Eleanor Johnson was the creator of My Weekly Reader, a journal that holds claim to as much influence on my life as the Encyclopedia Britannica or The Holy Bible. Of this I do not exaggerate. In fact, were in not for My Weekly Reader, I wonder if I ever would have been interested in the other two.

Can anyone my age forget the sense of excitement that rolled over the second-grade class like a wave every Friday afternoon? That was the time when we received our weekly edition...if we behaved. My very own, my very first subscription! Over 45 years later, I still remember the thrill that came to me as I taped my quarter and dime to the order form that must be returned by Tuesday.

My Weekly Reader, in the gentle hands of Eleanor Johnson, turned me into a voracious daily reader who subscribes to dozens of periodicals, a member of far too many book clubs and a loyal supporter of booksellers everywhere. Each time I remove a journal from its manila envelope or carefully break the binding of a new book, an unspoken and too often unfelt prayer is offered in gratitude.

A cautioning word here. The fact that one is an avid reader is certainly no guarantee of academic achievement or professional success. I have been devouring printed pages for nearly five decades with precious little financial reward or scholastic status. Oh, I love to read. It is just that I love to read what I love to read and not what someone else loves to read. It wasn’t until I was in graduate school for the second visit that I was able to match my love with a curriculum. I hope that isn’t a discouraging word to the more career-oriented students today.

I remember the only book I was forbidden to read. The Ninth Wave by Eugene Burdick. A less than memorable epic that is remembered only because one day a busybody neighbor of ours told my mother that 11 year-olds shouldn’t be reading such things. Mother, protecting her tenuous neighborly friendship, snatched the book from my hands. It was both a wise and foolish act. By her action, my mother immediately initiated in me a life-long aversion to censorship of any kind. It is a commitment that has been sorely tested in past years by the mindless drivel I found my own kids reading in the shadow of my cherished Shakespeare. My mother’s foolishness was confirmed by the eye-strain I received finishing The Ninth Wave under the covers and by flashlight.

I know that there are some who say that God speaks to them in a clear, articulate and audible manner. I will not question the validity of their claims nor challenge their psychological stability. I can only say that I feel fairly certain that God’s brief visits to me usually come in the silence of the written word. In the turn of a phrase or the presentation of a new and illuminating idea, there is a beauty unmatched by anything else in all my experience. It is a beauty that surely emanates from God.

Thank you, Eleanor Johnson, for igniting the spark that led to the lamp that has brightened my life in a myriad of ways. Oh, I suspect that I probably would have opened the gift sooner or later and entered the joy of reading but that doesn’t change the deep appreciation I feel for those Friday afternoons so long ago.