Matters of Life and Death

Here in California, Governor Jerry Brown just signed into law a bill that gives people the ‘right to die’, ostensibly on their own terms.  But think about it.  The terms are that two doctors have agreed that you have less than six months to live and that the illness that is killing you will do so with extreme pain and suffering.  It is now legal in California to hasten that dying, to shorten the miserable end that is your prognosis.  So, rather than dying on your own terms, I would call this a fearful choice between two heartrending options: actually choosing to end your own life immediately or hoping that your last days will not be a harrowing journey of immense pain, limited function, and being a burden to loved ones.  I find the timing of this legislation fascinating since I just finished Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande, in the past month.

Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters In The End was published precisely a year ago today.  It is a surgeon’s account of coming to grips with the limits of his profession to make living better for people as they approach the end of their physical existence.  As he discovers in the lives of his own patients and in the life of his ailing father, over-treatment is often more harmful than under treatment in the terminally ill.  Caring families with their

‘safety first’ approach often hasten the physical, spiritual and mental demise of their loved ones by taking away what makes living worthwhile — autonomy and purpose.  Effective health ‘care’ at the end is more about making the moments that remain enjoyable or at least bearable through effective pain management in a setting of familiarity - home.

Too often, the last months of those with terminal illness are spent grasping at yet another round of treatment in the hopes that this will prolong life.  Sometimes it does.  But the weight of evidence is beginning to show that the death most of us will face in an advanced society — of slowly diminishing physical and mental capabilities as our bodies wear out — will come less slowly and with less suffering when treatment is focused on care rather than cure.  Because we all die in the end.

Though still in good health, I can see the encroaching effects of aging.  My children inadvertently remind me that the vibrancy of my youth is long past.  While I hope to have a number of productive working years yet, I can also sense the narrowing of opportunity that comes after investing decades in a particular skill set no longer as in demand as it once was.  Whether I have a less than a decade or multiple decades remaining, this book made me pause and ask: Have I invested my time wisely for the past many years?  Have I shown in word and deed to my wife and daughters what is vital and beautiful and good?  Or have I been deterred from the essentials of real living by the lure of financial security?  When my time comes to release this mortal frame, will I grasp at every possible life-extending option, regardless of how unlikely it is to succeed, or will I go gently and gratefully into the stream of eternity?  

Read Being Mortal for an encouraging prescription for how to prepare for the wearing out of the human body we inhabit.  It is a useful guide both for ourselves and those we love, in a system that knows much about treatment, but often not enough about real caring.  Consider reading it in close proximity with my favorite book in recent memory, Gilead, where author Marilynne Robinson reflects on the themes of aging and eternity in an entirely different way.

Perhaps most importantly, give grace to those whose suffering forces them to consider the awful choice of ending life early.  And live each day with your own mortality in mind, considering how you want to be remembered by those you will leave behind and those you will join on that mysterious other side.

Lila and John

Marilynne Robinson is the one author alive today whose prose is, to my taste, a literary banquet, a choice and varied meal to be savored.  When her latest book, Lila: A Novel, came out late last year, I immediately bought it, not knowing when I would actually get to read it.  But, I finally did and it was as rewarding as I had anticipated.

Lila is the story of the woman first introduced in Gilead, Robinson’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel.  It is the story of a middle-aged, nearly illiterate, vagrant woman, Lila Dahl, and an older, small-town minister, John Ames, both of whom share a weariness of being alone and a difficulty in trusting after years of self-reliance.  The gulf between their experiences is wide.  Lila has spent her life on the rough edge of survival in almost complete ignorance of the truths that John has dedicated his life to.  He has lived his adult life in the same home in Iowa.  She has never had a permanent home.

Yet, as the need for companionship causes each to take steps into the other’s world, a trusting companionship unfolds between these two unlikely lovers.  The story becomes a microcosm of what marriage can be, of what the gospel looks like when lived out in daily patience and acceptance of God’s grace, of how an undeserved love can make life meaningful again or perhaps for the first time.

Each volume I have of Robinson’s, both fiction and non-fiction, I have marred with underlines and asterisks and exclamation points, so I can go back to some phrase or paragraph that speaks in ways I only wish I could.  Language that is true to life, true to the yearnings of the human soul.

…she saw the Reverend walking up the road, Boughton beside him, the two of them talking together as they always did, and listening to each other, as if, so far into their lives, some new thing might still be said, something not to be missed.

“You’re right not to talk.  It’s a sort of higher honesty, I think.  Once you start talking, there’s no telling what you’ll say.”

She thought, What would I pray for, if I thought there was any point in it?  Well, I guess the first thing would have to be that there was some kind of point in it.

…one morning, standing at the sink washing the dishes, she said, “I guess there’s something the matter with me, old man.  I can’t love you as much as I love you.  I can’t feel as happy as I am.”

“I know,” he said.  “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.  I don’t worry about it, really.”

“I got so much life behind me.”

“I know.”

“It was nothing like this life.”

“I know.”

“I miss it sometimes.”

He nodded.  “We aren’t so different.  There are things I miss.”

Not everyone may appreciate the slow, rich cadence of Robinson’s story-telling.  The action is limited, characters are few, settings are simple.  I was many pages into Lila when I realized it had no chapter breaks, much like life itself.  But if you are willing to let the deep waters move you gently, the journey is worth your time.

A Very Long Day

I was reminded of an episode from my childhood recently while reading aloud “Mary Emma and Company”, the ongoing saga of Ralph Moody that took place about 100 years ago.  The Moody family had just moved from Colorado to Boston, Massachusetts.  On their first day in town, thirteen-year-old Ralph is at a local grocer trying to get a job.  When Ralph tells his prospective employer how many hours a day he would be willing to work, the grocer informs him that the truant officer would not think too highly of that.  Ralph isn’t quite sure what a truant officer is, but he assumes that means he will have to go to school.  When they were living in Colorado and struggling to make ends meet after Ralph’s father died, his mother would let him stay out of school if he had a job earning more than 50 cents a day!  No truant officers came calling.

While recognizing that much good has come from child labor laws and public education, reading Ralph Moody’s story, I am struck by how much he gained from his early exposure to work.  Ralph’s mother wisely struck a balance between making sure Ralph had an education while allowing him to be a resourceful entrepreneur.  Though his formal education in his elementary years was spotty, what Ralph learned in the ‘school of hard knocks’ more than compensated.  I am hard-pressed to think of a book about childhood, fictional or not, historical or contemporary,  where a school boy actually enjoyed being in school.  Rather, it is almost universally portrayed as something to be escaped from.  This makes me wonder why it is that when children are miserable in school, the grown-ups who run the system assume there is something wrong with the child.  As an elementary aged school boy, I experienced that desire to escape on a regular basis.  It wasn’t until about age 11 that I made my first attempt.

When I was in 6th grade, my closest neighborhood friend was Edward Moss.  He was a few months younger than me, which put him in 5th grade.  His older brother Tracy was actually in my class.  There was also a third Moss brother, who by then was in Junior High and had even less appreciation for school.  

It was a time in the school year when the weather was balmy and the memory of summer freedom still fresh.  The Moss boys and I were grousing about school one afternoon when the oldest brother suggested a novel solution: why not just stay home?  To my innocent mind, this was an astounding notion.  How could we NOT go to school?  As it turned out, quite easily.  Although we were not much more than a mile from school, a classic yellow Bluebird school bus wheezed its way to our trailer park every school day, no doubt to ensure that smaller children would make it safely to the hallowed halls of learning.  Still, walking was an option we often used as preferable to the noisy confines of the bus.  

We came up with a deceptively simple plan.  I would meet the Moss brothers at the entrance to the trailer park where the bus stopped.  Of course, there would be other kids gathered there.  We would tell them we were walking to school.  Then, on the way, we would detour into one of our favorite hang-outs — the old cemetery that was just a block or so down the street from the trailer park entrance.

That is just what we did.  It was astoundingly easy.  Once out of eye-shot of the bus stop, we dashed into the cemetery.  Then, we ducked behind a large mausoleum in the middle of the grounds and watched as the bus came and went.

At first, our freedom was glorious.  We wandered around, reading epitaphs, engaged in nonsensical conversation.  While all those other losers were cramped in a hard chair behind a desk, we were breathing deep the fresh air wafting through the old pepper trees and musty marble of the cemetery.  That is, until the oldest Moss boy pulled out a handful of cigarettes from his pocket.  He had snagged them from his Dad’s supply.  Today was to be a day for breaking rules.  So, we all in turn lit up.  I had seen enough public service announcements to know smoking was BAD.  In spite of that, peer pressure was highly effective.  I tried a puff or two.  Even though these were a filtered menthol brand, I can still recall the mint green label, the experience was decidedly un-mint-like.  For a boy prone to asthma and allergies, breathing smoke was a poor fit.  I never tried smoking again.

No, it never was...

That diversion got us to what we assumed must be about lunch time.  None of us had a watch, but the sun was high overhead.  Since our master plan had not gone beyond our initial escape, we had not anticipated such basic needs as food and water.  I had brought a brown bag lunch.  On that particular day, I was the only one so equipped.  Whether we had money or not didn’t matter.  In our present circumstance we couldn’t go anywhere in the public eye.  By the time my meagre lunch was divided among our truant band, it didn’t make much of a meal.  I wasn’t particularly hungry, in any case.  The combination of lurking anxiety about being caught and the after-taste from smoking had effectively dampened my appetite.

Boredom crept in with the oppressive warmth of the afternoon sun, the only possible explanation for what we did next.  We headed out to the street by the trailer park entrance, looking for relief from our monotony.  By the entrance was a rectangular pit in the ground built of cinder blocks and covered by heavy gauge steel plating.  Cut into the steel was a hinged trap door which was conveniently unlocked, but steel plating is heavy.  We managed to pry it up enough to get a grip and, with all of us lifting, got the door open.

Tracy — always good for a reckless endeavor — volunteered to climb down into the pit for a look.  He had just dropped down onto the concrete floor several feet below when someone hissed:  “There’s a car coming out of the park!”

We dropped the door with a thunderous clang, leaving Tracy inside.  The three of us made a mad dash across the street and flung ourselves onto the ground behind scanty cover of brush and rock.  The car creeped up the drive and turned toward town.  Once it passed out of sight, we clambered to our feet, only to see another car coming up the street in our direction.  Again, we waited.  The ground was warm and the smell of dust and sage and sweat began to mingle as we lay there with the sun beating down.  Car number two finally disappeared into the park.

Cautiously, we raised our heads and scanned the street closely before dashing across to see about Tracy.  Again, we pried the door up, taking a bit longer since we were missing Tracy’s help, who could barely reach the door from below.  Tracy’s face glowered up at us, dripping with perspiration.  

“What took you so long?  I’m roasting down here!” 

Those were his kinder thoughts. The rest of what he said is unprintable: “#$%&@“ and variants thereof.

We hoisted the apoplectic Tracy out of the hole.  Peering in, I saw a large pipe crossing the length of the pit with a complicated steel contraption bolted in the middle, part of the system providing domestic water and fire protection for the park.  Hardly worth the trip across the street.

The interminable afternoon drug on for another couple of hours.  We wandered around a nearby orange grove for awhile, tossing oranges at each other and eating a few to ease our hunger.  Finally, we heard the bus making its return trip.  We could safely end the extended game of hide-and-seek where apparently nobody was interested in finding us.  My long day was over.  It would be a much longer time before I attempted to skip school again.  

Certainly, I was NO ordinary boy.  But, just what planet I came from is still open to debate.

Penny For My Thought?

In God We Trust,
cuz the money ain't worth nuthin!

I was reminded of one of my favorite books while out jogging yesterday morning.  In the glow of the
street lamp, I caught a glimpse of a shiny, new penny.  In less than a stride, in much shorter time than it takes to write this, I thought: "Should I stop to pick it up?  No, it's not worth it.  It's just a hunk of zinc pretending to be copper.  A penny can't buy anything anymore."  So, I left it there.

When I was a kid, pocket change was non-existent.  Mom had no money to spare and I was clueless about how to earn my own.  So, I learned to have a sharp eye for any coins that might be in my path when I was out and about, a habit I carry to this day.  A penny could buy a piece of candy, any larger coin was a treasure.  I can remember distinctly walking back to class from lunch break one day in elementary school and spotting a nickel.  A whole nickel!  Thoughts of what I could do with this small fortune began to dance in my head as I bent down to get it.  But my friend that was with me had seen it as well and swooped down and scooped it before I could.  With all the aggrieved unreasonableness of a 10 year old I said, "Hey, give it to me!  I saw it first."  To which my friend replied, "But I GOT it first."  (Possession is 9/10's of the law...) How I knew I had seen it first is a mystery.  But to this day I am sure I did.  This 'eye for money' served me well many years later.  My wife and I were out with the youth pastor and a crowd of teenagers from our church on a 16 mile walk-a-thon to raise funds for some worthy cause.  I had made it to the end once already and hitched a ride back to help encourage some of the less ambitious (including Mrs. Robidoux).  As we trudged along the side of the road, my eye caught a glimpse of a faded, crumpled green-and-white piece of paper.  Again, my mind raced through the options of "No, it really can't be money.  Think of all the people who have already been by here.  Paper money can't survive being outside very long.  If I pick up a piece of trash I will look stupid."  Still, I stooped down, picked it up, and unfolded a $100 bill.  After donating a portion to the worthy cause, my wife and I had an excellent dinner out that night.  Which, in my mind, more than made up for the nickel I missed out on back in elementary school.

Oh, the book?  Whatever Happened To Penny Candy by Richard Maybury.  It is required reading for our girls when they hit high school.  The author does a great job of explaining why we have a lot more pennies and dollars floating around our economy than a generation ago and why those dollars won't buy nearly as much.  Two personal examples: I grew up with penny candy vending machines that now require a quarter.  The home that cost my father-in-law under $30,000 some 40 years ago would cost ten times that now.  While a penny saved may still be a penny earned (not exactly what Ben Franklin said), my time is worth a lot more than that penny.

Imperatives On The Airplane

While sitting in the long metal tube six miles above the planet on my return flight home from New Jersey last week, I ran out of things to read.  More precisely, I had gone through all the reading material I had brought with me (Escape From Camp 14 and Rose Under Fire).  My active mind began casting about for something to feed on.  I soon realized there are a lot of instructions stuck in various locations on aircraft.

Warning: stand clear of hazard areas while engine is running.

Fortunately, as I had a wing seat, I was neither in front of nor behind the engine.  Not sure what that said about the safety of the other passengers.  But, as long as they don't step outside during flight, they will avoid this potential catastrophe (*Incredibles*).

Fasten seat belt while seated

Presumably this is for those people who try to fasten their seat belt while standing clear of the hazard areas.  Who else would try to fasten a seat belt while NOT seated?

Earn Miles with Biscoff (the crunchy in-flight snack cookie)

Okay.  Suppose someone actually took this seriously.  Imagine the dialogue between the flight attendant and the passenger:

"Sir, I just gave you 10 packages of cookies!"

"I know, but I just need 32 more to earn my next free flight," mumbled Mr. Jones as he stuffed another cookie in his mouth and another wrapper into the seat pocket in front of him.

THE LAVATORY (a.k.a. - restroom)

The MOST IMPORTANT THING is No Smoking in Lavatory as evidenced by the large type and bright red 'no cigarettes' symbol.  Because, cigarette smoke must smell worse than, well, that other stuff you smell in the lavatory.

Why only say 'Please' when telling someone to lock the door?  I mean, is it optional?  I don't want anyone busting in on me while I'm in there, that is for certain.

Open door slowly as there is a crowd waiting outside by the time you are halfway into the flight and some of them are doing the dance and if you bump them there might be an accident.

Latch door closed during taxi, takeoff and landing.  What are you doing in there during takeoff and landing in the first place?  In case you hadn't noticed, there is no seat belt in the lavatory.  

Do not drop bathroom tissue on the floor.  Oh, you didn't see that sign?  That's because the airline is too embarrassed to mention the state of the lavatory after 2 hours in the air.  For any number of reasons I do not want to pick that tissue up for you, nor do I want it stuck to my shoes when I trudge back to my seat where I will stand clear of the hazards, belt myself in, and earn more miles eating cookies.

Allegiant and the whole 'Young Adult Lit' thingy

As mentioned earlier, I was at the tail-end of the Divergent trilogy in January.  My review is here at Goodreads.  Veronica Roth is not long out of college and wrote much of the trilogy while still in college.  I am not sure what that says about college, but it is an impressive feat of writing to put together a coherent 3-volume narrative in that time span while otherwise academically occupied.  I am convinced that even the most creative fiction authors are still autobiographers.  Who Veronica Roth is seeps deeply into the characterizations in Divergent-Insurgent-Allegiant, particularly the values that Tris holds and her view of her parents.

The YA genre works because it is idealistic, fast-paced, emotional, reactionary.  Exactly.  I was a teenager once.  Which is why I am not recommending a steady diet of this for my daughters or anyone else for that matter.  However, in the inescapable buzz of our media-saturated culture, the Divergent movie will be this year's Hunger Games.  Oh, wait, Hunger Games 2 is this year's Hunger Games…  Anyway, I am not sure about watching the Divergent movie because there are some parts in the book that could lend themselves to overly violent or overly sexual imagery.  Have to wait for some reviews.

Whether anyone in my family reads the books or not, the story will be out there.  And I want to be part of that story with my daughters.

Some great questions are raised, not necessarily answered, by the series:
What does it mean to be loyal to family, friends, your culture?
What do you do about conflicting loyalties?
How much does your genetic heritage determine who you are?
Can you overcome a horrible childhood or even a slightly flawed childhood?
What is the place of faith in an often violent and unjust world?

Those are precisely the kind of questions I should be discussing with my idealistic, fast-paced, emotional, reactionary teenage daughter.  :-)

Finished SEVEN PILLARS OF WISDOM

Go here for the review.  Yes, I would recommend it.

DIVERGENT, INSURGENT, ALLEGIANT

Should I or shouldn't I?

It is a hard to take seriously yet another dystopian power girl trilogy, which explains why I keep lapsing into calling the trilogy the 'Detergent' series, a habit I acquired even before I found out that Veronica Roth did. However, a couple of provoking blurbs in Redeemed Reader and World motivated me to give it a try.  That, along with one particularly enthusiastic teenage daughter who has a keen interest in power girl stories.  Plus, the Divergent movie is coming out soon.  *Pause for sound of interest level ratcheting even higher*

We have all three books -- acquired last year, mind you -- and I and daughter (and, apparently most of her friends) have read the first two books (Divergent, Insurgent).  There are thematic similarities with Hunger Games:  Determined Girl in Difficult times develops belief-defying Martial skills while fighting for survival in a chaotic future and at the same time navigating through the emotional maze of romantic entanglements.  The prevalence and market clout of this 'meme' just makes me wonder -- is this simply the escape genre of this generation of girls (I mean, do boys read these?) or does it reflect a deep-rooted expectation for what the future will be like?

Further commentary will have to wait until I have time to read 'Allergic', I mean Allegiant.  I am being nagged daily about it, because I have committed to finishing a grown up book first (The Seven Pillars of Wisdom - T.E. Lawrence).

Simple Living and Literature

There are lots of blogs out there about simple living.  They cover everything from getting rid of stuff you don't need to living off the grid.  Some advocates seem just a little too serious about it, almost reverential, as if simple living actually produces a utopia of earthly living.  Truth be told, 72 ideas for simplifying seems an oxymoron.  However, raising children simply is a matter of sanity in our small house with 2 people per bedroom and ALL THEIR STUFF.  My better half, however, prefers to have two of everything -- in case one breaks.  So, how to keep her anxiety about the need for backup appliances and kitchen ware at a minimum, while also reducing the number of devices?  Still working on that.  And how to convince my children that their valuables are mostly an odd assortment of junk that they will forget about in 6 months?  Still working on that, too...

Well, truth be told, I have my own simplicity battle to fight.  And that is with books.  I haven't found a way to leave the 'Friends of The Library' used book section of our local library without SOMETHING.  There is always at least one book I really want.  Today, it was not one, but three books.  Total cost was so low ($5 - and that included a $2 tip!) that I was helpless to resist my book rescue impulse.  But where am I going to put them?  Don't know yet.

I moved a whole bookcase and two storage boxes of books to the garage in December, and I am already on track to defeat that effort by the end of this year.

It all comes down to value.  Booklovers understand exactly my dilemma.  You know who you are: with your stacks in the hallway and your bookcases where every shelf has a 'secret' row of books due to chronic 'double-parking' to make use of all available space.  Somehow, someday, I will have to face the reality of sorting my books into two groups: the one's my children will want when I am gone, and the ones that will go into the recycle bin.

But, I don't think I can do it.  Severing so many connections with so many pleasant hours in other worlds and places would be painful.  On second thought, I'll just leave it for the girls. 

A Year For Friendship

As the high school literature tutor for the daughter we have in ninth grade, I toured through selections of Aristotle's ETHICS this past week, including his thoughts on friendship.  Some snippets from Book 8:

"… without friends no one would choose to live, even though he possessed every other good."  

"Perfect friendship is the friendship of people who are good and alike in virtue; 

                for they are alike in wishing each other's good…"

"Those who wish the good of their friends for their friends' sake are in the truest sense friends."

"Friendships of this kind are likely to be rare; for such people are few."

(Aristotle: On Man In The Universe, Classics Club edition, Louse Ropes Loomis, editor).

As I pondered my New Year -- what to prioritize, what to jettison -- Aristotle brought friendship into focus.  Specifically, I began to think of those handful of people who are virtuous, who wish my good simply for my sake, who are true friends, who are gifts to my life that make it worth living:

"My friends have come to me unsought.  The great God gave them to me."   

ESSAY VI Friendship - Ralph Waldo Emerson  (http://www.emersoncentral.com/friendship.htm)

The question that came foremost was: Have I reciprocated?  Am I the friend that others value for the good I wish them and the love I give without reserve?  Do others see me as a gift?  Or, am I the weaker brother in constant need of stronger companions?   

No, this is not me trolling for reassurance, rather it is simply the expression of the desire I have this year to renew in myself that virtue I see in my dearest friends, so well explained in these words by the one who lived them best:

"Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends."  

(Jesus, shortly before his crucifixion.  John chapter 15, verse 13, New International Version)

No Vacation Is Complete Without...

In spite of the government's worst efforts, we had (as mentioned) a lovely time on our vacation.  After many years of family road trips, several recurring features have become a predictable part of our vacations.  Here is the 2013 edition of that broad rhetorical question "Would it be a vacation without..."  (and the implied answer is "Absolutely not!").

... ice cream almost every day?  (Thank you Reimers and The Forks).
... a movie almost every night? (Why else would there be a DVD player in our room?)
... a hike that is just a bit too long, for somebody, well almost everybody, except Dad?  (Nelder Grove and Lewis Creek Trail.  Which is why we have ice cream).
... a museum docent who is absolutely thrilled to discover someone willing to listen? (Thank you to the  enthusiastic hosts at California State Mining and Mineral Museum and Mariposa Museum).
... at least one restaurant that becomes a new family favorite?  (Thank you DiCicco's).
... a few hours at the local bookstore?  (Thank you Branches Books.)

Ordinary, Extraordinary

Not wanting to belabor just how ordinary I am (I doth protest too much, no doubt), but I'm not done.  Earlier this week, we finished the BBC Jane Eyre (1983).  There is a scene near the end of the story where the indomitable St. John is attempting to persuade Jane to join him on the mission field of India as his wife.  Not for love, but for service.  While the movie is superb, the book is sublime and highly recommended.  This from chapter 34 which was included almost verbatim in the movie:

"Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman which sails on the 20th of June."

"God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work," I answered.

"Yes," said he, "there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an infallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subject to the defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms: my king, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems strange to me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner,--to join in the same enterprise."

"All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble to wish to march with the strong."

"I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only such as are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it."

"Those are few in number, and difficult to discover."

"You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up--to urge and exhort them to the effort--to show them what their gifts are, and why they were given--to speak Heaven's message in their ear,--to offer them, direct from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen."

"If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own hearts be the first to inform them of it?"

I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over me: I trembled to hear some fatal word spoken which would at once declare and rivet the spell.

"And what does YOUR heart say?" demanded St. John.

"My heart is mute,--my heart is mute," I answered, struck and thrilled.

I cannot count all the times I have heard similar messages in my years within the Church.  Though often stirred by such appeals, there has never been a time where I felt that my own heart was receiving a call to trek to some distant land as a messenger of Good News.  

And subsequently feeling, of course, that I was a substandard Christian for not having the slightest desire to leave the comforts of America for a foreign culture.

When it comes to the missions call, my heart is mute.  Some would say that the need exists is call enough.  Yet, I know within the bounds of my own neighborhood are as many untouched by the Truth in Scripture as any thousands of miles away.  God will reveal in His own time whether I have deceived myself out of fear or if truly the call is a unique, personal, and fit for only a few...

4 Books, 4 Fathers, 4 Daughters

In 2013, I have read four books which highlight the importance of fathers to daughters.  Of course, those are the kind of books I SHOULD be reading, given my parental status.  [While I am on the topic, the absolute BEST book dealing directly with the subject is 'Strong Fathers, Strong Daughters' by Meg Meeker, which distinctly influenced the title of this post.]

The books, in the order I read them, are:

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith

Moon Over Manifest - Clare Vanderpool

The Diary of A Young Girl - Anne Frank

The Hiding Place - Corrie Ten Boom

Two things stand out as I consider these books collectively. First, that daughters will love their fathers in spite of a father's flaws, many or few.  Even for a father who fails regularly, a daughter's love is remarkably resilient.  The other thing that struck me was the rarity of the father who is a source of strength to his daughter.  In 'A Tree Grows In Brooklyn' and 'Moon Over Manifest', the dads are well-meaning, but weak, controlled by bad habits, unable to be the foundation their daughter's should have.  Anne Frank sees her father as a distant, though well-meaning "old" person.  This must be tempered by her immaturity combined with their uniquely tragic circumstances that would put any relationship under duress.  Though experiencing much the same hardship as Anne Frank, (they were only 10 miles apart during the Nazi occupation of Holland in World War 2), it was only from Corrie Ten Boom that I read of a father and daughter knit together, a strength from a lifetime of living out a deeply abiding faith.  Corrie hearing of her father's death is one of the most touching moments in a deeply moving story.

Of course, such reading leads to reflection.  What kind of Dad am I?  So I am not a chronic drunk or rail-riding bum.  Perhaps I am like Anne Frank's father -- a thoughtful, reasonable man who provides for his family.  But that is not enough.  I want to be the spiritual bastion that Corrie's father was, so that when my daughters launch out into life, or life storms in on them, they will have a sure foundation, a heritage of faith to carry them through.

Words of Wisdom from Corrie Ten Boom's Father:

After Corrie as a small girl asked innocently about an adult topic, he asked Corrie to carry his heavy watch repair bag.  She tried to move it…

"It's too heavy," I said.

"Yes," he said. "And it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his daughter to carry such a load.  It's the same way, Corrie, with knowledge.  Some knowledge is too heavy for children.  When you are older and stronger you can bear it.  For now, you must trust me to carry it for you."

After Corrie experienced the dread of death when a neighbor's baby died.

"Corrie, when you and I go to Amsterdam--when do I give you your ticket?"

I sniffed a few times, considering this.

"Why, just before we get on the train."

"Exactly.  And our wise Father in heaven knows when we're going to need things, too.  Don't run out ahead of Him, Corrie.  When the time comes that some of us will have to die, you will look into your heart and find the strength you need--just in time."

After Corrie learned in her early 20's that the man she loved was engaged to be married to another woman.

"Corrie, do you know what hurts so very much?  It's love.  Love is the strongest force in the world, and when it is blocked, that means pain.

"There are two things we can do when this happens.  We can kill the love so that it stops hurting.  But then of course a part of us dies, too.  Or, Corrie, we can ask God to open up another route for that love to travel… Whenever we cannot love in the old, human way, Corrie, God can give us the perfect way."

Too Many Books

There they sit, accusingly, on the bookshelf.  A half-dozen or more books that I have acquired over the past several months with the intent of reading them 'some day'.  These are not all the books I have accumulated this year, mind you, just the ones I haven't read, yet.  A row of shame, sitting in front of another row of books on the shelf.  My fellow book-hounds know all about double-parking books when your book-cases reach capacity.  But now I have clearly reached a tipping point, a watershed.  I am acquiring books faster than I can read them.  In earlier days, I would find a book that I was interested in, purchase it, and read it.  Or maybe two.  But now the collection of unread books is well beyond that.  I am somewhat afraid to take an actual inventory to find out just how many there are.

Impulse acquisitions.  I assume everyone makes them.  In the category of "Things we don't need, but…"  

What is it about books that when I see one, I think, 'Oh, that would be REALLY interesting'?  As I stand there at the New Arrivals table in Barnes & Noble hefting this treasure in my hand, do I even consider all the books at home I haven't yet read, that I won't have time to read if I read this one?  Including all those Great Books that are vital to my intellectual and spiritual growth?  I have a vague plan to read more of those, as well.  In the mean time, in spite of the avalanche of new media that threatens to bury traditional books, new volumes come out every year that capture my attention.  Just yesterday, I saw two more books (three, actually) referenced in National Review that I added to my mental wish list.  One thing I can say, is that I no longer read simply out of necessity, or to conquer the 'Great Books' list.  I find myself inclining towards history more and more: stories of real people, whose significance is far more intriguing to me because they walked this planet and breathed this air and lived a life with all its joys and sorrows.  People who should not be forgotten.  And that, more than anything, explains why my library will keep growing.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving Day is less than three hours away.  A 24-pound turkey just went into the oven for its slow roast until tomorrow.  My daughters and their cousins are dancing in the living room to music by The Piano Guys.  My wife and I share tired, knowing looks across the room.  Both of us would rather they and we be in bed.  But this late-night frivolity is a rare treat for our band of happy girls.  So, we give free rein.

To prepare for Thanksgiving, Karen started wending her way through 1000 Gifts at the beginning of November; recording things she is thankful for each day.  It seems a simple thing, but practicing eucharisteo (New Testament Greek for "be grateful, feel thankful, give thanks") by a daily habit of writing down three thanks results in the accumulation of over 1000 gratitudes in a year.  While there are many, many, many things I am thankful for, I have yet to develop the habit of recording small thanks every day.  

Though I may not come up with another 997 before the end of the year, here are three simple gifts I am grateful for today.

Glasses.  At this point in my life, they are on my face most waking hours.  For many years, it was just a work thing - a necessary token of hours in front of a computer screen.  Now, any task requiring rudimentary visual acuity has me bellowing "Where are my glasses?"  So, I am thankful to have them.

Running.  Last November, I injured a ligament in my left hip.  A month ago I was despairing that I would ever be able to run without aching the rest of the day.  But, about that time, a corner was turned.  While I still have an occasional twinge,  I will celebrate this Thanksgiving with no limp and little thought for the hobbling figure I was last year.

Hot beverages.  I rarely start a workday without a proper "cuppa" tea (PG Tips) and feel the loss if my weekend date with Karen does not include a latte.   The warm mug comforts my chilled, bony fingers and nothing clears the morning fog away like a gentle jolt of caffeine.  

It is easy for me to see the flaws of life I encounter in a fallen world and take for granted the innumerable blessings that surround me.  Today, I choose to recognize the gifts of grace.

It Happened Again

I have noticed something every morning since November 6th.  The sun has come up without fail.  Yes, I was disappointed by the results of our recent election.  A cultural tipping point was reached where people voted for more government and government-defined rights (as opposed to God-given rights).  Here in California, higher taxes were approved.  Elsewhere, voters enshrined a new 'right' of marriage for any couple of any gender combination.  Our re-elected president is truly representative of a changing America.

I tend to side with the Ron Paul.  Just give me liberty as evidenced by a much smaller, less-intrusive government.  But whether renewal of liberty ever happens in the United States of America, the future is as much in the hands of Providence as it has ever been.  If we are called to live our faith in more difficult times, we are in good company.  Whenever I am inclined to pessimism (which is often), I re-read these words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer on January 1, 1943, less than four months before he would be imprisoned by a Nazi regime that would execute him two years later:

"...some Christians think it impious for anyone to hope and prepare for a better earthly future.  They think that the meaning of the present events is chaos, disorder, and catastrophe; and in resignation or pious escapism they surrender all responsibility for reconstruction and for future generations.  It may be that the day of judgement will dawn tomorrow; in that case, we will gladly stop working for a better future.  But not before."  (Letters & Papers From Prison)

Uncle Tom, Les Mis, and Eternity

I just finished re-reading Uncle Tom's Cabin for the third time a couple of weeks ago and saw Les Mis the musical (from the book Les Miserables) for the second time this past weekend.  Both are stories of men (Uncle Tom and Jean Valjean) that over and over demonstrate mercy and compassion, while they themselves are treated with injustice and abuse.  Notably, their treatment is 'lawful' by the statutes in effect in the United States and France at the time the books were written.  In what seems tragic endings, both men are dying just as they are found by those who hoped to make their earthly lives longer and better, too late for anything more than tearful partings.

Though fictional characters, both portray a higher truth of those who seek another land, who have lived in pursuit of another city without regard for earthly cost.  And why did they live this way?  An encounter with the living Savior.  And so it has been through nearly two millennia of the Church.  The sufferings of the faithful were described in advance in Hebrews 11, and summarized in verse 38 by this phrase: "of whom the world was not worthy."

Inevitably, great literature prompts self-examination. I look at my own pursuits of earthly comfort.  Oh, sure, I do my religious duty and strive to be a good husband and father.  But still, my sacrifices for the eternal are so small.  Could I, like Uncle Tom, pray earnestly for the soul of a master who was slowly killing me?  Could I, like Jean Valjean, grant my parole officer life and freedom knowing that to do so was to risk a return to bondage?  Rather, I consider myself ill-used if my job is not 'fulfilling' or 'interesting'.  I mentally begrudge my charitable giving when I think of what it could buy me.

150 years have passed since Harriet Beecher Stowe and Victor Hugo penned these epic testimonies of the responsibility of man to mankind, and of two saintly figures who valued this truth more than life.  I pray to God that should I ever have the cause to truly suffer for Christ, that I will not falter, that I will indeed love my enemies.  In the meantime, I pray for grace to raise my eyes from my mostly petty concerns and regain a vision for the image of God in each person I encounter.  From the finale of Les Mis, this powerful, unforgettable phrase: To love another person is to see the face of God.  May I see the face of God today.

Half-Read

Right now, I am in the middle of A Severe Mercy, one of those books that has touched on the edges of my radar over the years, but I never picked up until a friend loaned it to me.  Poignant, elegant autobiographical story of love and coming to faith from the far end of intellectual skepticism, then having that faith tried in a severe way.  Having C.S. Lewis thrown into the actual mix -- the author and his wife spent time with him at Oxford -- makes it all the more compelling.  I will share more later, but I can already say I would recommend it as a bracing tonic for a tired faith.

Wives and Daughters

In our bookish home, we read for inspiration, not just information.  Charles Dickens (so far as I have read) always succeeds.  There is a richness in Dickens that cannot be found elsewhere: unforgettable characters are very good, very evil, very silly, very simple and often a combination.  We have found another author from that era equally ennobling: Elizabeth Gaskell.  Gaskell weaves a more subtle tapestry than Dickens, creating characters a bit more human, a bit more believable.  I just finished reading her final, not-quite-complete novel: Wives and Daughters.  This was after viewing the BBC mini-series.  Yes, I know this violates my 'read before movie' precept.  My family forced me into it, truly.  Tied me to the couch and pointed my face at the screen and sat a bowl of popcorn on my lap.  At that point, I gave in.

GASKELL and DICKENS

Wives and Daughters shares a common theme with a splendid Dickens work: Little Dorrit.  Both tell the story of a young woman coming of age without a mother whose strength of character is sorely tested by the foibles and weaknesses of those around her.  Both illustrate the clear boundaries of class in England at that time.  Of great importance to me, both show the unique place a father has in the heart of his daughters.  Both show the value of good character in attracting the right partner.

In Little Dorrit, the father is a flawed, weak man with a misplaced sense of his own importance given his residence in debtor's prison.  Though he no doubt loves 'Little Dorrit', the tension between who he wants to be and who he really is causes him to frequently hurt her while favoring two older siblings who are ungrateful and selfish, and following their father's pretentious footsteps.  The father in Wives and Daughters is a wise, loving, albeit stern country doctor who makes one crucial mistake: thinking his nearly grown daughter is in need of a mother figure to replace the wife he lost when Molly was young, when she really just wants more of her father's precious time.  In spite of this vast difference between the two men -- one with significant flaws, the other with significant strengths, both authors show how deeply each daughter loves their father, simply because of who he is.  You can see why a Dad would like that, right?

BOOK VERSUS MOVIE

Both books were turned into BBC mini-series by producer Andrew Davies.  These are  compelling dramas.  Here are excellent reviews of Wives and Daughters, and Little Dorrit. Though a century and a half removed from the time they were written, Davies mostly 'gets it right', particularly with Little Dorrit, where he had seven and one half hours to work with.  Wives and Daughters is about half that, making it at times feels rushed.  In both, Davies leaves out a crucial element.  The books have clues to the source of Molly's and Little Dorrit's goodness.  It would be easy to say they are simply illustrating the romantic innocence of young womanhood.  But no, the stories have other young women not so noble and other noble characters that are not young women.  There is something singularly, divinely beautiful in the life of one who consciously chooses to subsume their desires in a surrender to other-centeredness.  This is what Dickens and Gaskell recognize.  References to Providence or The Good Book are not by accident.  They lived in an era where science was making broad leaps forward, but the rejection of a Divine Creator had not yet happened.  They recognized that science cannot produce goodness, nor can it thwart evil.  The power to love, particularly one's enemies, is super-human.

In the movies, you see how good Molly and Little Dorrit are.  In the books, you better understand why they are good.  And that is why I want my daughters to read.  In the end, I was reminded of how I need to treasure the time I have with my daughters and how I must prepare them to give their hand to the next man in their life.  These are stories I can point to and say, isn't that the kind of young lady you would like to be?  And so far, the answer has been 'Yes'. 

Hunger is no game

LATE, AGAIN

I am not a leading edge culture consumer.  More often than not, I buy books used and see movies on DVD.  Still, the cultural noise will seep into our home, and movies based on popular books will interest our children.  Then, I have a choice to keep ignoring the hype or to investigate.  Movies can often be the 'carrot'  to entice reading: Sure, we'll go to the movie, AFTER you read the book.  That worked wonders for the Lord Of The Rings series.  But, not all movies are worth seeing, not all books worth reading.  There is help out there for those with the parental duty of culture content sifting.  

The Hunger Games movie coming out this month is The Next Big Thing.  As a natural pessimist, I have a soft spot in my heart (or head, some would say) for dystopian literature.  Fahrenheit 451, Brave New World, and 1984 all imperfectly gave glimpses into a future that much of modern society is living now.  Dystopian lit shows what happens when the utopians are in charge.  Hunger Games fits the genre: life in dystopia is either miserable or narcotically shallow for the vast majority, while the 'Brights' enjoy all the perks of running the machine of Government.  Still, Hunger Games languished on my 'list' until a couple of weeks ago when a good friend asked if I had read it yet.  That jump-started me and I procured the Hunger Games trilogy.  [I continue to buy printed books to stave off B&N's ultimate demise].  Aided by Suzanne Collins' terse style, simple language and just enough turns of plot to keep me interested, I finished Hunger Games in a few hours.  The next two will follow.

SMALL STORY, BIG QUESTIONS

The Greeks invented tragedy, Shakespeare perfected it, and Hunger Games is tragic as well.  The linchpin of the plot -- the "reaping" of two representatives from each of 12 Districts for a fight to the death -- is tragedy by definition.  In spite of a sometimes obvious plot and shallow characterization, Hunger Games is effective because Collins weaves into the tragedy themes that people in every generation must come to grips with: Can I trust?  Who is a reliable friend?  What is worth dying for?  Among all of humanity, does my life matter?  Of particular interest in our era:  Can anyone make a difference when the paths of life are tightly controlled by ever-present bureaucracy of governments?  Hunger Games also latches onto our fundamentally morbid curiosity: will Katniss - the central character - die?  If so, how?  If not, what will she have to do to survive?  Life and death are the ultimate drama.  

WHAT ARE YOU HUNGRY FOR?

Out of the significant themes in Hunger Games, this is what struck me:  The real hunger in Hunger Games is for human relationship.  Two of my most respected authors, Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Natan Sharansky, record the effect of police states on human relationships, where trust is at a premium and most interactions with people go on at two levels: the public one lived for the consumption of the watching eyes; the hidden, private one furtively snatched at rare opportunities to meet that hunger for human companionship.  Hunger Games portrays this well.

As I read Hunger Games, it occurred to me that Katniss is a metaphor for a generation of young women struggling with love hunger.  The parallels are striking:

• A missing father 
• An overwhelmed mother 
• The need to be strong to protect herself and her family.
• Uncertainty with male relationships, what they should mean.
• Wanting to trust, but afraid to risk.

I have seen in myself and my sisters the impact of a missing father and that effect cascading and multiplying into the next generation.  While the forces that combine to fragment family relationships in Hunger Games are somewhat different than those in our society, the corroding effect is real all the same.

The significant choices by Katniss, with Gale, Rue, Peeta and others in the story come out of this tension between simply surviving, and feeding the hunger for love.  Katniss  has learned to wall herself off from others.  To survive.  Yet, the only time her existence has meaning is when she risks herself, her life, to invest in another person.  For love hunger is not satiated only be receiving love, but also by giving it.

As the "game" moves on, relationships end when a person literally outlives their usefulness.  This utilitarian view from a position of strength (I will let you live as long as you are useful), is contrasted with Katniss and her response to someone in need or her own position of vulnerability.  With her sister Prim, with Rue, with Peeta, Katniss makes choices to risk her own life for someone else.  We aren't told why.  Yet, the truth of a sacrificial 'greater love' shines through.  Yes, in some ways, people are stronger alone.  But, as Katniss continually discovers, they are less than human.  At the crucial finale of the competition, she prefers death to loneliness.  As the book concludes with an incomplete resolution, Katniss is being forced back into solitude by the ever-present mechanism of state and by her own confusion over who she is in the context of new relationships.

WHO SHOULD READ IT?

So, do I want my 13-year-old reading Hunger Games?  Not likely.  At least, not soon.  I would much rather her enjoy the real models she has of life in her own "village", and the understanding she has of real suffering the she knows is happening both close at hand and in distance lands, rather than embrace an adrenaline-enhancing teen thriller.  'Little Women' (Lousia May Alcott) or Jane Austen novels provide a better fictional path to understanding noble choices.  Katniss makes what seem to be right choices out of some unexplained instinct or momentary impulse, whereas older literature assumed a framework of right and wrong that formed the basis for decision-making, even if the choice to do right was supremely difficult.  

Does Hunger Games pass the 'noble, pure, praiseworthy' litmus test?  Well, no.  The gore is gratuitous, typical for our era.  Good is situational and faith absent.  That a young woman would be enamored with dazzling apparel when hours away from facing death seemed unreal.  Of course, I'm a man and there is a reason it is called the 'feminine mystique'.  Why then, would it be a good use of time for a mature teen or adult to read Hunger Games?  Simply because every few years, some cultural phenomenon becomes a significant part of many people's reality.  To be in the world means having some awareness of Harry Potter, The Matrix, Hunger Games.  I can rage against it, or make use of it.

Utilitarian aspect aside, there is no point in my denying that Hunger Games, like dystopian literature in general, is pleasurable for those gloomy souls among us who occasionally appreciate a tragic, melancholy tale.  Which is a round-about way of saying, I liked it.