NeuroDivine

A reflection on Kevin & Sadie, summer libraries, and the quiet gift of being readied for empathy

As a teenager, I fell in love with the Kevin & Sadie books—Joan Lingard’s tender, unflinching series set against the backdrop of a divided Belfast. In school, we read Across the Barricades, the second in the series, which follows the Protestant Sadie and Catholic Kevin as they navigate love, loyalty, and sectarian tension. But unlike most of my classmates, I had already met them before. I had read The Twelfth Day of July, the first book, thanks to a quiet act of generosity that shaped more than just my reading habits.

My maternal grandmother had been a children’s librarian, and her private library was a treasure trove. Each summer, when we stayed with her, we were invited into a world of stories—carefully curated, lovingly preserved, and freely offered. Her shelves held more than books; they held bridges. And The Twelfth Day of July was one of them.

Reading that first book gave me context—emotional, cultural, and relational. I understood Sadie’s family, Kevin’s world, and the simmering tensions that made their friendship so radical. When we read Across the Barricades in school, I wasn’t just following a plot—I was witnessing a continuation. I had already walked the streets they walked, felt the weight of their choices, and glimpsed the cost of kindness in a fractured world.

That early access shaped how I read, how I listened, and how I understood difference. It taught me that stories don’t just entertain—they prepare us. They ready us for empathy, for nuance, for the courage to see beyond the barricades, literal or otherwise.

I think often of my grandmother’s library. It wasn’t grand, but it was generous. It offered us the chance to read ahead—not just in books, but in life. And I’m grateful that The Twelfth Day of July was waiting for me there, quietly, faithfully, like so many of her books. It gave me a head start in understanding the world—and in believing that love, even across divides, is worth the risk.

A Thanksgiving for Catherine’s Library

Gracious God,
I give thanks for my grandmother Catherine—
for her quiet ministry of stories,
her shelves of wonder,
and her love of books for children.

Thank you for the worlds she opened,
the empathy she nurtured,
and the gift of reading ahead—
not just in pages, but in life.

Bless her memory,
her legacy of imagination and care,
and all who still find refuge
in the stories she once shared.

Amen.