Much of my childhood was spent sleeping on the floor beside my big sister’s bed. When I was smaller, she had granted me space on the bed itself. We had slept head to toe, me trying to make myself as small as possible without slipping into the narrow gap between the mattress and the wall.
When we outgrew this arrangement, I was relegated to the floor next to the bed. I laid down a sleeping bag on the lino and happily snuggled in. My sister would reflexively step over me (most of the time) when she made a trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night. And in the morning, I bundled up my bedding and tucked it away. We had a routine.
I wonder if my parents whispered about it after we went to bed. Should we be worried? Do you think she’ll grow out of it? Truthfully, I was well into my teen years by the time I did. I can’t remember whether my sister finally kicked me out, whether I got tired of being stepped on, or whether one of us (likely her) craved the late-night phone call privacy that sleeping with one’s sister tended to stifle. Probably the latter.
But, all of this to say that it wasn’t that I didn’t have a bed. I did. It was in my very own room. I had comfy sheets and plump pillows, and a special quilt my grandma made. I chose a sleeping bag on the floor instead. But, I had the choice. This bout of good fortune – the ability to choose – was a privilege I didn’t recognize at the time.
I didn’t know then that elsewhere (in many elsewheres), children were sleeping on the floor because they had no other option.
Decades later, that childhood memory resurfaced while volunteering at a bed-building day with Sleep in Heavenly Peace, an organization dedicated to ensuring that no child sleeps on the floor in our town.
There are twenty-five of us gathered in donated workshop space for the day. My spongy earplugs stick awkwardly out the sides of my head—I can never quite get them in all the way. I am wielding a palm sander (ignoring the throb in my shoulder), working through stacks of 2x4s and 2x6s, boards cut to length and waiting to become headboards and rails.
More than a dozen sanders buzz in unison—smoothing, shaping, softening edges. Making sure no little fingers get slivers. No small toes get torn up. In the numbed quiet of earplugged silence, my thoughts wander. I think about sisters. About service. About the strange role of circumstance. I wonder what others are thinking.
We practice a kind of sign language, deaf to our surroundings. A volunteer—a regular, one of the small group who keeps this chapter running—sidles up, points to my sander and offers fresh sandpaper. I nod. Next, he lifts a lighter battery from his belt, eyebrows raised in proposition. I quiet a knee-jerk flicker of offense, because my throbbing shoulder is already saying yes loud and clear. The switch is made. Smiles. Thumbs up.
Introductions upon arrival had revealed a room more varied than I’d imagined—friends and couples, trades students, first-timers and regulars. One man drew a few laughs when he admitted his wife had nudged him to come. By day’s end, I suspected he wouldn’t need the nudging next time.
When the sanders subside, the sawdust lingers heavy in the air. Drills are fired up. Headboards are built. Rails are assembled.
The process is practiced and precise. There is a jig for everything. And while my inner monologue is now and then replaced with the lyrics of Will Smith’s “Getting’ Jiggy Wit it,” my thoughts drift briefly to a recent conversation with my mom, who wondered if she had helped enough people in her life. Watching the work unfold, I’m reminded that there is no quota for service. No tally. No one keeping score. And yet, here is a group of people, on a Friday afternoon, gathering so that others may have a place to lay their burdens down.
By mid-afternoon, after paying very close attention to my finger placement when using the impact drill—safety first, lest I bleed on all the freshly sanded wood—the headboards are stacked, the rails piled, and the van loaded. I cross the parking lot to my car, bringing with me the sweet smell of sawdust and a fine layer of it tucked into every nook and cranny.
I catch my reflection in the rearview—white dust settled into my hair and coating my eyebrows and lashes, aging me several years. There’s a scratchiness behind my eyelids, reminding me that I should have been more diligent with the safety glasses, and a shoulder throbbing that makes me question whether I’ll be able to pick up a pencil tomorrow.
I linger a moment before starting the car. Without the earplugs, the ambient sounds of traffic and my surroundings return, but my silent thoughts linger a little longer.
The sleeping bag on the lino wasn’t only a cute childhood memory of comfort or closeness; it was a reminder of how easily dignity can hinge on something as basic as a bed—whether across the globe or in my own backyard.
The beds we made today will tuck in tired children. But they will also cradle dignity, nestle belonging beneath the covers, and offer the quiet comfort that comes with having a place of one’s own. Perhaps sisters will have a sleepover. Perhaps they will curl up together, head to toe. And even if the younger one still chooses to sleep on the floor, how good it is that she will have that choice.
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