There’s a certain kind of happiness, my friend said, that is open only to young children. I mean, as a child, it’s possible to be totally focused on just one thing. It’s your birthday. You asked for a bike, or a puppy, or a new pair of skates. As the day draws near it’s all you can think about. And then it happens, your wish fulfilled, your dream come true, and nothing to spoil it. In getting that one thing it’s as if you’d been given everything. But after a certain age, that feeling—that pure bliss—doesn’t happen, it can’t happen, because you never want just one thing anymore, once you reach puberty it’s no longer possible.

(Now I am reminded of a friend’s little girl whose heart’s desire was to have a Barbie doll. For a while her mother, who disapproved of the sexualized doll, resisted. Then, one Christmas, she gave in. When she had lifted her out of the box, the enraptured six-year-old in a passionate voice declared: Barbie! I love you! I have always loved you!)

For me, said my friend, the first day of school was the happiest day of the year. I remember being so excited that I couldn’t sleep the night before. We went to church every Sunday, but for me school was the true holy place, the place of hope and thankfulness and joy. The worship of God once a week was completely abstract, but the love of learning—that was real.