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!