Power of Words

It is Sunday afternoon. Summer break is almost over, and the pandemic has kept us from going on any vacations or taking the fun day trips we would have usually taken. But today is beautiful, and the warm-but-not-hot afternoon stretches before us, full of promise and puffy clouds and soft breeze. It is enticing and impossible to resist.

We load the car with books, masks, sunscreen, and sneakers, and we set off for a nature trail. We have never been to this one, but it’s about an hour from our house--long enough to feel like we’ve been somewhere different and also isolated enough that we should be pretty safe wandering the paths. My daughter is elated. Like me, she adores traveling, and any tiny drive this summer has made her feel more normal.

We drive through the sunny afternoon, talking of memories and basketball and the silly names of the communities we pass. Finally, we pull into a side-road parking strip that is more full of cars than we would like. We debate and decide to give the wide paths a shot, so we unload, borrow my sister’s bug spray (we brought plenty of books but no bug spray), and follow my sister, who has met us there, down the first path.

Our feet have barely hit the trail when my son bursts into tears. His stomach hurts, he says, and he can’t do this. His face has turned pale, and he is gasping through his tears.

I hang back with him and take his hand. He thinks he won’t throw up, but I’ve heard that before, right before my shoes are covered in vomit. I put my arms around him and breathe with him, in and out, and the breathing slows the tears. 

He wants to go on and have the adventure. He loves nature trails and thinks he will be okay. He and I walk slowly, behind the others, dropping farther and farther behind. I point out tiny purple flowers and twisted branches that look like snakes. It’s no good. His stomach continues to hurt, and having been through stomach issues with him before, I call to everyone else. We have to go back. 

His sister is disappointed. He tells her he is sorry, and he leans his head against the seat and closes his eyes. Of course we are nowhere near a bathroom, so I put a reusable grocery bag in the floorboard beneath his feet and instruct him to throw up in there if he needs it. 

Sitting seems to help his stomach, and soon he pulls out one of his books and passes it up to me, asking if I will read to him. I hold the heavy book up so he can see the pictures and flatten my hand over the smooth pages. It is Weird Al: The Book, and my kids and husband are huge fans.

I read this book out loud most of the way home, pausing to run through captions and tweets embedded in the text. My daughter laughs at some of the satire--she’s old enough now to get it--and my husband chuckles. Then I hear my son snort, and I glance into the backseat to see his eyes wide open, his color back, and his head leaning forward to see the giant picture.

I have been a reader for my whole life, but the magic stories have never fails to amaze and delight me. This particular story was the tale of Weird Al’s life, tracing his background and interests and successes mixed with failures. It made a celebrity, whose music my son had been playing as he fell asleep at night, seem human and relatable. It made Weird Al seem like anybody else--at least, anybody else who played an accordion.

There is such power in words and in the stories we choose to tell with them. They take you out of your stomachache, out of your disappointment, out of your worry. They help you imagine new dreams. They remind you life is bigger. They can lead you into the divine grace that connects us all and help you start to imagine your spot in the middle of it. 

And, as is the case with Weird Al: The Book, they can make you laugh, which is its own particular kind of magic, and may be the kind we most need. 

On Thursdays I share writing at Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog. Join me?