A hushed silence falls over my classroom. My thumb sinks into the pages’ seam. I tuck the comprehension strategies bookmark in front of the back cover of E.B. White's Charlottes's Web and read. “Do you understand how there could be any writing in a spider’s web?” “Oh, no,” said Dr. Dorian. “I don’t understand it. But for that matter I don’t understand how a spider learned to spin a web in the first place. When the words appeared, everyone said they were a miracle. But nobody pointed out that the web itself is a miracle.” “What’s miraculous about a spider’s web?” said Mrs. Arable. “I don’t see why you say a web is a miracle–it’s just a web.” “Ever try to spin one?” asked Dr. Dorian. I delight in introducing my students to characters like Fern, an eight-year-old girl who listens to animals; Wilbur the pig who doesn’t want to die; and Charlotte the barn spider who spins words into her web. Will she save Wilbur from becoming the Christmas ham? Through Dr. Dorian and Mrs. Arable’s dialogue, I lead a discussion about the beauty in ordinary things and ask, “Does growing up mean one must lose their imagination?” Teacher-led lessons need to be short in elementary school. A child’s focus lasts about ten minutes. When they tip their heads backwards Cirque-du-de-Soleil style to poke the friend behind them, it’s time to stop teaching and start doing.
Stories are different. After twenty minutes of reading, I close the cover to a cacophony of responses. “Noooooo.” “Read one more chapter.” “Pleeeeeaaaase!” Children love to be read to--to abandon the hard work of decoding visual cues, phonics, and word patterns. For a moment, they suspend disbelief and trust the storyteller. I pull a navy-blue novel off the shelf while visiting my parent’s house. The cover is rough and gritty. If I tug on it too much, it might disintegrate. I smile at the web of creases and folds that spread in every direction across the surface. I don’t remember the plot, the characters’ names, or even the central conflict. A battle scene flashes in my mind– wolves, rabbits, blood and snow. That’s it but imperceptibly the slow cadence of my dad’s reading voice plays back to me. I see the flawless book cover on the nightstand and relive my sister and my pajama races to hear the next chapter. Our eyelids close heavy with sleep as he reads. Stories can contain love in profound and mysterious ways. I wonder how much my students understand when I read. At seven or eight years old, they can’t independently spot an allusion, metaphor or simile. Most struggle to spell, capitalize and use end punctuation. Listening expands their imagination but to listen well requires instruction and practice. In University, I took an English literature seminar that assigned a weekly poetry analysis. Panic set in because I didn’t understand poetry. But over the course, I improved. I learned to read a piece once and then again and again. I circled repetitions, alliteration, assonance and internal rhyme. These skills became almost automatic but, to be honest, the workload burned me out. One can kill a beautiful thing with too much dissection and didactic instruction, no matter how good. I know what it’s like to twist and turn unable to listen. This was especially true about my faith. The more I forced it or engaged in theological arguments, the angrier I got. The real and difficult traumas in my story paralyzed my imagination. Like Mrs. Arable, I stopped seeing miracles, regular or otherwise. Is the Bible an instruction manual I keep reading wrong? It certainly seemed that way. “Why are you yelling at us?” The voice sprang out of the congregation. I turned to see a man standing square to the shocked-silent preacher. When no answer came, the church member wiggled himself out of the middle pew seat and walked out. The pastor continued. I resonated with the brave and disruptive exit. My husband and I stayed until the service ended but we didn't come back. Jesus challenged those in power but he drew in the crowds with story (and miraculous healings). Perhaps, he knew delivery matters and that calloused hearts require time to soften, see, hear, understand and turn. In my mid-twenties a friend invited me to a living room read-aloud of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. If you haven’t read it, do. It’s heartwarming and hilarious. The reader happened to be the pastor of a local church. A few decorations lit the space. Guests filled every nook and cranny. With little fanfare, the pastor crossed his legs, sat in his armchair and began to read in a calm, steady voice, “The Herdmans were absolutely the worst kids in the history of the world.” The story was new to me but seemed a tradition to many. The pastor read for an hour before breaking for tea and snacks. In the second stretch his voice grew raspy from overuse. After a sip of water, he carried on to an inspiring finish. The story caught me but the general atmosphere even more—the room full of adults eager to listen; the pastor who read rather than old-school preached; the jovial laughter that erupted at every humorous line. It wasn’t overly spiritual. My anger and questions persisted but, for a moment, I wished the night might last longer. Stories create room for change and connection. Years later in a new church, my perspective on faith and scripture will shift. Healing tears will fall as I listen to Peter’s life story. An Exodus sermon series will reintroduce me to God’s justice and goodness. Joy will surprise me in the midst of heavy sorrow as I read Philippians with others. The practice of Lectio Divina and Listening Prayer in new friends' living rooms will teach me to listen. To listen for the One who listens first and longs to heal deep wounds. In truth, I have too much left to learn. As I start to study scripture with intention and wrestle with what it means to follow Jesus, I’m grateful God is a good father and the Holy Spirit a patient teacher. When I grow tired, I’m invited to pause, sit in the backyard and listen like a child. Maybe I’ll spot a spider spin her web and relearn over and over again that miracles occur every day. First published in Collected Magazine's Story issue. Click here to explore in full.
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Chavon BarryChavon is a new writer from Victoria, British Columbia. She wrestles with simple answers and is learning to listen, to be still with God. Archives
April 2022
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