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 4th 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!
