Scout, Jem, Dill, and Atticus. Always Atticus

Some things I’ve learned from reading To Kill a Mockingbird aloud to my classes (four times ever day):

There’s something powerful in reading aloud.  I’ve always loved people reading stories to me, especially Christmas books that my mom would read to us as children.  And I’ve always loved reading books aloud.  One of my goals before I turn 32 is to somehow look into or audition for reading an audio book, simply because that sounds, quite literally, like my most ideal job. 

But besides all of that, there is some sort of power in reading Atticus’s words aloud.  In bringing Boo to life that way, in creating the aura of shadow around him in the beginning of the story, only to bring clarity to him at the end.

In reading this four times over every day, I’ve come to realize that the third time is really where I hit my stride.  The first is pretty good, the second almost there, but by the third pass through, I can hit all the inflections just right and I can anticipate the questions before they come.  By the fourth, I’m a little into autopilot.  But third is my sweet spot. 

I was prepared for my students to not really enjoy or appreciate this book.  I told myself before I started teaching it that it would be okay if they didn’t think it was amazing.  After all, I read it for the first time in tenth grade and while I loved it, it was only when I re-read it at 25 that I really adored it.  When I would’ve counted it one of my favorite books.  So if they couldn’t really get it at 12, that would be okay. 

I wasn’t prepared for them to feel so invested and involved so quickly.  Every day they come in and ask excitedly, “Are we going to read today?”

Granted, they don’t really see the whole picture sometimes: i.e. they think the title is going to be because Atticus shot a mockingbird when he was young and it’s haunted him all these years and that’s why he stopped shooting things.  Also, some of them are convinced that Calpurnia and Atticus are going to end up together. Sure guys, this is a town where a white man can, without any evidence, accuse a black man of rape and have him convicted, but a white man and a black woman will get married, no problem.  

But they’re loving it. And I’m loving how much they’re loving it.

In what might be the strangest comparison yet, I’ve realized there’s a moment for me in books that I love.  I call it The Silver Doe moment, because I first became aware of it in reading and re-reading and listening and re-listening to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.  Now, for some reason that chapter where Harry and Hermoinie are camping and the silver doe patronus appears is one of my favorite moments in the whole series.  Certainly the Final Battle, the last 200 pages or so trump it in the way that only an epic climax to a classic hero story can.  The scene with Harry and Dumbledore is just too good for words.  But as a non-highest-point-in-4000-pages way, The Silver Doe is the shit.   I can’t explain it, I can’t say that anyone else necessarily feels the same, but for me, there’s something transcendent about that chapter, something that pulls on the very deepest heartstrings the way that only the best books do. 

I was reading aloud last week and I suddenly knew—my Silver Doe moment in To Kill a Mockingbird is when Atticus shoots the rabid dog.  Other details, especially of the beginning, fade away, but that chapter I remember with absolute clarity.  There’s something about that scene when Atticus, who up to this point is interesting because he allows his kids to call him by his first name, and who is otherwise notable for  He is not just an attorney, but a remarkable marksman who gave that up.  He has power that he lays aside, but is willing to pick it up again for the sake of his children and his town.  It’s a defining moment.

his deep river of tolerance and wisdom, becomes much more multi-faceted and slightly mysterious.

(On a side note, it’s moments like that which make stories worth reading, which give them their almost mystical power.  It’s moments like that which allow us to see a little further into the human condition that we ever could without sharing a story, and it’s moments like that which make the truth of the story the ultimate goal in reading.  It’s also why, when several years ago, some people tried to convince me that there were some books which were “unclean” and therefore inappropriate, that I felt it as an almost physical attack.  It’s why I still carry that year of teaching around, even four years later.)

But to continue the Harry Potter comparison, the real epic Final Battle is coming in To Kill a Mockingbird.  And in the same way that hearing Harry offer Voldemort forgiveness and a last chance at repentance in the end, strikes the most perfect chord within me, I cannot wait to be able to read the line where Scout makes us understand why the book is called To Kill a Mockingbird.  To come to that moment where the final piece of the puzzle lines up perfectly and things fall into place, and to share that with students.  All 120 of them.  I can’t even explain how excited I am.

Little Words of Wisdom

T is the best.  And so stinkin' smart :) 

My mom got a Lite Brite for my three year old nephew. He loves it.  She has drawn a spider, and an elephant, an owl and a giraffe, among numerous other animals, for him to see come to life with the transparent colored pegs.  He loves this toy, but he knows that he cannot design an animal, set it up, punch the holes and put the pegs in the correct space all on his own.  He wants those animals to exist, yet he knows that he can’t do it on his own.  And instead of insisting that he must be allowed to do it without assistance, he has a phrase, often repeated several times in quick succession: Help me! Help me, help me, help me! And of course I do.

I want to see him succeed.  I want him to experience delight in this and other things—putting puzzles together, building dinosaurs from Duplos. I love seeing his face light up when he helps with a certain part and to see him laugh when we finish a project.  Because I love him. 

So it makes me wonder—what am I holding back from that I really want to do because I know I cannot do it alone.  What am I avoiding because I know I would need help to pull it off.  What do I need to go to God with and say, “Help me! Help me, help me, help me!” Help me with knowing how to feel and react to a situation! Help me to know what to do and how to overcome! Help me to do what you’ve called me to do! Help me to figure out what you’ve called me to do in this situation!  If I, in my meager, earthly, sin laden love for my nephew, love to help him complete a Lite Brite elephant, what is it that the Savior of the world is looking to help me with? How much more help could I possibly expect or need than what would be provided?

It’s humbling to realize that in his totally innocent and too young to realize he’s an example way that my nephew knows where it’s at.  Look at who is bigger than you, look at who knows more and is stronger, and tell them what you want, knowing that love is on the other side.  Which isn’t to say that I always do everything for him, that I don’t sometimes say, “You can help,” to him or insist he do a small part himself.  But I know what he’s capable of alone, I push him a little bit beyond that, and then I step in to fill the rest of the void.  And I only know to do that because of the pattern Jesus established first. 

And I’m desiring so hard to know---what is going to move this from the theoretical to the practical? This is kind of an interesting, and hopefully helpful, little story, but what practically does it mean I should be doing differently in my life?

So while we’re using T as a good example, he has a longer, slightly funnier catch phrase of late.  It’s not ha-ha funny, but more, huh, what a funny thing for a toddler to say kind of funny.  He looks at you and says, “What did you say?” with the same intonation constantly.  Even when I’m pretty sure he heard me.  “What did you say?” Even when I think I’ve made it clear, even when I think it’s loud enough.  “What did you say?”

How often is God trying to get me to say that?  He himself says that He is often in the whisper, not the roar.  The subtlety that is so easy to miss if we aren’t looking.  He wants to constantly be asking, “What did you say?” What are we missing? What does he have for us—what does he want us to be asking for help in—that we haven’t quite picked up on.  “What did you say, God?” 

And whenever T asks, I tell him. I smile and repeat myself, not annoyed, but loving that this little person is in my life.  I don’t scold him for not paying attention, but love that he wants to know and is persistent enough to ask.  And again, this is earthly love for my nephew.  How much more will my Father in heaven respond with love for me if I come to Him and ask, “What did you say? Help me.”

I’m not saying T is a genius (but, c’mon, of course he is), I’m not saying he is the perfect example of faith like a child.  I am saying he is loved, and how we respond in love to his simple, real questions, might be a good example of how our Father wants to respond to us if we come to Him with our equally real, simple questions.

Last Word

It occurred to me, watching the Penn State play in the Pin Stripe Bowl, that kickers have the last word.  No matter whether you are coming in to hit the late game field goal, or make sure of the extra point after a touchdown, the kicker is usually the last one who really finishes off the score.  

Saturday evening, in overtime, Sam Ficken got his ultimate last word.  He wasn’t supposed to be playing in a bowl game his senior year—for many reasons—and instead he ran through Yankee Stadium-turned football field, one of the most joyous Nittany Lions to be found. 

Two and a half years ago, only two games into unprecedentedly severe sanctions, Penn State had the chance to win a game against UVA. Four times Sam Ficken went up to put up three points.  Four times PSU came away empty.  The game ended with UVA up by one point, and Sam Ficken was practically burned in effigy by the Penn State faithful.  Bill O’Brien—bless him—stood behind Ficken and continued to name his as the kicker.  His career could’ve basically ended there—defined by what would (it seems) be the darkest moment of his football career.  That if he was remembered by anyone, it would be by what he had failed to do. 

But Sam Ficken, like Penn State, didn’t allow the darkest moment to be the last word.  He buckled down, sought advice from others, worked on the mental and physical aspects of his career, and by the last game of the season, had hit ten straight field goals.

But that was not the end of the story.

I was home for Christmas break when Penn State was—almost inexplicably—playing in the post season.  It had only been part of the way through the season that the NCAA in all its infinite and consistent wisdom lifted the last of the sanctions and allowed for post season play should they qualify.  And they did.  By the skin of their teeth.

Saturday evening, watching this, PSU fans knew—we weren’t supposed to be in this game.  Halfway through the third quarter, looking a little like a struggling offense, two touchdowns behind, Penn State wasn’t supposed to win.  Then, it was as though something clicked—they suddenly realized everything that should keep them from winning—and so they decided to win. 

The best moment of the game wasn’t Hackenburg coming through or the amazing catches some of the receivers seemed to pull out of thin air as they ripped them away from the defenders.  The best moment wasn’t even the nerve wracking long-ish field goal Sam had to kick to send it into overtime.  It was actually the drive after Boston College scored a touchdown.  There was intense frustration and disappointment after they scored that OT touchdown, but then, hope creaked in in the form of a sharply hooking point after attempt that landed wide right of the uprights.  There would still have to be a touchdown. But there was also the undeniable thought—Sam can make that extra point. 

The best moment came when he did. 

As the Nittany Lions screamed, ran, and cried for joy, it was evident that BC was devastated.  And I wanted to say to that BC kicker—a team which has struggled in kicking all year—Sam knows where you are.  He has been where you are.  And this is not the last word for you.  At least, it doesn’t have to be. 

That’s the reason I love Sam Ficken’s story.  Because we have all had a UVA moment.  We have all had a moment of thinking “This is not the plan.  This is not how this was supposed to go.  Why is this happening?”  We’ve had that moment of fear that maybe the goal, the dream, what you’ve worked for, isn’t going to ever work out.  Maybe you just aren’t good enough. 

We’ve all had the UVA moment.  And the dream is to have the Pin Stripe Bowl moment as well—to realize that yeah that early moment was absolute shit, but it’s not what defines you.  And that it is in no way the last word.  That your life can go from most hated (by the public) person to the most consistent player in only two years is room that you have to allow.  That only when we have space for radical change can we have a Sam Ficken kind of last word.   (And side note—it would be nice if life continued to have easily segmented portions the way it did in college.  I keep saying ‘last word’ like some parts of life ever really come to a nice neat conclusion.  Life doesn’t.  Which is slightly unfortunate.)

I don’t think that Sam Ficken’s kicker career is a how-to guide to life.  But I can’t get over the fact that his is the perfect story of how possible it is for life to change, for dreams to come true, even after—or sometimes even because—the dream looks dead for a moment.  If you—like me—have had your UVA moment, you need to leave room for the Pin Stripe Bowl—the moment that’s not supposed to happen, but that somehow, inexplicably, it does.  

The Possibility of it All

That which Voldemort does not value, he takes no trouble to comprehend.  Of house-elves and children’s tales, of love, loyalty, and innocence, Voldemort knows and understands nothing   Nothing.  That they all have a power beyond his own, a power beyond the reach of any magic is a truth he has never grasped. –Albus Dumbledore

Credo

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” --Hamlet

Last week when my roommate who shares the upstairs of our tall townhouse with me was out of town, a few odd things happened.  Doors opened inexplicably and lights turned on without anyone flipping the switch.  What started as a fear of an intruder at 2 in the morning ended with me joking about a ghost.  I could come up with some reasonable explanations for it all that I mostly believed.   In the dark night while Meg was still gone, it was a little easier to believe in the creepiness of it all than the rational.   I’m pretty sure I’m still catching up on sleep from that week even though she’s been back for about a week.

“Someday you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” –C.S. Lewis

Some days I think it would be easier to not believe in anything beyond what you can see, certainly it would’ve helped me sleep better once I ruled out the possibility of an intruder in my home.  But I think easy ability to be creeped out is directly tied to my ability to believe in other unexplainable things.  I have a necklace that Jess got me for my birthday a few years ago which says, “I still believe in 398.2” (398.2 in the place in the Dewey Decimal System reserved for Fairy Tales.) and I didn’t think about it too deeply at the time when she gave it to me, didn’t really fully consider if it was deeply true in my life until this summer when I was teaching with Andi at CTY.  We finished our course with a study of fairy tales and, this year, with some portions of The Snow Child.  The novel, set in early 20^th century Alaska, brilliantly contrasts the harsh reality of life with a magical child, made out of snow, and given to a couple who needs her desperately.  As we were reading the book, one of the students sort of poo-poo’d the idea that a real, thinking person could consider this sort of reality.  For it was not like the show Once Upon a Time, where they clearly live in a different reality with different rules about magic.  This was our world, invaded by the faintest trace of magic.  And, while I don’t remember the exact words, I remember the gist of what Andi said to her, because it was brilliant.  She asked the girl if this world was like our world, and if, though it didn’t seem possible through the laws of nature, a fairy tale had maybe come true.  And if belief in that possibility, for a hint, for a trace, for a glimpse of the unexplainable, wasn’t a good thing in our world and in our lives.  I have no idea if it convinced the student, but I know it convinced me, and I knew that when I wore that necklace, that was what I meant by belief in fairy tales.

I don’t believe in them in a ‘you should maybe have me committed’ kind of way, but in a ‘there’s a power to certain things that goes beyond what we can understand or explain’ kind of way.  I don’t believe in fairy tales in a way that makes me think that a prince is going to ride up and kiss me awake or present me with my glass slipper and turn me from servant girl to princess.   Those parts seem to be the least important of the actual-non-Disnefied-version of the tales.  The common experience, the potential for magic, the touch of the unbelievable in your life, those are the important parts.

“Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.” –Norman Vincent Peale

Which brings me to Santa.   And if I believe in something slightly creepy in my house (I don’t actually believe in malevolent ghosts so I’m not sure what I think was happening there, but I know it made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck that first night) and in fairy tales and the potential for magic, it seems only logical that I should believe in Santa too.  Not the’ I think a fat man is going to come down my parents’ chimney tonight.’  Definitely not in the commercialized version or the “Santa is watching, so be well-behaved” kind of way either.  And not in a purely metaphoric way either.  I believe in Santa in a ‘Christmas is a time for the unexpected and unexplainable’ and the ‘this immense love doesn’t make sense’ way.  And I’m not trying to say that since God did this amazing, unbelievable thing, Santa is also real.  I’m not sure how to explain or describe it—somewhere between seeing him as a real person and trying to ascribe his attributes—generosity, kindness, love—to us all—that’s where I am. That the spirit of Santa can enter into our homes is maybe the closest. 

My soul proclaims the greatness of the world.  Holy is His name. --Mary

Because the more I reflect this Advent season, I realize that Advent is about waiting expectantly, and knowing that the miracle can happen.  And not just that it can happen, but that it will, and when it does it will be so totally unlike anything we ever expected because we can’t dream big enough or see far enough to get it right. (I also believe in the virgin birth.  No one’s surprised, right?)

I also think about the people involved, who are now like characters in an old story.  But I think about the little known—about Zechariah and Elizabeth who knew before anyone else that something was stirring in a different way than before, and that there baby was going to be special—special enough to wait until they were old and had lost hope.  And then hope not only flared, but blazed bright.  I think about the Magi who had no idea what they were going to find when they followed the star, but had the faith that it was important enough to leave everything else behind and find out what—or who—was the reason for the star.  

And this story, and others like it, are I think the reason that I believe in the other, smaller, signs of magic in our real, everyday life.  They’re a shadow, a hint, of the potential in this world—the potential for the unexpected, the unexplainable, the thing you never thought possible—to appear at any moment.  Ancient beliefs held that the barrier between the physical and spirit world was the thinnest at in-between points---the place where the ocean meets the shore; at midnight, when it is neither fully yesterday nor today; at the solstice when fall becomes winter. (And I know, we celebrate Christmas now because of its proximity to the solstice and that Jesus was probably born in the spring.  Great.  But today is when we commemorate it, so deal.)   Because for me, the thinnest moment is Christmas Eve when God became flesh, become Immanuel, became God-with-us.  Christmas Eve—that night that turns right into Christmas Day, when the angels sang, when the star started shining brilliantly—has always seemed the holiest and the most full.  Full of the possibility of it all.   

On Not Being Enough

I didn’t know what to feel when I got in my car.  I’m not sure exactly why I wanted to cry when I shivered as I turned the key and didn’t know how to feel.  I didn’t really want to listen to the fabulous Amy Poehler read her audio book, but since I had no outlet that seemed appropriate, I listened to her talk about the sucky thing she’d done for which she had since apologized.  (Side note, this story, and this book are fantastic, a thing I realized even in the midst of other shit.)

I hadn’t gone to the ninth grade basketball game to feel better about myself, I’d gone because there was a former student that needed to know I still cared about him.  People caring about him were pretty few in his life and I couldn’t bear to disappoint him.   Even though he didn’t actually realize I was there until hours after the game.

Last year, I told my students that I would try to come see any games they were playing in, if they gave me their schedule.  We don’t have middle school sports (boo!) and I had no way of knowing which local league they were playing in.  He was the only one who did.  And I didn’t really want to go—his games were on Saturdays and they were far away from my house in elementary school gyms and I had other plans, usually out of town.  But he kept asking.  He kept telling me that I hadn’t been to his game.  So, the very last one, the only time I was in town, I went.  Well, I tried to.  The directions from Google and Garmin were super sucky and I eventually had to ask people at a different school and lucked into finding it.  I was ten minutes late when I should’ve been twenty minutes early.  Which he mentioned later.

Then he made the rising freshman basketball team in the spring and I went to see more games.  Somewhere in between sitting on an elementary school gym floor in the winter and bleachers that first spring time game, I realized I was the only one who ever came to see him play.  His mom was probably at work, I’m not positive.  All I know is, she wasn’t there.  Ever.

So I came.  Usually I convinced Sher she wanted to come if it was possible, but if it wasn’t, I went alone. I love basketball, but I don’t love 14 year olds playing enough for the amount of times I went to see them play.  I wasn’t always there on time.  Which I usually got grief for, since he started and it mattered to him that I hadn’t been there to see it.

Luckily, for me, I had two other students on the team who were also in my homeroom and who I’d developed a pretty good rapport with as well, and one of their mom’s came up and told Sher and I what wonderful people we were to come and see the boys play.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t to see her son.  She was there to see her son.  I was there to see the skinny black boy with the flat top and half-blond-dyed hair who never had anyone there to support him.  I mean, I loved seeing her son play too, but I wouldn’t have come to multiple games to see someone who has a supporting, loving family. 

I came to see the kid who needed a cheerleader and someone to encourage him.  I stayed past the coach’s speech to make sure he had a ride home and usually gave him a little money for food.  He broke my heart the time he asked me for a dollar and when I asked him what he would buy, he shrugged.  “Whatever they have in there,” he said, jerking his head towards the concession stand.  When I offered him a second dollar, he hesitated.  “I don’t want to ask too much.” (I gave him the second dollar in case you’re feeling hungry on his behalf.)

So I made plans with Sher to see the boys play as actual freshman this week, and was delighted to see how all of them have grown and matured.  But there was only one that made me check the time and make sure I was there before the tip at 4, just in case he started (he did). 

So when he was walking up the bleachers, in his dressed up outfit required of all the team, and he saw me with a half grin, I wanted to wrap him up in a hug and instead simply motioned for him to sit down beside me.  I brushed Cheetos crumbs off his white shirt and tie and navy sweater and watched him eat knock-off Oreos. 

I asked him how classes were going, found out he was failing three, and that he thought high school was great because there was a lot more freedom.  Apparently he had successfully skipped a homeroom type period yesterday without too much trouble.  He ate more cookies and told me he hadn’t realized I was there.  “Ms. Miller told you I was coming,” I said, pointing to Sher. 

“Yeah, but,” he shrugged. 

“I saw you start.  I made sure to be here on time,” I teased him.
“Really?”

“I was sitting right behind your coach and heard him talk about how you were starting because he had faith that you guys would set the tone for the rest of the game.”

He ate more cookies, and after he had made it through half the pack, I asked if he had eaten anything else all day.  He shook his head and told me he’d given lunch away because it hadn’t tasted good.

I circled back to the failing grades and told him he needed to start asking for help.

“I don’t know who to ask.”

“You can always ask me,” I told him. “You have my e-mail.  You e-mailed me a

few months ago.  It just said, ‘Hey, Ms. Short.’”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughed.

Sher and I left at half time and I told him that I thought he had home games next week and that I’d try to come to one of them. He nodded in a way that I knew he had heard me, but wasn’t going to necessarily count on it.  Which means I really have to follow through next week. 

So I got in my car and wanted to sob as I thought of him eating those damn cookies, one after the other.  There’s so much I can’t do for him.  I can’t make sure he has healthy food. I can’t make sure he does his homework.  I can’t encourage him to work hard on and off the court. I can’t help him make good decisions or choose good friends.  I can’t make sure knows that someone cares about him and cares about what he’s good at and what he loves. 

I can go to basketball games and let him know that he matters to me, even when I don’t see him everyday.  I can’t say I’ve done a tremendous amount of good in his life. I can say I want to try to show him that people can be trust worthy and kind and love him in a way that requires nothing more of him than to be himself.  I’m not sure I’m succeeding.  I’m not sure how to feel about any of it.  Which is why I wanted to cry, could think of no one to call who would simply understand without an explanation and who would tell me how to feel. I don’t know how to feel.  So instead I drove him and made a mental note to pick a different day to visit Jade and the baby next week (if you’re reading this Jader, let me know which day besides Tuesday is good), and listened carefully enough to Amy to stop trying to figure out how I feel and why I think crying might be helpful.             

I’m not enough.  I’m not supposed to be.  But I’m not quite okay with that when I come face to face with a kid I love simply because no one else does.  And I realize that even me loving him isn’t enough.

In Defense...

In Defense of the Cheesy Christian Novel.  And Why I Will Never Write One.  Probably.

I haven’t posted anything lately, but it’s not because I haven’t been writing.  I have been writing.  A lot in fact.  37,000 words in one month.  Interestingly enough, that’s not meeting the goal that I had, or rather that National  But it’s 37,000ish more than I would’ve written otherwise.  Certainly it’s a freaking ton more fiction than I’ve written in years.

Novel Writing Month sets, which is 50,000.

Speaking of which, in preparation for this month, I went back to the last major fiction I had attempted, which I worked on, fairly religiously my first year of teaching.  I would go to the Coffee Grind and sit and write for a few hours.  It was actually pretty spectacular, other than the part where the reason I did it was because I didn’t really have friends. 

But anyway, going back to that novel made me laugh at some moments, it made me wince at others and it made me oddly proud for brief sections.  (As a side note of how much has changed in nine years, I had people waiting for pictures to be developed and others leaving a message on an answering machine.  Yikes.) But I never finished that novel that I started, for several reasons, the largest of which is that I never figured out (and still haven’t) how to tie up the main part of the plot that is driving the story.  The point of the story is the character development, but there was a fairly major vehicle that I would really need to resolve.  Have no idea how to do it.  Never knew where I was heading with it while writing.  Yikes again.

Yeah, this one is not great.  Whoops.

Another thing I did this November was weirdly go back to reading Dee Henderson.  Dee Henderson was (slightly shamefully) one of my favorite authors when I was about 20.  Maybe even earlier than that.  But she wrote a series of Christian romance novels that, in the Christian community were fairly acclaimed.  And to my credit, I hadn’t really even thought about them in the last ten years.  My reading tastes had matured, I assumed. 

But for some unknown reason, I went back to them.  At first it was just the one, then it was two more, and before I knew it, I had not only re-read my favorites, but was starting to read her new stuff that I had never read before.  It was my shameful little secret.

But, pride got in the way, because in order to come close to my reading goal on Good Reads and not look like I’ve become basically illiterate, I might have to post what I was reading on that site and put it out there. 

And then I started to wonder, why was I so ashamed?

No, these novels are not great works of classic literature.  Yes, they are slightly too staged and the characters handle things slightly too perfectly and their lives are slightly too exciting.  But, the thing is, there must be a reason I was so enjoying them.  So here is my defense—these books offer a little glimpse of how it would be nice for life to be.  And since I’m reading them as a mini pleasure escape for a few hours—not as something I want to think too hard about—that’s okay.  Also, the theology, at least in Dee’s stuff is solid.  Granted, I’ve never met anyone who came to you with a blunt, honest, well articulated question about the core tenant of Christianity out of the blue, but the core of what she’s getting at is spot on—the power of prayer, does God love us, why do bad things happen, how do we handle things when the world gets us down, how do we react when people we love get hurt? Those are real questions.  And though some of her situations might seem forced, her theological answers and the relationships she develops between characters never are.  So I go back to them, like an old blanket for the past, and feel warm and wrapped up in it. (That said, Undetected was just blah.  Did not care for it.)

But all that to say, my old novel from ten years ago would fit much more easily into the Christian novel world (it’s not a romance though) than anything else.  And that’s the other reason I don’t think I finished it.  It would be a pretty great Christian novel.  If I was willing to make it a romance, it could probably win a RITA or a CHRISTY award.  But I don’t think I want to write a Christian novel.  Because the thing is, in large part, only Christians read them.  And I’d rather write a boundary-crossing novel that is written by me a Christian that anyone can read and not feel the need to classify it as any way but a novel.  And it would be so much harder to make it that.

So Rachel and Liz, Sophia and Mark, my most detailed, complex creations, flounder in an unfinished world.  That might only be finished because of them, because I feel invested in the relationship part of the story, in their stories, and I want to finish it for those fictional characters who feel so real.

When people have asked me if I’d ever write something that would be a “Christian novel,” I’ve always said no.  But silently in my head, I think I’m saying, “I mean, probably not anyway.”  

Of House-Elves and Children's Tales, of Love, Loyalty, and Innocence, of pg 709 and beyond...

I finished reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows tonight.  Since a week or so before school started I’ve been listening back through to the books after having put them aside for a year or two, and now that I’ve finished them once again, there is too much in me to merely go to bed without getting out of me how I feel about these books and why.

There is so much I love about this story, so much that just makes my heart happy, so much that is wonderful and lovely, always.  And I am not surprised that this time through, I have found some things that are new.

Snape.  So much hatred and confusion, so much meanness and sadness all in one name.  After finishing the last book for the first time, it changed everything—or almost everything—about the way I saw Snape.  But for some reason, especially in this read through, I saw him differently—maybe I was looking for him even more.  If the fate of this world hangs on one character, it is not Harry or Dumbledore, but Severus Snape.  If he does not protect Harry, does not look out for him, does not always want to keep him safe, Harry would not survive.  And there is one reason he does it—the eyes of the woman he will always love stare back at him everyday at Hogwarts once Harry enters the school.  And that is enough.  A detail so small we all overlooked it right up until the moment that Snape’s memory revealed it was the most important detail of the entire series (Jo, you take my breath away as an author.) There is not much about Snape’s life that is not awful, and hard, and difficult.  In a terrible home situation, he finally has a bright light in Lily, and he cannot hold that light enough to become light himself.  Certainly he makes choices, bad ones, but his pre-Hogwarts life is pretty awful, and after Lily chooses James, he lives in a small personal hell.  A hell that grows hotter when he has to look at Lily’s eyes and see them inside his worst enemy, see constant proof that he lost her, every single time he looks at Harry.  And he loves Lily enough to protect him.  The courage of that man.  The love and the determination.  Set beside a man who also knew a lost love, knew how one true, deep love can affect you your entire life, and it’s clear why and how Dumbledore was able to understand the deeply troubled Severus Snape. 

            In reading back through the series, I can forgive Snape for almost all the small awful things he does to poke at Harry—or really at James—and make Harry’s life difficult along with his fellow Gryffindors. But what continues to bother me, what is not acceptable, is how he treats Neville.  Bullying him at every turn, making fun of him.  Maybe it’s the teacher in me, but I just can’t do it.  And if it was—as some have suggested—because he hates that the Longbottoms were “spared” when the Potters were chosen by Voldermort—that’s just too far Severarus.  You can sort of hate Harry, but leave Neville alone.  But, considering, for a time, Snape was almost as bad as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, one offense alone is not so bad.

            There is just so much to love in these books—have I mentioned that? I love that it’s a classic quest story and that there are allusions to the canon of literature everywhere you turn around.  But mostly, I love how it all fits together so perfectly.  One of the reviewers said, “Harry Potter is so right in every respect it almost seems as if J.K. Rowling had no choice in the matter.” And this is how I feel.  It’s so easy to forget that she had power over this story.  She could’ve changed it and twisted it and made it into something that would’ve given her more gratification or given us less enjoyment.  She could’ve made it tawdry or cheap at the end or so confusing that we didn’t understand or refused us catharsis.  Maybe a man in a million could unite this story.  Thankfully, it was safely in Jo’s hands all along. 

            The story teller in me is amazed, is overwhelmed, is awed, by how perfectly this tale fits together—by how the exposition is so seamlessly woven in, that the details are perfect, and always just the right touch.  

            If there is an imperfection, it is the thing that always bothers me about the last book.  Why does the deluminator bring Ron back to Hermione and Harry? There is no foreshadowing, no hint of its power to do that.  Sure, it means he understands Ron, sure it means that Hermione is Ron’s light (I guess), but it just doesn’t quite fit.  And it is only because everything else fits so perfectly—pieces sliding into holes carved out just for them, that this slightly clumsy fit seems just a little off to me.  But perhaps it is like the Persian rugs, always woven specifically to include one small flaw, just to remind us that the maker is human, rather than divine.

            I told my aunt once that I would go to see Michelangelo’s David every day if I lived in Italy.  She asked me why, saying it wouldn’t change.  But, my response to her was, I would change.  And therefore see it differently.  The thing I saw differently in this story was the fairy tale—The Tale of the Three Brothers—and Hermione’s disbelief in the Hallows.  This summer during CTY Andi said something to the kids about believing in fairy tales—how, do you think that maybe, it might be good for us to believe, even in some small way, that a fairy tale could be true.  I wouldn’t have been able to put it into words that well, but it so perfectly expressed how I felt.  There is small part of me that believes in things like fairy tales and deep magic, the kind Tom Riddle never understood.  So it made me laugh to realize that this world of Hogwarts is created so perfectly and completely that they too have their own fairy tales.  Tales of magic that even those who are never far from a magic wand do not believe in.  That Hermione, who knows better than anyone how much magic there is in the world, could disbelieve in this magical fairy tale.  And the world turns out to be a better place because of the truth of that tale.

            There are so many things I love about this story—all seven as a complete story—but it is the ending that gets me every time.  It is the moment that Harry circles Voldemort, knowing of the power he holds, and he offers him one last chance.  Harry stands there and offers Voldemort repentance, if he can merely grasp it.  If he can only humble himself and decide to understand what he has resisted for so long.  Voldemort cannot lower himself to be a mere human who could need to repent from evil.  But the point is---Harry offers it to him.  There is something right, and cleansing, and full about that moment.  Just in the same way that getting these thoughts out on paper so that I can sleep leaves me feeling right, and cleansed and full.