Story Time

Our daughter Linnea and son Hans, both busy young parents, share a love of books. These days, however, their personal reading time is at a premium since their collective offspring are ages 3, 2, 1, 1, and 1 (with another non-reader arriving in February). But Linnea (with Adam) and Hans (with Katy) try to share their love of books with their children by way of daily story times.

Nate, too, was intentional in his efforts to transfer his passion for reading to his 7 children, purchasing a giant book of classic fairy tales while I was still pregnant with our first. This book was a hardbound volume weighing 5 pounds that was full of tiny print, not exactly the stereotypical children’s book. (I favored plasticized board books with which our baby could simultaneously get educated and cut teeth.)

After Nelson arrived, Nate made good on his intentions and began reading to him nightly. One day, 3 weeks into parenthood, he said, “Do you think it’s too soon to introduce poetry?” I laughed but had to admire his gusto.

Toting his 5 pound volume around the house, Nate took advantage of multiple opportunities to read to his drooling audience of one. Thanks to him, by the time baby #2 came along, we’d gotten into a happy bedtime routine of stories, songs and prayers that continued until the kids were teenagers, much like many families we know.

Today I look at my bookshelves, pared down by two-thirds when we moved, and at least one-third of the books are still for children. I’ve hung onto them partly to read to grandkids but partly just because they’re comfortable old friends.

God was the originator of words and stories, and he has filled Scripture with them. Over the years we’ve learned much of what we know about him through the stories he’s given us. Also included in the Bible are the stories of people who rejected him, and we’ve learned from those, too.

Parents begin story time with a question: “What would you like to read?”

God also points to his stories with a question: “Which do you believe?”

All of us buy children’s books with care, wanting a measure of control over what goes into young minds. The volumes that make it onto our shelves have been screened so that any choice a child makes is a good one.

But there’s one big difference between that and God’s story time. Parents have already made the acceptable choices before their children approach the shelf. God opens the whole library and says, “The choice is up to you.”

“This is what the Lord, the God of Israel, says: ‘Write in a book all the words I have spoken to you.’ ” (Jeremiah 30:2) “Every word of God is flawless; he is a shield to those who take refuge in him.” (Proverbs 30:5)

“May God go with you.” (…continued)

As Thelma and I slowly continued on up the paved dune searching for Jack, she began telling stories. “I’ve rescued a lot of dogs from shelters. Most of ‘em look pretty good after a thorough scrubbing.”

Although we didn’t see Jack, we did see the car he’d followed, parked in front of one of the high-up cottages. If we couldn’t find him, I would double back and check there.

Continuing around several curves, we began moving down and eventually came to the spot where Jack had become confused. There he was, standing in the rain as if to say, “I was here. Where were you?”

Panting from his long loop up the road and down again, he gratefully hopped into the back seat, immediately leaning forward to get sniff-acquainted with Thelma. His tail wagged enthusiastically, and reaching back to pat his head, she said, “I told you. Dogs love me.”

Heading out of the subdivision, I listened to her describe how she liked helping people clean up their yards, saying it took her many sessions to complete one. “You gotta work on ‘em slow and steady. There’s too many leaves for one time.” She listed the names of those she’d already raked, and I recognized many of them.

Driving out into the country I said, “You’ll have to tell me which way to go.”

“Just keep on goin’,” she said, pointing out the front windshield.

Sure enough, about 6 miles inland from Lake Michigan she finally said, “There,” pointing to a small wooden house. “That’s where I live.”

As she got out of the car I rolled down the window, letting the rain pour in. She thanked me and nodded toward the house. “It’s adequate. More important, it was built with love. God has always taken good care of me.”

She patted the wet car as she walked alongside it, probably for support, and then turned around and said, “God go with you.”

I waited in the driveway to be sure she would get in, but she was playing a waiting game, too, making sure I backed out safely. As we both looked at each other, her hand on the doorknob and mine on the steering wheel, it was as if God said, “I love Thelma. Make sure you do, too.”

Eventually I waved through my open window and backed away, praying the prayer I so often pray: “Lord, what do you want me to think about all this?”

And he gave me this thought: “Think about how Thelma trusts me to take care of her. Today I coaxed Jack to follow the wrong car so I could give her a ride home. Without him running off, you wouldn’t have seen her. I set it up for her, and lucky you. You got to deliver it.”

Then he said something else. “See how I care for Thelma? I’ll always do the same for you.”

The Lord said, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.” (Jeremiah 31:3)

 

In Need

Yesterday it poured rain, and as I often do during inclement weather, I “walked” Jack from the warm, dry, front seat of my car. He happily ran alongside, stopping to sniff and lift his leg here and there. Suddenly another car approached at a narrow spot on a hilly road, forcing both vehicles to jockey back and forth in an effort to pass.

Jack continued trotting ahead but doubled back when he saw I hadn’t followed. Then, just as I resumed driving, he ran between both cars, confused as to which vehicle was “his”. In my rear view mirror I saw him take off next to the other car but didn’t worry, knowing he’d eventually appear at home. Still, I decided to wait a few minutes where I was, just in case he came looking for me.

When he didn’t, I decided to make one loop around the high dune road, which had been his running direction, and if I didn’t find him, would head for the house. Driving at a crawl through sideways rain, I scanned the bushes and woods for Jack but didn’t see him. I did, however, see something interesting: Thelma.

Seven months ago my sister and I had a strange encounter with this 76 year old woman at the beach (“Giving Her All,” April 10, 2011). We’d never seen her before then but learned her name was Thelma, and apparently she earned bits of money tidying up yards and hauling away leaves in black garbage bags.

We looked for her after that day and watched all summer without success, but yesterday, when I least expected it, I found her.

At the top of a steep incline, she was trudging along dressed in a black garbage bag torn to double as a raincoat, using one corner of it as a hood. I pulled alongside her and rolled down the window. “Thelma! Want a ride?”

“Appreciate it,” she said, and without knowing who I was or even looking at me, she climbed right in. Pulling off her garbage bag, she stuffed it into a filthy grocery sack and said, “This weather’s no good for raking.”

“Where’re you headed?” I said.

“Home. I’m giving up for today.”

“Where’s home?” I said.

“Six miles. I’ll show you.”

“You mean you were going to walk 6 miles in this storm?”

“I do it all the time,” she said. “It’s good to keep moving.”

She was dressed in well-stained, insulated coveralls, a navy shirt, tan sweater and cranberry hoodie, all in  need of a wash.

“Where’re you going?” she said, looking at me for the first time.

“I’m trying to find my dog.”

“Oh, I love dogs,” she said, “and they love me.”

“Then you must be a very good person,” I said. “Dogs like good people.”

“That’s true,” she said. “I’ve had lots of dogs. What color is yours?”

“Black. We can look together.”

“We’ll find him,” she said.

(To be continued…)


“God will never forget the needy; the hope of the afflicted will never perish.” (Psalm 9:18)