Jannes and Jambres

Just as Jannes and Jambres opposed Moses, so also these teachers oppose the truth. They are men of depraved minds, who, as far as the faith is concerned, are rejected. But they will not get very far because, as in the case of those men, their folly will be clear to everyone. 2 Timothy 3: 8-9

We are living in perilous times and one almost always has to question and find different versions before settling for one’s truth. Fake news and disinformation is the order of the day and reality isn’t always clear. The internet, of course only exacerbates the problem and depending on who you follow, you and I could have opposite versions of the same matter, begging the question, “What is the truth?” If only things were right or wrong. True or false. Black or white!

Today however, my question was, “Who are Jannes and Jambres?”. I was reading the book that is the source of my truth. But how come I have never heard of these fellows? I thought I knew the story of Moses! You know, the helpless baby found floating in a basket on the River Nile by Pharaoh’s daughter? Brought up as an Egyptian Prince, later turned Pharaoh’s foe? The guy of the burning bush who delivered the Hebrews out of slavery? Not forgetting the plagues and parting of the Red Sea. The ten commandments. Oh! I even know his brother was Aaron and sister Miriam (I forget the parents’ names though). Who are these guys being associated with Moses?

Anyway, as any good student should do when faced with a challenge, I looked up Jannes and Jambres – thank God for the internet despite its fake news! By the way, I wish I was a student in this internet era! With just a click, you get so much information from varying sources than you know what to do with. It is a whole world of knowledge and my search for Jannes and Jambres did not disappoint.

Apparently, these guys were the Egyptian magicians/ sorcerers that tried to outdo Moses during the plagues. Paul who wrote the passage I was reading today must have been a pretty good Torah scholar to bring up their names even though Moses failed to mention them when he wrote the earlier account. Anywho, they were able to mimic the plagues of the bloody river and frogs but for some reason they were defeated by gnats (or lice) and could do no more. You might wonder, like I did, why they couldn’t manage gnats but their failure was such a let-down for Pharaoh who, out of frustration, eventually agreed to let the Hebrews go.

With that body of knowledge, I could now relate the fake news to Jannes and Jambres. These type of people are just hot air with no substance – they just create distractions from the real story, the truth. More like the ultracrepidarians I wrote about here. They will seem to be winning for a while, but their luck will eventually run out. Woe unto those who believe them! Woe unto you if you are a Jannes of Jambres! What you gonna do when there’s gnats all over?

My friend, do not wait for when your folly will be clear to everyone. Find the truth. There is only one truth, the One who says, “I am The Way, The Truth and The Life. Follow Him. Forget the likes of Jannes and Jambres!


Dear John

My friends and I have been studying the Gospel according to John for the past couple of months. We use the Bible app and the 10-part plan we were reading even had the movie, The Life of Jesus, as an accompaniment. It’s such a great way to connect every day, you should try it.

Anyway, today was the final day and the last verse of the biography of the Man Jesus by John, caught my attention. He wrote:

Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.

Hello! You didn’t live in the era of the internet, John. The internet affords anyone and everyone a voice. Look at me. Tucked in my corner here trying to shout myself hoarse! I bet if Jesus lived today, a lot more would be said about him. There would be cameras following his every move. We wouldn’t miss a detail. I noticed how you skipped some parts and I had to confirm with Matthew and Mark whether my mind was playing tricks on me. Really John? How could you not write about the Judas kiss in chapter 18? Or the fact that after Simon Peter had cut off the ear of the high priest’s servant, Jesus touched the man’s ear and healed him?

Anyway, with today’s keyboard warriors, every move would be documented. I would watch a TV show, A Day in the Life of Jesus. Who was healed today and how. What he told those two-faced Pharisees. Where his brothers and sisters are and what they are doing. What the eye witnesses to the five-loaves-two-fish miracle have to say about it. I can imagine CNN or Al Jazeera reporting the story of Lazarus being raised from the dead – Bethany Man “Resurrects” After Four Days! Movie makers would fall over each other seeking rights to the story.

Wait a minute! That already happened! Dear John, I’ll have you know that since you gave us the outline to the story of Jesus, there’s no one in history who has been discussed more, had more songs and books written about or inspired more artwork. And you were right, if every person who has been touched by Jesus were to write their story, even the internet couldn’t hold the many volumes.

I loved studying John’s gospel. You can tell by the way he writes that he was in awe of his master. He couldn’t help himself but keep writing about Jesus. No wonder he had to wrap it up the way he did. Steve Farrar in his book, Finishing Strong, said it better:

To tell the truth, John never got over those forty-two months with Jesus. Even when he wrote his gospel, he had a tough time ending it. How do you end a book about someone who has no end? How do you put a period on an infinite story?
John finally saw that he had to wrap things up, and it’s a good thing; otherwise you and I would be packing our Bibles around in a wheelbarrow. I’m guessing he scratched out these last words with a deep sigh.

Dear John, I am with you on this one. It is impossible to get over such an awe-inspiring Savior and Lord!

Positive Vibes

The first thing I read today was an email that ended up being one of those curveballs I was telling you about here. You know those ones that knock you off balance? I didn’t think I could master to write a word but, lo and behold! I had help from the most unexpected quarters.

About three weeks ago I got a copy of The Screwtape Letters a Christian apologetic novel by C. S. Lewis. I can’t quite remember how I first came across one of the letters but I was shocked that someone would take the trouble to impersonate the devil and try and live out his daily life. Even in writing. What shocked me more however, was to learn about the author, a man I often quote. And who doesn’t love The Chronicles of Narnia? Lewis brought to the world what is considered to be a classic of children’s literature. To imagine the two books were written by the same person? That’s one active imagination!

Back to The Screwtape Letters. The letters are theology in reverse and Lewis starts off in the preface, by warning readers to remember that the devil is a liar. Otherwise one might confuse the Enemy for Our father below! Screwtape is a senior devil who is mentoring his nephew, an inexperienced devil named Wormwood, on how best to tempt a man, only referred to as “the Patient”, into sin and eventually, into hell. The book is a collection of 31 letters from Screwtape in which he advises, encourages, admonishes and even rebukes Wormwood as he follows the Patient around on earth.

You may want to read the book for yourself and this is not a review, but when I started reading it, I couldn’t go beyond the first few letters. For some reason, I was conflicted – have I heard enough from the One above that I now want to hear what the One below has to say? Yet the book remained open on my laptop. Today though, maybe because that early morning email left me feeling screwed up, I found myself turning to the book. I am not sure what I was looking for but I needed a distraction. And there, in letter no. 6, I found positivity all wrapped up in such irony, that it is easy to miss it.

In his characteristic address, Screwtape begins the letter with My Dear Wormwood,

I am delighted to hear that your patient’s age and profession make it possible, but by no means certain, that he will be called up for military service. We want him to be in the maximum uncertainty, so that his mind will be filled with contradictory pictures of the future, every one of which arouses hope or fear. There is nothing like suspense and anxiety for barricading a human’s mind against the Enemy. He wants men to be concerned with what they do; our business is to keep them thinking about what will happen to them.

Friends, have you ever had a wake-up call after the wake-up call? I knew right there and then that I was playing into the tricks of Wormwood or whichever devil is assigned to me. There is no chance that I will called up for military service, but the uncertainty of my situation had me brooding most of the day; wondering how it will all play out, what my next course of action will be; while forgetting it isn’t my cross to bear alone. Screwtape continued to preach:

Your patient will, of course, have picked up the notion that he must submit with patience to the Enemy’s will. What the Enemy means by this is primarily that he should accept with patience the tribulation which has actually been dealt out to him—the present anxiety and suspense. It is about this that he is to say “Thy will be done”…It is your business to see that the patient never thinks of the present fear as his appointed cross, but only of the things he is afraid of. Let him regard them as his crosses…

It was a eureka moment. Sometimes you think you know things deeply, only to realize you don’t know a damn thing. And you never can tell where your next lesson will come from. Even Screwtape can be the source of positivity. Unknowingly of course seeing he delights in our misery. There’s a lightness in my spirit and I will endeavor to complete reading The Screwtape Letters.

Of Muggles and Mundanes

It’s been a while. But you know what? I will not even attempt to explain why. Just to say this writing thing is hard. Something else, I will not promise when next or how regularly I shall be here. I can only say, what will be shall be.

Muggles? Mundanes? Blame it on J.K. Rowling, she of the Harry Potter fame. And Cassandra Clare, another author who let her imagination run wild and pulled from the sorting hat, the Infernal Devices trilogy. I do not know whether it is mere coincidence that both authors are ladies (did I hear someone say women have runaway brains?) or that they are based in London (methinks the grey weather could make one escape into a magical world!). But what I know not to be a coincidence is that I have picked up both authors in the last couple of months.

I make it a habit to check out what my little avid reader Miss N, is consuming in her world of books. So when she borrowed Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone from the library and finished reading it in a day, I took note and later ‘borrowed’ it from her. I also quickly snatched up the second one, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Of course I had heard about the movies (now that I’ve read the book, maybe I will be brave enough to check out the movies too!) but had never paid much attention. To say that I was captivated, intrigued and thrilled as other millions of Harry Potter fans the world over would be an understatement. I found myself as a child (I guess children were the primary audience for Rowling), drawn to the fantastic, magical world of Hogwarts, the giant Hagrid and his pink umbrella (pink is for girls, right?), the post-delivering owls (they have nothing on our technology) and as a banker, I could not help but imagine myself as a goblin working at Gringotts Wizarding Bank (now that would be something to write about!).

I know you are sitting there reading this and shaking your head muttering…Yeah? Tell us something new! But guess what? This was new to me. And magical…I already said that, didn’t I? I will also let you know that I skipped forward to the seventh and final book in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (blame my impatience when the in-betweens were not readily available). Not Miss N though. She refused to cheat and waited until the in-betweens were available.  As I write this, she is immersed in the third or fourth book in the series.

The last weekend was school mid-term break. And true to character, Miss N came home clutching Cassandra Clare’s Clockwork Prince. Borrowed from a friend. The book’s dull cover illustration and confusing title (she’s at that age when boys are mentioned in every conversation with her friends) drew me to it. It did not disappoint. Tessa Gray’s world is as jam packed with action as Harry Potter’s. And as the title suggests, there is a charming prince, William Herondale. Together with the other Shadowhunters (half-angel-half-humans), they must fight the evil Mortmain a.k.a Magister who is hell-bent on destroying their world. The plot thickens with the Downworlders: vampires, werewolves, warlocks and fairies who can take either side. And of course, there are humans a.k.a mundanes.

By the way, this is no attempt to review either book, which I couldn’t anyway, given my limited literary knowledge. Which brings me to the subject of this post – muggles and mundanes.  Several questions have lingered on my mind as I read these books. What is the value I get out of them as a Christian? After all, does not the Good Book teach us to be discerning of the will of God, and only entertain our thoughts on what is good and acceptable and perfect? Am I, a Christian parent, investing right in my child’s life and education? Do I have to worry about Harry Potter being a bad influence? Or, will she identify herself as a human Harry and not the defenseless non-magic humans in the book, a.k.a muggles, and walk away with a better knowledge of how to persevere through hardship, sacrifice for loved ones, and empathy to friends in pain?

Ok. At least I told her she couldn’t read the Infernal Devices books, which I found to be inappropriate for her age. But I still am concerned about the moral lesson for you and I, the mundanes.

The good old wizard, Professor Dumbledore in Harry Potter observes that: “The trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them.” He reminds me of Paul, he of the Good Book, writing to the Ephesians and reminding them that they do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. Then there’s that nursery rhyme: “Be careful little eyes what you see…”. You get the drift?

Believe it or not, the muggles and mundanes are in most cases oblivious to the existence of these spiritual hosts that come so alive in both Rowling’s and Clare’s plots. Are we so naive as depicted? Given all the options available to us in the 21st century, do we make a conscious choice to go with what is good for us in the long run?

It is a good thing God finds both little and big ways to guide us into the straight and narrow path each day.  And to remind us of the power within us to choose what is good. For me, that lesson was today delivered by a presenter on Family radio this morning. He gave an illustration of a cop standing in the middle of a highway, waving down a giant 22-wheeler truck. He stands there knowing very well he has authority and the law on his side. Authority given by the highest level of government and the driver (if he knows what’s good for him) will have no choice but to apply his brakes and pull over to the side. Any other person attempting to mimic the cop runs the serious risk of being run over or being driven straight to a madhouse (a.k.a St. Mungo’s in Harry Potter or Silent City in Infernal Devices).

Do we,  as Christians, truly  understand our God-given authority? The authority that Paul referred to, again in Ephesians that: “…is like the working of his (God) mighty strength, which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly realms, far above all rule and authority, power and dominion…”. The power that should propel us to swim against the strongest current and to stand as a rock in matters of principle?

I hope to teach my children these truths and pray that they will be revealed to them when they need them.  When they go through life where I will not always be present to tell them what or what not to read. 

That they may know neither muggle, mundane, mortal nor any principality, power, ruler of this wicked age has authority over their actions. That they have the power of choice. Eureka, eureka! I got it. The purpose of this post, that is. Which is to let you, dear Muggle a.k.a Mundane, know that you have the P.O.W.E.R of choice.


For the love of Economics

Some free advice to all freshmen in colleges.

Especially the fresh-faced young girls from county schools who are all too eager to get an education and prove to the world that the place JAB offered them was well deserved. Danger lurks. Even with all your good intentions. Danger lurks. Do not for one minute think that since you attend all your classes, go to the library in the evening, do all your assignments on time, after which you head straight to your room, have dinner then read some more before turning in, that you are safe. No. The fact that you are not one of those girls whose sole aim of being in campus is to have unbridled, endless partying does not exempt you from danger.

It sucks, doesn’t it?

You watch them in fascination. Wondering who bore them. They are in your face every single day. With their loud behaviors who would miss them? They treat the hostels as their palace. The rest of you are the Royal domestics. It’s unfortunate the janitor when allocating rooms did not check the students’ backgrounds.  So you are stuck with one of such girls for a roommate. To make matters worse, you are taking the same course. Which means you are the official Note Taker. This roomie of yours has no idea where to find the lecture hall for Communications 101, a mandatory class for all first years. But she knows the lecturer by his first name. Never mind that in a class of over two hundred regular attendant students, that you have never missed and in which you always secure a front row seat, you have never conversed with the young, swaggerific lecturer that most girls swoon over. When exams are around the corner, your roomie for once struts into your side of the room and borrows your notes.  To your dismay, they lie untouched on her table and she does not return them to you. And when you ask for them two days later, she asks if you could please photocopy them for her. She even shoves  a two hundred bob note into your hands and say you can keep the change. You know how far that kind of cash will take you. So you take it, photocopy the notes and place them on her table hoping she will find them some time.

But this is not about your roomie. It’s about danger. And Economics. Not the subject – no! The Elements of Mathematical Economics that the good old Professor Mukras or the Economic Theory taught by Dr Samanta, while still somewhat relevant  in my day-to-day life have been overtaken by other interests. This post is about loving your books too much that you fail to acknowledge the changing circumstances that you are now thrust into. Circumstances that are very different from the sheltered life you knew in high school especially if your school was like mine. With nuns hovering above like a helicopter, it was impossible to even raise the tiniest spec of dust without being caught. And during those four years, you developed a highly disciplined, strong values and morals character that you expected everyone in the real world to abide by.

My love back then was Economics. A love affair that was kindled by two Ugandan teachers back in the nun’s orchard. Mr Bite, Sir! who probably loved the queen’s language more than he loved economics, and Mr Busiku whose burst of laughter could make the strictest nun lose her veil for a moment. It is the same laughter and mirth injected into the Business studies lesson that made most girls, yours truly included, make it a choice subject in the final K.C.S.E. exams.

The simple Demand & Supply and Markets & Prices theories taught back then ignited a thirst for more knowledge about making choices. And when the time came to study the subject at the grand, awe-inspiring, resplendent higher learning institution that is The University of Nairobi, I put my all into it. I followed the timetable, attended all lectures, all along carrying my books in that infamous academic angle. I knew what had brought me to this big city, and nothing would persuade me otherwise.

I have said before that I have a phobia for libraries. And for an academic hoping to excel, that does not augur well. Back then, computers were rare and research was done using real, paper books; voluminous texts that you obtained from the Jomo Kenyatta Memorial library at the main campus. And the lecturers shocked, nay, scared us that without reading the many books they recommended at the end of each lesson, there would be no passing exams. And I had not come this far to fail my first exam in campus. No, Sir! This megalibrophobia (the fear of libraries until I am educated otherwise), coupled with the fact that before the lecturer could pronounce the author of The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, some able bodied souls were already sprinting to gather the few copies available in the library, meant I had to devise other means of acquiring this knowledge.

The opportunity presented itself unexpectedly one day. A green-horn friend of mine decided we could still try our luck in the library. We had an assignment to complete and things were thickening as the first batch of CATs were just round the corner. It was my first time to set my foot in that place and the sheer size of it was enough to put me off. We didn’t know where to begin and the cataloging system my friend’s roommate had tried to explain seemed too complicated. So we stood outside wondering whether to drop our bags and get in or not. And that’s when Isaac (let’s call him that because I cannot be sure the name he proffered was his real name) came along.

The thing with most freshmen in campus is that they can be noticed from a mile away. It must be the air around them that forms a halo around their heads. Isaac was the kind with tiger eyes and could see the light of the halo shining through the darkest night, better than Knowles. He introduced himself as a fourth year student at the university’s Kikuyu campus and promised he would get us the book we needed. We made plans to meet in two days’ time, hike a ride on the university bus to his campus, collect the book, and hike a ride back to the main campus. It was all too simple.

When the deal is too good, think thrice! Like why would he not bring the book to you if he’s coming your way, anyway? Was he listening to your conversation to know the book you needed? And why was he too eager to help two strangers? These are questions the two greenhorns in this case did not ask, or even think about.

On the appointed Tuesday, Isaac, like clockwork was waiting at the appointed meeting place this time with his friend. With a bunch of other campus students, my best friend and I got on the bus which left for Kikuyu campus at about 5 pm. This meant dusk was quickly gathering in by the time we got to Kikuyu campus and between being ‘entertained’ with a cup of strong tea in their room (they were roomates apparently, or one roommate had been exiled – difficult to know), going for dinner in the Mess and the make-believe that someone was bringing the book from wherever, the clock struck 10 pm. By then, we learnt the bus had already left for the main campus at 9 pm and there were no other means of transport back.

The short of this tale is that, that was the night I could either have been a murderer or an accomplice to murder. A simple nail clipper can be a real weapon, girls – always have one in your bag!  We survived the night unscathed and 5.30 am found us at the Serena bus-stop heading back to our hostels. And made a pact to never talk about that night. Since I have not been in touch with my friend for a very long time to ask for permission to break that pact, I will leave it at that. The fact that no newspaper had headlines screaming, UNIVERSITY STUDENT FOUND DEAD IN CAMPUS ROOM, is testament that whereas blood was spilled, no further damage was done.

Be warned. Danger lurks in the least expected places!



Avid Reader

Last Saturday, my pre-teen daughter scooped the Avid Reader award in her class. It got me nostalgic about my younger days. Man! Did I read? I must have read every single book and scrap of paper I could lay my hands on. Nothing escaped my prawling eyes. If it was legible and not in the greek alphabet, I read it. Never mind the time or place. I read while eating. I read when holding the baby. I read when walking. I read when sleeping…well, almost. I read in the toilet – the newspaper cuttings had one last chance to serve their pre-destined purpose before being softened for other use and thrown into the sewer never to be seen again. My mother knew better than to send me to fetch something near books. Ten minutes later, she would still be waiting as I travelled to wherever the first page of whichever book that I laid my hands on took me.

I do not remember when I started reading newpapers. Maybe as a five or six year old. My father who was the only one who bought newsapers worked away from home and only came around on weekends. Mother had enough on her hands taking care of five, six or seven children to be bothered with newspapers. However, the Saturday or Sunday newspaper Father brought home was mine for the rest of the week. I devoured every page. Trying to understand the meaning of some news too complex for my mind. Like when the first President, Jome Kenyatta died. Thanks to a lack of television sets, the adults huddled around the one copy of newspaper available for information. When they were done, I picked it up, trying to piece together who and what they were brooding about. That particular time is still etched in my memory because I knew more about the Kenyatta International Conference Center (KICC) than the man himself. You see, I was privileged to have accompanied my father to Tin Tin restaurant on the KICC grounds where an uncle worked. And we had taken a most-prized photo (not the kind where you touch the top of KICC) but one near the fountain with the old man in the background. In my mind, I could not reconcile the death of that magnificient building that I had not too long ago traversed its grounds!

On regular days, the newspaper leisure page was my favorite and there began my addiction with Andy Capp (cannot believe Daily Nation has been running that strip for this long!) and crossword puzzles that continued right through my adulthood, or at least upto motherhood. But the most hilarious experience must have been reading a blood-stained newspaper that had been used to wrap meat! Deputy President’s infamous remark that newspapers are only good for wrapping meat had some truth, after all! I wonder whether that still happens…

Anyway, our butcher back then had no qualms wrapping meat in newspapers. I remember him so clearly now. He was as famous as he was short. Wanjahi (may his soul rest in internal peace), for that was his name, was the sole distributor of meat in my locale for as long as I can remember. He was a master of his trade and the way he weighed the meat was a lesson in science. The weighing scale was of course the traditional type that came with separate weights. You put the desired weight on one side and the meat on the other. Now, Wanjahi did not not need to cut the meat twice trying to make the scale balance. No sir! He knew precisely the size that would match your preferred weight of meat. One chop and voila! The scale would agree with him. Never mind that more bones than you bargained for would find their way into your meat if you zubaad for just a bit! But I digress…

Once home, the chore of removing the pits of paper stuck on the meat began. One by one. Sometimes I was lucky to salvage the pieces of newspaper before Mother threw the whole lot into the fire, or the big black cat ran away with a big piece to find its luck. Other times, Wanjahi would have been generous in wrapping the meat in extra pages of Taifa Leo or Kenya Times, which meant more bloodstain-free pages. When all the newspaper evidence had been done away with, the task of cutting the meat began. My sister or I would hold the meat as Mother cut it into smaller pieces (no chopping board business here!) Woe unto me if I was holding the meat and reading the newspapers from the side. I would get distracted but a whack on the wrist (with the blade of the knife) would bring me back to the present! That would work for a while before my eyes were lured yet again to the newspaper. And again and again. And the whack would work each time. Again and again!

I had my share of storybooks to read but not as many as I would have liked. I must have re-read King Solomon’s Mines and Treasure Island enough times because they are the only ones I now remember. That was until I joined high school and I was introduced to the fantasy world of Mills & Boon. Which begs the question, “How did a Catholic, girls only school, run by strict nuns of the Precious Blood order allow such books on its library shelves?” I am not complaining though. A dose of romance to estrogen-filled teenage girls was perhaps the best medicine. I had enough romantic escapades courtesy of Mills & Boon than I care to remember. Wait! I even started writing one myself. I titled it Too Hot to Handle! I only wish I hadn’t been too afraid to be discovered to keep the manuscript…

Anyway, Sister Claire (God rest her soul, too!) was the minder of the hallowed ground that was the library. And, Oh! what a meticulous job she did! She was a no nonsense, sharp-tounged, old Goan lady in her early seventies. Or late sixties. It was hard to tell her age but to a teenager, she seemed really old! She didn’t hesitate calling those of us from the village who had trouble constructing proper English sentence ignorant dimwits! Her house rules were engaved in stone, not to be broken. For one, there was no wearing sweaters while going to the library no matter the weather (maybe so we could not sneak out a book). You had to walk in a single file when it was your class’s turn to the library. No running and no dragging of feet (you walked swiftly but orderly, like a lady!). No conversing. You picked your book, headed to her table where she stamped it and entered the details in the catalogue. All in silence. Her books were to remain in mint condition and if you were unlucky to drop one, you earned a lifetime ban from her library. Sr Claire, a teacher, a counsellor! She taught me to respect books, to embrace them, to view them in awe. But she also planted in me the fear of libraries. That fear is a story for another day.

Today, I am fascinated how my daughter shuts all out when engrossed in a book. Hell could open up its womb and she would fail to notice. The Queen could walk through the door and she wouldn’t as much as give her a glance. The power of a captivating story, read rather than seen or told! Hubby got the children membership in a library where she has exhausted all her age-appropriate books. Time and again, they have had to buy new books when she could not find any to read. According to her, she cannot fall asleep unless she is reading a book and I have to remember to pass by her bedroom each night to remove the book from her face! I understand. I know how powerful a force it can be. The force of a book beckoning you to read it!

I am the proud mother of an avid reader. Proud that the reading culture in me lives on. Proud that I have someone to discuss books with in the house. Proud that when I buy a book, I keep it for my daughter to read when she is old enough. Proud to watch a movie or a play based on a book we have both read. If only her siblings could catch on….