tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22800355830590176192024-03-21T12:03:22.028-07:00Project Armchairvldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-90280824442535030052023-02-13T15:48:00.002-08:002023-02-13T15:58:15.807-08:00The Forgotten Children<p style="text-align: center;">
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrqzM5m4IPOXZ6fuCmu3tN8oFdzvH5Nlfcn-ayJUKrVaZCk-HXe3sNi9L3euRD2Yp7srHLd_gb8_JUSbME6VExio0461Kca2OaQtMpnEm2udnfLVqfJeWAwwrPGkQG3mBOolQLuzAfWDgPHhIrnsTmHB9mPs_MgLjOqCRbB83JlS1a_bMt-ppvJz5R/s700/one+room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="700" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrqzM5m4IPOXZ6fuCmu3tN8oFdzvH5Nlfcn-ayJUKrVaZCk-HXe3sNi9L3euRD2Yp7srHLd_gb8_JUSbME6VExio0461Kca2OaQtMpnEm2udnfLVqfJeWAwwrPGkQG3mBOolQLuzAfWDgPHhIrnsTmHB9mPs_MgLjOqCRbB83JlS1a_bMt-ppvJz5R/s320/one+room.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>“They [society] always
forget about the children.” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Rebecca Deierling </span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">(</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Principal
for Adult Services, </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">ND Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation )</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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. </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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. </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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. </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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.</i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>He misses his dad so much! </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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.’ </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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.</i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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. </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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!’ </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i>This is where you can participate</i></b>. 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 <a href="https://www.projectarmchair.org/">click here</a> 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!</span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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. </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">References</span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Smith, N. (2018). <i>Children of incarcerated parents
outline</i>. North Dakota Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.</span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Murphey, D. & Cooper, M. (2015). <i>Parents behind bars:
What happens to their children?</i> Child Trends. Retrieved from: <a href="https://www.childtrends.org/publications/parents-behind-bars-what-happens-to-their-children">https://www.childtrends.org/publications/parents-behind-bars-what-happens-to-their-children</a></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://governorsfoundation.org/gelf-articles/early-literacy-connection-to-incarceration/">https://governorsfoundation.org/gelf-articles/early-literacy-connection-to-incarceration/</a></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-61142856805731178702022-08-29T19:28:00.000-07:002022-08-29T19:28:03.634-07:00The Tarnished Princess<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">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.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">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. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Ah. No wonder she
looked unhappy. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">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. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">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. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">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. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">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. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">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. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">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. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Whatever the
decisions and ultimate consequences of their parents, none of the
responsibility lies with the children. They are the innocents. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Psalm 82:3-4
thrums through my head like an incessant beat. “</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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 <i>transmutive compassion</i>. Acts of compassion
that literally change, not just the receiver, but the giver as well. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It takes
so shockingly little to stir the soul of a child in crisis. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There are tarnished
princesses everywhere. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-53673444593540828532022-04-01T14:15:00.006-07:002022-04-02T06:21:17.673-07:00The Giver<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98bCISRkmZVI81kw1KEYQzr4B7EDWtRw22lnkWDMfngbbdQdcscmyuemk5uIKvBWg3ehYEkDbXLTMZ-YqjyTZUmt2GTS-2Zcxu-CXD1J9fpPMhDC_YJeXyuLPBepTePTPKaoUjCdOrQ-QXuG98keaMqqrFv5D2NHdDSYGzg8kfv4meBuripoexQu5/s1200/npr.brightspotcdn.com.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98bCISRkmZVI81kw1KEYQzr4B7EDWtRw22lnkWDMfngbbdQdcscmyuemk5uIKvBWg3ehYEkDbXLTMZ-YqjyTZUmt2GTS-2Zcxu-CXD1J9fpPMhDC_YJeXyuLPBepTePTPKaoUjCdOrQ-QXuG98keaMqqrFv5D2NHdDSYGzg8kfv4meBuripoexQu5/s320/npr.brightspotcdn.com.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><style>@font-face
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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! </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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!
</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hear you, sweet child. I like you, too, and I’ll be back
soon. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-19470435115421766982022-02-16T16:08:00.002-08:002022-02-16T16:16:06.868-08:00Waiting For the Other Side<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJOONsBLeZbCbOy0cHuKTTj5uyYSwBh1ktaAc8uHz7kv4iy4LE0JPOHtJfRvmNGyanPPNGeYu5XCx4WtdyCo_4j2zbCX14ENA7FhRgo4FRGAFgpuF_M6QkmePi5kb5h3zNPMI3_p7eE8jU7ZeENzkuopoTNAiBTqDbsV2AD9KMa6FVzpU0bvWHqE57=s461" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="461" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJOONsBLeZbCbOy0cHuKTTj5uyYSwBh1ktaAc8uHz7kv4iy4LE0JPOHtJfRvmNGyanPPNGeYu5XCx4WtdyCo_4j2zbCX14ENA7FhRgo4FRGAFgpuF_M6QkmePi5kb5h3zNPMI3_p7eE8jU7ZeENzkuopoTNAiBTqDbsV2AD9KMa6FVzpU0bvWHqE57=s320" width="320" /></a>
</div><p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;">Two years. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This work matters, and I have missed it. Perhaps
the long, dark night of abstinence has helped me realize just how much. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.
</span></p>vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-63716290974437337532021-12-29T11:03:00.002-08:002021-12-29T11:03:45.694-08:00Home Behind Bars<p style="text-align: center;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHFrpxkBq75lFiz0HA17RwyZ3m0ZkWzUT1cq4vXQwC6Vkk5fPmeM8Wd408ZEDVbjCTSVlsIqlTmq5TeRMgprtAbbL3gzjPiq3lJaGATanj6_NaF7kdGXNboL5Iyzt_hJqMlsIMLZOjzClDlQyQqqiuCooCXDiwz0bF1UJ84lDOQhHzYzrE1gyyS3M3=s6000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHFrpxkBq75lFiz0HA17RwyZ3m0ZkWzUT1cq4vXQwC6Vkk5fPmeM8Wd408ZEDVbjCTSVlsIqlTmq5TeRMgprtAbbL3gzjPiq3lJaGATanj6_NaF7kdGXNboL5Iyzt_hJqMlsIMLZOjzClDlQyQqqiuCooCXDiwz0bF1UJ84lDOQhHzYzrE1gyyS3M3=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The finished product<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">I stood in
front of the heavy steel door and waited for it to open by an unseen hand.
Stepping through the doorway, it jarred my senses to hear the clang of the door
shut immediately behind me as metal hit metal and locks clicked into place.
Following the cinderblock hallway, I passed other sealed steel doors and was
informed by the prison employee guiding my tour that they led to the heart of
the prison. I couldn’t help but wonder about the stories, hopes, and heartaches
held within the labyrinth of those doors and walls. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">We
followed the maze to our destination, the visitation room of the North Dakota
State Penitentiary. This was my third visit to this room, the first being over
a year prior. The first time I laid eyes on this spacious room, it was unquestionably
drab. Cinder blocks were painted in neutral shades. Chairs and small low tables
dotted the room. A cupboard held tattered games and puzzles. The only splash of
color was at the far end where a few bright paintings were hung on the wall
over an assortment of toys. The opposite wall contained the guard station and
the only wall space free of doors or equipment. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">On that
visit I was accompanied by fellow board members, treasurer Jill Vollmers, vice-president
Jerri Carlson, and secretary Annette Kost. We had been invited to this tour by
the Children of Incarcerated Parents committee. It was their hope that Project
Armchair could partner with them to help breathe life into the drab room and
turn it into an inviting space that children wanted to visit. Research shows
that when incarcerated parents have frequent visits with their children,
recidivism rates decline. The COIP also hoped to infuse literacy opportunities
into the children’s visits. Enter, Project Armchair.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">A vision
for the space slowly began to take form and shape. The foundational and obvious
premise was that incarcerated parents do not want to be incarcerated. They want
to be home with their families. What if we created a space that reflected those
hopes and dreams? Working in partnership with Art from the Heart and an
artistic inmate, we brainstormed about what the space could look like and if we
could create a living room scene using only paint.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">Believing
that the sterile plastic chairs provided by the prison would be
counterintuitive to a cozy space, I approached the shop teacher at Mandan
Public Schools, Eldon Kroh. When he heard the vision, he quickly pointed out
three students who were talented and eager for more woodworking challenges.
Lucas Fleck, Ian Eilers, and Riley Engelstad immediately embraced the vision
and got to work on a freestanding bookshelf and a two-person bench that had the
shape and size of a small sofa or loveseat. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">Then COVID
hit the penitentiary and hit it hard. Visitors were prohibited from entering
the penitentiary in an effort to slow the contagion. We waited for months for
family visitations to resume, but in the meantime, the artists were busy at
work. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">On this,
my third visit with Project Armchair board member, Jane Morrow, along with
Riley and Ian, we were finally allowed to view the finished product. Stepping
through the same metal door as I had on previous visits and into the visitation
room, I was floored by the beautiful mural. Rich with color, details, and
warmth, I was amazed that this was accomplished with nothing more than paint.
The bench built by the graduated seniors was located invitingly by the
“fireplace” and the shelf securely attached to the wall next to it. The books
donated by individuals through Barnes and Noble filled the shelves, ready to be
enjoyed by fathers and their children. It was absolutely perfect. The books are
intended to go home with the children after their visit so that they can relive
a pleasurable experience with their fathers over and over. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">Perhaps as
fulfilling as the finished product, was the wide collaboration of individuals
and organizations to make the project reality. All working for a common cause
with the end goals of strengthening family bonds in the face of forced
separation, building foundational literacy skills, and where possible,
reuniting families in their homes through lowered recidivism. I believe that
this is one of the most important and potentially impactful efforts that Project
Armchair has undertaken. I hope it will be so. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;">If you
would like to donate books to keep the visitation room shelves filled, please
visit the “donations” tab on the main page of this blog for more information or
contact us through our Facebook page. All books must be new.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style",serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-m0w8c9HXdeNPgeuxhtm-QWdcssK0r770vcdshdZ4Fm8-Y6wXOhf2u1D9WBFme-iFs2aHUVPHGP3OBwBWu5cYe7TPgCsb2U1TouMXmJXAlLHK6yUhJzMhwn6Xq28eVNIM19Q78sy9B9kcHWPSnVqa32G1_9HVQJ4A1nVwm0ukg1pQNH6xgIiW2yav=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-m0w8c9HXdeNPgeuxhtm-QWdcssK0r770vcdshdZ4Fm8-Y6wXOhf2u1D9WBFme-iFs2aHUVPHGP3OBwBWu5cYe7TPgCsb2U1TouMXmJXAlLHK6yUhJzMhwn6Xq28eVNIM19Q78sy9B9kcHWPSnVqa32G1_9HVQJ4A1nVwm0ukg1pQNH6xgIiW2yav=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visitation room before upgrades<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGI1xln3pfpSKa_FZnzJarp--sDL5rzRyCoHhTAMTEpOGH41Rods6r7dbRfr6Gn3xkM1xehSz-napA_fiFH_zBNP3EiyEEmWX0LNafkUOaqgsocCx_W6oGBcI6m98DGfYsY9nDkpisV0--AnU5GZL6NpEld232J_0xPtn-bhcPMgKJjpO2_I2zmTn2=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGI1xln3pfpSKa_FZnzJarp--sDL5rzRyCoHhTAMTEpOGH41Rods6r7dbRfr6Gn3xkM1xehSz-napA_fiFH_zBNP3EiyEEmWX0LNafkUOaqgsocCx_W6oGBcI6m98DGfYsY9nDkpisV0--AnU5GZL6NpEld232J_0xPtn-bhcPMgKJjpO2_I2zmTn2=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "sofa" in progress<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjs40J7R1zmaZdWJV_ZVMhsSIT4eCb024XbCxzyo-gJm-sSHC6FyNuFGu-BO90fjvm1pBz1SAnOfVyM1tXeiun9PtDA7ho3qrO4mv5EvXXkaB68CnbVEN51pQjBpXVP6qkVtXkfjgunrErSdZNVnHdkRPAEdfOofQCN2fdO_KpQA5kHTsfTF4mi4-n=s2016" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1253" data-original-width="2016" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjs40J7R1zmaZdWJV_ZVMhsSIT4eCb024XbCxzyo-gJm-sSHC6FyNuFGu-BO90fjvm1pBz1SAnOfVyM1tXeiun9PtDA7ho3qrO4mv5EvXXkaB68CnbVEN51pQjBpXVP6qkVtXkfjgunrErSdZNVnHdkRPAEdfOofQCN2fdO_KpQA5kHTsfTF4mi4-n=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Project Armchair board members Jerri Carlson, Vonda Dahl, Annette Kost and Jill Vollmers<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></i></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-2994192985464195282019-09-18T18:13:00.000-07:002019-09-18T18:13:27.166-07:00Books are the Bridge
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">It had been a while
since I last read in this particular shelter. It has not been for lack of want.
This shelter is one of my all-time fave places to read. It is one of my favorite
places to be, in general. But life is a demanding taskmaster at times. A new role
in my school district. A dissertation that won’t write itself. Out-of-town
guests. Etc., etc. All have detracted from spending my time dollars in the
fashion I prefer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">A volunteer
had let me know that we were low on books at this site, and so I raided the shelves
of other sites, scrounged through the tubs of books that fill my garage, called
ahead to the manager, and headed to the shelter with an odd tingle of
excitement. It always feels a little like the scene from the old Cheers show
when Norm walks in off the street. These kids know my name and they have my
heart. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">From the
moment I step into the room where they congregate, I am surrounded by chatting
voices who seem unaware and unconcerned about my absence, swarming bodies who
have no awareness of personal space needs, little girls that want to touch my
jewelry and stare at my shoes, and hungry eyes that are eager to peruse the
books I have with me. Every time I step into this place, it has the feel of
Christmas morning. The eager joy of anticipation. The smiling faces. The excitement
of receiving a new item. It gets me every time and puts a little lump in my
throat. Every blasted time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">Today was no different.
Happy, chatty voices. Bodies swarming. Shy touches on my bracelets. Eyes fixed
on my book cart. I hugged and asked about school and congratulated on birthdays
celebrated. It was a hard sell today, as always, to get them to back up, give
me room to grab a lungful of oxygen, and help them one-at-a-time pick just the
right book, both to read together and for them to keep. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">I have often
wondered why they have such a difficult time waiting their turn. Even when I
ask them repeatedly to take a step away and wait their turn, they don’t. They don’t
do this in a defiant way. They are neither disrespectful nor pushy. But there
is a quiet determination to stand close. This used to bother me a little. I’m a
teacher, for crying out loud. Where are my magical classroom management skills
when I need them? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">I think I have
arrived at a few conclusions about this phenomenon. The first is that they don’t
want to hear just one story. They want to hear them <i>all </i>read aloud. Why
eat just one fat green grape when there is a whole bowl in front of you? The
second reason I believe may explain this mystery is their need to guard their
precious chosen book. They have already eyed the one that they want. When new
items are such a rare and precious commodity in an impoverished child’s life,
they will treasure, cherish, guard, and fight for it. To walk away from it,
even for a moment, might mean someone else will claim it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">I have come to
be less insistent about having them step away until their turn. For this
one afternoon every week or two, I can help grant these simple wishes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">Today I faithfully
read with each child, sometimes more than one book. We looked at the
illustrations, made predictions, laughed at funny parts, and shared reading responsibilities
where children could decode words within their skill level.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">The last
precious lamb ran away with their coveted book and I stood to pack my things
and head home after a long day at work. As I bent down, I heard a deep voice say
my name and I looked up. A young teenage boy was staring at me and expectantly
waiting for me to respond. I smiled and greeted him by name. He smiled back and
said words I never thought that I would hear from him. “Mrs. Dahl, do you have
an origami book?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">It took my
brain a moment to process what had just occurred. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">This boy has
struggled. Home is hard and chaotic. Food is often scarce. Nurturing even more
scarce. The local law enforcement knows his name. Survival is his norm. He has
paid me no attention on all of my previous visits. Never seemed interested in
me or my bag of books. Always distant. Coolly detached. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">Suddenly my
brain was screaming at me. “Do you know what just happened, Vonda?? He asked
for a book. A SPECIFIC book. HE WANTS A BOOK!! If I could have willed my
fifty-seven-year-old body to do a cartwheel, I would have done one on the spot.
Adrenaline and joy surged into a tidal wave of understanding and happiness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">I forced
myself into a more appropriate response and grinned at him. “I will find an
origami book.” He gave me a half-smile and with eyes never leaving my face, quietly
said, “Thanks, Mrs. Dahl.” And I knew that he believed me. This kid who has
known more disappointment than any human should. He believed me. He believed
that I would keep my promise. Books built a bridge between us. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Big Caslon Medium";">So, I will
close here and head on over to Amazon to put an origami book or two in my shopping
cart. I cannot wait to go back to the shelter and hand him a bridge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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</style>vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-29700743529999078952019-02-21T20:37:00.005-08:002019-02-21T20:37:57.404-08:00Boys and Books
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have been running to catch up with my own life for what
seems like a very long time. Just ask my husband. My life has been
exceptionally chaotic lately, to the point that my volunteer hours as a Project
Armchair reader have suffered. And, oh how I have missed it. Nothing feels
quite right when I don’t have time to do the thing I love best. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I pulled into the parking lot of a local homeless shelter
yesterday and smiled. Finally! I was armed with a wide array of
upper-elementary books. Books the older boys of the after-school program had
requested the last time I read there. (SIDE NOTE: Shout out to their teachers
who helped them discover their own “reading territories” - books that kids are
naturally drawn to). </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was sweetly calm when I entered the large room where the
kids spend time until parents can pick them up. There were kids at long table
working on puzzles or crafts. Others lounged in comfortable chairs. The workers
looked in my direction and smiled warmly.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As familiar young faces ran to greet me, I hugged each one
that stretched out arms for affection. Others stood shyly at the perimeter and
waited. They soon directed their attention to my rolling crate. The one filled
with what they were REALLY excited about… my books. A tall kid just to my right
asked without preamble, “Do you have any <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dog
Man</i> books?” “As a matter of fact, I do,” I responded with a broad smile. “But
you’ll have to wait your turn.” His shoulders slumped a little, but he followed
me dutifully across the room.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I (vainly) attempted to have the children take turns
choosing a book and sitting beside me while I read their choice to them. But no
matter how many times I asked them to stand back and wait their turn, they
continued to crowd around the rolling treasure box of coveted books and to
search longingly for the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> perfect</i>
choice. I finally gave up shooing them off and had them sit around me on the
floor as I read every book to every child. They were like hungry little birds, absorbing
every word and feasting on the bright illustrations. They laughed at funny
pictures and nodding knowingly at familiar connections.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dog Man </i>fan eventually
had his turn to choose one of several from the series. He gratefully accepted
his treasure and disappeared. Soon another middle school-aged boy appeared and
asked for a book. Then another. Apparently, word travels fast where graphic
novels are concerned. I packed up the remaining books, put on my coat and turned
to leave. Then my heart constricted and melted into a gooey mass. Lounging on
chairs and stretched across the sofa were boys in big bodies devouring their
new books. They were aware of nothing around them. They were utterly and
contentedly lost in their new books. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This…</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This is what it is all about. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This is what the volunteers of Project Armchair have set at
their primary goal. Kids in crisis finding a moment’s reprieve from challenging
circumstances through the pages of a really good book. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In my doctoral studies, I came across the story of a young
woman who spent most of her growing up years in transience. Homeless shelters
were a natural part of her environment. She longed to escape from the cycle of
poverty and was naturally intelligent. She recounted in an interview how she
would read any and everything that she could get her hands on, including cereal
boxes, and old copies of Readers Digest. Books, she claimed, were her escape. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I witnessed echoes of that yesterday. Shelters are not beautiful
places to live. Life is hard when you are transient. I mean HARD. Fear, stress,
and chaos are the norm. If Dog Man can relieve a little of that for a few brief
moments, then I am a happy camper. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Oh, and Khadijah Williams? The girl who read cereal boxes when
there was nothing else available? She ended up at Harvard. You can read more
about this inspiring young woman here: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.jeannineamber.com/uploads/cgblog/id22/homeless_to_harvard.pdf" target="_blank">http://www.jeannineamber.com/uploads/cgblog/id22/homeless_to_harvard.pdf</a></div>
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</style>vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-26199044194516364442018-01-29T20:47:00.001-08:002018-01-29T20:47:24.430-08:00One Thousand
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">After the hellacious pace of my last doctoral
semester, life has fallen into a pleasant rhythm of schedule for me. When most
teaching days end, I head to the hospital or one of several local shelters to
read for an hour, or so. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">Today I stepped out of my car, hoisted my bag
of books over my shoulder, and stepped into the shelter. I smelled dirty diaper
right away. A good sign that I would find at least one child to read to. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I found three. Three of the darlingest cherubs
ever. Chubby cheeks and big sparkling eyes. These children are strangers to me and
yet they run immediately in my direction, without the slightest hint of shyness, raise
chubby arms in the international sign to be picked up, and lay downy heads onto
my shoulder. My heart melts instantly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I find a place to sit where all can see the
book I am about to read. I choose “Don’t Press the Button” by Bill Cotter. All
three clamber to sit beside me, or on my lap. Don’t Press the Button is
read-aloud <i>gold</i>. It’s funny and fun. By the second page, my audience is roaring
with approval and deep belly giggles. They obediently press the button upon command
and hearty laughter fills the room like shafts of warm yellow sunshine. I’m
pretty sure the one on my lap is the one with the dirty diaper, but I don’t
mind. The joy on these little faces is worth any momentary olfactory offence. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">A parent is laughing, too. I find
age-appropriate books for each child and read them aloud. He and his children
gratefully accept their books and he promises to read them all again before bed
tonight. I smile with satisfaction. This is exactly my hope each time I read to
a child. I hope that the book I hand them will be read multiple times. So many
times that the edges get tattered and the pages frayed. I hope that the
children will memorize the pictures, know the words by rote memory, and have
them spring to conscious memory at odd times in their adult lives, as the favorite
books from my own childhood do. I hope that the parent reading will grow weary
of reading them over and over, (and over and over). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I hope that the laughter and joy of a silly
book with bright colors and mischievous characters will burn indelible neural
pathways into those little, developing brains, and create a lifelong love of
literature. I hope that their vocabulary warehouses will grow and that early
reading skills will take root. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I hope that all of them will think about me in
the coming week and look forward to my visit next Monday, eager for another book.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I hope that Project Armchair can give many
books to these beautiful children over the course of the next weeks, and
possibly months. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I hope so much for these children, and those
like them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I hope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">Project Armchair hit the thousand mark at some
point around the end of 2017. One thousand children read to and one thousand
books given away. That number may not seem significant to you, but it is
staggering to me. If you packed one thousand children into a single facility,
it would seem like a whale-of-a-lot of kids. If you stacked one thousand books
on top of one another it would be an impressive structure. One thousand is a
LOT. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I could not possibly reach that many kids by
myself in two years. It is the faithful army of teacher-volunteers that show up
on the pediatric floor at the end of a long workday, or selflessly sacrifice a
Saturday morning. I am so grateful for their service. And humbled by the
donations of books that find their way into our coffers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">It all makes what happened today possible.
Precious children, cooped up in a shelter, or confined to a hospital bed, get a
moment of reprieve from trying circumstances through the magic of a really good book. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I was reminded today that it is all very much worth
it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-31825949284596131662017-08-04T10:03:00.002-07:002017-08-04T10:03:53.012-07:00Project Armchair is Growing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-q4xff6aKZhghxyzO7GsnQ4jHZGRVRdyd8q2SnEuAiH5d4HapS8YigVTQxk9zPzM3MN_9T1V9VSwGrpN_P7acwG8km5AAXoaCISrjKXPOwlQV7bzVA215k_mztjvddGgGAUo9EbvY7g/s1600/IMG_5885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-q4xff6aKZhghxyzO7GsnQ4jHZGRVRdyd8q2SnEuAiH5d4HapS8YigVTQxk9zPzM3MN_9T1V9VSwGrpN_P7acwG8km5AAXoaCISrjKXPOwlQV7bzVA215k_mztjvddGgGAUo9EbvY7g/s320/IMG_5885.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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Sometime in the late summer of 2016, I placed a call to a
friend and fellow teacher in Fargo, ND. I explained the concept of Project
Armchair; that we are certified teachers who read aloud to children in crisis,
and her asked her if she knew of any teachers that might be interested in doing
the same thing in Fargo. Coincidentally (or not), she was at that very moment
sitting in a literacy conference with a roomful of colleagues. She asked
around, and found several interested. Of that group, a wonderful and radiant
teacher, named Deb Shasky, stepped forward to be the lead person for the Fargo
area. None of this would have been possible without Deb’s passion and
enthusiasm for reading to children in crisis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it began.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since that day last July, there have been a few bumps and
hiccups to get a Fargo chapter launched, and the home chapter board of
directors has spent many hours carefully considering how best to proceed. But
it is with great joy that I share that we are well-ensconced in the Fargo
Sanford Children’s Hospital. Volunteers and administrators seem passionate
about the value of our presence there, and I know the Fargo chapter is in
capable and talented hands. I want to thank Fargo’s volunteer team for the many
hours they have invested in hospital training and meeting with me to get
started. Deb Shasky, Nancy Frosaker, Morgan Pandolfo, are hard at work to
fulfill all Sanford training requirements, raise funds to purchase books, and
recruit fellow teachers so that there is volunteer reading to hospitalized
children as often as possible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe with my whole heart that great things are going to
come of a Project Armchair presence in the city of Fargo. Sanford has a
magnificent, shiny new hospital (pictured above), which just opened within the
last two weeks. It is truly beautiful. And Project Armchair will be there to help
lighten the load of suffering with the words and illustrations found in quality
children’s literature, the comfort of a caring adult reading with enthusiasm,
and the gifting of the book to remind the child over and over of those precious
moments of reprieve. I have witnessed the power and magic of this very thing
hundreds of times in the last two years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you would like to help the Fargo chapter achieve its
goals of putting books into the hands of hospitalized children – and a hospital
this size will go through books very quickly – please visit the wish list and
donation tabs on this blog for more information. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Welcome to the Project Armchair family, Fargo!!</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRgdKlMM8RzYUklBswFqOQF47AST2K3m7UciswE9Hh0gkE7CivZwJfS0yeoJA1uAEpCu-qFAI-mzzIoZKzrJU6u_kRQdpRj4qRp0xgkfb7y6NefQT0aPEx-RzFP0zTp5slLHN9bmGaBLg/s1600/IMG_5888.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRgdKlMM8RzYUklBswFqOQF47AST2K3m7UciswE9Hh0gkE7CivZwJfS0yeoJA1uAEpCu-qFAI-mzzIoZKzrJU6u_kRQdpRj4qRp0xgkfb7y6NefQT0aPEx-RzFP0zTp5slLHN9bmGaBLg/s320/IMG_5888.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Srategy planning with Nancy Frosaker and Morgan Pandolfo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-27968743409906838692017-05-25T03:59:00.000-07:002017-05-25T03:59:07.814-07:00Her Face to the Sun
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">You met my
friend, Kelsie, here in this blog a few weeks ago. She was homeless and in a
very bad place; physically, emotionally, and mentally. She and her young
children fled an abusive relationship and found themselves bouncing from
shelter to cheap motel to shelter. Our paths intersected coincidentally (or not)
in the aisle of a local store. That is where we picked up the thread of friendship
that had been dropped last fall. God directed both our paths to the same store,
on the same day, and at precisely the same moment. We both fully believe that. After
hearing her story during that encounter, I promised her I would walk her
journey at her side. It has been an honor to do so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Without
transportation life is doubly hard. If you don’t believe that, try getting a
handful of young children to a store, or a doctor, or any place, without a car.
It’s like herding fire ants. It’s crazy-hard. I brought Kelsie’s plight and
immediate needs to you, my readers. I could not help her if I could not
transport her. And I could not transport her without car seats for her young
children.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And so, shortly
after reconnecting with Kelsie, I put out a plea on Facebook for used and
forgotten car seats, thinking that surely someone within my realm of influence
had child flotsam floating around dark and dusty garage corners. I was
unprepared for your response.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Within minutes
of the post, I received texts, private messages, and post responses, all
volunteering to donate a car seat (or two). Some of them were used, but others
were brand-new, straight from the store. I had one seat travel from from farm owner
by school bus, to teacher that drives by my house everyday – a beautiful
network of small town ingenuity and compassionate resourcefulness. I soon
presented Kelsie with enough car seats for all her children, and my aging van,
Goldie, unaccustomed to young children or their paraphernalia, was bursting at
the seams with both. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But there is
more to Kelsie’s story that I think you should know. She has granted me
permission to share, hoping that someone else will be encouraged to keep moving
forward, no matter how dark their night or difficult their path.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">About a month
ago, illness hit her young family, hard. I picked them up for church on Easter
Sunday and noticed one of the girls was shivering. Later Kelsie reported that
her daughter had thrown up after church. Kelsie sheepishly asked if I could
help her with laundry money. She didn’t have the seventy-five cents required
for the shelter washing machines and little Lisa had soiled everything. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A couple of
weeks later, Lisa climbed out of bed in the morning and could hardly walk.
“Like Bambi right after he was born,” was Kelsie’s description. The next day it
was worse. She told her mother that her legs didn’t work and urinated on
herself without being aware of it. Frantic, Kelsie found a ride to the ER and
doctors began an exhaustive round of tests. I got a voice mail on my phone
mid-afternoon asking for prayer for Lisa and a rundown of what was occurring. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I headed to the
hospital after school and found them in the ER, waiting for test results to
trickle in. The team of puzzled doctors finally decided to admit her for the
night and run more tests the next day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Because the
shelter has strict rules about residents babysitting for one another and Kelsie
has no outside support network, her other children ended up spending the night
at my house. My amazingly wonderful husband helped me feed, bathe, and rock to
sleep a houseful of precious, confused, hungry, frightened children. It would
be an understatement to say he and I had sort of forgotten how chaotic caring
for young children can be. But we all survived and I safely delivered them back
to their grateful mother the following morning. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A huge shout out
is warranted here to those that helped on that busy night. There were nurses
that packed supplies to help out for the night. There was take-out dinner
picked up by my son, Cody. And there were shelter friends that grabbed fresh
clothes for the next day. I am happy to report that Lisa is now recovering and will
begin physical therapy soon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Life is so very
hard when you are homeless. Unless you have lived it, you have no idea. I
didn’t. I still don’t. But I have viewed it through Kelsie’s eyes and am
staggered by her struggles. Imagine your own life without the “luxuries” of
stable shelter. Or income. Or transportation. Or laundry facilities. Or family
to support you. Imagine. Then thank God that you are so richly blessed. Take
nothing for granted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Kelsie is
beginning her climb out of her dark valley of despair. There is no easy or
quick fix. But she is trying. Everyday she moves forward a little more. In
spite of the dark tunnel Kelsie has been in for the recent past, good things are
beginning to happen for her. She has come to the attention of shelter
administrators for the comprehensive and responsible way that she daily cares
for her children. They have added supports for her that will help her get into
housing and receive childcare help. Best of all, she is enrolling in a local
state college to begin nursing courses. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I could not be
more proud of her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">My husband and I
live in a farming community. My absolute favorite crop is sunflowers. A field
that stretches to the horizon with blazing yellow flowers under a blue sky is a
breathtaking sight. You already know that sunflowers are so named because the
flowers literally follow the path of the sun each day. In a phenomenon called
heliotropism, the young flower heads face the sun at all times in order to
maximize photosynthesis.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">My friend,
Kelsie, also faces the light. She is resolute and brave. Her face is to the
sun, her back to the dark. She remarked to me not long ago, “I don’t feel lost
anymore!” She hopes to inspire others. She doesn’t realize she already has. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Allowing your
life to intersect with another’s is a stewpot of emotions. It is joyful, messy,
achingly raw, heartrending, inconvenient at times, and the greatest blessing
imaginable. It is looking beyond your calendar of soccer tournaments, church
functions, daily work, idle shopping, and sterile charitable giving. It is
removing the manhole cover off the sewer under your feet and realizing that
beneath the pristine street is a river of devastating poverty, disappointments,
abuse, and loss of hope that stagger the victim and cause them to lose a faith
in humankind. It is fear, and frustration, and the stench of deprivation of
basic needs. It is children who have no choice in any of it and learn to stress
about things that only adults should have to think about.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But there is
also kindness, hope, and remarkable courage. I have seen the homeless give to
others sacrificially. I have witnessed a brand of grit you and I are unfamiliar
with. I have wept at dogged determination to move forward and create a better
life. Sometimes they just need someone to walk beside them and remind them in which
direction to find the sun again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I must end this
by thanking all of you that poured your love on Kelsie, a stranger, with gifts
of car seats and cash. She couldn’t believe that others would do something so
unexpected for her. And now with her new apartment ready for occupancy, she is
being showered with household items, again by people she does not know. People
who spur her to keep climbing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">You have helped
restore her faith in humanity, and her faith in God. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">You are my
heroes. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-41882810431572437882017-05-19T19:41:00.001-07:002017-05-19T19:46:30.223-07:00Meet Me at the Moon<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I read a book last night to a tossing preschooler. Its
literary characters included a best-friend giraffe, a gigantic moon over the
savannah, an adorable baby elephant, and his worried mama. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Meet Me at the Moon</i> by Gianna Marino lay at the bottom of the stack
I pulled from the book cupboard. The dust jacket described the story as, “A
young elephant learns that his mother’s love is everywhere and enduring.” I was
hooked before I read the first word.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I gently knocked on the door of Room 652 and heard a
soft, “Come in,” I opened the door to a young patient whimpering and tossing
about in her bed, her pink-casted IV port trying frantically to keep up with
the waving arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I introduced myself and asked if she would like me to read a
story to her. Her mother smiled tiredly and said, “That would be lovely. Maybe
I can close my eyes for a moment. We didn’t get much sleep last night.” Without
waiting for a response from me, she moved to the recliner by the door and
allowed her heavy eyelids to close.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I settled myself by Miss Restless and showed her the cover to
the richly-colored book in my hand. The waving arms stopped and she tentatively
touched the cover with her uncasted hand. I began reading in soft tones, both
for the benefit of the mother, and also to soothe my little reading buddy. The
lights were dim and a hush descended in that hospital room. The restlessness
ceased and for ten quiet minutes, or so, the only sounds in the room were the
lilt of my voice, and the soft, engaged remarks of the child. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book was enchanting. A worried mother elephant knows
that the rains need to come to the drought-stricken savannah in order for life
to exist. In a tender exchange between she and her child, she pledges her love
and affection, and sets off for the mountain to ask the skies for rain. As I
read, I thought of the parents of the children I read to. This tired mother.
The other parents in rooms up and down the corridor. The anxious homeless
families I know. Such challenges they face! And yet, they go to remarkable lengths
to care for the needs of their children. Love is an amazing and powerful thing.
Unquantifiable and a little mystical. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we finished our story, Mom opened her eyes and thanked
me for the small break. I smiled and left, but as I stood outside the door
preparing to enter another room, I heard wails behind Door 652. I quickly chose
a second book for the child, knocked again, and slipped inside. The tiny girl’s
symptoms had spiked suddenly and she was miserable. I laid the second book on
the side table and the mother gratefully thanked me. “And thank you for the
first book. Elephants are her favorite,” she remarked with gratitude and a
touch of awe in her voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood outside the room with the inconsolable child and
weary mother and smiled with wonder. A tiny miracle. A book I nearly passed
over was the very one that grabbed and held the attention of a miserably ill
child, giving her bone-weary mama a much needed break.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When the night sky is bright, Little One, meet me at the
moon, where the sky touches the earth. I love you, Little One.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
To every mother tonight nursing a sick, miserable child, or
wondering where your next meal will come from, may you be blessed with rest,
peace, and courage…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-34283658269819757692017-04-12T20:38:00.001-07:002017-04-12T20:38:15.992-07:00Remember Her Name
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her name is
Kelsie. It isn’t really, of course. I cannot divulge that here. But for the
length of this post, her name is Kelsie.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Remember her.
She is your neighbor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">How we met is
irrelevant. God crosses paths in his own beautifully creative way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She was alone,
afraid, and desperate. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even as she
shared her story of heartbreak and abuse with me, I could feel an imprint, like
a child’s hand in clay, pressing hard on my heart. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So many children
to care for and no one to turn to. No support system. No family. No church. No
neighbors. Few friends. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Alone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Let that
word, with all of its oppressive darkness, sink in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">That imprint…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I felt it when
the dinner hour rolled around each evening and I knew hungry children would be
looking to their mama for food. I sensed it when I knew things were supposed to
fall into place for her... and didn’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She didn’t have
bottles for the baby or even the $1.75 to ride the city bus. Nothing and no
one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I brought
groceries and Happy Meals and toothpaste. I shopped for items that could fit into
the tiny frig in the shabby motel provided for them by a local charity until a
shelter spot could be obtained. You would have as well. You know you would
have. You don’t look <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NEED</i> in the
face, then turn away and shout, “Good luck!” over your shoulder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I arrived
with supper or other items, toddlers swarmed around my legs and lifted tiny
arms to be picked up and held. So precious and beautiful, these confused babies.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I taught them
Wheels on the Bus and even the tiny ones would put chubby fingers to lips and mimic
my “shh, shh, shh,” then squeal, “AGAIN!” when I finished. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The mother, so
discouraged and emotionally beaten down. Sick with worry and fatigue. Desperate
to meet the needs of her hungry, growing children. Waiting, waiting…. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">For what??</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A spot at a
shelter? Not much to hope for there. Little privacy. Fear of violating shelter
rules and being escorted out the door only to be out on the streets with no
backup plan.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The existence of
the homeless is a daily grind. The stress is constant. It eats them from the
inside, out. Young children grow old quickly and assume the role of family
guardian. Those most vulnerable worry constantly about what each day, and worse
yet, each night will bring. Will they have a roof over their heads? Will they
have food in their bellies? Will they be warm?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have heard these
words from the homeless, themselves. It is an agony of soul that consumes the
will to move forward. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">HOPE</i> fades into
a dull, near-forgotten dream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I must confess,
I am discouraged at the lack of services for people like my friend. In polite
circles we shrug off the “homeless problem,” our consciences’ salved by the
knowledge that there is a local shelter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m sorry, have
you been there? Do you know what it is like to step into that world? If you
have preconceived ideas surrounding the whys and wherefores of transience, I
gently advise you to not judge unless you have walked in those shoes. God
forbid you should ever have to. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Take a long look
at my friend, Kelsie. Remember her name. She lives among us. </span></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-90708257245139064972017-01-28T10:25:00.003-08:002017-01-28T10:25:55.250-08:00Gatekeepers of Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It has felt of
late that the world has gone a little mad. I mean truly. Terrorists plowing
into crowded streets with trucks. Mass shootings that seem almost commonplace,
anymore. Demonstrations for and against people, policies, and pipelines. (I
work just minutes from the Dakota Access Pipeline brouhaha). I can hardly stand
to view my social media newsfeed some days. There seems to be a lot of anger, angst,
and unhappiness out there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I sometimes
allow myself to stand atop a hill of conjecture and look toward the future.
What will the next ten, twenty, fifty years bring? What kind of world will my
children and the grandchildren I do not yet know, inherit? Will they enjoy the
same giddy freedoms and luxuries as I have enjoyed? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I will admit
that in the dark closet of my deepest thoughts, I have wondered…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today I regained
a glimmer… no, a beacon of hope. Hope that the world is, indeed, in capable,
sensible hands. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the end of my
school day, four beautiful, smiling, confident young women paid me a visit at
my office. They are students at a local, private university, and members of an
elite campus group, the Emerging Leaders Academy. I received an email last fall
telling me that they had chosen Project Armchair for their service project.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">They invited me
to speak to their group on campus. October 31<sup>st</sup>, Halloween Day. I
walked into a college classroom filled with young, eager, intelligent people. As
I began to open my chest and lay my beating heart on the podium, those young
adults listened with rapt attention. As I shared my passion for kids that
suffer in one way or another, and the magic a book brings to brighten a day,
they nodded, absorbing my every word. And when I was finished, they asked
questions and wondered aloud what they could do to help.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">These young Millennials
do not match the angry stereotype that has filled my television screen as of
late, and clogged my Facebook newsfeed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">They are passionate,
yes. But passionate about the needs around them, minus the vitriol. Passionate
about people. Eager to make a difference. And like me, they believe that the
best way to bring about lasting change, and make an eternal, positive
difference in the world around them, is to meet needs one person at a time. Build
bridges of humanity that looks suffering square in the eye, and says, “I see
you. I believe in you. I’m here to lend a helping hand.” You cannot legislate
morality or kindness. It must spring organically from within the heart and soul
of the individual.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">These kids…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">What did they
do? They went to work and organized a book drive at our local Barnes &
Noble. They contacted the local television stations, who came out to interview
them. They called parents, who called others. They printed flyers and pressed
their advisors for advice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And they did an
amazing thing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">They brought
seven brimming, beautiful boxes of brand new books to my office today. Over
three hundred books. And a couple hundred dollars in gift cards as well. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">They did it for
the children in crisis that they had fallen in love with on Halloween day. The
children who sometimes suffer terrible, unimaginable things. The children, who
in spite of their circumstances, find something to smile about in the colorful pages
of the books my volunteers read to them. The children that have stolen my
heart. And now the hearts of an elite group of future leaders.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I hate to break
it to you, University of Mary, but these students of yours are not emerging.
They ARE leaders. They are changing their world as fast as the ideas and
resources come to them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">They changed
mine a little bit today. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I confidently
hand the future to them. They will care for it well. They are my Gatekeepers of
Hope. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I fully believe
they will do great things…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Group
Members: </span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Erica Binegar</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bridget Redder</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Taylor Peterson</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Megan Hardy</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Krista Kreidt</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jessica Griebel</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Claire Wurzer</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Meriel LaForce</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grace Gauthier</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sarah Kovash</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">P.S. And if you
see Sarah K., give her a hug ;)</span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-69891249998038221562016-11-26T18:47:00.002-08:002016-11-26T18:47:19.379-08:00Eat at Space Aliens, Support Project Armchair!<b>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! </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCF5snvz7FucSx8kcsBBn8wxYCJdxxbzftLZwXymbXvE3tw7S_l12mepYhI20M8vMUC3Rmk-XNLGsvClyhSh1ax-ls5Z4qW4MxqfuvZK3ct_ydq3KZfqzjtzlt6SHNIvedX3hgyFkjYH4/s1600/Aliens+Helping+Earthlings+-+Project+Armchair+12.12.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCF5snvz7FucSx8kcsBBn8wxYCJdxxbzftLZwXymbXvE3tw7S_l12mepYhI20M8vMUC3Rmk-XNLGsvClyhSh1ax-ls5Z4qW4MxqfuvZK3ct_ydq3KZfqzjtzlt6SHNIvedX3hgyFkjYH4/s640/Aliens+Helping+Earthlings+-+Project+Armchair+12.12.16.jpg" width="494" /></a></div>
<br />vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-37183571370194088352016-10-26T19:07:00.000-07:002016-10-26T19:08:00.696-07:00The Olsen Family<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4CYXljP2iveDw-c1H_kWKvCbzVZe5ixAvMoX84qE48uM2lsuAvYoqBn8nfE9O8xPZESigCwqQcyFDZEe-E6Xf-ukYjZNh8zX3jq_PyDYt601nyV222ubr30qVJ7phAsUzAUwq8LNtQs/s1600/IMG_4800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4CYXljP2iveDw-c1H_kWKvCbzVZe5ixAvMoX84qE48uM2lsuAvYoqBn8nfE9O8xPZESigCwqQcyFDZEe-E6Xf-ukYjZNh8zX3jq_PyDYt601nyV222ubr30qVJ7phAsUzAUwq8LNtQs/s320/IMG_4800.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Derek, Amanda, Halee, Rylee, and Jacie Olsen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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!<br />
<br />
Here is their story in Amanda's own words...<br />
<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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. </span></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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!</span></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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. </span></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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!</span></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Amanda Olsen</span></span></i></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-68652409669727046032016-10-22T19:39:00.002-07:002016-10-22T21:23:36.572-07:00The Least of These<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“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.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Abandoned??<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How… what… dear God….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Truthfully, they
were not all that much in me or my book about “bowls full of mush.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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??</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">WHAT.CAN.I.DO??</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I cannot save
the world. I know that. I cannot change the hard realities of the children I
meet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But I CAN bring
a moment of reprieve from those realities. Just a moment. Like a quickly
burning sparkler on the humid July 4<sup>th</sup> night. Maybe it’s enough. It
has to be enough. It’s all I have to give. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Happy birthday, Project
Armchair!</span></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-65134621238617809812016-08-10T18:03:00.002-07:002016-08-10T18:03:32.800-07:00Desirea's Story<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.kfyrtv.com/content/news/Mandan-teacher--387470071.html" target="_blank">http://www.kfyrtv.com/content/news/Mandan-teacher--387470071.html</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">We
were scrambling last minute for a patient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Project Armchair had been approached by KFYR news out of Bismarck to do
a feature story on our volunteer services at Sanford hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why
today, of all days?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing to
do but end the interview, pack up, and come back another day.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">perfect</i> patient.” And just
like that, Desirea became a TV star.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, to those of us that adore her, anyway.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I make a point of NOT asking personal questions or being inordinately
interested in their personal lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
should.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is awful and utterly heart
rending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, I keep coming
back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cannot explain it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
the breadth and scope of her illness was more than I could take in. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">As
the details spilled from Kristina, my heart ached for this sweet child and her
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have been living a medical
nightmare for seven years. It blindsided them from Desi’s first days of life. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And
so, Kristina began to write down details of their journey. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kristina told me later that it was the first
time she had taken the time to record the crooked path of their medical
saga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got the feeling it was
therapeutic, somehow. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The
next few paragraphs are a summation of that exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Kristina’s full permission and hearty
support, I share their story.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Desi’s
mom first noticed something was wrong with her precious newborn, when Desi was
just one week old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She developed severe
cradle cap, and her hands and feet were scaly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">At
two years of age, Desirea was hospitalized for the first time with breathing
problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There would be six more
hospital stays during that year, for either lung or skin infections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kristina was getting desperate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was wrong with her baby girl? Why could
no one offer any answers?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">By
the time Desi was three, she had suffered fourteen individual cases of pneumonia
and numerous skin infections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In July of
her fourth year, Desi was diagnosed with her first case of MRSA in her left leg
and right wrist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kristina waited, alone and terrified, while
Desi underwent surgery to drain the infection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>MRSA would become a constant in their lives. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Ichthyosis
(genetic skin disorders)</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Scoliosis</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Sever
Anxiety</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Atopic
Dermatitis</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Left
Valgus leg deformation with ¾ in. differential</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Knock
knees</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Asthma</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Severe
perleche (cracked corners of the mouth)</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">High
Ige levels</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">ODD</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">11.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">OCD</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">12.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Functional disorder of
the polymoronclear neutrophilis</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">13.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Severe allergies</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">(If
I misspelled any of these terms, please forgive me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These words are like a foreign language to
me).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Job’s
Syndrome.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I
know who Job is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least, I know of his
legend. Job was a biblical character who was put to the ultimate test of
faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a conversation between God and
Satan, God held Job up as a man of true integrity and righteousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Satan scoffs at this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Little
five-year-old Desirea was similarly suffering on the scale of biblical
proportions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The school environment can reek havoc on her
fragile immune system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She can’t have
friends over to her house because of the risk of infection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t ride a bike without inducing an asthma
attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her scaling, raw skin invites
stares and shunning by other children and nervous adults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her lungs are failing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lung transplant looms in her future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This time in her hip and coursing through her veins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prayed for her as I mowed my lawn, worked
on fall school activities, and cleaned the garage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By Sunday morning I couldn’t stay away any
longer. I skipped Sunday School and headed to the hospital. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">That
smile… oh, that smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was there, just
like always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was bored, hungry, and ready for company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a prisoner in this
room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She cannot step outside her
hospital door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t sit in the brightly
colored play room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t venture outside
to feel the warm sun on her face. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is
a prisoner in both room and weary body.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I
read a pop-up book to her about a garden (thank you, nameless donor, that chose
this beautiful book!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Desirea sighs and
says she wishes she could go outside and play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Close your eyes, Desi,” I say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She obliges. “Can you feel it?” I say. “Feel what?” she asks with her
eyes still closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The sun, Desi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you feel the sun on your face?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you hear the birds singing and feel the
butterfly that just landed on your cheek?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There’s that smile again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s
so gloriously irrepressible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When you
get sick of this room, open your book and pretend you are outside with the sun
and the birds and the butterflies.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I
am quiet on the ride home from Bismarck afterward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read Kristina’s handwritten journal and am
awash in conflicting emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
mother’s pain is splashed across page after page in raw honesty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am heartbroken that any child must suffer
so. Filled with empathy and respect for all mothers that face each day with
courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And am selfishly grateful that
my children have been so remarkably healthy. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The
biblical Job finds vindication at the end of the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God heals Job’s body, restores his wealth,
and even blesses him with more children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wish these things for my little, sunny, friend as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A healthy, restored body, and a long life
filled with every imaginable blessing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">So
there it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We know how Job’s story
ended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Desirea’s is yet unfolding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">She
deserves no less.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">*</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The occurrence of Job’s
syndrome is rare – literally one in a million. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">**</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">In 2008, only 250 cases
worldwide had been diagnosed.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Sources:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*<a href="https://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/autosomal-dominant-hyper-ige-syndrome"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14.0pt;">https://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/autosomal-dominant-hyper-ige-syndrome</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**<a href="http://www.news-medical.net/news/2008/03/18/36393.aspx"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14.0pt;">http://www.news-medical.net/news/2008/03/18/36393.aspx</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-63903571010298029552016-07-26T10:23:00.001-07:002016-07-26T10:24:15.570-07:00It's Complicated<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">As
is true of most ideas, this one blindsided me out of nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">An
inquiry here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A phone call there. A bit
of research. And the homeless shelter Parent Forums were born.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">We
held them once a week, for three weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The parents did not really know what to expect, and neither did I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conceptualizing something is one thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Execution is another. Homeless shelter
attendance is lower in the mild months, and so was class attendance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that was just as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fewer people means greater interaction and a
much less formal atmosphere. And at least one of us enjoyed them very much
(me).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">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…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Last
week was the icing on the cake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
came across an article yesterday from The Atlantic, called, “Where Books Are
All but Nonexistent,” by Alia Wong (July 14, 2016).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The accompanying picture drew me in initially
(living trees with built in bookshelves is GENIUS!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a
reading teacher I know these numbers are staggering and make all the difference
in school readiness, or lack thereof.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These families often do not
have access to the internet and cannot afford to purchase books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about public libraries, you may be
asking your computer screen? Good question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is where it gets complicated.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">And
this is where this article and this blog intersect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Back
to the “icing on the cake” parent forum…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Obstacle
#1presented itself immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">But
what about when the parents want to take their children to the library?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It cannot afford a large vehicle
(and all of the required car/booster seats to go with it).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Transportation in a smaller community without widespread public options can be a huge obstacle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obstacle #2
was now doing a stare-off with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if you have access,
but possess rusty computer skills, the obstacle may feel insurmountable. Uncertainty
was written all over faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Note to
Self: Computer classes at the shelter would be enormously beneficial.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">And
now Obstacle #3 reared its head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the
ride over, I had asked one of the mothers if she already had a library
card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a short pause. “No, I
don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just think how often you
and I use our driver’s license as proof of identification.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stop reading this paragraph and think about
that for a moment. Trust me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a LOT.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We can make an exception”
she whispered back. I felt incredibly victorious.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
cannot describe the look of pure joy on that mother’s face as she accepted her
glossy, new library card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like
crying. To be handed the keys to a building filled with books and quiet, cozy
corners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there anything better?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think not. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
ended the evening with this final reminder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Book
Desert?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a tiny step, but it’s a
start…</span></div>
<br />vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-37497212539511360602016-07-08T07:08:00.001-07:002016-07-08T07:15:11.305-07:00Is it Worth it?<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have been
mentally casting about for the perfect dissertation topic for the last year, or
so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting a little frantic about it
for the last three months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many topics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many things I’d like to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many potential topics. She told me what I
already knew. I have to narrow my focus. What is it I <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">really</b> want to know? I am adrift. The only thing I am certain of is
my desire to center my research around Project Armchair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does what we do make a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">measurable</i> difference in the lives of children in crisis?</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The conversations <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about</i> reading that build neural pathways in developing brains. The
cognitive strategies good readers employ in order to better comprehend texts.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I have a question for you,” I began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“What do you
need?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked at me like I must surely be
outside my mind. I could almost hear her thoughts. What do I need?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lady, I’m living with my children in a
homeless shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How much time do you have and where do I
begin??<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t verbalize those
things, but I surmise something along those lines passed through her mind,
however fleetingly.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Good grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She must wonder how I ever managed to make it
out of high school.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I backed up and
made another run at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Let me ask it
another way,” I offered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I have two
primary goals for Project Armchair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
is to boost literacy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a reading
teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“From your perspective as a mother, is that a
worthy goal?”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Her answer was
instantaneous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It came from a heart that has
known trial and difficulty, but recognized that there is hope and light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that moment, it all did feel worth it. She
had given me a great gift.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Back to my
question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do we make a measurable
difference?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We make a difference. I
believe it with every pump of my middle-aged heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 a<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">s</span> they hand me lists of room numbers. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We DO make a
difference. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Is it
measurable?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps not. And perhaps
scientific data does not matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have seen
it countless times, but it never grows old. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Is it worth
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe it is.</span></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-18090815931131836752016-06-08T18:49:00.003-07:002016-06-08T18:54:45.782-07:00Nighttime at the Hospital<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I was
twelve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had shredded the meniscus in
my right knee doing my stellar junior high cheerleader moves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Arthroscopic surgery was in the near future,
but would not arrive in time for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
needed surgery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The old-fashioned, kind-of-a-big-deal
kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those days it meant five nights
in the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A night before to prep
for the big day, and four to recuperate enough to go home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I was
twelve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should have been old enough to
be fine on my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should have
been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ll admit it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not like the hospital at night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The daytime was fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were nurses in and out, and hovering
parents, intercom announcements, and meals like clockwork.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But the night…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">The nights were
quiet, and parents were shooed out to go home and “let her rest.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lights were dimmed and nurses clung to
their station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even at twelve years of
age, I was lonely, in pain, and a wee bit afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even at twelve.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Imagine for a
moment what very young children in the hospital experience in the dim hours of
the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is dark, too quiet, and
hours to drag on allowing them to focus on their discomfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least hospitals have made great leaps in
terms of parents allowed to stay with their child, and comfortable, inviting
rooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hospital in which I am a
volunteer has done an amazing job of creating an atmosphere of ease and
comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But I think
nights must still be challenging, regardless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I had an idea a
few weeks ago that I think might help in this very area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is my hope that the magic of those and
other lyrical classics will soothe fevered brows, and make eyelids heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wonderful volunteers are onboard, too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am hoping we can get in to read to sleepy
children several nights a week this summer, spread between volunteers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am hoping it will help ease wee ones into
those nighttime hours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Here’s where you
can help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am hoping some who read this
will feel compelled to donate books or money to purchase some classic bedtime
stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just found and ordered some
of the aforementioned books for very reasonable prices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you would like to be a part of this new
venture, please consider helping us grow our “bedtime story inventory.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Please see the "Wish List" tab for titles (scroll to the bottom of the page.) Or send us your favorite.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">You have blessed
many children already with your wonderful donations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know you will help us again, and make
nights just a little easier for precious tots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "lucida handwriting"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Blessings,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "lucida handwriting";">Vonda</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Please send
checks/books to:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Project Armchair</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">PO Box 826</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Mandan, ND<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>58554</span></div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-59041951714285981532016-05-17T16:26:00.000-07:002016-05-17T16:26:03.052-07:00The Atlanta Airport and Project Armchair
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was not the case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Atlanta in May is something to
behold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eighty degrees and flowering
Magnolia trees do the heart good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Especially when you hear that it’s snowing at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself for
being so cosmopolitan and efficient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I checked my
suitcase and headed to the security checkpoint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I read the signs for security, more and more people began to swirl
around me, like minnows in a tide pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Generally,
if I don’t know where I am going, I just start following the masses, assuming
SOMEONE in the group knows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I adopted
this survival skill once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pack
and I were stopped by personnel before long and told that the security station we
were seeking was not usable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were
told to head the other direction and try another one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pack and I dutifully obeyed and wandered
until we sighted a line ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A very,
very long line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I mention it was
long?? And growing exponentially by the minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The line soon
snaked around the first three baggage claim carousels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then carousels #’s four and five.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon the entire baggage claim area was
flooded with frustrated, disbelieving passengers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were so far away from the actual security
check-point that it was not even visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I may or may not have overheard a few expletives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tension in the air was palpable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tempers were sizzling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poor business man behind me conveyed that
his flight was boarding at that very moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It left before he even got through security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the chaos of
that scene, I suddenly heard the soft strains of… stringed music?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not far behind me, there in the corner, stood
a young woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She couldn’t have been
more than twenty-something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a
music stand in front of her and was playing classical music, with eyes closed,
and a soft smile on her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
seemed sweetly oblivious to the maelstrom around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">There was
something so charming and peaceful and utterly out of place about the scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have grown to expect Hip Hop blaring out of
somebody’s earbuds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Classical music, not
so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I stood trying to watch her,
even as the lines lunged and lurched forward, I felt the tension around me
dissipate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saw it melt from the faces
around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sensed it roll off my own
shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That sweet, young angel had
done something good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It felt a little
magical.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I couldn’t help but
connect that scene to the children my team and I read to every week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
they would crane their necks searching for the source of magic, and find one of
us; there… in the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A joy on our
face that infuses them with hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hope
that brings serenity in the midst of cacophony.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Thank you, Airport
Angel, for brightening my day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope we
do the same for others.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UX3F1zJ-YWRWjtREZgFz4u8DGsVwxvK7J_lBVBNdXX1qZO53WoEwfo4BcvPQjkZebagx0Mb3Hz-l9OrWCVtEYB0hmw3cm8yW4u7j_isdC_RgX6qyN557vyAvAk4Vl3FZOmcLLulBKUI/s1600/spink-airport-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UX3F1zJ-YWRWjtREZgFz4u8DGsVwxvK7J_lBVBNdXX1qZO53WoEwfo4BcvPQjkZebagx0Mb3Hz-l9OrWCVtEYB0hmw3cm8yW4u7j_isdC_RgX6qyN557vyAvAk4Vl3FZOmcLLulBKUI/s1600/spink-airport-photo.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I found a story about her in a Google search - her name is Jennifer Warrilaw</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2280035583059017619.post-42707992747706414382015-12-06T17:28:00.000-08:002015-12-20T13:17:03.318-08:00Project Armchair<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>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 his lap is a portal to another universe. One without pain, fear, or uncertainty. The child in the enormous chair does not hear the tick of the clock or see the golden specks that float around his head. He is only cognizant of the place he has entered through The Portal. His heart is light and his world at peace. For this magic, sacred moment, all is well.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I </span></span>walked into Room 658 on the pediatric floor of the red-bricked hospital. The child is obviously ill. Eyes are clouded, lethargy dominates. Parents share tired, worried expressions. "Hi, I am Mrs. Dahl. I am a reading teacher and the nurse's station said you might be interested in having your child read to." Surprised expressions and then weary half-smiles. "Sure, that would be nice." I lay three or four age-appropriate books in front of the child and a tiny, fevered finger points to a bright cover. </div>
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I never ask about the illness. Let the weary children and parents have a moment's reprieve from the nightmare. There are people enough to agitate the waters of worry.</div>
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I read the title and open the front cover. Once the story begins I can feel child and adult alike pulled into the melodic rhythm of the text and the beautiful accompanying illustrations. Soon there are smiles - even giggles, and looks of delighted surprise from exhausted parents' eyes. And for those golden, brief, priceless moments, there are no beeping machines, no IV tethers, and no grim prognoses. There is only the magic of the written word and the visual splendor of artful illustrations.</div>
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When we have finished and I whisper, "The End," I hand the book to the child, see the gratitude on the face of the parent, and smile brightly, hoping to wordlessly convey HOPE.</div>
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And occasionally as I walk out the door, I hear the flip of a page and a childish voice retelling the story, just as I had read it to them moments before. I smile to myself because I know that child has entered The Portal where the written word has transported them to an island of peace.</div>
vldahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11782360112837001534noreply@blogger.com1