This past summer, Husband and I decided we want to read more of “the classics”.  I’m tired of scrambling in embarrassment to come up with excuses for why I have to answer ‘no’ when someone asks if I’ve read 1984 or The Grapes of Wrath or The Catcher In The Rye.  I decided that since the best way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time I should probably just jump in.  I started with Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, and many exhausting hours later I wished I had not just jumped in.

Not that I mean to say I wished I hadn’t read it.  It was well written.  I don’t think Mark Twain’s fame and praise would have withstood the years as it has if he didn’t write well.  It was intriguing and exciting; it’s about adventures, after all.  The problem {maybe I should say my problem} is the plural part.  Adventures were certainly had by Huckleberry Finn, and each time I would read of one of them I would think something like, “Huh!  What a great adventure!  …and there are still 947 pages left.”

Each adventure was thrilling but exhausting, and my attention span can only hold out for so many exhausting adventures.  I think I would have liked it much better if it were written as a book series instead.  Then again, I’m not Mark Twain, nor am I a publisher, or an editor, or an author for that matter…

Conclusion:  It was exciting, well written, and when I finished it I patted myself on the back and then took a very long nap.

Job 28:  23-28 (emphasis mine)

I know this is a little out of character for what this blog has been so far, but I need to put into words how much he means to me.

me with mommaw and poppaw, christmas 2010

At the visitation and funeral, and through emails and Facebook posts over the last week, I’ve heard so many comments and stories about how special Charles Olen Kirkpatrick was.  Of course, I already knew this, but my love and respect for him grew even more as I listened to person after person talk about his kindness, determination, thoughtfulness, ingenuity, and generosity.  I miss him already, and I know I’ll miss him always.

He was born on December 6th, 1934, in Arkansas, just a few miles from Glen Rose, where he lived most of his life and where many of my most cherished memories have taken place.  He married my Mommaw over 56 years ago, served in the Air Force for four years and retired from the Rock Island Railroad in the late seventies.  For a time, he and Mommaw owned and operated their own Barbecue restaurant.  Their smoked ribs, fried fish, hushpuppies, cole slaw, and baked beans are still the best I’ve ever had.  For the last 20+ years, he was caretaker of Fairplay Cemetary, and from what I understand, he was a good one.

He was a first-rate story teller.  I can’t count the number of stories I’ve heard him tell from his days in the Air Force and on the railroad, but I will never forget the look on his face when he told them with his children and grandchildren listening intently.

our wedding day

He planted and tended a large garden for most of my life (and for many, many years before I was born), and I have wonderful memories of sitting on the back porch snapping green beans and shelling peas.  I specifically remember one day when I was very young, he took me with him on the tractor, stood me up on his lap, and told me to look over his shoulder.  I gleefully watched potatoes pop up behind the tractor as it tilled the land.  To this day, I have yet to taste a green bean as good as Poppaw’s.

When my siblings, cousins, and I were little, he would drive us in his antique Ford pick-up truck down to play in the creek by their house, or out to a field to pick berries, or ‘into town’ to run an errand.  We loved every minute of it.

He never apologized for being a “small town Southern man,” and he instilled in me a deep love and appreciation for my Arkansas roots.  He didn’t hesitate to offer his opinion on any matter, even if you didn’t ask for it, but he listened as much as he spoke.  I realize now that he taught me how to do both.

He loved the Razorbacks… and coffee, and oh, how excited I was to give him the “Arkansas Grandpa” coffee mug that I bought for him on campus during my freshman year at the University of Arkansas.

Every time I walked into Mommaw and Poppaw’s house or talked to him on the phone, I knew I would be greeted with “Hey, Baby!”  And I never had to wonder whether or not he was proud of me, because he told me he was, all the time.

His preference for short hair was notorious in our family of mostly women, but he complimented my {long} hair twice during my last visit to his house before he died.  He did this because he loved me and because he wanted me to know he thought I was beautiful, and when I looked at him to say thank you, I knew that he knew I understood.

christmas 2007

Here is a lovely word from my cousin’s blog because I want to remember all of these things, and she said them well:

“He started the football program and built part of the school where my mom and aunt grew up so that they could have better opportunities in school and a nice place to learn.  He also got himself onto the school board in that same district, and made some changes in the staff that would benefit his daughters and give them the best education that he could.  PawPaw has a handicapped daughter who brings joy to the whole family, and so he provided for her best interests by starting the first school for exceptional kids in Hot Spring County.  He built his house with his own hands, and when it burned down, he built another one right next to it.  This man knew no strangers, and could not be stopped by a little bit (or a lot) of work.  He did what he had to do, and lots of things that he didn’t have to do.  People at the visitation were telling my grandma about how Pop helped them get jobs several years ago.  People respected his opinion, and these people still have those same jobs today.”

He loved quietly, but he loved completely and faithfully.  He served his family and his community with all he had to give, always quick to extend a helping hand to anyone in need.

His life was a portrait of hard work, diligence, sacrifice, and dedication that I am so grateful to have been a part of for 25 years.

I love you, Pop, and I’ll see you soon.

I’ve been neglecting my little weblog a bit lately.  But I’ve also been reuniting with my husband, reuniting with friends and with family, moving, living, working, reading, learning.  It’s been a full few months.

I don’t have much to say today except for some words that I didn’t write.  I’ve been dwelling on this new but old-sounding song for several days now.  Although I’ve known and loved it for a while, this week it has taken root in my soul.

Sometimes I feel like, instead of speaking, music just breathes.  Fewer times, it perfectly replaces my own inarticulate sighs.

I know that you won’t hear the music just by reading the words, but I wonder if maybe there is someone reading this who, like me, just needs to hear the story.  For the first time or for the thousandth time.  Maybe someone just needs to feel these words breathe these truths.

How deep the Father’s love for us;

How vast beyond all measure.

That he should give his only Son

To make a wretch his treasure.

How great the pain of searing loss.

The Father turns his face away

As wounds which mar the chosen one

Bring many sons to glory.

Behold the man upon the cross,

My sin upon his shoulders.

Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice

call out among the scoffers.

It was my sin that held him there

Until it was accomplished.

His dying breath has brought me life.

I know that it is finished.

I will not boast in anything:

No gifts, no power, no wisdom.

But I will boast in Jesus Christ,

His death and resurrection.

Why should I gain from his reward?

I cannot give an answer.

But this I know with all my heart:

His wounds have paid my ransom.

Written by Stuart Townend

Jeff Bridges is one of my favorite people.  I mean, he really is the coolest.  He’s just so chill.  And he sings.  And he has a new album that sounds like a combination of folk rock and the old country my grandparents listen to.  It’s awesome.  He’s awesome.  If you don’t believe me, go listen to this interview.  Then listen to “Maybe I Missed The Point.”

Then you can thank me.

I have no idea if any of the five souls who read this blog noticed or not, but my absenteeism this summer has been out of control. 

I have managed to read a few books in the meantime, so turns out I’m not a total flake.  Remember when I told you about I Was Told There’d Be Cake?  I was delighted when the Bentonville Public Library was kind enough to lend me Ms. Crosley’s second gem, How Did You Get This Number. 

It’s the same general idea as the first (i.e., a collection of perfectly awkward and painfully hilarious autobiographical-esque tales).  I’m still trying to decide which is funnier.

I also struggled through, but ultimately bested, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.  Author Rebecca Skloot did something I’ve never seen done before (which isn’t saying much, but I digress) by combining what felt like one part biography with one part science textbook and two parts history lesson.  The biography is primarily that of Henrietta Lacks, a black woman who died in the early 1950′s of cervical cancer and whose cancer cells were taken, without her knowledge or permission, by her doctor and then successfully cultured, distributed, and ultimately sold to many doctors, researchers, and civilians all over the world.  The book also documents the author’s relationship with Henrietta’s descendants, primarily her daughter, who are interesting, to say the least.  I could have done without about one-half of the science textbook part.  In fact, I think I really only enjoyed the first third of the book and the afterword.  The afterword, you say?  Yes, the afterword.  It appealed to the philosopher in me which totally made reading the entire book worth it. 

After a few hundred pages of science and history lessons I was ready for something a little lighter, so I picked up The Watermelon King by Daniel Wallace.  Wallace also authored Big Fish which I haven’t read, although I did see the movie many years ago.  I should have known The Watermelon King would be weird.  I figured it would be whimsical, maybe even fantastical, but I was definitely not prepared for the degree of weirdness.  That said, I loved most of it. 

Wallace weaves a story of a young man, Thomas, who has returned to a small Alabama town, famous for their watermelons, to learn about his mother who died there on the day of his birth.  In the process, Thomas (and the reader) meets some great characters – some tragic, some hilarious, and some both.  He also learns about the town’s history and traditions and, consequently, why he matters to a town he’s never known.  For the first two-thirds of the book, I felt like Wallace might be a genius.  The story was intriguing and the characters were believable and entertaining.  Wallace started to lose me in the last third of the book, and by the last page, I was mostly confused and disappointed.   This last part reminded me of my college essays – it had the skeleton of a great idea, and even had a few really good parts, but it felt underdeveloped.  The ending was such a stark contrast to the intricacy and richness of the rest of the book that it probably felt more anemic than it really was.  Overall, it was a fun summer read, and I would recommend it with that qualification.  Regarding the weirdness:  you’ve been warned.

Wondering why you’re reading book reviews?  You can learn more about my mission here.

Through two long years, I’ve tolerated you.  You, with your unnecessary traffic jams and your big city pretense and your trendy tendencies.

Yet, in two short years, I’ve grown to love you.  You, with your charm and your culture.  You, with your artists and your songwriters, where music floats endlessly from basement studios and Green Hills living rooms.

We share a special relationship, you and I.  Not through music or history but through life.

You welcomed me with the open arms of friends, new and old.  You listened while I cried the tears of a stranger, a newcomer to a world bigger than I had imagined.  You gave my young marriage a space to live and to grow.  You walked patiently beside me while I learned about being a wife, a friend, and a follower of Christ.

Our time together has not been easy.  But easy, unlike its counterpart, rarely ever yields any fruit, and I see now that I have gleaned an entire harvest.

Now it is time to move on,

but please know, dear Nashville, that I will think of you often.

Farewell, my friend, ’til we meet again.

I’d like to clarify that I don’t cry on purpose.  In fact, I almost can’t control it at all, which means that I can’t stop it when it comes and that I do not, and can not, cry on demand. 

It’s also not just me.  I’ve become convinced that a such a disposition is hereditary.

The Christmas before my wedding, my Mommaw (my mom’s mom) gave each of her grandchildren a photo album, each one filled completely with different snapshots of each child with family or friends, in chronological order from our birth to the present.  I remember feeling so overwhelmed with both the joy of having such a precious keepsake and the realization that my sweet grandmother put so much time and love into creating it for me.

I began to cry, and I looked up to see my sister, my mom, my aunt, and my Mommaw all with beautiful smiles and tear-filled eyes.  We sat together and looked through our albums and cried and reminisced, and it was one of the most special moments of my life.

For me, tears can come involuntarily in moments of sadness, fear, anger, nostalgia, empathy, hope, joy.  Maybe it’s a sign of weakness.  But what’s wrong with weakness? 

I suppose it can be embarrassing or even annoying at times, but it reminds me that I’m alive and that I can feel and that there are things in this world worth feeling to the point of tears.

“Taking Back Your Faith From The American Dream” 

Basically (very basically – I promise that this one sentence will not do the book justice), it’s a (much needed) reminder that Jesus is not a conservative Republican who took on humanity to die on a cross and conquer death so that decent Americans could make a nice living and go to a cozy church on Sundays.  

Rather, Jesus has instructed us to die to ourselves, to sell our possessions, to take up our cross, and to go and make disciples of all nations.  On the original ‘Easter’ Sunday, after the veil was torn and his tomb was found empty, Jesus met his disciples and said,

“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.  Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”

Matthew 28:  18 – 20

I am both excited and embarrassed to say that for the first time in my 18 year relationship with Jesus, I am finally understanding that it’s not about me.  It’s not about my income, my house, my clothes, my comfort, my savings account, or my life.  My purpose in this world is to serve and love God by dying to myself and making disciples of all nations for his glory.

Period.

I can’t tell you how exhilerating, satisfying, relieving, and wonderfully terrifying it feels to believe that… but I’d love to try.  Let’s talk.

I recently read Surprised By Joy.  It’s an autobiography of sorts.  Perhaps more accurately, it’s the story of Lewis’ early life told from the perspective of his spiritual journey – a quest for Joy. 

There is something for every Lewis fan in this one.  I’ve never read The Chronicles of Narnia (I know, I know), but this book gives insight into the development of his fascination with fantasy that I think might thrill Narnia fans.  For those who are more interested in the personal and/or philosophical details of his conversion from Christianity to atheism to devoted Christianity, it does not disappoint.  It hooked me, though, in the first chapter when he described Joy, and the candid tales of his deliberate efforts to experience Joy again were the barbs that held on to me until the end.

I have never consciously defined my life as a search for Joy, nor have I ever felt compelled to attempt to define it, yet I knew immediately that he was almost perfectly describing something that I had absolutely experienced before when he said this:

It is difficult to find words strong enough for the sensation which came over me; Milton’s “enormous bliss” of Eden (giving the full, ancient meaning to “enormous”) comes somewhere near it.  It was a sensation, of course, of desire; but desire for what?  not, certainly, for a biscuit tin filled with moss, nor even (though that came into it) for my own past.  Oh, I desire too much - and before I knew what I desired, the desire itself was gone, the whole glimpse withdrawn, the world turned commonplace again, or only stirred by a longing for the longing that had just ceased.  It had taken only a moment of time; and in a certain sense everything else that had ever happened to me was insignificant in comparison.

From Chapter One

I daresay I have not been the same since I read that paragraph.  Not necessarily in a “it changed my life” sort of way – just in a way such that it opened my eyes to something really lovely.  If you know what I mean, please read the book, and if not, maybe this quote will urge you to read the book anyway:

The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and His compulsion is our liberation.

From Chapter Fourteen

See what I mean?  Something for everyone!

Wondering why you’re reading a book review?  You can learn more about my mission here.