reading together

I believe it was C.S. Lewis who said that we read so we know we're not alone. After three rich days at one of my all-time favorite events, The Festival of Faith and Writing, I also believe that we read for hope and possibilities and to remember things we thought we'd forgotten. I believe we read to connect, to find a break in our loneliness, to hold our collective breath as authors and poets and characters swim through pain to beauty and survive.

Reading together has become as essential as teeth brushing in this house. Last night as we closed the cover on the last book in the Magic Treehouse series, I sat in awe that I have read Liam nearly 50 chapter books in the past year. Although I longed for a read-aloud bedtime ritual long before I had someone to read to, I think I underestimated how much I would crave this time. It's one thing to have a warm little body snuggled next to you, but to hear him gasp or laugh as you bring language to life elevates the moment to something holy.

There's a poignant NY Times essay about a father and daughter who kept up their reading together for years and years without a lost night, until the streak came to a reluctant yet necessary end. I admit it, I welled up at the end of this piece. The idea of not reading together now that we're into it seems unimaginable. I like to envision a lifetime of nights snuggled in bed sharing sword fights and secret gardens and talking mice. But some day I know it will end.

The beautiful part is that the reading never does. Liam will forever know where to go so he knows he's not alone. He'll know where to find hope and possibilities and how to remember things that didn't seem important to remember. When he experiences heartache, as he inevitably will, he'll find that story can show him what to do with it.

I've been thinking lately that it's no surprise Jesus is called "the Word made flesh." It seems pretty obvious to me that God comes to us as a living story. After all, he is where we come to connect, to find a break in our loneliness, to swim through pain to beauty and survive.

And, so, of all the things I wish for my son, it's that he will always turn to story, to mystery and wonder and hope and possibilities; that in darker times, he will move from captivity to restoration like all great characters do; that he will find the Word made flesh wherever he tucks his bookmark; and that someday he'll have a warm little body snuggled next to him eager to listen as he, too, passes on this awesome gift.