What happens when a family of happy atheists turns up a holy child?
"COME HERE, I" call to my son Jake from the front porch. Just as I’ve stepped outside to get the mail, the cordons of pink-tinged clouds to the west, above the peaked roofs of the houses across the street, have parted to let through a vast, angular shaft of pure gold light. “Hurry!” I call again, and he leaves his computer with reluctance, ambling out. “There,” I say, and point.
Sandy Hingston revisits the most difficult conversation she ever had with her daughter.