We moved to Virginia just before my fifth grade year began. The week before school started, my mother took me to Kingston Elementary School for registration and placement testing. An hour and several tests later, the vice principal told me the name of my teacher (Mr. Blake) and asked me if I had any questions. It went something like this:

Where is my bus stop?

What do you mean?

Where do I stand to get the bus to school?

I don’t know. Just ask one of your friends.

Is there anyone else here who knows where the bus stop is?

I don’t know. Ask one of your friends.

I stopped asking. There seemed to be no point in pointing out the obvious: I didn’t yet have any friends to ask. After an hour of testing my language and math skills, the grown-up in charge of registering new students couldn’t answer a very simple and practical question, and didn’t take the time to find someone who could.

On the first day, I found the bus stop by walking up the road until I saw some kids standing together and asking them if this was the bus stop for Kingston Elementary School. A girl named Rita Weimorts said yes, beginning a friendship and helping me get where I needed to go.

The vice principal wasn’t a bad man, but he lacked the ability to put himself in the shoes of a child who was new to the area. He had forgotten how to reason like a child. Since he was in charge of registering new pupils, that shortcoming had consequences for who knows how many children. He could have offered the grace of true hospitality for the time and effort it took to regain his childlike perspective by asking himself: how would I feel if_______________?