Today's true story:
Almost every day, I read out loud to a group of kids. There are, occasionally, times when it feels almost pointless. More often, however, I see firsthand how the words I read can excite, inspire, and otherwise engage young lives. It is a great feeling to be a witness.
I saw a child, sitting alone, sadly, apart from her classmates. I stopped reading the book and, under the somewhat false pretense of "You all are being too noisy today and need to calm down," told the rest of the class to put their heads down. Then I sat by the girl and talked to her quietly. She lost a parent recently. There was a numbness in those innocent eyes that made me want to cry. What can you say to help someone in that situation? What is there to say? I had no words. I wanted to hug her but I was afraid - afraid of emphasizing her pain and her loss, and afraid I'd lose my composure if I followed my impulse. Weakly, I settled for gently patting her arm and murmuring, "I'm sorry."
We sat, facing each other across a table, for a few moments before another kid came up to me and told me someone else made a rude gesture. Why did I feel so relieved to get up and deal with a simpler problem?
Soon, I picked up the book and continued reading. I was disappointed in myself for a reason I can't, even now, fully explain. My voice nearly cracked as I was reading. I had to steal a few deep breaths, between sentences, to gather myself. Even then, a selfish thought floated into my mind: how embarrassing it would be if the children saw you cry!
I wish, sometimes, that I could be heroic. I wish that I could charm, comfort, and dazzle with my wit. Oh, how I wish my words could save a life. But they can't. They're just words. And most of the time, I don't have enough of the right ones anyway.
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