Years ago, toward the end of the hippie movement, my husband and I used to arrive with our toddler, Gail, at her prekindergarten class about the same time each Sunday morning. Almost simultaneously, a bearded young man with very long, flowing hair would deposit his young daughter, Tammy.
My husband, Tom, and I were taken aback more than once by how much Tammy’s dad resembled the artist’s rendition of Jesus that hung on the Sunday school wall. We sometimes couldn’t help remarking to each other about it.
After our couples’ Sunday school class concluded one Sunday, I went to pick up Gail as usual. Hurrying to the door, her teacher apologized, “I’m sorry, but during playtime just now, your little Gail and Tammy got into a scrap.”