Spark of Hope

 

He half-hardheartedly looked over the book choices lying on the massive dining table and finally asked with no conviction, “Do you have any books about dinosaurs?”

 

I was there helping Project Armchair’s newest volunteer recruit, Annette, settle in and the domestic violence shelter was positively HUMMING with activity. The director had stated that she would let mothers and kids know we were there to read, and next thing I knew, kids of all ages were pouring into the commons area like a swarm of bees on a spring day. 

 

Annette was handling it all like a champ, so I turned my attention to the eager children. Other kids were pawing through the choices with gusto but not my new young friend. “What grade are you in?” I asked him. Teasing answers out of him I learned he was in the second grade and only seemed to like dinosaur books, which I didn’t happen to have on hand that day. Avoiding eye contact with me he added, “I don’t like to read.” 

 

An eager 5-year-old with lunch still evident on her beaming face pulled me to the sofa and handed me her book of choice. I read above the din, pointed out features of the illustrations, drew her into predictions and all the magical tools that reading teachers use to increase engagement and learning. But I kept glancing at the underwhelmed second grader still loitering around the table of books and wondered how I might also pull him into the joy of a story.

 

When I concluded, The Last Stop on Market Street by Matt de la Pena, I made my way back to the boy and sat beside him. “Did you find one yet that I could read with you?” I asked with a smile. “Dr. Seuss.” He said without enthusiasm or looking at me. “The blue one,” gesturing to the pile. “Cat in the Hat?” I asked with a grin. “That’s a good one!” He waited for me to begin reading with about as much joy as a death row inmate consuming his last meal. 

 

Looking at that sad face with a storm of emotions lying just underneath a placid exterior I asked quietly so that only he could hear, “Is reading hard for you?” He nodded with eyes fixed on the ground. A barely perceptible nod. I gently nudged his arm and said, “Hey. Look at me.” I needed to know he would hear my next words. That he would look into my soul and feel the weight of their import. When his eyes found mine, I assured him, “reading IS hard. It’s like learning another language, which isn’t easy for anyone to do. It takes work. It doesn’t mean that you can’t learn or that you’re not smart enough, it just means that you are going to have work hard and not give up. You can do it!” 

 

He stared at me without blinking for a long moment and something happened behind the placid face and eyes. I saw it. A spark of… hope? I opened the cover to Cat in the Hat and began reading, discerning his reading level in that super power way that all reading teachers possess. Making a game of omitting words I was sure he could confidently insert; he began to read along with me. “Sit, sit, sit, sit,” he nearly shouted at the page. 

 

Before I knew it, he was regaling me with a shockingly impressive repertoire of knowledge about extinct animals and sea creatures as we invited our friend Mr. Google to show us images and sounds, laughing like we were old friends. 

 

This is our mission every time our volunteers read to homeless or hospitalized children. Use literacy to help kids in crisis forget for a small moment that their lives are in tatters and the world too big for their small shoulders. Every child needs to hear once in a while, “You can do it!” Victims of violence all the more. 

 

To my teacher friends, please remember this when they sit in your classrooms and struggle to read, or subtract, or cope with seemingly minor incidences, or share what they did during the weekend during circle time. There is a storm inside that they can’t emotionally or mentally process, let alone verbalize. 

 

Just love them and tell them now and then that they can do it. You will help them get there.

She Who Reads My Mind

Travel back through time with me. It is 2015 and Project Armchair is a budding idea with a visionary who has not a clue how to proceed forward. The visionary would be me, Vonda Dahl, and I was completely clueless as to how to organize a volunteer-based non-profit organization. 

Stumbling as I was to organize this idea, the name, Project Armchair, kept popping into my head and seemed kind of catchy. I hesitantly shared it with my first volunteers, who eventually became my Advisory Board members. They liked it too. With that decided, I sat down with my laptop and tried to mentally envision what I hoped for through our reading efforts. The following narrative descriptor was the result: 

The sun... 

streams through tall windows in yellow shafts of warmth. 

The room is quiet, save for the gentle tick of the mantle clock, 

and speckles of golden dust float noiselessly in the vacuum of sound. 

The chair... 

is massive, soft, and well-worn, 

like the hug of an old, fuzzy bear. 

A child is there, lost in the hug of the chair, 

mesmerized by the hush of the sanctuary. 

The book in her lap is a portal to another universe. 

One without pain, fear, or uncertainty. 

The child in the enormous choir does not hear the tick of the clock 

or see the golden specks that float around her head. 

She is only cognizant of the place she has entered through The Portal. 

Her heart is light and her world at peace. 

For this magic, sacred moment, all is well. 

I had a name and mental vision shared through prose. Now I needed an image. Something that would convey the mission and vision through a single image. 

Enter, Ali Hein. Ali was a colleague of mine when I started my teaching journey. We both taught in a tiny k-12 school located smack in the middle of nowhere out on the North Dakota open prairie. I taught first grade and Ali taught high school art. I loved her work, and I loved her as a person even more. She dripped sugar and whatever I threw at her, she was game for. 

For example, as an interdisciplinary unit, I had arranged for my first graders to Skype with a penguin researcher located in Antarctica. The researcher promised that if we would send her a homemade flag, she would fly it at her research site, and send us pictures, which she did. Ali, of course, outdid herself creating the perfect banner for my students. 

When I approached Ali about my fledgling idea for literacy based volunteer organization, we no longer worked together but she was happy to help, regardless. I shared my vision as best I could and asked her if she could paint a worn red chair. Once again, Ali delivered. It was as though she had peeked into my brain and read my thoughts. The Project Armchair board members were transfixed as well and declared it absolutely perfect. The red of the chair became “Project Armchair red” to us and we used that image countless times to create brochures, stickers, totes, and other items to represent our organization. For nine years we proudly displayed that old, well-loved, worn red chair as our mascot. 

As with most things in life, eventually change must come. My board members agreed that we needed to update our logo to something more digitally compatible. It was a difficult decision as most changes are, but we found Levi Barker, a local graphic designer, who worked tirelessly with us to give birth to our new image. We said goodbye to the image of our roots and welcomed the newcomer. A bittersweet moment.

My dear friend, Ali, that beautiful soul who is so gifted and kind, said an unimaginable goodbye of her own this year. Her darling four-year-old, Lucy, died in her sleep on November 6, 2024. Lucy carried her mother’s beauty and charm in her short years and continues to shine through her sweet spirit, even though her parents’ arms no longer hold her. Lucy’s legacy is one of sunshine and joy. She brought happiness to everyone in her orbit. 

I can’t help but believe that Ali’s legacy is the same. Project Armchair will forever be indebted to Ali Hein for understanding our vision and bringing it to her canvas through paint and brush. 

You are our beginning, Ali, and as much a part of our story as any of the rest of us. We are indebted to you. 

Keep shining, sweet friend.  

 

*Just for funsies… links to my first graders’ Skype conversations with Antarctic researcher, Jean Pennycook:

 Antarctic Skype I

Antarctic Skype II 

 

Our Hero is Jane

 

        I took a deep breath before dialing. I had been rejected once already. It seemed like a good idea at first, but maybe it wasn’t. Now I had doubts swirling in my thoughts. Tamping the voices in my head I quickly hit the keypad and willed someone to pick up.

        “Hello, this is Jane.”

        She sounded nice enough.

        “Hi! My name is Vonda, and I have an idea…”

        And with that ignoble beginning, Project Armchair was born.

        Turns out Jane Morrow loves big ideas too.

        Let me back up.

        In the fall of 2015, I found myself at the crossroads of empty nest and new job. I left my tiny rural school for a larger district and a new professional challenge. Suddenly the sporting tournaments and band concerts were over for the hubster and me and as we felt our way through “just the two of us” I discovered quite accidentally that my new building sat just three blocks from a family homeless shelter. As I pondered that reality, I decided to expend some of that recently freed up time to reading to kids there.

        I loved it! I loved it so much that I decided to see if one, or both, of the local hospitals would appreciate that service as well. The first hospital politely said, “No thanks.” Which brings me to the beginning of this little story, my call to the second hospital. With sweating palms (metaphorically) and held breath I waited for someone to pick up my call.

        Without belaboring the journey details, Project Armchair soon had a name and board of directors who believed as much as I did that reading a really good book to a child in crisis might help that child cope just a little better. Gifting the book to the child would extend the positive experience so that every time they read it or looked at the pictures, they would remember the nice volunteer who spent a few quality minutes with them.

        In the intervening years since my first conversation with Jane, we have recruited dozens of volunteers and given away over four thousand books. We have weekly volunteers on the pediatric floor and the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit of the hospital. We serve the precious children at a local family homeless shelter (yes, the very one where it all began) and at a domestic violence shelter and its sister transition house. We have also created cozy reading corners at the state penitentiary and a local men’s prison.

        The community has embraced our work and donated thousands of books and monetary funds through individuals, schools, colleges, churches, and civic organizations.

        It all began with Jane. Jane believed in us, advocated for us, and cheered loudly for us at every opportunity. Jane was the True North on our compass.

        In April, I asked if I could take her out for supper. She is now living in Minneapolis but was back visiting in our area. We met downtown and never stopped jabbering for over two hours. Somewhere between the entrees and dessert, I told her that the Project Armchair board had voted to present the first annual Jane Morrow award to the Volunteer of the Year. Jane cried. She was so humbled and honored by the gesture. “I promise you this, Vonda” she said. “Wherever I am in the world, I will fly to Bismarck each year to present the award myself.” We hugged and parted, so happy to have spent time together reminiscing about the amazing journey we had been on together.

        In August, Jane suffered a catastrophic brain aneurysm. Through indomitable grit and the love and support of her family and her army of friends, she is slowly recuperating. Now we have the honor of cheering for her!

        Last night, we awarded the Jane Morrow award to Darcie Dykema, the Volunteer of the Year. Jane’s daughters, Sarah and Jenny, did the honors on their mother’s behalf. We cried a little. We couldn’t help it. Jane should have been the one to hand Darcie the red carnations (Jane’s favorite flower), a copy of the Box Car Children (Jane’s favorite children’s book), and the soon-coming plaque, which will be displayed on the sixth floor of Jane's beloved hospital. But we know Jane is home fighting like a champion. Living each day like she always has, her larger-than-life spirit resolute and full of hope. Jane was with us last night, regardless.

        We are indebted to that lovely soul. The children in crisis in the Bis/Man community are indebted to Jane. Project Armchair is indebted to Jane. She changed all of us for the better.

        You are one of a kind, dearest Jane. You will be there in person next year. I am holding you to your promise. 

 

The Forgotten Children

 

“They [society] always forget about the children.”  

Rebecca Deierling

(Principal for Adult Services, ND Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation )

 

He sits alone in the bedroom with the light off, even though dusk is deepening into night. His growling stomach alerts him to the fact that it is time to eat something. He knows that no one will call his name to come to the table for dinner. He overhears conversations at school that other people… families… sometimes sit down together around a table and eat the same foods and talk about common things. They have real conversations about how school is going, what happened during the day. Stuff like that. Sometimes it’s been like that at foster homes, but he can’t remember ever doing it with his own family. He wonders what that would be like.

The cacophony of emotions that he daily resists indulging sweep over him like a tide. He hates this place. His cousin or aunt or family friend (he isn’t sure their connection to his life) that he now lives with offered to take him from the most recent foster home so that he could be with “family.” Some family. Most of the time there is no one here. He has to find his own food and there is precious little of it. Most of whatever money there is around here goes for booze or drugs. Lunch five days a week is the one redeeming thing about school.

This place almost makes him miss his last fosters. This was his fourth move in seven weeks and there have been so many moves before that he can’t keep count.  Just when he starts to (sort of) get used to a place, something happens, and he’s packing his three smelly t-shirts and one pair of jeans into a plastic grocery bag and being driven to a new place. Sometimes fosters are nice enough, but they aren’t his parents. He doesn’t even try to connect with them anymore. He used to believe that if he was good enough or nice enough or helpful enough, his current caregivers would keep him. Maybe even adopt him. But he gave up that dream years ago.  Besides, it isn’t the same as being with his dad. Or his mom. Yeah, they have their problems, but he loves them anyway. He can’t help it.

He wishes for the hundredth time that his grandmother could take him, but she isn’t much better. She has her own issues and his cousins and aunts and uncles that rotate in and out of her tiny house mean that she has no space for him. At least here he has a room with a bed and a door. He has to share the room with some kid younger than himself, which is annoying, but it could be worse. When his dad was around, they mostly crashed with friends or relatives, which meant he usually had no bed to sleep in or door to shut. Just a blanket on the floor and lots of noisy adults staying up late. And his teachers wonder why I can’t stay awake in school.

His dad has been in the state penitentiary for three years now. Three years feels like a lifetime. The last time he saw his dad, he was in the fourth grade. Now he’s in middle school, and he knows that he looks totally different. He’s not a kid anymore. Maybe his dad wouldn’t even recognize him. The last time he saw his dad the door was being kicked in and police in bulletproof vests were swarming the house and pinning his dad to the floor. Everybody was yelling; his dad, the police, everybody. He was so scared he couldn’t breathe. A social worker was there and tried to say nice things and be reassuring, but he saw that same terrible scene every night when he closed his eyes. The look in his dad’s eyes of fear, anger, and embarrassment as they led him away in handcuffs. He had tried to run after his dad that night, but the social worker held him back and to his embarrassment he had burst into tears. Big, racking sobs that he couldn’t stop. His chest hurt even now just thinking about it.

He misses his dad so much!

He wants to visit his dad in prison. He knows it is possible. His social worker told him so. But his dad won’t see him. His social worker said it wasn’t because his dad didn’t want to see him. It was the other way around. His dad doesn’t want his son to see him in prison, wearing a number and being ordered around. He’s ashamed or something. ‘I don’t care about any of that! I just want to talk to you, dad, in person. Not on the phone. Not in a letter. One-on-one. Like the old days.’

He knows he’s messing up his own life. School is terrible. He is embarrassed to tell the few friends he has that his dad is a convicted felon, so he lies all the time. About almost everything. It is exhausting to stay ahead of the lies. Sometimes he messes up his stories and has to think fast. He can’t invite anyone over, not to this place, so he never gets invited to anyone’s house. It gets lonely. Real lonely.

His grades are in the toilet too. A couple of D’s and the rest F’s. He doesn’t care anymore. All the moving around keeps him distracted and stressed out. He can’t focus on his classes or his homework. Sometimes his fosters would ask about it, but he’d lie and say he had finished his homework. He hasn’t stayed in one place long enough to have anyone check on his grades or help him get caught up. He knows he isn’t helping his own cause. He’s always moody and keeps to himself. It’s easier that way. Better to not have warm feelings about anyone you are just going to leave anyway.

He hangs his head and feels the warning burn behind his eyes of tears that want to trickle down his tired face, and soak into his dirty shirt. ‘Dad, I need you!’

 

This fictional story is a compilation of interviews I conducted with social workers, teachers, and research related to children of incarcerated parents. While the characters are fictitious, this child exists among us. Here are some chilling realities about children who have one or both incarcerated parents.

 

Five million children (1 in 14) in the U.S. have had at least one incarcerated parent. Studies reveal that, for several reasons, it is difficult to maintain parent-child relationships during incarceration. Some might believe that it is in the best interest of the child to avoid visiting a parent in prison, but research consistently reveals the opposite. It is good for the parent AND the child to maintain a relationship during the incarceration. Children are wired to be attached to their parents. When that attachment is harmed, known as attachment insecurity, it can lead to devasting long-term effects such as externalizing behaviors, depression, social misfunction, grade retention, chronic physical health issues, such as asthma, stigma, and poor mental and physical health into adulthood.

 

Insecure attachment is one of the worst predictors for success throughout a lifetime. When children are passed around from caregiver to caregiver, however well-meaning the intention, trauma is increased for that child. Research has shown that it literally affects brain architecture and can cause developmental delays that may require therapy. The social stigma of having an incarcerated parent is another trauma for children. The negative effects of experiencing this stigma can last well into their adult years.

 

This is where frequent visitations between a parent and their child can have positive effects. However, the numbers are not encouraging. Only fifty percent of incarcerated parents are ever visited by their child(ren). There are several reasons for this that may include a prohibitive distance from the caregiver’s home, lack of child-friendly visitation areas within the prison facility, policies within the prison about visitation, or the incarcerated parent or the caregiver refuses visitations.

 

It would be erroneous to paint a visit to a prison as anything but a potentially emotional experience for all involved, but research supports it as mostly positive, if the family unit has counseling support. Recidivism rates tend to be lower for parents who experience child visitations during incarceration.

 

It is good for the children as well. Predictive factors for successful family relationships upon release from prison include more frequent family visit along with parenting classes.

 

Much of the preceding information came from a literature review compiled by the North Dakota Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation and Children of Incarcerated Parents (Smith, 2018). Recommendations from the report for alleviating some of the effects of separation include reducing the trauma and stigma of having an incarcerated parent, improving communication between the parent and child(ren), and making visits to the prison more child friendly.

 

During the long night of Covid, Project Armchair longed for a way to continue to serve the children of our community while unable to read in-person with them. The Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation sub-committee, Children of Incarcerated Parents (COIP), reached out to us and asked if we could help them come up with ways to increase visitation rates with literacy as its core component. Working with DOCR staff and a talented inmate, we created a visually beautiful cozy corner in what had previously been a sterile and unwelcoming space within the state penitentiary. The results were so spectacular that, Missouri River Correctional Center, a minimum-security prison requested help to accomplish the same results in their visitation room.

 

With plans now firmly in place, the inmate artists are creating a unified theme for a bright and welcoming mural within MRCC, along with a two-person bench conducive to reading side-by-side, and a low bookshelf. Missouri River Correctional Center is considering other ways as well to make visitations between incarcerated fathers and their children less intimidating and more welcoming. Project Armchair applauds these efforts.

 

This is where you can participate. Books to keep the shelves stocked need to be donated specifically for that purpose. In the state penitentiary, for security reasons, books read with children in the visitation room need to stay there. For a visiting child to keep and take home the book they just read with their father; duplicate books will be kept outside of the secure area. A team of literacy experts have compiled a list of high-quality, high-engagement book titles for your convenience. It would be wonderful if the supportive donors of Project Armchair would donate books from this vetted list. Donating two books of the same title would allow children with a father in the state penitentiary to keep a copy of the book they just read with their dad. Please visit our website click here to find a list of suggested titles under the “get involved” tab. If you prefer to donate money, our website is linked to Paypal. We’d be happy to pick out the books for you!

 

A side note: the rate of illiteracy among incarcerated individuals is high. Seventy percent of incarcerated inmates cannot read above a fourth-grade level. When choosing book titles to donate, colorful picture books (books that tell the story as much through illustrations as text) are ideal for preserving the dignity of the parent. These books are generally geared for kindergarten through second grade.

 

References

 

Smith, N. (2018). Children of incarcerated parents outline. North Dakota Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.

 

Murphey, D. & Cooper, M. (2015). Parents behind bars: What happens to their children? Child Trends. Retrieved from: https://www.childtrends.org/publications/parents-behind-bars-what-happens-to-their-children

 

https://governorsfoundation.org/gelf-articles/early-literacy-connection-to-incarceration/

The Tarnished Princess

 

She sat completely still in her chair. I guessed her age to be about eight. Soft curls hung loosely around her face. She didn’t smile back when I smiled at her. In fact, she looked utterly miserable. An invisible cloak of shame hung about her thin shoulders, like an ill-fitting coat. Her enormous hazel eyes spoke secrets too difficult for her tongue to share.

 

It was my scheduled day to read to children at a city homeless shelter. When I was buzzed into the interior, the director met me at the door and walked with me to the prearranged reading area. As we passed the office with the sad little girl, the director mentioned that her family had just arrived and had gone through the intake process. It was discovered that the girl had head lice and was waiting to be treated before being allowed any further into the facility.

 

Ah. No wonder she looked unhappy.

 

Despite her obvious discomfort, a toy tiara sat comically atop her head; its once-silver paint partially rubbed raw from usage and age. Tarnished and tattered. But in an inexplicable way, it gave her certain aura of regality. Despite her environment, she tenaciously held to an inner stoicism that kept her head held high. Homeless, desperate, and physically dirty, she clung to an inexplicable sense of pride.

 

I have thought of her often. In many ways, she represents the many homeless children I have encountered over the years. Scared, confused, longing for stability.

 

A few years back, I received a call from a desperate mother who had found a coveted spot at a shelter, but they had to report immediately, or they would lose it. With nowhere else to go and desperate to have a roof over their heads that night, she meekly asked if I would give her bus fare to get across town. With my boss’ blessing, I left work and drove to where they were being evicted. I quickly shoved them and their few meager belongings into my van. We pulled into the shelter with no time to spare. I helped them unload and sat with the children while their mother went through the registration process.

 

Those sweet children’s eyes… how they haunt me still. They sat rigidly around me in the lobby, fear pulsing with every heartbeat. Yet another move. Another new place to adjust to. Unspoken questions with no answers.

 

I sang to them softly and assured them it would be alright. Their mother reappeared and began to gather their belongings. She hugged me and thanked me for my help. I hugged her back and, like her babies, assured her it would be alright. She smiled weakly and hoped so. It stabbed my heart to walk away from their broken hopelessness.

 

Homeless children need much. Physical necessities, yes of course. But they also need (and deserve) respect and dignity. They need to understand their own sense of agency. They need to be given safe spaces to be heard. Really heard. And they need unconditional acceptance.

 

Whatever the decisions and ultimate consequences of their parents, none of the responsibility lies with the children. They are the innocents.

 

Psalm 82:3-4 thrums through my head like an incessant beat. “Defend the weak and the fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked” (NIV).

 

If you have encounters with transient or high-risk children, be unfailingly kind. If you teach them in your classroom, treat them with dignity and reach deep for extra patience. They already feel like outsiders. Make them feel included and normal for the few hours you have them. If you have the means, give generously of your time and resources. I call it transmutive compassion. Acts of compassion that literally change, not just the receiver, but the giver as well. 

 

It takes so shockingly little to stir the soul of a child in crisis. 

 

There are tarnished princesses everywhere.

 

 

 

The Giver

 

 

 

 

As mentioned previously, it brings me to near delirium to be back reading live in the homeless shelters after Beast Covid devoured two years of volunteer service. Yesterday after work I headed to a local domestic violence shelter and was greeted by a gaggle of boisterous children.

 

This shelter is dedicated to women and children who have been victims of domestic abuse. I find myself compartmentalizing my emotions before entering. It’s the same with reading to patients on the pediatric floor. Reading to a child with medical tubes running in and out their bodies or facing a daunting cancer diagnosis is tough on this mama’s heart. Children shouldn’t suffer. It pains me when they do. Stepping into a structure that houses children who have most likely experienced (or at least witnessed) violence is a pain of another variety, but one that can be as traumatic as a health crisis. To that end, I find myself steeling my emotions before stepping into this place. I focus on the task at hand and the children as they are in that moment, happy and interactive.

When I arrived, I buzzed into the entrance and was greeted by a smiling staffer. “Lots of kids today?” I ask. “Yes! Lots of kids,” she replied with a grin and a bit of forewarning in her tone. “They’re in the back, waiting for you.” I head toward the gathering spaces in the shelter and am greeted by a sweet mix of moms sitting at the kitchen table working on arts and crafts, and kids… everywhere!

To my delight, they recognize me and come running, anxious to peek into my ever-present book bag. We choose a sofa to sit on together and in a flash, I am a reader, a fresh listening ear for their cacophony, and a human jungle gym, all rolled into one. It’s like sitting on the floor with a litter of 6-week-old puppies. They are crawling into my lap, climbing into my arms, and maneuvering behind my back. This frenetic movement never stops for the 40 minutes I am there. I am silently thankful I had worn my hair up. If not, I would have left looking like a dandelion gone to seed.

The challenge in shelter reading, I have learned over the years, is gently pushing past the behaviors that can go with children who are currently living in a crisis environment. They are almost always sweet and loving, sometimes reserved, but often a little frenetic due to developmental maturity, lack of space to burn off energy, and other factors. They also sometimes have little idea of book care and can be a little rough on materials. I don’t take offense. It becomes a gentle teaching moment.

The golden moment of the day came near the end of my reading time. A four-year-old beside me was zeroed in on every book I read, asked a mountain of question, and shouted his answers to mine. When we finished reading his chosen book, he closed it carefully and declared, “my book!” and ran off to squirrel it away. He soon returned from the playroom with a book from the shelter’s stock. He shoved into my hands with a shy smile and said, “You keep it.” My heart melted a little as I gently placed it back into his small hands and said, “That’s a good book. You should keep it here.” He tried again. “You keep it!” The smile was a little wider. Again, I gently refused. “That belongs to someone else,” I explained. “You should keep it here.” Two more times he tried to gift the book to me. Each time he glowed with anticipation at the hope of my receiving his “gift.” Although he didn’t cognitively understand what he was doing, he had observed the cultural norms of our budding relationship that involved the gifting of something precious to me, books, and wanted to reciprocate as a means of expressing gratitude. After his fourth attempt my heart was reduced to a gooey mess of melted marshmallow. Such a beautiful gesture from a child with so little. Oh, how these little ones teach me to be a better person!

My doctoral dissertation had a strong theme of children’s agency, premised on the belief that children are capable reporters of their own feelings and ideas. This little guy tried to convey much through his giving gestures. His actions said to me, “I like you. I like that you read to me. I value the books you give me each time you come. I want to give you something to show my appreciation.”

I hear you, sweet child. I like you, too, and I’ll be back soon.

Waiting For the Other Side

Two years. 

Two years since a virus raced around the world with dizzying speed, closing public gatherings, emptying store shelves, social calendars, and upending life as we knew it. Parents became teachers and teachers became pioneers of instruction delivery. 

For Project Armchair it meant an abrupt end to our volunteer services. The door slammed shut with a loud and reverberating clang. Two years of waiting and hoping for life to return to normalcy, then fighting despondency when new variants emerged, plunging hope into despair. Two years waiting to emerge on the other side. Two years of wondering how a volunteer organization premised on direct interaction with children could re-calibrate to still be of service. 

I must be honest here. I have felt a little lost wondering just how to do that. If we can’t read to kids, then… who are we? 

Miraculously, we DID find purpose. Or rather, purpose found us. The Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation and its sub-committee, Children of Incarcerated Parents, asked us to help them find a way to increase visitation rates for incarcerated fathers at the state penitentiary. We collaborated with an incarcerated artist and a band of really nice high school shop guys to create an inviting space inside the visitation room at the penitentiary, where we filled the shelves with book and will continue to fill them, as long as donations for the project continue. This energizing task kept us thinking, growing, and dreaming big. 

While that initiative kept us from growing moss on our north side, today marked the turn of a really big corner. A big, beautiful, hope-is-born corner. For the first time in two years, I loaded my bag with books and headed to a local domestic violence shelter. Not to simply drop off books at the door, but this time to step inside, remove my coat, and stay for a spell. I looked forward to it all day, willing time to speed up, through meetings, presentations, desk work, and interaction with colleagues. C’mon, clock! Let’s end this workday. 

Pulling up to the facility, I felt a joyful buoyancy. Ringing the access buzzer, I fairly sang into the intercom, “reading volunteer!” The staff was happy to welcome me back and it felt so utterly right to be there, like finding the perfect spot on your pillow in the middle of the night. 

My little charges were sweet and unafraid of the grinning-too-big and alarmingly happy lady with the bag of books. They moved from bench to toys and back to bench, listening briefly then running off, only to run back to me the next moment. The tiniest tot munched happily on cheese puffs, ran his tiny, orange-coated hands over my black dress pants, and grinned at me with laughing eyes. And, oh how I loved every moment! I loved the brief flashes of true engagement when they pointed to the illustrations and jabbered incoherently, and the acrobats demanded to keep up with agile moving bodies. I loved seeing their mother’s happy smile watching it all. I loved the look of true gratitude in her eyes as I handed her new books for her children to keep. And I loved the brief chat we had, one mother to another. 

Coincidentally (or not), as I pulled away from the shelter, I had a phone conversation with another mom that I met in a shelter years ago under similar circumstances, who has since become a dear friend. She has worked hard to rise above hardship and overwhelming odds. Over the phone she glowingly shared her plans to attend college in the fall. To be witness to her triumph is an honor so deep words fail me. 

Because of women like these and the hundreds of children our organization has read to, I believe in the value of this work more than ever. A caring adult, a good book, and a child dealing with challenging circumstances is a sure way to provide a needed disruption in the difficult narrative of a child in crisis.

This work matters, and I have missed it. Perhaps the long, dark night of abstinence has helped me realize just how much. 

Now it’s time to get back to the work of serving our community's most vulnerable children. But first I need to wash the cheese powder out of my pants.