Bar-Hebraeus and the Circle of Unending Stories

This bedtime story for kids, ‘Bar-Hebraeus and the Circle of Unending Stories’, teaches children ages 6-12 about important moral values.

Chapter One: The Gathering

In a place that was nowhere and everywhere, at a time that was never and always, there existed a Circle of Storytellers. This was no ordinary circle. It had been meeting since the first human being sat by the first fire and said, “Let me tell you a story.”

Every storyteller who had ever lived was welcome in this circle, though only a few came at any one time, for the circle existed outside of time, and a storyteller might arrive a thousand years after they had lived and still find others waiting to share their tales.

On this particular evening, or what passed for evening in a place with no sun, seven storytellers gathered. Their names were known in the lands from which they came, though in this place, names mattered less than stories.

Bar-Hebraeus came first, the laughing bishop from ancient Syria, his eyes twinkling with good humor. Then came Ignacz Kunos, the Hungarian scholar who had walked the roads of Turkey collecting fairy tales. After him arrived Hanauer, who had listened to Muslims, Christians, and Jews share their stories in the Holy Land.

From Tibet came a monk named Shelton, wrapped in saffron robes, carrying tales from the roof of the world. From Japan came a woman whose name translated as “Keeper of Memories,” who knew the stories of the Ainu people. From the Philippines came a weaver of legends, and from Vietnam came a grandmother whose tales had traveled through generations of war and peace.

In the center of the circle sat a child, neither boy nor girl, who had come, as all children come, simply to listen.

“Welcome, Storytellers,” the child said, for in this circle, the listener was the most important person of all. “I have come to learn why there are so many stories in the world.”

The storytellers looked at one another and smiled.

Chapter Two: Bar-Hebraeus Begins

“I will begin,” said Bar-Hebraeus, “with a story about stories themselves.

Once, the Creator decided to send a gift to all the peoples of the earth. This gift was Wisdom, and it was carried by a great bird with wings that stretched from horizon to horizon.

The bird flew over every land, and wherever it passed, a feather fell. Each feather contained a piece of Wisdom. But because the winds blew differently in different places, and because the lands were different, each feather took root in its own way.

In one land, the feather became a story about a clever fox. In another, it became a tale of a wise king. In a third, it became a fable about a generous beggar. But all the stories, though they looked different, came from the same bird.

This is why,” Bar-Hebraeus concluded, “people in different lands tell different stories that somehow teach the same lessons. We are all catching feathers from the same great bird.”

The child nodded thoughtfully. “So stories are connected, even when they seem different?”

“More connected than you know,” said Kunos, leaning forward. “Let me tell you what I discovered in Turkey.”

Chapter Three: The Turkish Tale

“In the mountains of Anatolia,” Kunos began, “I heard a story about a poor woodcutter who found a magic fish. The fish offered to grant three wishes in exchange for its freedom.

The woodcutter’s first wish was for wealth, and immediately his cottage became a palace. His second wish was for power, and immediately he became a king. But as a king, he had no friends, only servants who feared him and nobles who wanted his throne. He was miserable.

For his third wish, the woodcutter asked to return to his old life, with his humble cottage, his simple friends, and his happy heart.

Now,” Kunos said, turning to Shelton, “I believe you know a similar story from Tibet?”

Shelton smiled. “Indeed. In our version, a yak herder finds a magical snow lion. The three wishes are the same, and so is the lesson: happiness does not come from wealth or power, but from contentment with what we have.”

“And in Palestine,” Hanauer added, “Muslims, Christians, and Jews all tell versions of this story. Sometimes it is a jinni who grants the wishes, sometimes an angel, sometimes a prophet. But the wisdom is always the same.”

The child’s eyes grew wide. “The same story, in so many different places?”

Chapter Four: The Japanese Tale

The woman from Japan, the Keeper of Memories, spoke softly.

“The Ainu people of my homeland tell a story about the first humans. They were created by the gods but given no instruction on how to live. They wandered, lost and confused, making many mistakes.

Seeing their suffering, the gods sent animal spirits to teach them. The bear taught them courage. The fox taught them cleverness. The crane taught them grace. The salmon taught them to sacrifice for the next generation.

But the greatest teacher was the owl, who taught them to listen. ‘If you listen,’ the owl said, ‘you will learn from everyone you meet. Even your enemies have wisdom to share, if only you are quiet enough to hear it.’

This is why,” she concluded, “the Ainu people honor all creatures and listen to the wisdom of the natural world.”

“In the Philippines,” said the weaver of legends, “we tell similar stories. The animals teach the people. The trees speak wisdom to those who listen. We are not separate from nature but part of it.”

“And in Vietnam,” said the grandmother, “we say that the first stories were told by the rivers and the mountains, and humans learned to speak by listening to the wind.”

Chapter Five: The Tibetan Tale

Shelton cleared his throat and began his story.

“High in the Himalayas, where the air is thin and the stars seem close enough to touch, there lived a wise lama. Many students came to him, seeking the secret of enlightenment.

One day, a proud student said, ‘Master, I have studied all the texts. I have memorized all the sutras. Tell me the secret, for surely I am ready.’

The lama smiled and said, ‘Bring me a bowl.’

The student brought a bowl, and the lama began to pour tea into it. He poured and poured, until the tea overflowed, spilling across the floor.

‘Stop!’ cried the student. ‘The bowl is full! It cannot hold any more!’

‘Just so,’ said the lama. ‘Your mind is like this bowl, so full of what you think you know that there is no room for new wisdom. Before you can learn, you must first become empty.’”

The child in the center of the circle laughed with delight. “That is the same as Bar-Hebraeus’s story about the doctor who thought he knew everything!”

“Yes,” said Bar-Hebraeus, beaming. “And the same as Kunos’s story about the student who fell asleep. The same lesson appears in every culture: pride and overconfidence block the path to wisdom.”

Chapter Six: The Story That Unites

The grandmother from Vietnam raised her hand.

“Let me tell you a story that is told, in one form or another, in every land I have ever visited.

A traveler walks a long road. She is tired, hungry, and far from home. As night falls, she comes to a village and asks for food.

The first villager says, ‘I have nothing to share.’ But he has plenty; he is simply unwilling.

The second villager says, ‘I have only a little, but you are welcome to half.’ And she shares what she has, though it leaves her with barely enough for herself.

At the end of the night, a miracle occurs. The generous villager’s cupboards are full, more than she started with. The stingy villager’s cupboards are empty, for what we hoard withers, and what we share grows.”

Hanauer nodded vigorously. “In the Holy Land, all three faiths tell this story. The names change, the details change, but the miracle is always the same.”

“In Tibet, we call this the blessing of generosity,” Shelton added.

“In Turkey, we say that Allah multiplies what is given freely,” Kunos agreed.

“In Japan, the kami, the spirits, reward the open hand,” said the Keeper of Memories.

Chapter Seven: The Child Understands

The child in the center of the circle had listened for what felt like hours, or perhaps years, for time moved strangely in this place.

“I think I understand now,” the child said slowly. “There are many stories because there are many peoples, each with their own words and ways. But the wisdom inside the stories is the same, because all people are the same inside. We all want to be loved. We all struggle with pride and fear. We all wonder about life and death. We all must learn kindness and patience and courage.”

The seven storytellers smiled at one another.

“You have learned well,” said Bar-Hebraeus. “And now you understand why storytelling is sacred. When we share our stories, we share our humanity. When we listen to others’ stories, we discover that we are not alone. When we laugh at a tale from a distant land, we are laughing with brothers and sisters we have never met.”

“What will you do now, child?” asked the grandmother from Vietnam.

The child stood. “I will go back to my world and tell stories. I will tell your stories, from Turkey and Tibet and Japan and Palestine and the Philippines and Vietnam and Syria. I will help people see that we are all connected, all catching feathers from the same great bird.”

“Then our circle is not ending,” said Shelton. “It is growing.”

One by one, the storytellers faded, returning to the times and places from which they had come. But their stories remained, carried now by a new storyteller, who would carry them forward into a new generation.

And the Circle of Storytellers continues to meet, whenever and wherever someone sits down to listen to a tale.