They had a dream: a God-ordained dream. After years of service in a foreign land, where they met and married and learned to speak the language fluently, they were ready to establish themselves in one area that would become their home, perhaps for the rest of their lives. They would raise their kids, start a business, establish a church, and win souls to Christ. Their goals were admirable and honest, and all the early obstacles were overcome. Surely the Lord’s hand was on this enterprise—until it failed.

Quick self-quiz: (1) If the power grid in your area went down completely as a result of nuclear warfare, your first concern would be for (a) your neighbors, (b) your food supply, (c) survival. (2) Once it’s clear that power is not coming back on for months, your chief goal is (a) helping your neighbors, (b) preserving your family, (c) survival.

On March 7, a bronze statue popped up on Manhattan’s Bowling Green at the intersection of Broadway and Whitehall. The timing, one day before International Women’s Day, is no accident: “Fearless Girl” faces the “Charging Bull” of Wall Street with feet spread, hands on hips, and puny chest thrust out like an 8-year-old insisting she will not, absolutely not, clear the table because it’s her brother’s turn.

In early April, American expatriate Claire Berlinski stood in line at the Bureau Des Étrangers in Paris with other expats and immigrants hoping to renew their visas. All were staring at their cell phones, at breaking news of a U.S. missile launch against the Syrian airfield that had served as a base for the latest gas attack by Bashar al-Assad. Quietly, the émigrés of various backgrounds began to ask each other, Qu’en pensez-vous? “What do you think?” Berlinski had to confess she didn’t know what to think: Such moral clarity was the last thing she expected from President Trump.

“When we come together in groups, we make amazing things. Our admission ticket into these groups is not our thoughts or feelings. Our faces are our tickets. Our faces let us look out and know others and let them know us.” So begins Robert Hoge’s Ugly: A Memoir, which our selection committee chose as WORLD’s Children’s Nonfiction Book of the Year.

In Trenton Lee Stewart’s The Secret Keepers, Reuben Pedley, 11, lives with his widowed mother in a modest apartment in the Lower Downs of New Umbra. He spends his summer break exploring the abandoned buildings in his depressed neighborhood. On one of these expeditions he discovers a leather pouch containing an antique watch and winding key. Reuben guesses it’s valuable, but not until his meeting with elderly watchmaker Mrs. Genevieve does he suspect it may have supernatural powers.

In seventh grade, my teacher Mrs. Beard called on an unprepared student. “Oh my gosh!” the girl said. That exclamation brought the lesson to a halt. My gosh, Mrs. Beard explained, was a euphemism for another expression she did not say, but wrote on the board: My God! Now, what does the Third Commandment say? (Most of us knew what she was talking about, even if we didn’t have the commandments in numerical order.) What’s the implication? (That we shouldn’t use God’s name in vain or even substitute for it.) Lesson concluded; now back to Texas history.