A year ago, when the world was in the throes of a pandemic, a mother sat with her child in her lap, reading her a bedtime story. It was a classic tale, one she had read many times before. She read it in a sing-song voice, her child’s face glowing with delight. This night, something was different. This year, the mother read a different story.
The story was about a Saint. It had been a long time since she had read a story of a Saint. But the mother thought that this one was especially important, especially for her child.
She read the Saint’s story with a solemn expression on her face. She read a story of a Saint who, like all Saints, knew the importance of prayer and of helping others. He was a Saint, she thought, who would be especially proud of her. After all, this was a story about a Saint who had helped others. What more could a child want from a story?
The mother kept reading. She finished the story, and her child was delighted. She praised her mother for her wonderful story, and thanked her for making her smile. In this way, a Saint storytime became the perfect way for the mother to end the night. A Saint storytime, the mother thought, would make everything feel right in the world.
The child lay in her mother’s lap, feeling comforted. She felt that it was a blessing, to learn about a Saint like this.
The mother kept reading, and the Saint kept listening. In this way, the Saint storytime would be the perfect way for the mother and child to end the night.
After the mother was finished reading, she closed the story book, and tucked her child in her lap. The child fell asleep, dreaming of the Saint and his stories. The Saint was a Saint, she thought, and the story was a story. She thanked the Mother for her storytime.
The child awoke in the morning, full of joy. She thanked her mother for reading her a story, and it felt like all the Saint stories had come true. She looked at her mother, who smiled back. The mother hugged her and praised her for reading a story, and the child felt that she was a Saint.
It was a Saint storytime, the mother thought, one that would make the world a better place. It was a Saint storytime, one that made her feel blessed. The Saint storytime was a blessing, the mother thought, and her daughter knew that it would be a blessing for the entire world.
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