Have you ever tried to take a blankie away from a toddler? It is no small feat. There’s sweat and tears, pleading, wailing and teeth gnashing. The kid doesn’t behave all that civilly either.
That’s because her lovey isn’t just a ratty, old, Cheetos-stained rag. To the child, a blankie is security, comfort and companionship. It’s a pair of familiar arms wrapped around her or a soft hand on her cheek. When you take away the blanket, you take away a sanctuary of sorts, a friend. Who wouldn’t throw a fit when that is snatched away?
I had a security blanket once. Only I wasn’t 3 years old, I was 34. And it wasn’t a blanket, it was book.
You see, my dear friend Cindy loaned me The Secret Life of Bees to read while I recovered from knee surgery. Three pages into the book, I fell in love – with the characters, the storyline, the setting. I knew it would keep me entertained throughout the entire ordeal.
I was buried in Bees while the nurses started the IV line, marked the correct knee, donned hair nets and generally fussed over me. I had to lay the book on my stomach so I could put on my own fluffy blue net of hairlessness. After removing my glasses, one of the nurses reached over to take my book. I shook my head and muttered “Nuh uh. We’ll just leave this right here.” Consulting each other with their eyes, the nurses left me and my Bees to fetch Dr. Nelson (not unlike two kids running off hollering “We’re gonna go get Dad!”)
Those two turkeys had already taken everything they could from me – my underclothes, my ring, my phone, my glasses, the freedom to wear my hair long and unrestrained. The only item I had left in that cold and lonely room was the little book Cindy loaned me. I wasn’t about to give it up to a couple of snitches or their dad.
Dr. Nelson returned with his two flying monkeys in tow and took a stab at grabbing the book. With an air of confidence he stuck out his hand and said “Ok, let’s get that book put away and we’ll take you down to the O.R.” That’s when I, a 34 year-old grown woman, threw a tantrum – complete with a knuckle-white death grip, an overly determined head shake and a “Nuh uh!” that really meant “I imagine you, as a practiced surgeon, value your hands. If that is the case, do not again attempt to remove this book from my possession.” They begrudgingly allowed me to keep it.
Now without my glasses, the book was no good for reading. But I held it tight and it was an absolutely perfect something-to-hold. The team wheeled my bed down a long hall into the operating room. I held the book to my chest the entire way – partly to curb my mounting anxiety and partly to prevent the cold breeze from blowing my gown up for all the world to see what I wasn’t wearing underneath.
In the O.R., the anesthesiologist noticed Bees and told me to give it up. Again, I shook my head, “Nuh uh.” (You know what they say about the terrible mid-thirties – you cannot reason with a 34 year old.) Momentarily ignoring my irrational attachment to the book, the doctor explained the reasoning behind the leads on my chest and breathing tube placer. They were there just in case I crashed under the anesthetics. I gripped that little book even tighter.
Sliding over onto the operating table, the nurses began their latest evil book-snatching scheme. Under the guise of gently strapping me to the table, an arm flew up out of nowhere and attempted to swipe my book! Surprised, but determined to not be bested, I firmly shook my head, “Nuh uh. Not.Yet.”
It worked! I temporarily won another 30 seconds of security with my beloved book.
Collectively, there must have been 100 years of education in that operating room and all of it conspired against me in the final attempt to win the book. The anesthesiologist and the conniving flying monkeys devised a brilliant plan. Feigning warm concern, the good doctor said “Ok, you breathe into this mask 3 times while I stand over here doing nothing in particular to your arm….doo dee dum dee dum…I’m not administering unconscious drugs or anything…”
In my heart of hearts I knew what they were doing. Even I had to admit brilliance when I recognized it. Since the guy literally held my life in his hands and I technically still had the book in mine, I obeyed. First breath. Second breath…I felt the book slip out of my hands. I attempted to shake my head “Nuh…” That was it. They won. My lovey was gone. So was I.
Anyone who knows me well can tell you I’m overly stubborn and highly independent. I never imagined I would need that kind of comfort, a lovey-like security object.
And I’m sure Cindy had no idea that’s what she was giving me when she loaned me her book. 
I imagine her thinking it was no big deal to grab a book for me on her way out the door. A small kindness. However, there is no such thing as a small kindness. In the fable about the Lion and the Mouse, Aesop reminds us “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” Loaning me her book may have seemed small at the time, but it meant the world to me.
I wonder if sometimes we think our modest efforts of kindness are meaningless, that they have no serious or lasting implications. I’m sure occasionally we feel discouraged as we give into the idea that we cannot change the world. That our small contributions are inconsequential or that we don’t have the time or means to be concerned for others. However, as a recipient of a multitude of little acts of kindness, I know that our seemingly small endeavors are more valuable than we imagine.
President David O. McKay spoke of the power of small and simple acts:
“There is no one great thing that we can do to obtain eternal life, and it seems to me that the great lesson to be learned in the world today is to apply in the little acts and duties of life the glorious principles of the Gospel. Let us not think that because some of the things named this afternoon may seem small and trivial, that they are unimportant. Life, after all, is made up of little things. Our life, our being, physically, is made up here of little heart beats. Let that little heart stop beating, and life in this world ceases.
The great sun is a mighty force in the universe, but we receive the blessings of his rays because they come to us as little beams, which, taken in the aggregate, fill the whole world with sunlight. The dark night is made pleasant by the glimmer of what seem to be little stars; and so the true Christian life is made up of little Christ-like acts performed this hour, this minute, in the home, in the quorum, in the organization, in the town, wherever our life and acts may be cast” (Conference Report, Oct. 1914).
I wonder if the post op staff knew that little gem because when I came around, they slipped book back under my arm. They didn’t give me my glasses because I didn’t need them – I wasn’t going to read again for hours. The worth of the book wasn’t in reading it, but in the book itself and what it represented. Those 302 pages held an emotional value that is still hard for me to put into words. Maybe its the idea that security objects are more than just their physical properties. What I didn’t want them to take away wasn’t the book, but the extension of the loved one who gave me the book.
And also, maybe I should apologize for calling my nurses conniving flying monkeys and thank them for eventually seeing the greater value of the book. And while I’m at it, I should probably apologize for threatening to bilaterally amputate my surgeon at the wrists. However, I would’ve allowed him to keep his woobie – that would’ve been the kind thing to do.
