It was the frumpiest of carnivals. Ramshackle fencing circled rides replete with burnt-out light bulbs and littered with trash. The tiny, traveling carnival sat in a small section of the parking lot outside our neighborhood Target. My family loved it. As we walked the carnival grounds, we ran into someone we knew, surprisingly. And this meeting, in a parking lot carnival of all places, ushered peace to my soul.
While waiting to board the Fireball ride, my wife, Alli, exclaimed, “Anthony!” Anthony, a first-grader, initially looked surprised, then thrilled, to see Mrs. Horst. He came over and hugged her around the waist. He stepped back, celebrated with his foster mom, and then hugged Alli again. And then again.
I stood to the side, exchanging smiles with Anthony and his foster mom. But inside, my heart grieved as I reflected on Anthony’ story. He was all smiles at the carnival, but this was a fragile little boy.

Anthony began in Alli’s classroom last year, but it quickly became clear he was not yet ready for first grade. He returned for a second year of kindergarten. This year, he was again back in Alli’s first grade class. The second go-around did not start much better. Anthony acted out often. And there were troubling undertones to his defiance. Alli sensed his misbehavior found its roots in something. She soon learned what it was.
The school counselor and principal pulled Alli aside and shared tragic news about Anthony’s childhood: His grandfather was recently jailed. For sexually abusing Anthony and his brother. Anthony’s grandfather started abusing him in the most formative years, before he could even talk.
As a father of a toddler, hearing Anthony’s story caused me to feel a range of emotions. I reacted first with anger, but journeyed to pure lament. Anthony already has the deck stacked against him, I felt. As a minority kid from a single parent home in one of Denver’s toughest neighborhoods, Anthony had all the statistics working against him. Then this. The person closest to Anthony deprived him of his innocence.
Frederick Buechner once wrote, “If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors.”
Anthony did not finish this year in Alli’s classroom. He transitioned to a school better suited for his unique needs. When he walked out of her room for the second time, Alli felt disappointed. As if no progress had been made. But their carnival run-in allowed us to see the joy Alli had brought him in classroom 107. It was a gift.
Yesterday, Alli sent her scholars to summer break. She achieved remarkable academic results for these vulnerable children, but the most significant mark of her work does not show up on test scores alone. It shows up in Anthony’s eyes. And Alejandra’s hugs. And Angel’s endearing letters. This is the joy of my wife’s job. Our little neighbors are seen and known and celebrated in her room.
The moment at the carnival gave me unexpected hope. I will never know Anthony’s pain and I cannot take away the horrors this boy lived.  But his huge smiles toward Alli—and the tender eyes of his foster mom—reminded me how grace can pervade even the darkest of places. Might we all find, love and see our neighbors, and reflect the hope of Christ.