Eat at Space Aliens, Support Project Armchair!

If you live in the Bismarck/Mandan, or Fargo area, please eat at Space Aliens on December 12th. Mention Project Armchair, show the waitstaff this letter, and a portion of the meal will be donated to Project Armchair! 

The Olsen Family

Derek, Amanda, Halee, Rylee, and Jacie Olsen

I met Derek and Amanda Olsen tonight in the lobby of the hospital. Three of their four impressive children were with them as well. A few weeks back, Amanda - someone I had never met - contacted me, said she had heard about Project Armchair and she and her family wanted to help in some way. The thing that impressed me about this family was that the children were leading the way in raising funds for Project Armchair. They designed a poster, went door-to-door handing them out, and chose the books they would eventually donate. I asked Amanda to send me a quick synopsis of their story, and I was so touched when I read it, I am publishing it here for you to read as well. I am quite certain these children will grow up to be giving, selfless, wonderful adults. Thank you, Olsen Family, for blessing Project Armchair!

Here is their story in Amanda's own words...

I heard about Project Armchair through a nurse friend when we were talking about how much we love books, and my middle daughter, Rylee, loves to read out loud. My initial hope was to get her involved directly in serving in this way so I told her about it and started looking around online. The more I looked, the more I learned that although we couldn't be involved in the reading part like we had first hoped, we definitely wanted to be involved in some way. Every child should have opportunities to have the world of books directly in their hands. 

So, we decided to raise money somehow so that we could donate books. The obvious solution was to go door to door in our neighborhood with a Thirty-one fundraiser, since I am a consultant, asking people for orders that would directly support Project Armchair. We designed some posters and headed out. My son and 3 daughters, Isaac - 14, Halee - 12, Rylee - 10, & Jacie - 8, all walked throughout our neighborhood, knocking on doors, handing out info, and collecting orders and cash donations. When all was said and done, with my donated commission and other donations, we had just over $200 to spend!

We took a trip to Barnes & Noble and the kids each picked out several books from their age groups to donate. My kids were all troopers and servants throughout this process. They did the work and they did it with purpose, knowing the end result would put fantastic books in these kids' lives. 

Thank you so much for letting us be a part of your ministry! It's hard to find ways to raise our kids to be servants and volunteers with so many necessary restrictions in place with volunteering, but it is so important, so we carry on and continue to find ways to serve. We are blessed to have met you and hope to continue helping out when we can. Thanks again!

Amanda Olsen

The Least of These

I entered the pediatric floor after a two-week hiatus. Grad school and my day job had kept me struggling to find time to make it to the hospital. September is a busy, busy month for all teachers, everywhere!

When I found an afternoon to catch my breath, I left school as soon as the clock said I could and headed to the pediatric floor. I greeted the nurses and we exchanged pleasantries. They gave me the run-down of the day’s patients. There were several children on the floor they felt would enjoy a good book. This busy, frazzled teacher had missed this place. Missed the small talk with the nursing staff. Missed the shining eyes of cherubic children trapped in a hospital room. Missed watching the magic happen when the child goes from grumpy to engaged in no-time-flat. Nothing transports an ill or homeless child to an island of safety quite like a really good book. I never tire of being humble witness to it.

“Oh,” continued the nurse giving me the floor’s rundown. “We’ve had two kids here that were abandoned at the hospital a few days ago. We’re waiting for Social Services to find spots for them.”

Abandoned??  How… what… dear God….

I read to each child on my list. A six-year-old that wanted a book with dinosaurs. His grateful mother obviously welcomed a break from entertaining a fidgety child. A grinning two-year-old in the playroom that kept testing the length limits of her IV line. And finally, those precious children.

What do you choose to read to a child who has just lost everything? All familiarity and the small comforts that accompany it? Their world had just tipped cataclysmically on its axis. Nothing will ever be quite the same for them. Ever. The questions they will have someday as they process what just took place. The hurt. The anguish of wondering “Why?”

I chose Good Night, Moon. It is such a rhythmic lullaby. Maybe I needed it more than they did. “Just read, Vonda,” I had to keep telling my horrified mind. “They are just two of many kids in crisis. Smile. Be sunshiny. Give them that moment of escapism. This is why you do what you do. Read. Breathe. Do NOT cry!”

Truthfully, they were not all that much in me or my book about “bowls full of mush.”  They sat and listened for a sentence or two, then found something to climb on or turned their attention to the playroom television. I read to the end, anyway, then found books for each of them to keep.

I said good night to the nurses – such heroes in my estimation – and pushed the button for the elevator. “Keep breathing, Vonda. Not yet. Not here.”

I had a chat with God on the way home that night. I asked him what I am supposed to do about gravely ill children. Homeless children. Children with no home OR parents. Innocent children whose world consists of pain, fear, and uncertainty. What??

WHAT.CAN.I.DO??

I’d like to say I looked over at the passenger seat and he was suddenly there and we had a nice face-to-face about it. No. Not even any handwriting on the wall. Nothing but me and my tears and my questions.

I cannot save the world. I know that. I cannot change the hard realities of the children I meet.

But I CAN bring a moment of reprieve from those realities. Just a moment. Like a quickly burning sparkler on the humid July 4^th night. Maybe it’s enough. It has to be enough. It’s all I have to give.

I learned later that many of my amazing, beautiful, selfless volunteers read to those children over the course of the next week. We all wept and wondered together what brought them to such a place in life and what their fate would be. We’ll never know, I suppose. All I can do is ask God to go with them and bring love, hope, and joy into their little lives. He sees them. He cares. I know he does.

As Project Armchair celebrates it first birthday, I think back to the many children I have read to. Their sweet faces are seared into my memory. My heart. My very soul. There have also been parents and siblings that seemed to appreciate the read-aloud as much as the intended recipient.

I think of the wonderful people I have met at the homeless shelter. The stories told me by homeless families of their journey and the circumstances that landed them in a shelter. Many of those stories are far different from the stereotypes most of us would brand people in that dynamic with.

And finally, I smile when I think of the golden-hearted teachers that have walked alongside me and said, “I love kids, too. Let me help carry the burden.” I am humbled by their sacrifice.

I look with anticipation to the second year of service to children in crisis. I am excited to see what else God has in store for us. I think it will be a good year.

Happy birthday, Project Armchair!

Desirea's Story

http://www.kfyrtv.com/content/news/Mandan-teacher--387470071.html

We were scrambling last minute for a patient.  Project Armchair had been approached by KFYR news out of Bismarck to do a feature story on our volunteer services at Sanford hospital.  The interviews were finished and now the reporter, Max Grossfeld, wanted video of me reading to a patient and hoped to interview the young patient as well.

How could it be there were no patients available? I had been on the pediatric floor in my role as reading volunteer numerous times and (unfortunately), patients were usually in abundant supply.  Why today, of all days?  There was nothing to do but end the interview, pack up, and come back another day.

The following week I arrived on the sixth floor to read, as I had done every Monday during my summer break as a public school reading interventionist. I walked into a hospital room and recognized the name on the door.  Desirea Shelton was back in the hospital, and one of my favorite patients. Her smile lit up even the gloomiest hospital room and her laugh was infectious (pardon the hospital humor). Best of all… BEST OF ALL, Desi loves books as much as I do.  She wants to talk about them, read along with me, and predict what will happen on the next page. She is a teacher’s (and reading volunteer’s) dream.

I sighed as I pushed open the door, because seeing my favorite patient meant that she was in the hospital AGAIN. Poor lamb. Her wide grin chased away all despondent thoughts and pretty soon we were reading and discussing and predicting, just like always. When I was done with all patients that day, I contacted the appropriate parties and said, “If you can get here tomorrow, I’ve got the perfect patient.” And just like that, Desirea became a TV star.  Well, to those of us that adore her, anyway.

After the interview, I stood and chatted with her mother for awhile, which is rare for me while I am in my role as volunteer.  I make a point of NOT asking personal questions or being inordinately interested in their personal lives.  I don’t ask about diagnosis, prognosis, or treatments. There are privacy directives and laws, but beyond that, I have found that parents and patients alike are weary with discussing the illness. There are tired of thinking about. Tired of living it. Tired of being consumed with it. It’s a break from all of that that I hope to provide, for the brief moment I intersect in their lives. I am there to read and to brighten a day.  That is all.  

For reasons I cannot explain, God has granted me the ability to walk into the rooms of gravely ill children – children with tubes and drainages and chemo drips – things that should break my mother’s heart – and yet these realities do not prevent me from coming back.  They should.  It is awful and utterly heart rending.  And yet, I keep coming back.  I cannot explain it. 

But as Desi’s mother began to share her story, I stood transfixed, and the carefully compartmentalized sections of my heart began to wobble and melt, like sandcastles during high tide. Desi is chronically ill, that much I had surmised from her frequent hospital stays.  But the breadth and scope of her illness was more than I could take in.

As the details spilled from Kristina, my heart ached for this sweet child and her family.  They have been living a medical nightmare for seven years. It blindsided them from Desi’s first days of life.

I asked Desi’s mom if I could share a tiny portion of Desirea’s story on social media, as a backdrop to the news story. “Oh, please do!” she cried.  “I want to raise awareness in any way I can. This is such a rare disease that it needs more research and awareness.” Kristina paused for a moment and searched for words. “It needs a cure,” she ended with soft hope.

And so, Kristina began to write down details of their journey.  Once she started writing, her pen took on a life of its own and seemed unable to stop. Fourteen pages later, she laid down her pen, emotionally spent and out of things to say.  Kristina told me later that it was the first time she had taken the time to record the crooked path of their medical saga.  I got the feeling it was therapeutic, somehow.

The next few paragraphs are a summation of that exercise.  With Kristina’s full permission and hearty support, I share their story.

Desi’s mom first noticed something was wrong with her precious newborn, when Desi was just one week old.  She developed severe cradle cap, and her hands and feet were scaly.  At three months of age, her hands and feet were so dry that they would crack open and bleed. Thus began this single mom’s relentless search for answers. 

At two years of age, Desirea was hospitalized for the first time with breathing problems.  There would be six more hospital stays during that year, for either lung or skin infections.  Kristina was getting desperate.  What was wrong with her baby girl? Why could no one offer any answers?

By the time Desi was three, she had suffered fourteen individual cases of pneumonia and numerous skin infections.  In July of her fourth year, Desi was diagnosed with her first case of MRSA in her left leg and right wrist.  The usual rounds of antibiotics were not helping this time. The local hospital realized they could do nothing for her and transferred her to a larger hospital.  Kristina waited, alone and terrified, while Desi underwent surgery to drain the infection.  MRSA would become a constant in their lives.

It wasn’t until 2014 that a new doctor began to view Desirea’s repeated seeming disjointed symptoms as a larger, unsolved puzzle. As the ICU doctor dug into Desirea’s medical history, he found a shockingly lengthy list of recurring symptoms:

1.    Ichthyosis (genetic skin disorders)

2.    Scoliosis

3.    Sever Anxiety

4.    Atopic Dermatitis

5.    Left Valgus leg deformation with ¾ in. differential

6.    Knock knees

7.    Asthma

8.    Severe perleche (cracked corners of the mouth)

9.    High Ige levels

10.ODD

11.OCD

12.Functional disorder of the polymoronclear neutrophilis

13.Severe allergies

(If I misspelled any of these terms, please forgive me.  These words are like a foreign language to me).

Finally, someone in the medical world was determined to put the puzzle pieces together and search for answers. Many diseases were suggested, but blood work finally confirmed Low Ige Igg with Primary Immune Differcy. 

Job’s Syndrome.

I know who Job is.  At least, I know of his legend. Job was a biblical character who was put to the ultimate test of faith.  In a conversation between God and Satan, God held Job up as a man of true integrity and righteousness.  Satan scoffs at this.  Everyone has their breaking point, and Job, however righteous, has his, too. Satan kills Jobs children, takes away all of his vast wealth, covers Job in excruciating boils, and in a certain twist of irony, leaves intact Job’s nagging, unhappy wife (book of Job, Holy Bible).

Little five-year-old Desirea was similarly suffering on the scale of biblical proportions.  There is no “normal” for her. A trip to the mall might bring on an asthma attack severe enough to hospitalize her. She must nightly have her hands and feet slathered in cream and wrapped in gauze. She missed half of her entire year of Kindergarten.  The school environment can reek havoc on her fragile immune system.  She can’t have friends over to her house because of the risk of infection.  Can’t ride a bike without inducing an asthma attack.  Her scaling, raw skin invites stares and shunning by other children and nervous adults.  Her lungs are failing.  A lung transplant looms in her future. 

Kristina recently added me to a closed-group Facebook page with frequent updates on Desirea’s status. I watched all last weekend as the statuses came one on top of another. MRI’s and port troubles and more MRSA.  This time in her hip and coursing through her veins.  I prayed for her as I mowed my lawn, worked on fall school activities, and cleaned the garage.  By Sunday morning I couldn’t stay away any longer. I skipped Sunday School and headed to the hospital.  

That smile… oh, that smile.  It was there, just like always.  Desi’s skin is so sensitive, it’s easier for her to go without clothing. She was putting a puzzle together and fretting that six pieces were missing.  She was bored, hungry, and ready for company.  I sent her mom out to take a break and stretch her legs and then I read not one, but two books to this giggling charmer.  She is a prisoner in this room.  She cannot step outside her hospital door.  Can’t sit in the brightly colored play room.  Can’t venture outside to feel the warm sun on her face.  She is a prisoner in both room and weary body.

I read a pop-up book to her about a garden (thank you, nameless donor, that chose this beautiful book!).  Desirea sighs and says she wishes she could go outside and play.  “Close your eyes, Desi,” I say.  She obliges. “Can you feel it?” I say. “Feel what?” she asks with her eyes still closed.  “The sun, Desi.  Can you feel the sun on your face?  Can you hear the birds singing and feel the butterfly that just landed on your cheek?”  There’s that smile again.  She’s so gloriously irrepressible.  “When you get sick of this room, open your book and pretend you are outside with the sun and the birds and the butterflies.”

I am quiet on the ride home from Bismarck afterward.  I read Kristina’s handwritten journal and am awash in conflicting emotions.  This mother’s pain is splashed across page after page in raw honesty.  I am heartbroken that any child must suffer so. Filled with empathy and respect for all mothers that face each day with courage.  And am selfishly grateful that my children have been so remarkably healthy.

The biblical Job finds vindication at the end of the story.  God heals Job’s body, restores his wealth, and even blesses him with more children.  I wish these things for my little, sunny, friend as well.  A healthy, restored body, and a long life filled with every imaginable blessing. 

So there it is.  We know how Job’s story ended.  Desirea’s is yet unfolding.  When you read the last word of her story, please say a prayer that this child - this brave, smart, irrepressible, suffering child will enjoy her own “happily ever after.”

She deserves no less.

*The occurrence of Job’s syndrome is rare – literally one in a million.  

**In 2008, only 250 cases worldwide had been diagnosed.

Sources:

*https://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/autosomal-dominant-hyper-ige-syndrome

**http://www.news-medical.net/news/2008/03/18/36393.aspx

It's Complicated

As is true of most ideas, this one blindsided me out of nowhere.  A simple statement uttered at the end of a sigh by a shelter administrator. Nothing more. But as the days afterward rolled by, I had that familiar gut feeling that this idea was glued to my side like a hungry toddler, begging for attention.

An inquiry here.  A phone call there. A bit of research. And the homeless shelter Parent Forums were born.

We held them once a week, for three weeks.  The parents did not really know what to expect, and neither did I.  Conceptualizing something is one thing.  Execution is another. Homeless shelter attendance is lower in the mild months, and so was class attendance.  But that was just as well.  Fewer people means greater interaction and a much less formal atmosphere. And at least one of us enjoyed them very much (me).

The first week we looked at the research on why reading aloud daily to our children is crucial. The second week we discussed, and practiced, cognitive strategies, before, during, and after reading aloud. And last week…

Last week was the icing on the cake.

I came across an article yesterday from The Atlantic, called, “Where Books Are All but Nonexistent,” by Alia Wong (July 14, 2016).  The accompanying picture drew me in initially (living trees with built in bookshelves is GENIUS!).  But the article enveloped me. Much of the research was familiar to me. High-poverty children will have been exposed to thirteen million words by age four, versus the forty-five million in a middle-class, white collar home.  As a reading teacher I know these numbers are staggering and make all the difference in school readiness, or lack thereof.

The article then went on to discuss the findings of Susan Neuman (2014), who coined the term, “book deserts,” meaning lack of book availability for high-poverty children.  These families often do not have access to the internet and cannot afford to purchase books.  What about public libraries, you may be asking your computer screen? Good question.  This is where it gets complicated.

And this is where this article and this blog intersect. 

Back to the “icing on the cake” parent forum…

I had arranged for my parents to go on a “field trip” with me to the local library for our last class. The very helpful, kind, and generally groovy librarian had agreed ahead of time to give us a short tour, then discuss how to access the digital card catalog, how to help their children find books of interest to them (their reading territories), and most importantly, to feel comfortable asking the librarians for assistance.

Obstacle #1presented itself immediately.  My parents had no source of transportation to get to the library. Because I was not shuttling young children, I secured permission from the shelter to pick them up the adults in Goldie, my trusty, aging van. 

But what about when the parents want to take their children to the library?  One of the mothers has several young children that require strollers, and the closest city bus stop is many blocks away. The shelter does it’s best just to stay open and provide meals and basic necessities.  It cannot afford a large vehicle (and all of the required car/booster seats to go with it).  Transportation in a smaller community without widespread public options can be a huge obstacle.

The tour was great – I learned a few things myself. But I could sense the wheels falling off the proverbial bus as the librarian launched into her description of the digital card catalog.  Obstacle #2 was now doing a stare-off with me.  If you don’t own a computer or don’t have access to one, it can be a very intimidating prospect to go experimenting on one, let alone to try to find information.  Even if you have access, but possess rusty computer skills, the obstacle may feel insurmountable. Uncertainty was written all over faces.  Note to Self: Computer classes at the shelter would be enormously beneficial.

And now Obstacle #3 reared its head.  On the ride over, I had asked one of the mothers if she already had a library card.  There was a short pause. “No, I don’t.  I asked about it once but you need an ID to apply for a card.” Another pause. “I don’t have an ID, so I can’t get a card.” No car means no license means no ID means no library card. I am aware that there are other legitimate forms of identification. But what if you don’t know where your birth certificate is?  Don’t know how to get a copy? Or don’t own a passport? (good grief, that word doesn’t even belong in this conversation).  Just think how often you and I use our driver’s license as proof of identification.  Stop reading this paragraph and think about that for a moment. Trust me. It’s a LOT.

As the tour came to its conclusion, I pulled the groovy librarian to one side and whispered quietly, “Do they really have to have an ID to get a card?” Then held my breath as I silently willed her to provide the answer I hoped to hear.  She glanced over at my beautiful group of parents who love their children every bit as much as you and I and want to do right by them.  “We can make an exception” she whispered back. I felt incredibly victorious.

I cannot describe the look of pure joy on that mother’s face as she accepted her glossy, new library card.  I felt like crying. To be handed the keys to a building filled with books and quiet, cozy corners.  Is there anything better?  I think not.

I ended the evening with this final reminder.  Wherever they are, whatever their circumstances, there is sure to be a public library nearby. My friends at the shelter may not be able to afford to buy many books for their children, but they can hand them the world on the pages of a book. They can come a little closer to that forty-five million words mark.

The transportation is still an obstacle, but when school starts again, the Book Mobile will make a stop much closer to the shelter, within an easily walkable distance. Computer skills can be taught. And kind-hearted librarians can empower parents to open up the world of literacy to their children.

Book Desert?  It’s a tiny step, but it’s a start…

Is it Worth it?

I have been mentally casting about for the perfect dissertation topic for the last year, or so.  Getting a little frantic about it for the last three months.  I need to get that baby nailed down, and SOON. I met with my UND adviser a couple of weeks ago and tried to define with her where my heart and passions lie. It was a bit like launching into the ocean in a dingy and thinking I can paddle my way to a distant continent.  So many topics.  So many things I’d like to know.  So many potential topics. She told me what I already knew. I have to narrow my focus. What is it I really want to know? I am adrift. The only thing I am certain of is my desire to center my research around Project Armchair.  Does what we do make a measurable difference in the lives of children in crisis?

One of the best parts of my summer thus far, has been teaching a parenting class at the homeless shelter on the value of reading aloud to children. The role it plays in language acquisition and vocabulary storehouses. The human contact between parent and child that accelerates brain development.  The conversations about reading that build neural pathways in developing brains. The cognitive strategies good readers employ in order to better comprehend texts.

Last night was the second class in a three-part series. As I dismissed my parenting group, I asked one of the mothers if I could talk to her for a moment.  “I have a question for you,” I began.  I then proceeded to stumble through seven or ten sentences of disjointed and illogical rabbit trails as I (vainly) attempted to pose my question to her, much like my conversation with my adviser. 

“What do you need?”  I began.  She looked at me like I must surely be outside my mind. I could almost hear her thoughts. What do I need?  Lady, I’m living with my children in a homeless shelter.  I have nothing.  I need everything.  How much time do you have and where do I begin??  She didn’t verbalize those things, but I surmise something along those lines passed through her mind, however fleetingly.

Good grief.  She must wonder how I ever managed to make it out of high school.

I backed up and made another run at it.  “Let me ask it another way,” I offered.  “I have two primary goals for Project Armchair.  One is to boost literacy.  I am a reading teacher.  I want to help kids become better readers. But beyond than that, and much bigger than that, I hope to give the children I read to a brief escape from their circumstances. That for the moments we are lost in the pages of a book, they forget that they are in a hospital or living in a homeless shelter.” I paused for a breath.  “From your perspective as a mother, is that a worthy goal?”

Her answer was instantaneous. 

“Yes, it IS worth it. When you come to read to my children, they are so excited! They come back to our room afterward and they want to talk about the book you gave them and they want to look at it some more.  Then after we’ve looked at it and talked about it, they tuck the book away in their “secret” hiding place, under their mattress.” She stopped and her animated face softened. “It is very much worth it.” Her words were heavy with meaning and conviction and uttered with soft intensity.

I felt the sting of tears threatening my eyes. A Ferris wheel of thoughts and emotions raced through my brain. In those few concise thoughts, she had provided me with several viable possibilities. She had also thanked me in a manner I will never forget.  It came from a heart that has known trial and difficulty, but recognized that there is hope and light.  In that moment, it all did feel worth it. She had given me a great gift.

Back to my question.  Do we make a measurable difference?  We make a difference. I believe it with every pump of my middle-aged heart.  I see it in the way the eyes of children light up when I walk in the door. I feel it in the grateful smiles of the parents. I sense it in the words of the pediatric floor nurses and administrators as they hand me lists of room numbers.

We DO make a difference.

Is it measurable?  Perhaps not. And perhaps scientific data does not matter.  Not in the grand scheme of things. A child who treasures a book so much they carefully hide it for later… that matters. Teachers who willingly and joyfully give of their precious few free hours to read to children in crisis… that matters as well.

I will close with this short anecdote. After my conversation at the homeless shelter last night, I met a light-up-the-room kind of teacher who needed to be observed as she read to children (a requirement of Project Armchair) before being allowed to read solo.  I sat in the pediatric floor play room and watched her read to three siblings, one of them with IV’s running into her body. I watched the magic happen as a third-party observer.  I witnessed shy children, unwilling to join her at the table initially, become active participants. I watched the smiles and then the giggles erupt from tired and bored faces. I glanced at their weary father who seemed delighted that his children were being entertained and transported from the stress of a hospital to the pages of an engaging book. Grateful that strangers care.

I have seen it countless times, but it never grows old.

Is it worth it?  I believe it is.

Nighttime at the Hospital

I was twelve.  I had shredded the meniscus in my right knee doing my stellar junior high cheerleader moves.  Arthroscopic surgery was in the near future, but would not arrive in time for me.  I needed surgery.  The old-fashioned, kind-of-a-big-deal kind.  In those days it meant five nights in the hospital.  A night before to prep for the big day, and four to recuperate enough to go home.

I was twelve.  I should have been old enough to be fine on my own.  I should have been.  But I’ll admit it.  I did not like the hospital at night.  The daytime was fine.  There were nurses in and out, and hovering parents, intercom announcements, and meals like clockwork. 

But the night…

The nights were quiet, and parents were shooed out to go home and “let her rest.”  The lights were dimmed and nurses clung to their station.  Even at twelve years of age, I was lonely, in pain, and a wee bit afraid.  Even at twelve.

Imagine for a moment what very young children in the hospital experience in the dim hours of the night.  It is dark, too quiet, and hours to drag on allowing them to focus on their discomfort.  At least hospitals have made great leaps in terms of parents allowed to stay with their child, and comfortable, inviting rooms.  The hospital in which I am a volunteer has done an amazing job of creating an atmosphere of ease and comfort. 

But I think nights must still be challenging, regardless. 

I had an idea a few weeks ago that I think might help in this very area.  Next week, I will fill my bag with “Goodnight, Moon” (Brown), “Guess How Much I Love You” (McBratney), and “It’s Time to Sleep, My Love” (Tillman), along with other bedtime classics, and head to the hospital late in the evening to read to young patients.  It is my hope that the magic of those and other lyrical classics will soothe fevered brows, and make eyelids heavy.  My wonderful volunteers are onboard, too.  I am hoping we can get in to read to sleepy children several nights a week this summer, spread between volunteers.  I am hoping it will help ease wee ones into those nighttime hours.

Here’s where you can help.  I am hoping some who read this will feel compelled to donate books or money to purchase some classic bedtime stories.  I just found and ordered some of the aforementioned books for very reasonable prices.  If you would like to be a part of this new venture, please consider helping us grow our “bedtime story inventory.” Please see the "Wish List" tab for titles (scroll to the bottom of the page.)  Or send us your favorite.

You have blessed many children already with your wonderful donations.  I know you will help us again, and make nights just a little easier for precious tots. 

Blessings,

Vonda

Please send checks/books to:

Project Armchair

PO Box 826

Mandan, ND  58554

The Atlanta Airport and Project Armchair

I spent this weekend in Atlanta attending a really good reading conference, as conferences go. Sometimes you spend two days wondering why in the world you missed work to attend such a time-waster.  This was not the case.  I loved it.  And Atlanta in May is something to behold.  Eighty degrees and flowering Magnolia trees do the heart good.  Especially when you hear that it’s snowing at home. 

Yesterday morning I didn’t oversleep, got myself dressed and packed in good time, checked out of the hotel, and found a taxi to shuttle me to the airport.  I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself for being so cosmopolitan and efficient. 

I thought the check-in desks were doing a brisk business for 6:15 a.m. (“busy airport” back home means the lady in front of you forgot that she packed her rheumatism medicine in her check-in bag and needs to fish it out, thus holding up the line, such as it is).  I checked my suitcase and headed to the security checkpoint.  As I read the signs for security, more and more people began to swirl around me, like minnows in a tide pool.  Generally, if I don’t know where I am going, I just start following the masses, assuming SOMEONE in the group knows.  I adopted this survival skill once again.  The pack and I were stopped by personnel before long and told that the security station we were seeking was not usable.  We were told to head the other direction and try another one.  The pack and I dutifully obeyed and wandered until we sighted a line ahead.  A very, very long line.  Did I mention it was long?? And growing exponentially by the minute. 

The line soon snaked around the first three baggage claim carousels.  Then carousels #’s four and five.  Soon the entire baggage claim area was flooded with frustrated, disbelieving passengers.  We were so far away from the actual security check-point that it was not even visible.  I may or may not have overheard a few expletives.  The tension in the air was palpable.  Tempers were sizzling.  The poor business man behind me conveyed that his flight was boarding at that very moment.  It left before he even got through security. 

In the chaos of that scene, I suddenly heard the soft strains of… stringed music?  I set my carry-on down for a moment to give my screaming shoulder a rest and craned my neck to try to detect the source.  Not far behind me, there in the corner, stood a young woman.  She couldn’t have been more than twenty-something.  She had a music stand in front of her and was playing classical music, with eyes closed, and a soft smile on her face.  She seemed sweetly oblivious to the maelstrom around her. 

There was something so charming and peaceful and utterly out of place about the scene.  I have grown to expect Hip Hop blaring out of somebody’s earbuds.  Classical music, not so much.  As I stood trying to watch her, even as the lines lunged and lurched forward, I felt the tension around me dissipate.  Saw it melt from the faces around me.  Sensed it roll off my own shoulders.  That sweet, young angel had done something good.  It felt a little magical.

I couldn’t help but connect that scene to the children my team and I read to every week.  It has always been my hope, my dream, my goal, that we would have the same therapeutic effect on those precious, confused, suffering, frustrated children.  That they would crane their necks searching for the source of magic, and find one of us; there… in the corner.  A joy on our face that infuses them with hope.  A hope that brings serenity in the midst of cacophony.

Thank you, Airport Angel, for brightening my day.  I hope we do the same for others.

I found a story about her in a Google search - her name is Jennifer Warrilaw