A Love Letter to Libraries

In 2017, four days after moving to our new town in New York, I brought my two-year-old son to story time at the library. I was six months pregnant, my husband had just started his new job, and most of our belongings were in storage while we rented a furnished house.

I was overwhelmed. I was tired. I missed the friends I'd left behind in Virginia. But I took my son to the library because I knew it would be a cocoon. Libraries are always cocoons.

A half-hour later, after the most engaging story time I'd ever experienced, optimism surged through me. We could make a home here. We had made the right decision to move. Story time became a non-negotiable part of our week, a routine that buoyed and nurtured us through both of my children's preschool years.

One summer, at the library's annual book sale (a sprawling, beloved tradition in the community), I ran into the youth librarian. I'd known she was a kindred spirit since that first story time, but something clicked for both of us in that moment, and our friendship has since soared to beautiful heights. When she went on maternity leave, I filled in for her during story time. It was a thrill to be back in that familiar room, with memories of my own children's story time days swirling in the periphery.

My children are now in elementary school, and we visit the library nearly every week (multiple times a week during the summer). It's their happiest place in town, and I've loved watching them gain independence within its walls. They browse the shelves with confidence and ask the familiar staff for guidance whenever they're stumped. We're laden down with books when we leave, and they bury their noses in their new treasures for hours after we get home.

As chair of our library's Friends Committee, I get to do volunteer work with some of the kindest, most dedicated members of our community. We pull together the annual book sale, which spills across our Village Green. We spend three straight days helping our neighbors sift through thousands of books, all in the name of raising funds for the library that enfolds us. It's a tremendous undertaking, with months of work leading up to the big event, but it's worth every minute.

Libraries are so much more than buildings of books. They offer the world's knowledge, for free. Ours has board games, puzzles, movies, music, doll kits, telescopes, garden seeds, cake pans, museum passes, and so much more. Not to mention the events offered throughout the year, from food truck nights to stuffed animal sleepovers to book clubs. We even had a chance to pet baby goats at our library one summer.

Beyond their collections, though, libraries represent the best of us. My daughter and I had extra time in an unfamiliar town last week, in between appointments. We made our way to the local library, certain that it would be clean and welcoming. Sure enough, we spent a glorious hour playing games, playing pretend, and reading books. We filled our water bottles. We washed our hands. As we left, I told her, "All your life, remember that libraries are safe places. If you ever need anything, a library probably can help." She squeezed my hand and skipped a little, and we walked back to the car, our hearts lighter and our smiles wider.