Stories Matter- Part 1

He has brown eyes, deep like semi-sweet chocolate. They’re surrounded by thick dark lashes. It’s my first day subbing. I'm an aide and he looks at me with those eyes and says, “Teacher can I sit on your lap?” He has that little voice. My own kids have lost it, they’re little voices have been amended to sound more like the big kids at school.  I miss the days when they said “fum” instead of “thumb”. His toddler voice, unable to pronounce the words, pulls at my heart. Of course he can sit on my lap.

Soon the other students join us on the rug, and I have a little girl cuddled on the other side of me. The students sing, and talk about the weather, and move around. The little boy doesn’t want to move, he wants to sit in my lap.

“That’s normally not like him,” the teacher says.

He whispers to me, “Teacher, I don’t feel good.”

It’s time for a bathroom break. I walk with the girls, and help them wash their hands and get them lined up. There is a commotion down the hall at the boy’s bathroom. We enter the classroom and the teacher is holding paper towel. The little boy has vomited across the floor of the bathroom. The other students need their teacher, so I volunteer to go to him.

The boy is lying on the floor. He is pale and quiet. I scoop my arms behind him and help him sit so I can wipe the gooey liquid from his face, his hands, and his shirt. His mom will be there as soon as she can. We move into the hallway and the boy curls up in my lap with his head against my shoulder.

He starts to whimper, “I want my mommy.”

“Shh,” I say, “She’ll be here soon.”

We sit and he tries not to cry. I hurt for him; even though I’m in my twenties I still want my own mommy when I get sick. He moves a little so he can look up at me.

“Teacher, can you tell me a story?”

I smile a little. Only his mommy can truly comfort him. I’m not a doctor, and I can’t take the pain from his stomach, but I am a storyteller, and suddenly we are transported to a mountain and a boy and a tiger. The boy and the tiger are best friends and they are searching for a map that will lead them to a secret treasure. Time ticks, but neither of us knows it. Before we find the treasure, mom comes. The little boy smiles at me before he climbs into his mother’s arms.

I come home from work. I can still smell the vomit that soaked into my pants and sweater. The clothes can be washed, but the memory will linger on. My first day on the job, and I’m saturated in vomit. My first day on the job, and I learn God needs storytellers too.