COLUMN: Don’t Mind the Mess – Time enough at last

Have you read a good book lately?

I really hope so.

I’m a lifelong bookworm. I could read long before I started school, and nothing made me happier than a well-written story. Even chocolate can’t compete, although the two definitely go well together.

I think God should have created an eighth day, devoted exclusively for reading.

My favourite books are the ones I stumble upon in second-hand shops, with that beautiful musty scent, and there’s an unknown name inscribed inside the cover. I imagine who this person is, and what she learned from those pages. I have to do a bit of sleuthing, but I always know the right book is there, patiently waiting for me to find it.

This passion for print was fostered by my mother.

My earliest memories are of her, tucked away in her favourite chair or quietly parked at the kitchen table, stealing a few precious moments alone with a book, magazine, or any other printed material she could get her weary hands on.

As a busy farmer’s wife with seven kids, finding the time to just sit and read was a stolen pleasure. She had to wait until my dad and siblings were all preoccupied, and whatever relentless household task could wait.

We interrupted her constantly, needing this or that. And since my dad was not a reader, he didn’t understand how anyone could get so wrapped up in it.

He didn’t realize that she needed those regular little escapes from the constant demands of life, where she could find herself in a world of new places and unknown friends and recharge her spirit.

Later, after we all grew up, and my dad went to Heaven, she once again found solace in her old friends – the ones who had been there for her since she was little: her books.

My mom didn’t just read books; she devoured them. Even on the day she died, there was a stack of them beside her door, waiting to be returned to the local library, in exchange for another stack. And if there’s a library in the Hereafter, I’m sure my mom has already foraged through all the shelves.

I vowed that I would never let my life become too busy for books, but I broke that promise the day the doctor said, “It’s a boy!”

I resonate with an old Twilight Zone episode, about another bookworm.

The story features a guy named Henry Bemis who loves to read. The only problem is that he can’t find the time or the place to enjoy his pastime. At work, his boss lets him know in no uncertain terms that he is not to read during working hours. At home, his shrewish wife won’t even let him read a newspaper, let alone a book. One day, he sneaks down to the vault in the bank’s basement to read a bit and suddenly, there is a huge explosion above. He emerges to find the world destroyed in a nuclear holocaust.

Dazed, he wanders around, confused and lost. To his delight, among the dust and rubble, he stumbles upon piles and piles of books, strewn about from a shattered library. Henry squeals with joy. Finally – time enough at last! Except for one small unintended event. As he scrambles through the piles, he accidentally breaks his glasses.

Maybe what Henry is teaching us, and what my mother taught me, is that we shouldn’t put off the things that bring us joy. Time doesn’t always wait for us to find it.

I’m staring at the unread stack on my night table. The dusty, loaded bookshelves in my office. And the unread, overdue library book on my counter. If they could talk, they’d probably say, “What are you waiting for?”