We've been having some very rough naptimes at our house lately. Miranda has suddenly decided that she'll only nap if someone is holding her in the rocker. Place her in her crib and she stands and yells and crawls around and screams... for over an hour if we let her go that long. It's pretty crazy.
So, on the days when I just can't fight that battle for that long, I get a glass of water and a good book, and gather up my girl and rock her while she sleeps. I'll read and just look at her sweet sleeping face. It's actually one of my favorite times of the day, after I've submitted to it. Billy and I are not exactly of the same mind about this situation, but we're doing the best we can.
On the way to the rocker yesterday, I grabbed our copy of The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. It's an amazing story about sheltering Jews in WWII Holland, and I'm not sure I've ever read it in its entirety. And I started to wonder, How did this book find its way into our house? Why did I get this in the first place? And I realized that I first read it (parts of it, anyway) as a child in Lubbock. There must have been a copy at my parents' house when I was young -- certainly before junior high. I started thinking about some of the books that I read (or began to read) during that time:
- Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin
- Anatomy of an Illness by Norman Cousins
- The Road Less Traveled by M. Scott Peck
- Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
I'm not sure that I fully understood any of these books at the time, but I had enough of a connection to want to return to them later in life. And I think I understood enough to be impacted by them, to be introduced to the themes of intelligence and human worth, and racism, and genocide, and spirituality, and optimism and inner healing. They sank roots into my heart and mind.
So, here's a big shout out to my parents, who had the good sense to fill their home with good books for us to discover. And here's hoping that the same thing happens with our little non-napping scrunchie.