Journal Entries - Vonda's Personal Reflections

 June 13, 2018
It is the children who are alone that tug hardest at my heart.

I stepped through the open door of what I thought was a preschooler’s hospital room. The room was dark and as my eyes adjusted I realized instead of a youth bed, the room contained an empty crib.

Or so I thought.

I turned to leave and heard a soft sigh. The kind a baby makes when their belly is full of breast milk and they are utterly content. I peered back into the room from the doorway just as a nurse called to me from the nurses station, “Do you want to snuggle him?” Do I want to snuggle a baby? Do North Dakotans love ice hockey??

The nurse gently lifted him from his bed, careful not to snag IV drip lines, and laid him in my eager arms. I lowered the two of us into a nearby rocking chair, and the nurse promised to check on us shortly. No rush on my part!

He struggled and grunted at first, unsure he wanted to leave his cocoon. I whispered mama-love into his ear and fell into a rocking rhythm that cast its spell within moments. As his little body began to relax, I took in the details of his sweet face. Indications of some major trauma were abundant. Stitches and protective gear bespoke the terrible pain this little blue-eyed angle must surely be enduring.

He fidgeted some more, then yawned. I smiled. Just try to resist sleep, Little One. The rocker always wins. I sang my favorite lullaby and watched his tiny eyelids flutter and then fly open as he fought sleep. By the fourth verse (which I’m pretty sure I made up), his breathing had deepened and his eyes remained closed.

I tore my gaze from his beautiful face and looked around the room. It was bare, except for a baby carrier. There was no indication that an adult had been in and out. No magazines or books. No papers lying about. No half-empty coffee cups. None of the usual signs that come with adult caregivers. Nothing to reassure me that this precious lamb had someone coming to rock and soothe and sing favorite lullabies.

I whispered to his dozing frame, “You are loved. You are priceless. And you are worthy of all good things in life.”

I don’t even know why I say stuff like that. Maybe I hope words of affirmation will drive back the darkness of wondering where his place is in this world. Maybe I believe/hope/pray that spoken words from a stranger that he will never remember will take root in his memory and send up tender shoots of self-worth and belonging. Maybe. Maybe I dream too big.

As he continued to rest in my arms and his little face contorted with whatever dreams babies dream, I mouthed the words of Psalm 91.

“Those who live in the shelter of Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the Lord. He alone is my refuge. My place of safety… He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection” (NLT).

A passing cart with a squeaky wheel popped his eyes open and I silently cursed ill-maintained hospital equipment. He began to cry in earnest and no amount of rocking, crooning, made-up lullabies, or shifting position could calm him.

His nurse appeared and tried a diaper change. No go. She left to prepare a bottle. He would have none of it. He flailed and cried out in frustration.

I wanted to cradle him in my arms again, but could see I had been trumped by his nurse. I stepped out to finish my reading rounds but carried him with me. At least in my heart. I brought him home with me and have thought of him numerous times today. I find my thoughts return to him often and I wonder how he is. I fervently hope there is a caregiver in his life that had simply stepped out for a bit and returned soon after. That he hears words of love and affirmation from someone that speaks them to him on a daily basis. That he knows he is loved. That he will grow up knowing his place in this world.

I have been able to compartmentalize so many of the children and their circumstances that I encounter. That gift has been my salvation. Without that ability I would fall into despair. So much suffering and misery. So little I can do to remedy it.

Project Armchair has become so much more to me than literacy. In the hospital setting, I am not allowed to know their stories, unless a parent volunteers it to me, but I never ask. The homeless shelters sometimes lead to more intimate encounters. Not always. I never ask for personal details there, either. But I always wonder about the details. I can’t help it. It is human nature to want to fill in the questioning spaces with answers.

I wonder why the lady I pass at the shelter has a fresh black eye. How a baby with bright blue eyes and the sigh of an angel can be alone in this world. How a child whose life is constantly transient can possibly learn anything. How parents can find the courage to smile bravely when their precious child is devastatingly ill or injured. Where tiny tots find the courage to be brave.

These are unanswerable questions. It is not for me to know. Or solve. How I would love to fix the injustices of the world! But my voice is small and my influence limited.

I sometimes feel my schedule leaves little or no time for others. The Calendar and the Clock rule my life. But then I am reminded that I control them. They should not control me. I am master of each precious moment in each precious day. My life is really not so busy or important that I cannot spend a few minutes here and there investing in the life of another. And there are a few small things I CAN do. I can read to a child in a hospital bed. I can gift a beautiful book to a child who owns nothing. I can listen to mothers share their frustrations, dreams, and hopes.

And I can rock babies and make up lullaby verses and whisper words of affirmation to sleeping angels. These are things I can do. It is my honor to do so.

February 9, 2017

Tonight was my regularly scheduled night to read at a local domestic violence shelter. I rounded up two young children to read to and laid a third book by a napping preschooler that was draped awkwardly across a sofa cushion.

On my way headed back to the entrance, I said hello to a young woman, then realized she had a tiny baby sitting in a car seat at her feet. I am a complete sucker for a baby, so I laid my purse and extra books down and stooped to gaze at the tiny being swathed in pink. She was absolute perfection. And so very, very small. How old? I asked. One week old, today.

“I must give her her very first book!” I exclaimed. I sifted through my stack and found Goodnight, Moon by Margaret Wise Brown. A classic.

I placed the familiar book into the mother’s hands and she stared at the cover wistfully, then smiled. “I know this book! My mother read it to me when I was a girl.” She thanked me warmly and I gushed some more over her beautiful baby.

As I sit here now, drowning in grad school deadlines, I can’t stop thinking about that tiny creature. Her little face fills my mind. The circumstances of her very first home break my heart.

I will pray for her before I close my eyes tonight. Pray that her life will be happy. Safe. Filled with good things. I will hope that as her mother reads that book to her someday, it will bond the two of them, as it did her mother and her mother’s mother.

The generationality of a good book.

Be blessed, Little One.

February 8, 2017

Today two wonderful events occurred in the unfolding saga of Project Armchair, both landmarks in their own right. The first happened two hundred miles away, the second right in front of my eyes.

Tonight the Fargo chapter of Project Armchair was officially born. Our very first volunteer in a city on the eastern edge of the state met with the director of volunteer services for the Fargo Sanford hospital and teacher, Deb Shasky, began her journey toward becoming a trained hospital volunteer. There were, in fact, two teachers scheduled to begin orientation, but Karen Erickson was home sick today, and will begin at another time.

This is very exciting and a huge leap for our organization. God did some remarkable orchestration to bring it all about, so I am a little breathless to watch it unfold.

The second event was sweetly poignant.  I met a new volunteer, Sharon Johnson, at the Bismarck Sanford hospital so that she might finish her training and become a full-fledged reader. Sharon is our very first retired teacher, which makes her special for a couple of important reasons. Sharon has more time to give to her volunteer labors, and Sharon (unlike the rest of us), is free to read on the pediatric floor during daytime work hours. This is incredibly wonderful for kids that endure painful procedures, or other frightening experiences, during bustling day hours. Many times children are discharged midday, before we can get to them. It will be great to sometimes reach those kids as well.

As I stood with Sharon at the nurses’ station tonight finding out which rooms held young children, the charge nurse kept staring at Sharon. Finally, she blurted out, “I don’t know if you remember me, but you were my teacher.” Sharon’s face split into a wide grin and we all smiled at the unexpected crossing of paths.

My heart gave a funny little flutter at the irony. Beside me stood a beautiful woman who had devoted her entire adult life to the teaching profession. Now newly retired, she longed to still make a difference. To find another avenue of service and give of herself in a meaningful way. In front of me sat a capable, respected, intelligent nurse that was living proof of Sharon’s legacy.

One life of service melding into the other. Pretty cool.

It is days like this that I smile and say, “Wow, God. That was really fun to witness. I can’t wait to see what else you have in store!”

June 14, 2016

Tonight I read my first bedtime stories to young patients. 

I had never been on the pediatric floor that late in the day.  There was an unusual quiet about the hospital.  From the lobby, to the hallways, to the pediatric floor itself.  Hushed. Empty. Quiet. The hospital, like the world itself, was winding down to end of day.

I had just two young patients on my roster - I am always happy when I see empty beds on the pediatric floor.  The first was a six-year-old I had read to yesterday.  She remembered me and immediately asked if I could rewarm her tater tots (“They’re REALLY cold”).  The night nurse laughed when she saw me headed to the microwave and offered to do it instead.  No need.  I know my way to the kitchen. 

With freshly-warmed “tots” in hand, she was ready to settle in and listen. She was not familiar with “Where the Wild Things Are,” (Sendak, 1963), but giggled when she saw Max chasing his poor cat with a fork while “he made mischief.” It is always a deep honor to introduce a child to the classics.  It feels a little holy. She was engaged to the end and I am not sure who enjoyed it more – she or I. 

My second patient, a squirmy toddler, sat in his mother’s lap, unwilling to engage in “It’s Time to Sleep, My Love” (Tillman, 2008). I read on, regardless.  Sure enough, the lyrical cadence and glorious illustrations soon worked their magic.  Halfway through, the squirming stopped and chubby fists began to rub heavy eyes.  Oh, I had so hoped that books read at bedtime would encourage relaxation and sleepiness in young patients. I felt like doing a cartwheel.  It worked!

When I closed the book and handed it to the grateful mother, she looked at me in wonder and said, “I think that book really did make him sleepy!”  I grinned and whispered, “That makes my day!”

I am currently reading a book by Mem Fox titled, “The Magic of Reading:  Why Reading Aloud to Our Children Will Change Their Lives Forever.” In it she encourages parents, teachers, grandparents, and any other constant in the life of a child to read aloud to them several times a day, bedtime being the most crucial time of day (pg. 36).  Lyrical, rhyming texts and songs, “expose kids to gorgeous forms of language.  They are a natural extension to the heartbeat of the mother and the rhythmic rocking of a child in loving arms or in a cradle” (pg. 88). I love that. How many hours did I spend reading to my own babies and toddlers and elementary-age children? Countless.  It was soothing for them and the perfect end to the day for me. Kids in the hospital need that, too.

Tired moms, and tired, sick children… 

A beautiful book to look at and a soothing voice to hear… 

“Good night noises, everywhere…”

(“Goodnight, Moon” by Margaret Wise Brown, 1947)

 


May 4, 2016

There was the faintest hint of excitement in the air as I crossed the threshold tonight.  The staff room of the homeless shelter was unusually stacked with household items, arranged in neat piles.  “The reading lady’s here!”  I heard a faint voice say down a corridor to some unseen other person.

I deposited my stack of new books and headed toward the kitchen where I knew my sign-up sheet would be posted. I pulled the taped page from the door and read through tonight’s roster. I recognized all names but one. 

A mother greeted me warmly and smiled.  “He’s been waiting for you! He’s so excited to be read to tonight.”  The topic of conversation, Mr. Been Waiting, popped into the room wearing an enormous smile and a Superman cape. “Do you have a Transformers book tonight?” he pleaded, then flashed a brilliant smile. How do you say no to that double dose of preciousness?  I laughed. “I think I just might. Let me check.” 

A staff person in the kitchen responsible for those intoxicating supper aromas looked up and smiled. “It’s his last night here, you know.”  

It caught me like a soft sucker punch.

The stacks of blankets, dishes, and cleaning supplies. That explained all of it.  They were moving into a place of their own. 

A place of their own!

Now I was grinning. How utterly fabulous! There was a definite celebratory feel in the air, swirling with the chicken and potato smells.  This is what every family in this homey, loving place longed for, dreamed of, and hoped upon hope; a place to call their own. 

I congratulated the beaming family and clapped with joy. This most definitely called for a Transformers book.

I read to the list of kids signed up before my little friend’s turn and, unmindful of appearances, used my best character voices to breathe life into my readings.  They giggled during added (and unscripted) sound effects, held their breath at the turn of a mysterious page, and little pony-tailed preschoolers whispered unintelligible, breathy secrets into my ear. 

At last it was time for Superman. He was fully into the story from the first word. He knew all of the characters’ names and what their superpower was.  He was a delightful, fully engaged, audience. I handed him his book to keep and felt my heart melt at the gratitude in his cherubic smile. 

On my way out, I asked his teenage brother (who had yet to accept a book from me and firmly claimed he did NOT like to read), one last time if he would just TRY a book. I had the perfect one. He smiled shyly and quietly agreed (with not a little urging from his mother) to try it.  I hurried to the cupboard and quickly found the book I sought. It was perfect for him – I knew it was. I rushed back to the dining room, placed it beside him, and assured him it had made me laugh out loud when I had read it. That shy, sweet smile again.  “OK, I’ll try it.” I congratulated the family again, wished them well, and turned to leave. “Thank you for the book,” a teenage voice rumbled.  I smiled.  “You are most welcome.” 

As I pushed on the handle of the outside door to leave, I paused a moment and realized with sinking heart that I might never see this wonderful, gracious family again. I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. Funny how quickly a person becomes attached to cute little guys in superhero costumes. I scolded myself mentally. “You have to hold loosely, Vonda. You can’t get all weepy every time you say goodbye. These are good changes!” 

I pushed the door open, felt balmy Spring air on my face, and smiled.  Superman’s brother is going to become a reader. 

I just know it.

  March 31, 2016

I had a few surprises today on the pediatric floor.  The first was being greeted with the news that a parent had donated a stack of books to give away.  Did they know about Project Armchair and want to be a part of what we do?  I don’t know.  I DO know that the books the nurse had so carefully stacked on our shelf in the nurses’ station are incredibly expensive, wonderful, and beautiful books.  Thank you, Donor!!

The next (loud) surprise was the fire alarm going off.  Based on the calm faces floating past me, I accurately assumed it was a drill.  It felt like school, except I didn’t have to shiver on the sidewalk until the walkie talkie crackled an “all clear.”

The third surprise touched my heart and filled me with gratitude.  The pediatric floor supervisor (a lovely, gracious woman), greeted me with a huge smile and a warm hug.  She told me that she has heard only wonderful things about Project Armchair from her nursing staff.  I told her that I would welcome the opportunity to sit down with her sometime and get her feedback on how we might better serve the needs of the floor.  She stared wide-eyed at me for a moment, then grinned.  “I don’t think you CAN do things any better.” 

Thud.  That’s the sound of my heart dropping to the floor of my chest cavity.

Six months into this adventure, there are now two other weekly teacher-readers, and many more working their way through the volunteer orientation process.  We will soon have a teacher on the floor most every night of the week.  How wonderful!

I am eternally grateful for the gamble Sanford hospital took in allowing the Project Armchair team to enter their hospital as volunteers, interact with their precious patients, and use literature to brighten the day of a child.  I am humbled by their faith.  Spurred by their encouragement.

(SIDE NOTE:  I just have to say right here and now that the giggles elicited from a sick child while reading a book with me are the BEST.  It warms my heart every time.  I read a couple of hours ago and can still hear those sweet giggles.  My teacher heart rejoices at the power of quality literature to engage a child.  My mama heart melts/oozes/grins when a child is happy.  Thank you, God, for the melodic sound of a child’s laughter.  I think it must surely make You smile, too).

 
March 24, 2016

The homeless shelter is bulging at the seams lately.  The weekly reading sign-up sheet time slots were solidly filled, but one daring cherub adding their own name beyond the times given (how do you say no to that?)

I took off my coat, set down my box of new donated books and dove right in, offering book suggestions based on age and reading level.  I read as much as possible of each book, given the time constraints, before it was time for the next child to park beside me and partake in their own reading adventure. 

As kids waited their turn, books were pored over, covers tenderly touched, selections carefully made, lines formed, and restless feet wandered in circles (man, I love these kids).  It is nearing the time I need to leave in order to make it on time for our church’s Maundy Thursday dinner.  And still kids waited their turn.

Another child, another book.  The Little Train That Could for the three-year-old.  A Big Nate graphic novel for the ten-year-old.  David Goes to School for the four-year-old.  Pinkalicious for the six-year-old.  A quick text to the hubster telling him I may be just a WEEEEEE bit late.

I wind my way to the last name on the list and begin to pack up the rest of the books.  A mother wanders in and we chat easily.  As I prepare to grab my purse and go, I look around the room and my heart swells.  As my eyes sweep the room, on every chair there is a child, head bent, legs sprawled, lost in their new book.  They are wholly unaware that anyone else exists – the book in their lap is the sum total of their consciousness. 

Yes…

This moment was my dream from the start.  Children in crisis lost in the pages of a book. 

Project Armchair. 

Life outside these walls can wait for a moment.  This is where I want to be.

March 17, 2016

I had a sweet peek into Project Armchair from the other side tonight and my heart is still glowing. As I made my rounds through the pediatric floor tonight, I stopped at one door and announced myself. The patient was fast asleep but I found a book I thought he might like and left it with his parents. His mother got up out of her chair and followed me into the hall. “There was a lady here the other night. She read to him too. I have to tell you, he LOVED it!” she beamed. “He was so happy with his book that he hugged it to his chest and just grinned. Thank you for what you do!!”
 
The “lady” was not me. That’s the part that makes my heart feel all squishy and warm. Project Armchair has a couple of volunteers done with the rigorous hospital volunteer orientation process, who are now full-fledged readers. That means that three beautiful nights a week – every week – there is a teacher on the pediatric floor reading to kids in crisis. Three nights with a moment’s reprieve from illness for kids who could use a little joy. Three nights putting new books into the hands of kids who hug them to their chest and grin. I gotta tell ya'... that just blesses my blesser (as my dear daddy used to say).
 
And more teachers soon to be finished and ready to read as well! A few more nearly ready to read at the homeless shelter too. I am humbled and overwhelmed by the response of my colleagues to this volunteer opportunity,and grateful to those who have given the books to make all this possible. Blessed, indeed...

February 24, 2016

I wasn’t going to read tonight. 

I wanted to organize the book cupboard at the hospital a little and drop off some new donations, then head home for a quick supper and an evening of studying.  As I stood on the pediatric floor rearranging books and wiping down shelves, I overheard two nurses discussing patients as they figured out their evening caseload.  My heart gave a funny little lurch when I heard them say that one baby girl had had no visitors and no one had called to check on her all day. 

I wasn’t going to read tonight.

I walked to the nurse’s station and inquired of this little girl.  “I have to read to her,” I stated.  “I have to.”  “She will love it!” the nurse beamed.  I chose Goodnight, Moon (there is something so soothing about that iconic favorite).  As I entered the isolation room, big eyes stared at me through hospital crib bars.  From the first line on the first page to the last “goodnight noises everywhere,” she stared.  First at me, then at the colorful images, then back at me.  Staring, staring.  I tucked the sturdy board book between the bars, smiled and waved goodbye to that tubed and solemn face.  I took off my isolation gown and gloves and threw them in the trash, then washed my hands thoroughly – standard procedure.

I walked back to the nurse’s station and asked imploringly, “can I hold her?”  “Of COURSE!” was the enthusiastic response.  The nursing staff is so golden-hearted, but they are so frenetically busy.  They do what they can, but….

I put on a fresh gown, fresh gloves (she is very ill), and stepped back into that beeping, blinking room.  Her solemn face watched my every move.  I lowered the side of the crib and gently pulled her into my arms, tubes and wires trailing behind her.  I cradled her tiny frame in my arms and she lay her head against me.  I began to sing softly to her.  I told her she is loved.  I whispered in her tiny ear that she is of utmost value and worth.  I kissed her downy head. 

When had she last been rocked?  The nurses do what they can, but some days the most they can do is turn on the television as a poor substitute for companionship.  I decided there was enough leeway in her tubing to reach the rocker and gently lowered both of us into it.  And I rocked. And rocked.  And sang.  And prayed.  Prayed that God would shower this child with warm, caring love all the days of her life.

I wasn’t going to read tonight.  But I am glad I did. 

Will she remember it?  No.  She is far too young.  But it is all I could give.  Maybe for this one day in her life it was enough. 

I cried all the way home.  Great racking sobs for babies who are ill and babies who are virtually alone in this world.  I am thankful I read tonight.

 

February 11, 2016
I read to my first cancer patient today.  A sweet little boy with yellow hair, yellow skin, and yellow eyes.  I laid out his book choices at the foot of his bed and waited for him to pick the book that most appealed to him, although I knew even as I pulled titles from my rolling cart that he would choose non-fiction "SHARKS!"  Boys, non-fiction, and oversize teeth - they just go together. He was smart as a whip too.  I stopped occasionally to check for understanding and let him make a prediction or two.  This kid was nails on his shark facts.  We laughed, he and I, at his uncanny ability to predict the book.  I read a few pages, then handed him the book to finish on his own.  He forgot my presence and was swimming with the sharks the moment the book was in his hands.

His brave mother thanked me profusely, then added, "no offense, but I hope we're not here the next time you come."  Me too, Brave Mama.  Me too.
  

February 2, 2016 
Had the enormous pleasure of introducing Project Armchair's FIRST reading recruit to the hospital's sixth floor patients.  Jenny Morrow is going to be a wonderful addition to the PA team. She loves kids, loves literature (she is currently working on her Master's degree in library science!), and has a heart for volunteerism.  So thrilled to have Jennie representing Project Armchair.  Welcome, Jennie!!

January 25, 2016 
I am astounded by the power of reading aloud to children.  Every elementary teacher knows the research and understands how formative reading aloud is to a child’s literacy development.  I know this stuff.  At least in theory.  But what I witness regularly on the pediatric floor blows my socks off.  A young child can be whimpering, cantankerous, and miserable when I walk in the door.  The mother will sweetly agree to have their sick baby read to, give me an “don’t expect too much here, lady” look, and then be surprised and pleased when her little darling is soothed and engaged in the story.  I am self-aware enough to know it has little to do with the charms of Vonda.  Rather it is the magic of quality children’s literature.

I am three weeks into a graduate course on Children’s Literature.  You may be surprised to know that there is quite an impressive amount of science behind every word, every illustration, the layout, the font, the colors, hues, etc., ect.  It is fascinating stuff.  At least it is to nerdy reading teachers.

Tonight I read to a busy toddler.  She was engrossed in an impressive heap of toys in her crib and unimpressed with the intruder (me).  As I began to read Little White Duck by Walt Whippo, her attention was drawn from her very noisy, battery-operated toys, and into the pages of that lyrical book with its expansive illustrations.  Her mother breathed softly, “she’s LISTENING.”  And she was.  When I finished, I handed the book to the mother, she thanked me, and I headed for the door.  The tot began to whimper and point.  She wanted the book.  Her mother handed it to her and that little angel opened the pages to “reread” to herself.  I smiled.  This is where literacy begins.  If a child is not absolutely immersed in it from infancy, the parents have waited too long. 

The next patient was a petulant six-month-old being spoon fed fruit by a patient mother.  When I asked him if he wanted to hear a story, he buried his head in the blankets and grunted, “NO!”  But mom and dad said yes, so I chose The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter (because every child should own it) and thought I would read a single page, then leave it with mom to finish later.  Three pages down and the miserable child had stopped whimpering.  Mom urged me to continue.  By page six he was entirely my captive audience.  By page eight I thought I would quit while I was ahead and closed the book.  The child was quiet and stared at me with big, uninhibited eyes, his body still and relaxed.  “Thank you,” his mother whispered with gratitude. 

Such a place of misery, this floor is during the long winter months.  The place was packed and every single child was sealed away under isolation orders.  This day was drab and overcast.  No sun to brighten spirits and pour hope into rooms of despair.  Nothing but gray and clouds spitting snow when they felt like it.  But images of ducks and ponds and “napping houses” with rainbow-splashed gardens brought hope, regardless.  At least for a few welcome moments.

January 14, 2016
A sloppy winter mix has played havoc with roads all day.  I sit through my day-long conference and wonder idly what the commute home will look like.  A prudent person would head for home straightaway at the closing bell. But the homeless shelter conveyed via email that I had kids signed up for today.  The commute will have to wait.

When the conference is mercifully over, I head for the hospital.  A quick call confirms that they have a full house – “yes, lots of kids today!”  Urgent, busy nurses.  No time for idle chitchat. 

I stop at the nurse’ station for a list of room numbers – the place is humming.  Babies crying, starry-eyed medical students, a preschooler driving a Little Tikes car through the hallway, dodging harried staff, dad trying to keep up with his oxygen line in hand. 

I find all children in their rooms, except one sleeping tot, and young Dale Earnhardt, who was too busy to take a pit stop.  The sibling of a three-year-old gets to pick a book too.  She is tired of being quiet.  Tired of playing board games.  A story is welcome diversion.  I leave “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” by Laura Numeroff with her, and Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin, Jr. with baby sister.  The cherub occupying the bed and draped in the green hospital gown announces she is “all better now.”  The beeping machine says otherwise.  I grab my rolling book cart and head for the parking lot.

I claim Goldie, my aging but reliable van, from the hospital parking valet, and brave slick roads as I cross the Missouri river and head to the homeless shelter.  I can hear toddler squeals as I enter the inviting hallway.  I head to the source and find a two-year-old busy with two-year-old things.  She is climbing, she is watching Ice Age, she is jabbering about things she is sure I understand.  Her mother is in an intense conversation on the phone.   As I gently remove her month-old infant from her arms and snuggle her close, mom ends the conversation and shares with concern that her son is headed to the hospital.

Oh my.

What do you need?  What can I do?  Do you need a ride?  A babysitter? 

The absolutely perfectly perfect newborn grows sleepy as I stand and rock her and I watch her perfectly perfect eyes close.  Her breathing slows, her body relaxes.  I continue to hold and rock while her mother spills out her worry. 

The other children who had signed up for reading have still not arrived and the late afternoon has melded into evening hours.  And still I stay.  There is so much I could be doing at home.  My graduate courses workload is staggering.  I should be going.  The time assigned for the other children has come and gone.  I should go.

And still I stay. 

Somehow it seems like the right and proper thing to do.  The compassionate thing to do.  I need to make sure this precious young mother is cared for and able to go to her baby.  The Golden Rule applies to homeless people too.

Her ride and babysitter arrive.  She can leave, and so can I.  I have stayed far later than I had planned.  The roads must be treacherous.  I should go.

But not yet. 

My other children stumble in from the snowy day.  Their faces are rosy with exertion.  Their feet wet with Winter’s kiss.  They see me from the end of the hall and break into a run, their faces alight with joy. 

Backpacks and coats are thrown into their common room and we all head back to the playroom.  They jabber and smile and tell me about their day. 

I have pre-chosen a variety of books I think they might enjoy, for we have been here before, these beautiful children and I.  I am beginning to know them and know about them by now.

The youngest chooses Dog vs. Cat by Chris Gall, and we giggle our way through that amusing tale.  He does not move until the last word on the last page.  He happily accepts his new book and thanks me.

The middle girl searches for just the right book.  She spots the Magic Tree House series by Mary Pope Osborne and inquires about them.  I smile approvingly at her choice.  From the first words on the first page, she is hooked.  I can see it plain as day.  I have witnessed the same miracle many times.  Kids love the Magic Tree House series. 

I read to the third chapter then leave the rest with her to chop away at on her own but promise to read more next week, if she wishes.  With eyes aglow, she promises to read between now and next week, and thanks me softly for the book.

At my urging, the oldest sibling has searched the entire time for a book that catches her interest.  She shyly sits beside me on the floor, clutching “Little House in the Big Woods.”  Has she ever heard of this book? I ask her.  Her head shakes out a silent “no.”  Again, I smile for I am pleased at her choice.  I well remember the first time I read the same book.

And there, on the blue rug of the playroom in a homeless shelter in North Dakota, another child falls in love with Laura Ingalls Wilder’s epic work.  We close our eyes together, she and I, and picture the log house and the crooked rail fence.  We marvel that Pa hunts all day, and comes home with nothing.  We rejoice when they finally feast on venison; not the thin winter kind, but the fat and tasteful kind that you can only get in the fall.

She is not a young child, and yet she snuggles close.  There is something achingly dear in the way she loses herself in the story, her head lightly touching my shoulder.  In that moment she discovers the intrinsic joy of the written word.  I am honored to be witness to it.  The playroom feels sacred and hallowed.

Books change lives.  I believe that with every fiber of my being.

I stand and say goodbye.  The children cluster around and want to help pull my book cart.  I promise to look for Junie B. Jones books for next week and girl-friendly bookmarks.

I climb into aging, but reliable, Goldie, and point her nose toward slick roads and home.  I slide to a stop at the light and suddenly the red of the traffic lights are prismed by my tears.  The joy generated by timeless literature to kids who desperately need moments of joy and escapism leaves me a bit overwhelmed.  I hear myself thanking God aloud for the honor of intersecting in the lives of precious and worthy children. 

The wipers splash away snow and ice and I wipe my eyes.   

Thank you, God.