This fascination probably started when I was a child. My mom used to read to me and my brothers at bed time. I remember being ushered off to dreamland to the beautiful words of Tolkien, Bunyan and Lewis. I still have images in my head from each volume. Many of the characters are as real to me as actual people. The stories are like fond memories but more fantastic and adventurous. I love how something so simple and ordinary can transform into something so magical. She read. I listened. And, I'm still inspired today by many of those quiet moments spent curled up together.
I've read to my children since before they were born. Jacob heard the entire Bible between my first doctor's appointment and his first breath, all in my voice. Until he got "too big" for bed time, I read to him every night, often hearing him ask, "just one more." Sometimes he joins us now, and sometimes he doesn't, but Allie, Jackson and I try to read every night we're able.
When we're busy and I'm hurried at bedtime, I often wish I could just send the kids to bed and head up to tuck them in when I was ready. But, they beg to read. I just can't say no, especially when they hurry to get everything done so I have no reason to deny them.
When we're busy and I'm hurried at bedtime, I often wish I could just send the kids to bed and head up to tuck them in when I was ready. But, they beg to read. I just can't say no, especially when they hurry to get everything done so I have no reason to deny them.
Jackson asks me to "sit really close so he can hear my voice better." He and I are reading Around the World in 80 Days right now. Jacob thinks it's boring because there are no battle scenes or gross humor, and Allie can't believe there are no princesses. But, Jackson loves it. Jacob gets to pick the next book, perhaps we'll start The Lord of the Rings, and he'll come to read with us again.
The pages come to life for me, although for an entirely different reason these days. The light in their eyes when a train full of passengers jumps a canyon river or a woman is rescued from a burning funeral pyre and the wondering and calculation on their precious faces as the heroes race against the clock to reach home before their time expires, I love it.
I think it's a little like a workout. I often feel like I don't have time and wish I could just skip it, but I never regret it after. In a fast world made up more of quantity than quality, it's a rare, slow, magical moment with these sweet little people who won't be little much longer.
I hope they will one day look back and remember Hobbits and wizards, pilgrims and talking animals as if they were childhood playmates, and I hope they will carry on the tradition with their own children.
Someday, I'll curl up in my chair next to a fire with my chai and a book and read to myself. I'm sure there will still be magic, just not the same kind. That kind, hopefully, will be found at bedtime in my children's homes as they read to their own little ones. Maybe they'll let me join in on occasion and share in the magic, and maybe they'll read to me when my eyes grow too dim to make out the words. I hope so. I love books.
