Before the Test

By Peter Bowden


The morning light was pale and trembling, like it too was afraid of what the day might bring. The girl sat at her desk, her pencil rolling back and forth with each shallow breath. Around her, the classroom hummed — nervous laughter, pages turning, the whisper of paper as tests were passed face-down. She felt the weight of every lesson she hadn’t quite understood, every late night she’d spent staring at the ceiling, thinking of how much depended on this one score.

She reached into her pocket and found the small round container, smooth and blue as the summer sky she longed to see again when this was over. Inside, beneath the clear lid, was the image of the Holy Spirit — a tiny dove caught in a field of light. She opened it carefully, her hands trembling, and bowed her head. The words came quietly, not in any rehearsed prayer but in the language of hope itself. She asked for calm, for wisdom, for the light to find her through the fog of worry.

When she looked up, the room seemed different — not brighter, but steadier. The clock still ticked, but it no longer rushed. She took her pencil and began to write. The answers came one by one, not from memory but from somewhere deeper, like a hand guiding hers. And when she finished, she closed the blue container again, whispering a thank you, the dove’s faint image catching the light like a promise kept.

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Anonymous said…
Lovely
November 5, 2025 at 6:17 AM

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