On Loving Books

On Loving Books                   

My love of books comes from my parents, well, my Mom really. When I was a little girl, my Mom would read to my sister and me every day. In the morning, in the afternoon, and always at night. We would sit on the couch, one of us on each side of her, and we’d listen to her voice as the story unfolded in our imaginations. I don’t ever remember her refusing us a story, even if she was in the middle of doing something, if we asked for a story, she’d stop what she was doing and read to us.

I think one of the first memories I have of books is the way they smell. Some of the books were older or from the library and they had that wonderful, indescribable smell. I would stick my nose into it and breathe deep. You just can’t get that from a Kindle, right?

In trying to put into words why I love books, I am taken through my memory to certain points in my life where the book, and the story within it, became so big that I was transported. That I was right there and the emotion spilled over into my tiny life and that words on a page could do that just fascinated me.  I also distinctly remember being in first grade and the teacher announced we were going to read about “Dick and Jane”. I was so excited! Then the books were laid down before us and we read stunning words like, “See Dick run. See Jane skip.” I remember thinking it was the worst book ever written.

And it’s because at home we were deep into the worlds of Winnie the Pooh, Old Father West Wind, and Roald Dahl. Dick and Jane had no chance whatsoever.

I remember the first time I discovered a book on my own. It was The Lonely Doll by Dare Wright. I was enraptured. The beautiful photographs of Edith the doll and her new friends the Bears and how they formed a family just bowled me over. I read that book so many times it fell apart. One of the best Christmas gifts was a copy of that book that my Mom gave me a few years ago. I wondered if it would hold up for me, now that I was grown? And yes, yes it did. I love it still.

As I made my way through school, story time was always my favorite part. It seemed I waited all day for that wonderful time in the afternoon when the teacher would pull out a book of fiction, settle in, and read to us.

One of my most vivid memories was in the 5^th grade. Our teacher, Mrs. Purcell, who was gruff and irritable with short, poufy black hair and pink lipstick that was always on her teeth, started reading us Where the Red Fern Grows. And, oh, how I loved that book. The vivid details of Billy’s longing for his coon pups and how he worked two years to save up that $50 to buy them just took me in. I was right there with him in the Ozarks and fell in love with Old Dan and Little Ann as soon as they were introduced. My memory is of the day, well, the day we learned their fate. It was hot and stuffy in our classroom but no one was moving. We were all on the edge of our seats and I was close to tears as Mrs. Purcell’s emotion filled voice quivered as she read. As the tragic scene unfolded Mrs. Purcell suddenly stopped reading and put the book on top of her head exclaiming, “Oh my, this is so sad!” She took a few minutes to contain herself, getting a sip of water and clearing her throat, then continued on. And I cried; tears running down my cheeks, my head on my desk. The ache I felt was real, absolutely real. I remember going home and hugging our dog Rusty and crying into her fur, telling her the story of those two dogs and the boy who loved them.

And it wasn’t just fiction I loved. That I could open a book and read about someone else’s life amazed me. I read about Helen Keller, Amelia Earhart, President Lincoln and so many others. Or I could read about another civilization…it was simply fascinating. 

In high school I ended up working in the library helping Mrs. Kim for first period my Junior year. I loved it. All those books! I would roam the shelves and find treasures galore. One day I pulled out a book with the title, The Princess Bride S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of High Adventure and True Love. The ‘good parts’ Version Abridged by William Goldman.  To say I loved it would be such an understatement. He wrote asides and commentary and his wit was amazing. It was laugh out loud funny. And all those years later having forgotten about that gem of a book, there I was sitting in a movie theatre with my boyfriend watching this movie when suddenly it dawns on me that I am watching that book come to life. And, may I say that is one of the only times I have liked the movie as well as the book.

College brought Shakespeare, Keats, and Japanese poetry. Marriage came and when I was pregnant and on bed rest, I read about Mary Queen of Scots, Charlie Chaplin. I also read Gone with the Wind and absolutely understood why the movie was five hours long! Motherhood brought the return of children’s books and I delighted in reading to Michael. I raised a reader and that makes me proud. I continued the tradition of reading to him and we enjoyed many, many books together. We read almost the whole Hardy Boys series and The Great Brain series.  I tried reading him the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, but he really only wanted to hear Farmer Boy. Then one day he told me he wanted to read a new book by himself…some book about a boy wizard my sister had told him about. I was thrilled and that series started him off on his own reading course. He went through Narnia, the Shire, and every Goosebumps he could get his hands on.

It wasn't until two years ago that I picked up that book about the boy wizard. I was out of things to read and lamenting this to Michael who told me all seven books were sitting in his closet. I picked up the first and was astonished how good it was…I think I read it in a day. As the story got going and I finished one book and went to get the next, I wondered how people had waited between books! It took me three weeks to get through them all and I kept texting Michael… “what happens to Neville?!” “I love Dobby!”  Then sobbing, “I love Dobby!”  He was great…telling me to just keep reading. He did reassure me about Neville (Neville’s a badass, Mom!) and Hagrid, as I was threatening JK with a confundus charm if she touched them. It was cool to see him laughing at me and getting excited for me as I made my way through the series. Ms. Rowling has a wonderful way with words and descriptions and I could see Hogwarts, et all, as clear as day. I went through the series again earlier this year when my back was so bad and I marveled again at the detail in the world she created.

The power of books, of words, is what I love so much. Before I was a Christian I held that “book” (please see me doing air quotes with a look of derision on my face) as not a book. As not anything, really. Then one day I was in a grocery store and saw them advertising a book. A big sign said, “Wars! Sex! Betrayal! Love Stories! Revenge! The Bible!” It made me laugh out loud. I mentioned it to my cousin, who was a Christian, and she gave me a Bible, which promptly was tossed on my shelf.  At the time I would argue with any Christian who dared speak to me and spoke against the Bible with all the force I could muster. Until one asked if I had ever actually read the Bible? She sweetly told me to have a read before I continued to talk against something I knew nothing about.  So, I picked it up and it didn’t make any sense to me. I started in Genesis and after a few chapters was confused and a little overwhelmed. Nertz to that. Back on the shelf it went.

But, pick it back up I did and I learned a lot about it. It is a book of the law, of Israel’s history, of poetry,  of wisdom, of prophecy, and, of course, of Jesus. I learned that the Old Testament was the covenant between God and his people and the New Testament is the new covenant between God and all people, which is Jesus. That, blew my mind! I always thought they re-wrote stuff and called it “new”.  The day I learned that Jesus is the living word, and that He is alive in the words, blew my mind again. It seemed an easy jump from loving words on a page to loving the Word. As a Christian, you discover the power it has and you suddenly understand and see things in it clearly.  It has affected me more than any other book. I have been reading and studying this book for over 25 years and it never ceases to amaze me. New nuggets of wisdom and love are discovered and cherished. I write in my books and my first Bible, the one my cousin gave me, fell apart. It is in a drawer, the type too small for me to see now, even with my glasses, but oh so cherished. The Bible I bought for myself after that is showing signs of wear and tear now. I sometimes look at the old one to see how I marked certain passages and marvel at the insights I have now.

I am thankful to be a reader. I love discussing books and recommending books and am thrilled when someone likes a book I like. I joined a book club a few years ago and have read some great books. The Help. The Book Thief. Room. We've had some great discussions over these books and have forged great friendships in the process.  And, as it should be, the friendships have taken over the club and the book discussions are minimal these days, but I love knowing we've all read the same book and can exchange our thoughts, if only for a moment.

I've spoken to people who don’t read and I must admit I feel bad for them! I just picked up Sense and Sensibility and the language, the exquisite detail, seeing myself so much in Marianne, and trying to tell someone who doesn't read about it and watching their eyes glaze over…I just don't get it. There is a whole world out there ready to be explored…and it makes me sad that they don’t experience it. Even if you meet another reader, but read totally different genres, at least you can discuss and share, but with a non reader, there is nothing to say.

So, I normally don’t end my essays with questions, but I do wonder what books made an impact in your life? Is there one that you read over and over? What is it about books that fascinate you? And by all means, if you aren't a reader, I’d love to know how that came to be?

Happy Reading!

On Being Who You Are

On Being Who You Are

I was standing in line at the store the other day and there was this boy, maybe 8, dancing around, oblivious to where he was or who was around. His harried Mom scolded him, which didn't seem to faze him at all, so the level of her tone changed until, inevitably, she got his attention and the dancing stopped. She leaned in and spoke words I could not hear, but understood none the less. The boy looked doubtful and I thought, “Yes, kid, never stop dancing!”

It seems from almost the beginning of our lives we are taught to be something other than who we are. Our personalities are chiseled and chipped at until we conform to what our parents and our community thinks we should be. Their values are instilled in us, which can be good, but at the expense of our personalities, I think that can be bad.

Because there is something more about being who we are…I mean the deep down who we are. The person we were created to be, the person we are when no one else is around. The person you are (were) before the world got a hold of you. Do you know who that person is? Are you comfortable with them? Is this the person you show to the world, or do you show a carefully constructed version?

Being a Christian, I am confronted frequently with the carefully constructed versions of who people are. In church, we shouldn't be afraid to just be who we are, right? But there seems to be an unspoken rule that we have to be happy and have it all together when we go to worship God. When I was a fairly new Christian, there was a greeter who would always greet you enthusiastically. She’d ask how you were. “Fine. How are you?” And she’d say, with a small head tilt, “Blessed.” And I always just wanted to poke her in the eye. Because it was so fake. She didn't care how I was doing and maybe her life was blessed, but seriously? That’s your answer every time? Or the classic hand shake pull. You know what I’m talking about if you've ever entered a church. The person at the door extends their hand to you, so you go to shake it, and instead of a warm greeting, they pull you through the doorway. Okaay. And I’m not just bagging on greeters here. I think it’s a symptom of that carefully constructed facade we have for ourselves and others that keeps real interaction from happening.

This is why I appreciate my friend Jim so much. He should really be the poster boy for being who you are. When you ask him how he’s doing…he tells you. Good. Bad. Or anything in between, he’ll tell you. He’s real. When he prays, there is no fuss or muss. He talks to God how he talks to everyone else. The first time I heard him pray was on a mission trip to Rocky Point and I couldn't help but open my eyes and look at him, a huge smile on my face. It went something like this: “God. You love us. Man. How do you do that? That’s so cool. You sent your Son for us? We don’t deserve it, but You did it anyway! Cool!” Jim hates shoes and goes barefoot whenever he can. He is forgetful and mixes stuff up. He does a million things at once and would give you the shirt off his back. He loves his wife and family. He will tell you straight out what he thinks. He is who he is and there is no pretense. He doesn't take your facade either. If he asks how you are and you say, "fine". He asks again. 

If we could all be that comfortable with ourselves, right?

And here’s why; God made us exactly who we are. He made us each different…no two of us are alike, even identical twins have different personalities.  He made me to go out into the world and be…me. Not you, not anyone else, but me. So why do we struggle so with who we are? Is it that distant voice from childhood telling us “don’t”? Why do we look in the mirror and not like what we see? And I’m not just talking about how we look, but that yearning we have for wanting to be different than who we truly are. The Jims of the world are so refreshing aren't they? And how boring would the world be if we were all alike anyway. Nothing would ever get done! We’re all gifted differently Ephesians tells us, and rightly so, so why do we seem to struggle with who we are?

And, I get it. We all have had someone, maybe a close someone, maybe a not so close someone, comment on who we are. “You’re too _____________” and fill in the blank with whatever they said about you. Or we were just being ourselves and were happy doing it, only to have someone rejects us outright. Or we really wanted to fit in with a group and they just never accepted you. They were nice to you, but would walk away to go off and do whatever it was they were going to do, leaving you wondering why they didn't just invite you along as well.

All of these things cause us to doubt ourselves and even if you have a strong self-worth and don’t really care about what others think, these situations causes a sting that we want to fix right away. Because it hurts to think that who we are isn't good enough.

Even the strongest of people will go through points in life where they lose who they are. The loss of a close friendship, a divorce, or a bad break-up can cause us to question everything and make us lose sight of who we are.  And when we are lost, we unfortunately can let others define us. We can let their words or judgments shame us because we, essentially, believe we are divorced or lost that friend because of who we are. Because the underlying theme becomes that because you are who you are, you don’t deserve love.

This is what I believed after my divorce. If only I was someone else, this wouldn't have happened to me. But, no.  I am divorced because my husband broke every vow. He didn't love, honor, or cherish. He bolted at the first signs of sickness and did not forsake all others. And I ended up confusing what I was (a wife, a divorced woman) with who I was.

And I wish I could sit here and tell you that I figured that out quickly and went on my merry way. Um, no. I made soul crushing mistakes putting on that façade and pretending to be who I thought the world wanted me to be. And it was exhausting. Because I would edit myself.  And it was straight up fear. Fear that I would be rejected again for being who I am. And when people do pull away or reject you again, it’s not because you are being who you are, it’s because you aren’t being who you are.  People know when we are not being real with ourselves and with them. All the work we put into these façades and people see right through them anyway.

So, it becomes a gift when someone likes us just for who we are; a sweet precious gift. And it happens by accident sometimes. Through all the heartache of my divorce, there were some wonderful people who liked me in spite of my intense sadness and self-loathing. Most were from work.  I think that is why work friends seem to really stick…because they see you eight hours a day and really, you can’t fake a personality for forty hours a week. My work friends knew when I was cranky, knew when I was happy, knew when they should just stay out of my way. They knew I was honest, fair, kind. That I like to laugh, don’t like to be interrupted, and that stress kicks my butt. They knew when I needed a break, a hug, or a bag of peanut M&M’s. They knew if I said I was sick, that I was really, really, sick. And they knew they could come to me for anything. They taught me it was okay to be who I was. That just because I was going through this horrible thing, I was still me, and that they liked me. Seriously, a precious gift.

But let’s not confuse being who we truly are with the thought that if we are, everyone will like us. We need to realize that some people just aren't going to like us. They’re just not. Your personality will rub them the wrong way and there is nothing you can do about it. And there is that temptation to try and get them to like you, and sometimes we get lost in that space, don’t we? Because we start to change who we are for someone who doesn't even like us and that is dangerous ground. Someone once told me to be careful not to cross an ocean for someone who wouldn't cross a puddle for me. What wise words. Because we can start to go overboard before we realize what we are doing. We start to compromise who we are for someone who isn't worthy of us.

Why? Because we want to matter. We want to be important to people. We want to matter in their lives. No one likes to hear someone say, “Oh, we’re going to meet our good friends,” as they walk away from you. And that’s the thing about being brave enough to just be who we are. When we become who we are, we will matter to the right people.

At one of my birthday dinners, my dear friend and I were talking about how we got to be 50, the roads that led us to where we are right now and our divorces came up.  She had sent her ex-husband a note about one of their sons and said that he, and the world, wants to pretend that entire marriage never happen and asked what, as a participant in the marriage, did that mean for her? Did those years and those boys not mean anything? I knew exactly what she meant.  They mattered. The marriage had mattered. The ripping apart of a family is excruciating and the ripples extend for a long time. You see the ripples in your kids and there is no pain like that, let me tell you. But that ripping does not take away the marriage or the family it created. It mattered greatly.

And mattering is what I struggle with in my marriage to Jon. Because there are very few who see that it mattered at all. So I have grieved alone in all of it. We met seven years after my divorce and he did give me that precious gift of liking me for just who I was. I had reached the place of knowing, this is who I am, this is what I want, and that is a strong place to be. He liked my quirks, he liked that I spoke my mind. He liked that I saw him, not ALS. We were in love and despite his having that horrible disease, we married. That he left shortly after we married doesn't negate anything. Anything. He regretted it almost as soon as he had left but continued to push me away in an effort to protect me. When the full explanation came, a few months before he died, I wept for us, for what could have been, and for the joy we missed out on. What gave me peace, though, was that I had mattered to him. He had loved me for who I was and I mattered.

Why did it all happen the way it did? I don’t know. But I believe God’s promises. He promises that he can turn a horrible situation into something good for His purpose. I may never know why, this side of heaven, this all happened, but I believe He will, and has, used that situation for His good. And that’s enough. Because when we understand God created and loves us for who we are, and that we matter to Him, oh, is that ever freeing.