mysticism alive and well

Before our family Thanksgiving travels, I finished Leif Enger's Peace Like a River. It was my first exposure to Enger, and the book was brilliant. The story meanders through the Badlands in search of runaway criminal and oldest brother Davy Land, strung together by various supernatural nods to the family via the faith of its father Jeremiah Land.

Enger's book is a breath of spiritual fresh air. In an age of skepticism about all things mystical, 11-year-old narrator Reuben Land bears witness to his father's miracles. He closes his story with a statement of faith:

Is there a single person on whom I can press belief?
No sir.
All I can do is say, Here's how it went. Here's what I saw.
I've been there and am going back.
Make of it what you will.

He reminds me to bear witness to the gospel miracle free of worry about trying to move hearts. Leave that to the God of miracles.

Next up: Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter.

bah, humbug!

Last week Saturday I had a quiet evening to myself, both my men tucked in for the night by 8:00: my little guy on account of a 7:30 bedtime, my love on account of flu symptoms.

Other than empathizing with my husband's nasty bug--which I probably passed to him earlier in the week--, the night was glorious! Before I opened a book and nestled between the couch and a blanket in my slippers, I shuffled through our CD's and settled on Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker Suite" and one of our favorite 2-disc Christmas compilations. Ah, "Joy to the World"! The "O Holy Night" bliss!


What I want to know is who says it's too early for Christmas music? I'm under the impression that breaking out Christmas tunes before Thanksgiving is some sort of faux pas, an offense equal to displaying holiday lights and decorations well into April. Really? I think there's a significant difference between celebrating Christ's birth a little early and extending not-so-holiday-anymore cheer out of neglect. Unless, of course, the mistaken indolence is truly a man's desire to celebrate Christmas year round. To that man: "Amen" for thinking the matter through. To all the social critics: "Bah, humbug!" for calling out my blunder.

late-night results

Every other year I stayed up late on a school night to watch the election results, competitively fist pumping every time my parents'--and therefore my own--party won another state, seat, or district. I sat on the edge of the couch (and often on the floor because I couldn't take the suspense) shifting positions as I waited for trustworthy opinions, official calls, and put my confidence in news anchors' projections. Often my tired body drug my still-reeling brain up to bed in the wee hours of the morning after hearing "too close to call" or "recount" in a semi-conscious state.

Last night I read Leif Enger's Peace Like a River through most of the election coverage, my eyes on the book while my ears listened in periodically to some projections and their impact on local, state and federal government. Maybe it's cynicism (or perspective), but it's nauseating to listen to news anchors ruminate for hours about political movements and "America's voice"; my response: as quickly as two years from now, constituents will be upset with their current representatives and vote the other way. Pendulums shift, momentum changes. God is immutable. As I grow older, I have a keener sense of my responsibility for community and political involvement, but it's always enveloped in the greater awareness of God's faithfulness.

I confess I stayed up a bit past my usual bedtime to watch some coverage (my book sat resting on the coffee table); apparently, I can't quite wrench the child from me.