pastor’s wife, I had options, and I chose to host the College and Career young adult group in our home. That way, I didn’t need to find a babysitter—and I could still enjoy deep conversations with curious, blossoming young minds.
So every Friday evening, we opened our doors to the young adults of the church. Nothing grand—just conversation, simple snacks, and a safe, warm place to gather. To our surprise, it became remarkably successful, even drawing young adults from other churches in the small town. At times, the group rivaled the attendance of the Sunday congregation itself.
Most important of all, our young guests never resented having our two children underfoot. Candace loved it. She seemed able to relate to everyone—on so many levels. Inevitably, during our discussions about the Bible and the wide-ranging conversations that followed, she would listen intently and then offer her two cents—some small insight that landed with wisdom far beyond her years.
Our guests were always impressed. Often, after we had put our little ones to bed, someone would glance at us and say, with quiet wonder, “You’ve got a bright one there.”
And we knew we did.
In fact, we had two bright little ones—already forming a sisterly partnership, especially when they teamed up against us.
Candace loved Christmas—she loved any season that gathered people together—but Christmas was her favourite. She especially loved the giving of gifts, and because of that, I took great care to keep her presents a secret.
One year, I had both the time and the inclination to give the holiday special attention. I started early, sewing two costumes and buying gifts well in advance.
But I wasn’t paying much attention to Odia. She was still so little; since she wasn’t talking yet, I assumed she had no idea what was going on. So as I wandered through the stores, I narrated everything out loud. I believed children should be included in life as it unfolded, and I had once heard that even wrong information was better than none at all. So I told Odia everything—confident it was harmless.
But then—suddenly—she could talk. With surprising clarity.
Candace, quick as ever, caught on immediately. She realized that her little sister had somehow become the keeper of all the family Christmas secrets. Right there in front of me, Candace gently but relentlessly drew every secret out of her. They had their own private language. By the time Christmas morning arrived, I didn’t have a single surprise left.
In the end, we all laughed.
But I was more careful with Odia after that—she had a way of knowing everything.
And the two of them bonded through it, sealing a sisterhood in mischief and trust, a pure delight to watch.
*****
There was another important moment I remember.
Candace was sitting beside me one evening as we went around the circle of our College and Career group, sharing our God stories.
When it was my turn, I told the story of how, when I was about seven years old, my chore at the end of the day was to walk to the edge of our back lawn and throw the garbage into a large bin. One evening, after tossing the bag inside, I happened to look up at the night sky. It was black and velvet-soft, studded with stars. Suddenly, the stars seemed to pop out of the darkness—twinkling at me, dancing before my eyes.
I described how I was mesmerized that the stars had taken notice of me—sparkling, delighting, surrounding me with their glory. In that moment, it felt as though the full presence of the Creator had descended upon me. I felt seen. I felt known. I felt a longing to belong—to establish a relationship with this starry Father.
Later that same evening, as my mother tucked me into bed, I asked her how I could get to heaven. I wanted to live with this God I had just encountered. She paused, uncertain, and finally suggested I pray: ask forgiveness for my sins and “ask Jesus into my heart.” When I hesitated, unsure of what words to use, she told me to simply pray my usual bedtime prayer—a memorized German prayer—and assured me that God would understand.
So I did. I mumbled those German words, resenting that I didn’t understand them, yet praying with all my heart that God would understand German. And then—another miracle. I felt a flutter inside me, like the twinkle of those stars, and I knew God had entered my heart. The bond was complete.
After I finished my story, our guests shared theirs. It was a marvelous evening of listening and sacred telling.
When everyone had gone home and I was tucking Candace into bed, she looked up at me with wide, earnest eyes and said she wanted to say “yes” to God too.
We prayed together—this time not in German. As she whispered her own “yes,” her eyes sparkled with a new depth. I told her that while God being a Father was important to me, she—who understood friendship better than anyone I knew—might relate most easily to Jesus as a friend. Her eyes brightened even more.
From that moment on, we always felt God was especially close to her—meeting her with exactly the wisdom she needed for each step of her life.
*****
Then one day, as I was preparing her after-school snack, Candace dropped another unexpected question.
“What is sex?”
I had once read that if a child is old enough to ask the question, she is old enough for the answer. In theory, that had always sounded noble and wise. I had promised myself I would be honest with her.
But now, as she looked up at me with those wide, trusting eyes, I felt like every mother who has ever lived: surely this was too early. Perhaps any age feels too early when it’s your child.
At the same time, I remembered something my older sister had mentioned just days earlier. She and her husband had taken Candace along to a friend’s family gathering. Their friends had a son—a few years older than Candace. Later, my sister described spotting the two of them sitting together on one of those huge floating tubes at the far edge of the lake, feet dangling in the water, completely absorbed in conversation. She said they watched them for the longest time, fascinated.
“That girl held that boy’s attention,” she had said, half admiring, half bewildered.
I had noticed it too. Candace spoke to boys with the same ease she related to girls. She was never flirtatious—just open, curious, genuine. There was something in her that made people lean in. And the boys were leaning in.
I realized this wasn’t a question to sidestep. I would have to do this carefully.
While I was still explaining the basics of how babies are made, she moved on to the next important part of the question.
“What does ‘making love’ mean? Is it the same as sex?”
So I answered. Carefully. Slowly.
And she kept going.
“How?”
“When?”
“Where?”
Then came the question that made me realize I had wandered into deeper waters than I intended. I had been—perhaps—too graphic.
“But, Mom… why would anyone want to do that?”
Still wanting to be honest, I said gently, “Because… well, it feels good.”
Her eyes grew enormous.
“Feels good? What does it feel like?”
At that point, I knew I was in trouble. I searched desperately for an image she would understand—something safely within her world. We had just been to the fair the day before, so I latched onto the only thing that felt remotely comparable.
“It feels,” I said, silently praying the analogy would somehow work, “like the rush of a roller coaster going down the steepest hill.”
Her eyes brightened.
And in that instant, I realized—with slow, dawning horror—that I had turned my careful attempt at sex education into an accidental commercial.
I reeled myself back in as quickly as I could.
“But, Candace,” I added, “it can also be a cheap thrill. Sex is only wonderful with someone you really love.”
And so began a long, motherly monologue—about trust, commitment, marriage, choosing a good father for her future children, and never kissing anyone without a promise of marriage. And on and on.
My only comfort afterward was the belief that she would forget the whole thing. Children forget everything—brushing their teeth, picking up their jackets, returning library books. Surely, she would forget this.
But years later, when I switched off a TV movie that had become too raunchy for a youngster, drifting into territory I didn’t think she was ready for, she looked over at me with a mischievous spark in her eyes and said,
“Like a roller coaster, huh, Mom?”
Then she burst into delighted laughter and fled the room—before I could deliver the lecture she knew I was already winding up to give.
*****
Then the other shoe dropped.
Nothing could have prepared us for our first parent–teacher meeting when Candace was in Grade One.
The teacher began with a glowing report on Candace’s extraordinary social skills—exactly what we expected. But then she paused and expressed her concerns: Candace’s ability to comprehend the lessons, her lack of reading skills, her struggle with simple math. It seemed she wasn’t catching on to anything academic at all.
We were stunned.
We asked for evidence. We asked for explanations. Patiently, the teacher went through it all again and again. And then she made her recommendation: Candace should repeat the entire year.
Cliff and I were completely unprepared for this. We had always believed Candace to be exceptionally intelligent, and now we were being told that she couldn’t keep up with Grade One—that she couldn’t learn the basics.
At the time, we didn’t feel we had any recourse. So we accepted the recommendation to have her repeat the year.
As we were leaving, the teacher smiled—almost apologetically.
“I’m really sorry to do this,” she said. “I truly admire Candace. I think she has exceptional gifts. I’ve placed her with the two bullies in the class because she’s the only one who can handle them.”
Inside, I wanted to scream: Perhaps if you provided our daughter with a safer environment, she could learn. But I stayed silent.
When we came home, we told Candace she would need to do Grade One again. She took it all in stride. We encouraged her to ignore the artificial classifications—that she was still free to be anyone’s friend.
In hindsight, agreeing to hold her back without offering professional tutoring may have been one of our biggest mistakes. But at the time, we didn’t even know that was an option.
When Candace returned to school after the summer, we soon learned that she moved easily between classrooms—between her old peers and her new—never losing her connection with anyone, no matter where she was placed. She handled it with grace. She never once complained.
In hindsight, this may have been the moment she learned never to put people into boxes—because boxes are artificial limitations on the inner beauty of a person.
*****
Then, after pastoring for about five years, Cliff found himself unhappy in the role. He experienced the position as restrictive and overly academic, and began to wonder whether camp directing might better suit his temperament and make fuller use of his gifts. So he applied for a position at Star Lake Lodge in the Whiteshell region of Manitoba—and he was hired.
I was ready to leave.
Cliff was ready to leave.
But I don’t think Candace was.
We didn’t think to ask her.
We moved and settled into a modest bungalow that served as the parsonage, just a block from the elementary school. Even better, the perfect little friend for Candace lived two doors down.
Candace was five years old and in absolute heaven. She didn’t have to work to attract children from the neighbourhood—she simply had to walk down the street to her friend’s house, and beyond that, an entire school of children waited just one block away. She thrived immediately.
I, on the other hand, was not in a good place.
When Cliff and I married, it was understood that I would support him in pursuing his dream—whatever form it took—and that once he was established, I would begin my own quest. But now that he was finally living his dream, I found myself stuck at home in a small town that felt like the middle of nowhere, caring for two young children. The edges of postpartum depression began quietly creeping in.
In desperation, I threw myself into the one church program that truly appealed to me. As a pastor’s wife, I had options, and I chose to host the College and Career young adult group in our home. That way, I didn’t need to find a babysitter—and I could still enjoy deep conversations with curious, blossoming young minds.
So every Friday evening, we opened our doors to the young adults of the church. Nothing grand—just conversation, simple snacks, and a safe, warm place to gather. To our surprise, it became remarkably successful, even drawing young adults from other churches in the small town. At times, the group rivaled the attendance of the Sunday congregation itself.
Most important of all, our young guests never resented having our two children underfoot. Candace loved it. She seemed able to relate to everyone—on so many levels. Inevitably, during our discussions about the Bible and the wide-ranging conversations that followed, she would listen intently and then offer her two cents—some small insight that landed with wisdom far beyond her years.
Our guests were always impressed. Often, after we had put our little ones to bed, someone would glance at us and say, with quiet wonder, “You’ve got a bright one there.”
And we knew we did.
In fact, we had two bright little ones—already forming a sisterly partnership, especially when they teamed up against us.
Candace loved Christmas—she loved any season that gathered people together—but Christmas was her favourite. She especially loved the giving of gifts, and because of that, I took great care to keep her presents a secret.
One year, I had both the time and the inclination to give the holiday special attention. I started early, sewing two costumes and buying gifts well in advance.
But I wasn’t paying much attention to Odia. She was still so little; since she wasn’t talking yet, I assumed she had no idea what was going on. So as I wandered through the stores, I narrated everything out loud. I believed children should be included in life as it unfolded, and I had once heard that even wrong information was better than none at all. So I told Odia everything—confident it was harmless.
But then—suddenly—she could talk. With surprising clarity.
Candace, quick as ever, caught on immediately. She realized that her little sister had somehow become the keeper of all the family Christmas secrets. Right there in front of me, Candace gently but relentlessly drew every secret out of her. They had their own private language. By the time Christmas morning arrived, I didn’t have a single surprise left.
In the end, we all laughed.
But I was more careful with Odia after that—she had a way of knowing everything.
And the two of them bonded through it, sealing a sisterhood in mischief and trust, a pure delight to watch.
*****
There was another important moment I remember.
Candace was sitting beside me one evening as we went around the circle of our College and Career group, sharing our God stories.
When it was my turn, I told the story of how, when I was about seven years old, my chore at the end of the day was to walk to the edge of our back lawn and throw the garbage into a large bin. One evening, after tossing the bag inside, I happened to look up at the night sky. It was black and velvet-soft, studded with stars. Suddenly, the stars seemed to pop out of the darkness—twinkling at me, dancing before my eyes.
I described how I was mesmerized that the stars had taken notice of me—sparkling, delighting, surrounding me with their glory. In that moment, it felt as though the full presence of the Creator had descended upon me. I felt seen. I felt known. I felt a longing to belong—to establish a relationship with this starry Father.
Later that same evening, as my mother tucked me into bed, I asked her how I could get to heaven. I wanted to live with this God I had just encountered. She paused, uncertain, and finally suggested I pray: ask forgiveness for my sins and “ask Jesus into my heart.” When I hesitated, unsure of what words to use, she told me to simply pray my usual bedtime prayer—a memorized German prayer—and assured me that God would understand.
So I did. I mumbled those German words, resenting that I didn’t understand them, yet praying with all my heart that God would understand German. And then—another miracle. I felt a flutter inside me, like the twinkle of those stars, and I knew God had entered my heart. The bond was complete.
After I finished my story, our guests shared theirs. It was a marvelous evening of listening and sacred telling.
When everyone had gone home and I was tucking Candace into bed, she looked up at me with wide, earnest eyes and said she wanted to say “yes” to God too.
We prayed together—this time not in German. As she whispered her own “yes,” her eyes sparkled with a new depth. I told her that while God being a Father was important to me, she—who understood friendship better than anyone I knew—might relate most easily to Jesus as a friend. Her eyes brightened even more.
From that moment on, we always felt God was especially close to her—meeting her with exactly the wisdom she needed for each step of her life.
*****
Then one day, as I was preparing her after-school snack, Candace dropped another unexpected question.
“What is sex?”
I had once read that if a child is old enough to ask the question, she is old enough for the answer. In theory, that had always sounded noble and wise. I had promised myself I would be honest with her.
But now, as she looked up at me with those wide, trusting eyes, I felt like every mother who has ever lived: surely this was too early. Perhaps any age feels too early when it’s your child.
At the same time, I remembered something my older sister had mentioned just days earlier. She and her husband had taken Candace along to a friend’s family gathering. Their friends had a son—a few years older than Candace. Later, my sister described spotting the two of them sitting together on one of those huge floating tubes at the far edge of the lake, feet dangling in the water, completely absorbed in conversation. She said they watched them for the longest time, fascinated.
“That girl held that boy’s attention,” she had said, half admiring, half bewildered.
I had noticed it too. Candace spoke to boys with the same ease she related to girls. She was never flirtatious—just open, curious, genuine. There was something in her that made people lean in. And the boys were leaning in.
I realized this wasn’t a question to sidestep. I would have to do this carefully.
While I was still explaining the basics of how babies are made, she moved on to the next important part of the question.
“What does ‘making love’ mean? Is it the same as sex?”
So I answered. Carefully. Slowly.
And she kept going.
“How?”
“When?”
“Where?”
Then came the question that made me realize I had wandered into deeper waters than I intended. I had been—perhaps—too graphic.
“But, Mom… why would anyone want to do that?”
Still wanting to be honest, I said gently, “Because… well, it feels good.”
Her eyes grew enormous.
“Feels good? What does it feel like?”
At that point, I knew I was in trouble. I searched desperately for an image she would understand—something safely within her world. We had just been to the fair the day before, so I latched onto the only thing that felt remotely comparable.
“It feels,” I said, silently praying the analogy would somehow work, “like the rush of a roller coaster going down the steepest hill.”
Her eyes brightened.
And in that instant, I realized—with slow, dawning horror—that I had turned my careful attempt at sex education into an accidental commercial.
I reeled myself back in as quickly as I could.
“But, Candace,” I added, “it can also be a cheap thrill. Sex is only wonderful with someone you really love.”
And so began a long, motherly monologue—about trust, commitment, marriage, choosing a good father for her future children, and never kissing anyone without a promise of marriage. And on and on.
My only comfort afterward was the belief that she would forget the whole thing. Children forget everything—brushing their teeth, picking up their jackets, returning library books. Surely, she would forget this.
But years later, when I switched off a TV movie that had become too raunchy for a youngster, drifting into territory I didn’t think she was ready for, she looked over at me with a mischievous spark in her eyes and said,
“Like a roller coaster, huh, Mom?”
Then she burst into delighted laughter and fled the room—before I could deliver the lecture she knew I was already winding up to give.
*****
Then the other shoe dropped.
Nothing could have prepared us for our first parent–teacher meeting when Candace was in Grade One.
The teacher began with a glowing report on Candace’s extraordinary social skills—exactly what we expected. But then she paused and expressed her concerns: Candace’s ability to comprehend the lessons, her lack of reading skills, her struggle with simple math. It seemed she wasn’t catching on to anything academic at all.
We were stunned.
We asked for evidence. We asked for explanations. Patiently, the teacher went through it all again and again. And then she made her recommendation: Candace should repeat the entire year.
Cliff and I were completely unprepared for this. We had always believed Candace to be exceptionally intelligent, and now we were being told that she couldn’t keep up with Grade One—that she couldn’t learn the basics.
At the time, we didn’t feel we had any recourse. So we accepted the recommendation to have her repeat the year.
As we were leaving, the teacher smiled—almost apologetically.
“I’m really sorry to do this,” she said. “I truly admire Candace. I think she has exceptional gifts. I’ve placed her with the two bullies in the class because she’s the only one who can handle them.”
Inside, I wanted to scream: Perhaps if you provided our daughter with a safer environment, she could learn. But I stayed silent.
When we came home, we told Candace she would need to do Grade One again. She took it all in stride. We encouraged her to ignore the artificial classifications—that she was still free to be anyone’s friend.
In hindsight, agreeing to hold her back without offering professional tutoring may have been one of our biggest mistakes. But at the time, we didn’t even know that was an option.
When Candace returned to school after the summer, we soon learned that she moved easily between classrooms—between her old peers and her new—never losing her connection with anyone, no matter where she was placed. She handled it with grace. She never once complained.
In hindsight, this may have been the moment she learned never to put people into boxes—because boxes are artificial limitations on the inner beauty of a person.
*****
Then, after pastoring for about five years, Cliff found himself unhappy in the role. He experienced the position as restrictive and overly academic, and began to wonder whether camp directing might better suit his temperament and make fuller use of his gifts. So he applied for a position at Star Lake Lodge in the Whiteshell region of Manitoba—and he was hired.
I was ready to leave.
Cliff was ready to leave.
But I don’t think Candace was.
We didn’t think to ask her.
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