The arrival of books here is a weekly occurrence.  Between Paperbackswap, Amazon and various smaller publishers, I have little Christmas moments throughout the year.  I find myself frequenting my local library much less often because my personal library is alluring enough.

But two books arrived which are special.  Special because they are intended to be ingested as a couple or family.  As winter approaches we start reading a chapter after a meal.  During the dark of the year, Curt and I enjoy reading aloud to each other before sleeping.   The unspoken (but not unbroken) rule is that nobody reads ahead. 

On the dock:

Notes From The Tilt-A-Whirl: Wide-Eyed Wonder in God’s Spoken World   
From the blurb: 
In these sparkling chapters, Wilson gives an aesthetic examination of the ways in which humanity has tried to make sense of this overwhelming carnival ride of a world. He takes a whimsical, thought-provoking look at everything from the “magic” of quantum physics, to nature’s absurdities, to the problem of evil, evolution and hell. These frequently humorous, and uniquely beautiful portraits express reality unknown to many Christians-the reality of God’s story unfolding around and among us. As the author says, “Welcome to His poem. His play. His novel. His comedy. Let the pages flick your thumbs.”

This will not be the first N.D. Wilson book we’ve read aloud.  We greatly enjoyed his young adult books 100 Cupboards and Leepike Ridge.  There is not a hint of schmaltz with Wilson.  I’m expecting an unpredictable, thought provoking, delightful read.

 
  Grave Matters: A Journey Through the Modern Funeral Industry to a Natural Way of Burial may seem an unlikely choice for healthy people to read.  But I have a problem with the funeral “industry” that exists today.  When my friend told me that her family paid $2,000 to rent a coffin for her dad’s funeral (he was cremated after) I was fired up.   

The adage “You’ll be told when you need to know” doesn’t hold water here.  I want to bone up on our options before it is time to lay the body down.    The opening quotation before the preface is Genesis 3:19  In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

    

* We started in on Tilt-a-Whirl tonight.  The first chapter was highly excellent.  This is gonna be a ride!   Here’s a sampler sentence.  “There are various theories as to how and why this all happened [the universe], attempts at explaining the sheer number of creeping things in the world, the stars, the life cycle of frogs, the social behavior of fish, the meaning of love, life, and a really good hamburger.”

One of the great joys of being Nana is watching my kids being Dada and Mama.  They have provided security and stability for their boys with lots of laughter and tickles, and plenty of good food.  When one faceplants and is smarting with pain, there are hugs, comfort and plenty of love.  And, sometimes, a bandage. 

But, if the bump, scrape or fall is one of the minor daily occurrences of toddlerhood the response is, “Bonk!” with a cheerful voice.  So often the child gauges his response by the adult’s response.  It is a joy to watch the teaching process involved in one word.  It says yes, you hurt yourself, but stand up and try again.  This is the kind of thing to ignore. 

I realized that my native tendency is the opposite of “Bonk!”  I really want Acknowledgement of the Struggles and Difficulties and Frustrations and Challenges of my life. I am a regular Florence Nightengale when it comes to nursing my own aches and stresses.  I need someone to say, So it was a hard day with barely time to catch a breath?  Bonk!  I need to remind myself every time the printer jams yet again…Bonk! 

And that is where gratitude enters.  Choosing to be thankful instead of choosing to mope and pout.   I think gratitude, like repentance, is a gift from our Creator.  That is my prayer this morning.  “Give me a thankful heart.”  And I need people around me to remind me to take the little problems of my life less seriously.  Bonk!

O Lord that lends me life,

Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness.   

It has been said that the dynamics of two people driving in a car are perfect for deep conversation.  You are both facing the same direction, which is more conducive to open disclosure, less threatening than facing each other.  It is possible in a car to have very few distractions that normally disrupt discourse between two people. On a journey of any distance you have the greatest luxury: time.  Time for the talk to meander the way a wild river wanders, rambles and loops.  Time for a topic to steep and brew and be set aside before drinking it down. 

Some of my best memories are of long car trips we’ve taken. 

Our honeymoon was spent driving from Wheaton to the West Coast.  As we approached South Dakota my husband became animated, anticipating Reptile Gardens.  Please!  Why would someone actually pay money to see snakes dripping from trees?  My lack of enthusiasm had no dampening effect on Curt.  But I was driving and he was sleeping when we cruised through Rapid City right past that repulsive place.  A mile down the road I had a throbbing fit of conscience, made a U-ie across the meridian, and drove back to the exit.  True love.  It is one of the great mysteries of my life that three times I have paid to be a snake spectator.

I was raised in a large family, with a Stop For Gas Only policy.  Your bodily needs had to coordinate themselves to the car’s fuel tank.  One learned early The Precautionary Pee.  “Just try,” Mom would say.   I had the good fortune of marrying a man who takes the first exit when the need for a facility is expressed. Whew!

We listen to music, lots of audio books, sermons, seminars and audio magazines.  Sometimes I read a book aloud.  But the rich moments are when we talk.  (Aside: If I had younguns, I’d be one of those mean moms who would restrict the use of personal DVD players.  Why?  Because they rob you of thinking time.  And talking time.  Without them the brain has space to stretch.) 

I got to thinking of gerunds that come along on road trips:

Isaac Hooker is the firstborn son from a mismatched marriage of a bookish, pipe smoking, poetry loving man and a scrappy catty white-trash woman.  Isaac has a genius intellect housed in a fat, slovenly, near-sighted, deaf-in-one-ear body, a “village idiot” who looked like “he ought to be institutionalized at the state’s expense.” Not your garden variety protagonist. 

The first part of Isaac’s story has many paeans to the joys of reading, to an appetite for learning.

Surely some of you can relate to the marking of time by your reading (for me the summer of 1986 is the Summer of Dostoyevsky):

I can just about guarantee that the prose in Isaac and His Devils is three notches above whatever you are reading right now.  Eberstadt’s sentences are well-crafted, a joy to read.  I am smitten when an author can express something I’ve felt but have never articulated.  A sense of recognition and delight in having words to describe that circumstance or feeling.  Not only does Eberstadt write well, she writes with the knowledge base of a classicist.  [addendum: Eberstadt's grandfather is Ogden Nash; at 16 she worked in Andy Warhol's factory; she studied at Oxford.]

But the storyline took a turn – a liaison between a teacher and a student – that turned me off. And what I consider a potentially great novel petered out.

Why did I read this?  George Grant, one of my favorite book reviewers, caught my attention with these words:

I have never come across another reference to this author or this book.  I’m willing to read more by her.  I’m satisfied to have the quotes written in my journal, but this is not a book I plan to keep or re-read. 

Letter Writing, 1912 Carl Larsson (1853-1919)

The thick braid, the pewter candle holder, leggy geraniums, artwork hung low, extra chair in the corner, the posture of concentration:  I love it all.   Thank you, Kathleen.  I love you, too!