I was three years old when my family first thought I could read. My parents and I had gone to visit my grandparents for the day. I, being a typical three-year-old, had wondered off to entertain myself. When my grandmother walked in to her bedroom, she found me holding my favorite book and “reading” out loud. She called for my parents to come quick as she ran to grab her camera. As she snapped pictures, my parents began to laugh. My grandmother did not understand why they had laughed until my mother began to explain that I was not really reading the book, but had memorized it. She took the book out of my small little hands, and I continued to recite the entire book from memory. I even paused in the places where the pages should be turned.
My love for reading must have come from my parents, because my dad would often read to me before bed. I would give him a stack of books that were my favorites for him to read. I remember him complaining that we had already read certain stories and he was sure I had other books to read. I would refuse a different book, and when he had read my favorite part, I would take the book out of his hands and tell him it was time for another story. There were many times that he begged me to let him finish the story, but I never let him (He recently admitted to me that he would take the books back to his room to finish them after I had fallen asleep.)
When my mother read to me she inserted my name in most of the stories. I was the heroine, which made me feel invincible. When I learned to read, I, sadly, learned that my name was not inside every book, like I had thought, but was hardly in any.
By the time I was really reading (and not memorizing) I was hooked. I would read every chance that I could get, in the car (which would explain why I never knew where I was when I started driving), on a boat, at the beach and even at softball tournaments. Reading was like breathing to me. I could not put a book down. It became so addictive to me that my mother would threaten to ground me from reading, if I did not hurry up, and put my socks on so we could leave. This threat was normally followed by the exclamation, “I am a horrible mother.” She never grounded me from reading but I was occasionally given "reading time limits."
As I grew older my love for reading expanded to where I was reading anything and everything I could put my hands on. By the time I was twelve I had read most of the "age appropriate" books in the library, plus most of C.S Lewis' works. My parents decided to have me enrolled in a high school senior English class, just to see if I could handle it. During that school year, I was introduced to classics such as Beowulf and The Epic of Gilgamesh. I liked all the stories, but I fell in love with mythology. I just loved seeing the different world views and finding elements that they took from the Bible and from history.
As the years have gone on my love for mythology has grown. I am probably the only college student who would get up super early on Sunday mornings before church (okay maybe it was just eight am, but still that is early) to talk with one of my friends who still believed in the gods about mythology. Through mythology I have been able to share what I believe with him (although he is is still not a Christian, he is beginning to ask more questions about God, and why I believe the Bible is true). Literature helps people to relate to one another regardless of religion or culture.
When I went to Africa, I taught English to Muslim children from ten to fourteen years old. The children loved stories and when I sat down I began to repeat the stories I had memorized from my childhood. I just loved watching their eyes light up as they heard about Peter Rabbit and Adam Raccoon. After I had finished telling all the fictional stories I could, and the children were still begging for more I was able to share stories from the bible to these Muslim children. I loved hearing the kids beg for me to tell the story of Jesus one more time. And as I did I realized that literature opens doors, because with out mythology, I would have never been able to speak to my friend about God. And without stories I most certainly would never have been able to teach those children in Africa about Jesus.
Great post!
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