The autobiographical vignette below was originally titled There’ll Be Nun of That. I wrote it in the early months of my (attempted) PhD in 1998. My doctoral research focused on educational inequality and the lessons taught by the formal and informal curriculum in schools in hard places. This story captures the beginnings of my emerging social conscience in early 1984. I have changed the names of my peers and the adult in this story.

On the mat, Class 4S gathers to hear a story. In neat rows, boys and girls sit cross-legged, whispering among themselves as they watch Sister Mary, draped in black from head to toe, settle into her cushioned chair beneath the blackboard.

“Why can’t we colour in like we did last term?” Bryce mutters, pushing a drawing pin into the sole of his shoe. “These stories are so boring!”

I roll my eyes. “Yep — so boring, so unbelievable, so—”

“Shut up, you two!” Dee hisses from behind. “Some of us like Scripture.”

“Well, you can have it,” I shoot back, twisting around to make eye contact with my spiritual friend. “I don’t see why I have to sit through this sh—”

“That’s enough, Year 4,” Sister Mary snaps. “Eyes to me.”

I face forward reluctantly. She smiles kindly as she opens an oversized book in her lap. I let out an exaggerated sigh and earn a small kick in the back from Dee. I smirk and bite my tongue while I try — and fail — to ignore the biblical tall tale that drags on for what feels like an eternity.

“Now, Year 4, wasn’t that wonderful? Are there any questions?” Sister Mary asks brightly.

I smirk again and lift my hand, but Dee pins my arm down. Bryce beats me to it, waving his hand a little too eagerly.

“Can we do some colouring in?” Bryce whines.

“Yeah!” the class yells in chorus.

“Settle, Year 4.” Sister Mary raises her palm, waiting for silence. “We have a worksheet to complete first. Before you colour it in, I need to make sure you understand the moral of the story. So, are there any questions? Anything you’d like me to explain?”

The enthusiasm fizzles instantly. Heads drop. Eye contact is avoided at all costs. I decide to save everyone the awkward silence.

“Um, yes, Sister — I’d like to know something,” I say, peeling Dee’s arm off mine.

“Yes?” Sister Mary’s eyebrows lift in anticipation as she leans forward, placing the book on her lap.

“Um, we’ve been watching Behind the News and learning about the Ethiopian famine in class. And, um, I’d like to know — if God really exists, why does he let so many young children suffer and die?”

“Pardon?”

“Um, well, I really have to question if God exists. If he did, like you say, and he can do all these wonderful things you talk about, then why would he let thousands of kids starve to death in Ethiopia?”

Sister Mary’s eyes narrow. Her smile vanishes. She rises, looming over us. Bryce, Dee, and everyone nearby instinctively edge away from me. Trouble is brewing.

“Who are you to question if God exists?”

“Um…” My mouth goes dry.

“You are a troublemaker — and you will leave this room immediately!”

“What?” I mumble, as the gravity of the moment sinks in. “Why? I only asked a question.”

“No, my child. You are being smart. You can leave and think very carefully about what you just said.” She jabs her finger toward the door. “Now, get out!”

I stand slowly and weave my way across the mat. The class is frozen.

“GET OUT!” she thunders.

“I can’t be kicked out of my own classroom for asking a question,” I protest, with no real authority, edging closer to the door.

“I SAID GET OUT!”

“You should get out,” I mutter, cheeky to the end.

She points again, unmistakably. I accept my marching orders and slip out, shaking my head.

The following week — and for the rest of my primary school years — I was excused from Thursday morning Scripture. To my knowledge, I was the only student in my class to request and be granted an exemption. Nearly a hundred other formative minds sat through those lessons for another two and a half years.

I still believe there’s value in promoting genuine religious tolerance — not by privileging one faith, but by giving students a glimpse of the assumptions that shape all religions. Luckily for me, from that day forward, I spent every Thursday morning in the school library. Largely unsupervised, I roamed, I read, I explored. And so began my love of being quiet in the company of books.