So, the word continued to elude me, wrapped in some sort of
smug cocoon of religious mysticism beyond my understanding.
Part Two: People who work with children (teachers, librarians, early
childhood educators) often spout how they learn more from their kids than the
other way around. After awhile, such sentiments
become trite, and you feel the urge to smack anyone who blathers on and on in
this way. Because really, working with
kids is exhausting; it takes energy and patience, demands that your brain
always be switched to the “on” position, requires you to be the responsible one
with all the answers. Sometimes all I
learn from the kids in my library programs is that snot flies everywhere, and
babies have a remarkable talent for hitting extremely high decibels when they scream.
So it’s a Wednesday afternoon. I hate Wednesdays. What good are they? They’re plop in the middle of the week. The craziness from Monday and Tuesday have
caught up with you, and you still have two days to go before you can relax
again. Wednesday afternoon drags. A headache often settles in the space between
your eyes. All you want to do is drink a
nice glass of cabernet and maybe watch Downton Abbey as you fantasize about
being so rich you never have to work again and can order an army of servants to
clean your house.
A young girl, maybe in fourth or fifth grade, comes
into the library with her grandma. They
want a study room, so I get up and let them into one. I sit back down. A few minutes later the girl comes back out
and stands silently in front me.
“Can I help you?” I
ask.
“Um…um….” She doesn’t
meet my eye and begins to fiddle with the pens on my desk. “I want the second book in the Babymouse
series.”
I look up the second book in the Babymouse series
(Babymouse: Our Hero), locate it in the library, and walk her over to the right shelf. She doesn’t say thank you. I return to my desk. Five minutes later she’s back. Her thick braids stick out all over her head,
adorned with bright barrettes. Her wire
framed glasses glint in the overhead light.
“Yes?” I say,
annoyed.
“I want the book about
the amoeba,” she mumbles.
I spend a few minutes trying to decipher what book she is
talking about, find it (Squish: Super Amoeba), locate it in the library, and
walk her over to the shelf. Again she
doesn’t thank me. I return to my desk.
“How’s you mom doing?” asks my coworker.
I begin to explain about my mom’s latest setback--how the
radiation is making her terribly sick, how my brother and father are exhausted, how I feel I should be doing more.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a flicker of
movement. The girl is back.
“Yes?” I snarl.
This time she wants a pencil. I hand one over without even looking and
continue my conversation with the coworker.
Next she wants a marker. Then an eraser.
Half an hour later the girl and her grandma are checking out
of the study room. Grandma asks my
coworker some detailed question and they fall into a deep conversation. The girl lingers before me. I pretend not to see her.
“Um,” she says.
I sigh. “Yes?”
“Um, I just want to say, um, thanks for helping me,” she
says.
Something in my heart softens a little. I look at her.
“And, um,” she begins to fiddle with the pens on the desk
again. “I heard something…um…about your
mom? And…um…I hope she gets better.”
Tears spring to my eyes and I subconsciously kick myself for
being such a jerk to this little girl, this girl who absorbed everything I did
for her and overhead an adult conversation that should’ve been spoken behind
closed doors and felt empathy enough to mention it to me.
Little pockets of relief from the everyday. Little moments of kindness. Small miracles in the form of children. That, my friends, is what grace means. And it's all around me, I realize.
I just needed a smack upside the head to see it.
I just needed a smack upside the head to see it.
