Surely everyone here knows either the story of Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. Harry’s throbbing scar reminds him that the evil Voldemort is lurking and Frodo’s “ring” whispers a wish to return to its tyrannical master.
I believe we all have stories that whisper to us – our stories define who we are and influence what we do.
So, enough facts and figures, I’d like to share a brief story with you this morning.
When I was in high school, people in my hometown used to call the school office if they needed a babysitter. Their names and phone numbers would be placed on a list and students could sign up to for the jobs. At 14, this was a great way to make a little money.
One of the babysitting assignments was a real eye opener. Dishes were piled high in a sink, the floor was filthy, the kitchen table looked like it hadn’t been wiped down in weeks and the kids -- there were seven of them under nine years old.
The orders were simple. They were going out for a night on the town. Throw the kids in the room with the two mattresses on the floor and if they gave me any trouble, smack ‘em.
When the door closed, I still remember standing there for what seemed liked minutes, and was probably only 10 seconds -- staring at the children – and they were staring at me.
Being as task oriented then as I am today, I was already making mental notes on the steps required to achieve my goal – wash dishes, clean table, clean kids, (clean bathroom first), find some food to give them a snack and get them to fall asleep on two mattresses in one room.
The thing I remember most about that night was the moment I got all of those kids into the “bedroom” and asked what story they’d like me to read to them. They just looked at me – finally the little girl – probably five years old said, “We don’t have any books to read … and they didn’t … not one children’s book in that whole place, actually not one book of any kind. So I told about ten stories and finally got them to agree to go to sleep.
About a half hour later, I was sitting carefully in the middle of the sofa – I didn’t want to touch anything if I could help it – and the little girl came out, stood in front of me, took the fingers of her two hands and pinched my leg while saying – I want you to come back here and tell us stories again. She said nothing else, turned around and went back to bed. I swear I can still feel that pinch today when I think about reading and kids.
Anyway, I made it a point to find that name on the list and signed up to babysit for them. I brought a book and hid it under a mattress – the oldest boy told me nobody would ever find it there – and I’d read to them for a long time before they’d go to sleep.
Then, someone else took that babysitting assignment one day. The next day I was called down to the office by an angry school secretary – she asked me why I hadn’t reported the condition of THAT family – after all we didn’t want that kind of family on our list. I never saw those kids again.
I remember feeling angry. I can still feel a throb in my leg where that little girl pinched me whenever I think about kids who miss the simplest things in life.