We were on our way to Jim's house so Grace could play with Jim's daughter Anna. She'd finished her last day of a one-week day camp called "The Best Week of Summer" at the local Episcopal church, and I was using the few minutes we had together in the car to ask her about it. We came to a red light, and she paused.
"Wait, what?" she said, "A teenager? In a stroller?"
At the corner to our left was a woman and a teenage boy in a wheelchair. The boy's arms were outstretched, beating rhythmically, tiny distances up and down, his head nodding in time, and he'd just thrown something on the ground. The woman, apparently exasperated, gave the chair a shove away from her and turned away, gathered herself through a heaving breath, and turned back to him.
"I dunno, Grace," I said, "I think that's more of a wheelchair than a stroller."
"But I don't see a cast on his ankle," she replied.
"I don't think he's injured," I said. "I think he has an illness. Like maybe Cerebral Palsy or something like that."
I didn't expect her to know what Cerebral Palsy was.
"Or sin?" she returned.
I doubletook. Doubletaked. Neither of those look right. You know what I mean.
"Or WHAT?" I said.
"Sin," she continued. "Mr. Richards from camp said sin is a kind of illness. Maybe he has sin."
The light was about to turn green. I thought about how skis can retain my whole 172 lbs on the shimmering top of feet of snow if I just tread lightly enough, if I just don't stop.
"It's really confusing to call sin an illness," I said. "I get why Mr. Richards or whatever would say that, but I don't believe he meant something like this."
"Or maybe he doesn't love Jesus enough," she offered. "Maybe that's why he's hurt."
"Grace," I said, "I know we don't go to church, but I did when I was young — and for a long time — and I have to tell you, that's not how I think about sin."
She went on. "But Jesus can heal any illness. Jesus can cure any sickness, Dad. Jesus can even heal coronavirus."
The light turned green, and we turned left onto Thorn St.
"Jesus cannot cure coronavirus, sweetie. I'd be okay letting you believe that if it weren't dangerous to your health, but it is, so you have to know: Jesus absolutely does not cure coronavirus."
There was a pause. I felt my pulse in my head, heat in my cheeks. Never. Fucking. Again. She will never go back to that camp. I should have trusted my instincts. Those fuckers are grooming my kid to join their hate cult. Shit, shit, shit.
"Jesus can cure anything," Grace went on. "But God is Jesus' father and God created everything, which means he created coronavirus, so that's awkward."
Her voice rose to say "that" and dwelled on "awkward" as I finished the turn and passed the library and the post office and came to the perilous intersection where the borough building sits. I opened my mouth, let go the science-dropping that'd been perched on my tongue, and took in a new breath.
"I'll say!" I said. "Hey… we're about to get to Anna's house. Let's talk about this later, if you want to."
"Ok," she said. "But not now. I just want to play."
Play. Yes. The one job of a 6-y.o.
The path to learning, to belonging in the world of the cooperative, to the green lights, to blue skies, to the love betrayed by "The Best Week of Summer."