On Saturday I took shelter from torrential hurricane rains in an art museum. They’re interesting places, art museums — half art, half history; each room opening into another, twisting and turning until you are well and truly lost. You never know what you’ll find inside those tastefully lit halls and echoing exhibition rooms.

But of all things, I never expected to find a miracle.

Let me back up. I am no stranger to art museums. They top my sightseeing list in most cities. But I’ve yet to see a child — a young child — in one. But on Saturday, there she was, running around a reconstruction of a marble courtyard in a blue and white polka dot dress. She couldn’t have been older than 5, and she was absolutely in love with everything she saw.

The next time I saw her, she ran up to a statue of Shiva and excitedly explained it to her parents, who were trailing along behind. It was apparent that she didn’t know anything about the statues themselves, or their history; but it didn’t matter. She was exuberant, and it was catching.

She’d run from statue to statue, explaining what she saw and making up stories, giving her parents (and everyone else in the room) an impromptu and imaginative tour. As she left each one, she’d cry, “But you haven’t seen anything yet!”

As I watched her, I wondered what happens to this — this wonder, this complete and total adoration of learning? I seem to see it so rarely in children just a few years older.

I’ve heard people blame standardized tests, parents and a dim, cynical world. I’m not sure the blame can be laid at the feet of any one of those, and this column is not about assigning blame, or even about philosophizing on the state of education and its effect on children — I’m not good at either.

This column is about appreciating a miracle. Because that is what it felt like.

Her simple joy made me look at everything in a new light. Everything was new, everything was a wonder to be studied and turned over and over. And to my increasing delight, everyone played along with her. Her parents encouraged her to talk about what she saw, to explain what she was experiencing.

Her father helped her understand the pieces in the museum’s Art Nouveau section, and struck a pose with her, mirroring a dancing figurine formed out of gold and silver. And they never told her to stop, or to be quiet. In fact, the only time I heard her parents say the word, “No,” was when she was wrapping up her analysis of a Buddha, and reached out a small hand as she said, “And you can touch this one!” Her dad grabbed her hand back and said, “No, actually you can’t.”

And something wonderful happened. Other museum-goers, instead of being irritated by the chatter, began to smile. She seemed to be in every exhibit at once. She was in the Roman exhibit, gawking up at a statue of Julius Caesar. I could hear her in the back hallways of 19th century art, in the cloister-like rooms of Byzantine art and echoing in the modern art section where I stood examining a painting of lemons: “You haven’t seen anything yet!”

I think we all gained a new appreciation for sculptures and paintings, artifacts and relics that day — just because we were seeing them through her eyes. It was like seeing things for the first time.

The girl, her parents and everyone who saw her were drawn in — into this beautiful, spun reality of imagination and joy that shone despite the storm outside. And it has been a long, long time since I’ve seen something like that. But, I suppose, I haven’t seen anything yet.