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Engraved On The Pages Of Life by Betty King

My youngest child was entering school. It was time for me to branch out. I felt I needed to become more than Bill's wife, and the Mother of our four children.

It was time for me to find a job.

It was that point in my life, I needed to contribute to the expansion of myself, to the family income, and perhaps to the future of the next generation - beyond my own children.

I would find a job from which I could be home when my kids were home from school. I wanted to work, but not jeopardize
my family's happiness. I could do it, I was sure.

Like any women on a mission, I began my quest. I took a brush-up course in typing, then applied for and became a library clerk in the grade school system.

Books! I would be carding, checking, labeling, shelving, reading and stacking books. My job would be to help children select and check out their selections. I'd be in charge of bulletin board displays, enticing youngsters to read books educators deemed enjoyable, entertaining and educational.

Reading selections to the youngsters, as their classes took turns in the library, would be another responsibility I knew I would enjoy. I'd help educate the students while they were in my charge by putting them in contact with the printed pages. I was to help expand their minds.

Those were to be my duties, as they were explained to me.

"Your job category also includes lunch room duty," I was told.

"Lunch room duty?" There was not one book in the lunchroom, not one!

I soon learned there was more to the job than checking out books and keeping down food fights in the cafeteria.

There was the child that always hung out at my desk; the kind of child who needed to know that you knew he (or she)
was there.

I often wondered and worried about some of the children's needs. Some seemed to require more attention than the average child. What were they lacking in their home life? Was there anyway I could provide that which they needed?

There was the child that hunkered in the corner and tried to disappear not speaking unless spoken to, and then only the words that were necessary. What issues was he facing in his life, I wondered? Was there any way I could help him escape from his shell?

There was the boy who talked loud and continually, disrupting the class. It must be the only way he could attract attention,
I surmised. I wondered why. How could I help him quiet down without snuffing out his spirit?

I'll never forget the little children who, I was sure, came to school without bathing, day after day. My heart ached for their needs. What must their circumstances have been? That and other questions traveled home with me every night.

When I bathed my own children before putting them to bed, I couldn't help but think about the needs that must be in other homes in our community. How could I help fill the void of neglect for other children without stepping on their pride, their self-esteem and embarrassing them?

Then there was the emotional disturbed class which descended on me for their time in the library. They would sometimes be accompanied by their teacher, and other times not.

It was not always easy controlling those children or their problems, for me or for them. I often found myself thinking about them, long after suppertime, when I talked with my secure children about their day at school.

There were so many children with so many problems. I did not have a degree that would allow me to delve into their
minds. My heart only qualified, and it, too, seemed inadequate as I embraced all that my eyes observed.

There was the youngster large in his build, lost somewhere in his mind; it was impossible to reach him, though I tried. What mysteries lay hidden inside, I wondered? Would he ever be able to escape?

When I reached out to help, he only seemed to withdraw all the more. I, too, grew lost trying to find him as he hid behind the mask that he wore.

There was the little boy who was mischievous, always in trouble, but everyone liked him. I talked to him, trying to encourage
the wonderful lighthearted side he possessed. My reward was his smile. He, too, touched a special place in my heart.

But I worried about him. Would he rise above the place in which he found himself? He was black; could he get past the color issue he so often faced? I knew he'd always be confronted with those who could not see the fact that hearts do not possess the color spectrum. God made hearts all the same color.

After a year and a half, I was diagnoses with Multiple Sclerosis and reluctantly gave up my job. That was more than thirty years ago.

I will never forget the privilege I had working with children. I was honored and blessed, and I hope I made a difference in
some child's life that year and a half I spent in the school library. I have, in the years that have passed, occasionally met up with some of those former pupils.

"Hi, Mrs. King," they say with a note of recognition. Yes some do remember me.

While I worked in the school system, I handled many books. I don't remember many of the book titles, but each child
is forever engraved on my heart and my mind.

I believe it was me who was taught during that period of time I worked in the school library. Some things I learned
literally broke my heart.

Knowledge and wisdom are often not found in books, but are engraved on the pages of life.

Betty King [email protected]
Copyright @ 2004

Betty is an author, freelance writer and newspaper columnist and speaker. www.BettyKing.net

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