You Are Special

The title has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, doesn’t it? But this remains a book with a “special” place in my heart.

I bought it for my oldest, now 10, when she entered nursery school at age 4. I was thinking it was her first experience in a social setting with other kids, and this would help prepare her for the sometimes cruel ways people can behave. (Yes, I’m a cheerful person, aren’t I?) It’s become a family favorite, though we forgot about it till this week.

I have a feeling it’s one of those books people know of, but I’ll give a brief synopsis anyway. It’s about a village of wooden creatures called Wemmicks. They’re made by Eli, a woodworker who lives on a hill overlooking the village. And they go around rating one another constantly:

All day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of gray dot stickers. Up and down the streets all over the city, people spent their days sticking stars or dots on one another.

The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars. But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks gave dots.

Sounds like human behavior. Especially like online behavior. I’ve been aware lately of how much human relationships are quantified and simplified down to likes, fans, subscribers, pageviews, facebook or google friend counts. What are these badges and brandings other than “stars and dots”? What do they ultimately matter?

That’s the question this simple story asks. It focuses on a dot-riddled little guy named Punchinello who has been branded so many times that he stays home as much as possible, out of the flow of Wemmicks. One day he meets Lucia, a Wemmick to whom the stars and dots don’t stick at all, and he asks her why not. She introduces him to Eli, the Wemmick-maker, with whom she spends some time each day. “You are special,” Eli explains to Punchinello, “because I made you.” Not because of the relative proportion of stars and dots. Not because of any rating any other mere Wemmick can give. But because he reflects the handiwork of a master designer who, he points out, “doesn’t make mistakes.”

My youngest (7) interrupted partway through to comment that it reminded her of a verse she learned at church. It’s a simple paradigm correction, but one worth being reminded of. Maybe that’s why Lucado subtitles it “A Story for Everyone.” In the case of our family, this is true. None of us show signs of outgrowing this little book.

Our version is the one pictured above, and we’ve given it as a gift more than once. Maybe that’s what I’m doing with this post, too.