One Book.

His name is Moses. Yet he told us he was not the one who came down the mountain with stone tablets. The children giggled nervously. Moses smiled a moonbeam across his midnight face.

His story was about a book. One book. (Funny how things unfold because of a book.) Uganda is his home, but he was far from it and visiting the church. The big one, downtown. The one filled with doctors and money, but open arms too. Generous wide arms. The one where sharing the peace lasted so long that "good mornings" became "good afternoons." Moses was here because of one of those peace sharers. 

He asked the fidgeting five-year olds if they had many books. Nods rolled round the pews. He told them that children did not have books where he comes from. Until now. Half the big blue world away, (Moses was kind enough to provide a large map at this moment and a little geography lesson) he worked with a family from this church and that one book grew to a library of 2,045. He told us when the shipment arrived the boys and girls peeked out the windows. Perched at the doorways. The teachers read book after book until their voices finally surrendered.

The day before our Moses encounter, my family stumbled upon a used book sale. My tykes of two and five were tossing books into the cart with toddler abandon. Absorbed in my own titles, I was surprised at the check-out counter when I pulled out such classics as I Can Smell Christmas and Camels: Ships of the Desert. They grinned zigzag smiles and I caved to the call of indulgence.

I have taken the books spilling off our shelves for granted these years long and I have seen them through new eyes. Those of a hungry caterpillar. Thank you, Moses. We will send you some soon.