Bedtime Stories

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Reading to children is one of the best things in the world.

Every night, volunteers read bedtime stories to the elementary-aged students. Last week I read picture books to the kindergarteners. The OSA has a great collection. Where the Wild Things Are, Blueberry Girl, There’s a Monster at the End of This Book, Rain Makes Applesauce, and others. This week I was assigned to the 4^th graders. Another volunteer told me that this grade always complained that they had heard the stories before, so I decided to read Haroun and the Sea of Stories instead of several picture books.

The first night they were skeptical. When I arrived and told them what I would be reading, they cried noooooo, demanding that I instead tell them a story from my childhood. I promised that they would like this book, and told them that I was going to read it. They were…fairly quiet. Some were not very interested, whispering talking to their neighbor, until I reminded them to turn off their voices. At the end I ask them what they thought would happen next. They answered half-heartedly.

I told the other volunteers about their response. They asked if I was going to go give in and tell them stories about myself. I told them that I was committed, even if it meant a week of slightly frustrating evenings. Afterwards, as I prepared for the next day’s lesson on Macbeth, I wondered if stubbornness will turn out to be my tragic flaw.

Last night, I arrived at the 4^th graders dorm with Haroun under my arm. Some of them grumbled that they couldn’t understand it. Another said that she would explain it to them after. I told them that they <em style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all can understand it without explanation if they listen. When I ask what we read the night before, I was happy and (I must admit) surprised how much they remembered. Then I started to read. At first, they were restless again. But as I read, they became quieter and quieter. And by the end of the passage, as tears streamed down my face (the opening of the book is a bit sad), the whole class leaned forward, silently trying to catch every word.

It was magic: Seeing them drawn into the story. Seeing them forget that they were supposed to be bored and uninterested. Seeing everyone in a room sharing an experience.

When they asked why I was crying, I told them that it was because the story is sad at the beginning. But a more honest answer, I realize now, is that I cried because of the magic in the air. I felt so connected to the story, to the children, and to myself in those last minutes. And that feeling of connection was beautifully overwhelming.



<strong style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Thankful for…

Stories

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Comments

[clark sherman]

Stories
when you get home, would you read me a story?