A Promise Fulfilled

A Promise Fulfilled

A dream:

What seems simple to some, impossible to others, expected to many, is a dream come true for me. For years I have wished for a home to call my own, a house where I could hang my hat and call my own. This wish evaded me time and time again. Around four years ago, after thirty years of wishing, I was determined to bring resolution to this desire. The time seemed right and ripe. Economics were in my favor. I committed my wish to God for the hundredth time and started actively searching for a home.  Time seemed of the essence with home selling prices in the affordable range and interest rates at record lows.  I can do this! Knowing I was closing in on the end of my teaching career made this desire for home acquisition all the more timely.  I began my pursuit by looking at websites and in real estate publications.

The home-buying pursuit:

The first house that caught my eye as I looked in a local real estate publication, was quick to grab my heart and dreams. Taking my son and daughter with me, I went for a thirty minute country drive to see it for a drive-by. Big, spacious, 70s era, large front windows, everything about it said, “Welcome stranger!” I absolutely loved it.  A country home on 2.5 acres not far from Black Butte Lake, views to the east and west, a place for a fire pit, a yard for entertaining with an array of wild plants framing the yard, I even saw a few deer in the field next to it. I called a real estate agent, a woman who had helped me look for a house twenty-something years before; would she look into it for me?  She agreed to do this.  Her findings? The house was no longer on the market after only being shown a couple of days. The seller had changed her mind. It was a family home, her husband had passed away, she had thought she could move on but found that she really wasn't ready. Rats! It would not be for sale after all. It had seemed so right! Over the course of the next three years, from time after time I would drive by the house to see if it re-listed, I even went through the house next door to it when it was shown in an Open House. All to no avail. Oh well!

Soon to follow, I found a house on a short-sale in a neighboring berg not far from the orchard I farm. It sat on a lovely piece of property with four acres, the house had a great view and spacious rooms upstairs. It even had an upstairs back porch off the master bedroom, a perfect place to start the day with a cup of coffee in hand. And to top it off, it boasted a floor tile with a picture of a cross and a few other religious icons on various tiles in the dining area. My daughter was already planning her room decor and arranging a music room for her musical interests. After submitting a reasonable offer, I started doing some background research on the property. My father wondered if it might be subject to flooding, a common occurrence in some parts of that area. A Red flag appeared. The end result, I found out the property was located in a flood zone, undisclosed information.  Nope, that wouldn’t do.  Not only would it be more expensive to insure, but I’d already had my turn living where it floods and know it’s not for me.  I withdrew my offer.

Next, came a nice-sized two-story house on one acre in a neighboring county across the river.  This one in a town not far from my parents; living closer to them a big consideration in my planning since they are in their aging years. The upstairs provided a perfect set-up for a writer. I loved its yard and upstairs, its numerous rooms. I could picture my grandchildren coming for long visits and having a great time playing in the house and out in the yard. But as my real estate agent and I walked through the house, I found it awkward viewing the closets and bedrooms. The owners seemed suspicious, following our every step in close proximity at all times as we walked room to room.  This was true for the first and follow-up visits. I noticed a shrine in the garage. I'd not seen that before. It was a nice home, one I could picture enjoying and living in. I asked God to lead me to do the right thing. One major difficulty presented itself, the house value was over-priced, not realistic considering the current market. A lower offer was submitted by me.  The owner's reply showed that the negotiating price was too high for my taste. I would not meet their price. It was disappointing but not devastating. I always look for a sense of peace within myself. I was at peace that I should let it go. Too rich for my blood.

Next one. It was beautiful; 4.5 acres of country living; cute house, fruit trees, a large well-groomed yard, a water fountain that sparkled with freshness, and an open field with a ditch dividing the property to bring water to the pasture land. The property was getting a lot of attention. A full-asking price offer was accepted and the deal seemed good.  The euphoria lasted about one week.  I was curious about the pasture land and the manner of water being delivered to the pasture land and wondered how it worked. My real estate agent tenaciously went after it.  The information was difficult to ferret out but she persisted. The findings? Not only was there no water outlet from the ditch to the property---water would have to come from a neighboring property outlet, she also uncovered another unsettling fact, there was no legal access to the back section on the other side of the ditch, the existing bridge of planks being used for access was technically an illegal structure (though neighbors were using it). This crude bridge could be removed at any time which would mean that access to the property would not be possible from the house side. Another bridge could not be built. I hadn’t bargained on this piece of bad news.  It appeared that the land was land-locked although one could pass on neighbor's property from another road. What good is property that has limited access?  Essentially, the acreage was useless, no wonder the price was on the low side! I knew it could be an albatross for me in the future. What to do?  I’d put three thousand down with my offer.  Yet, once again, it didn’t seem right. I had continual unsettled thoughts about it. No, the problems were not going to go away. It wasn't long before I knew I must withdraw my offer.  This could cost me the three grand and I kicked myself for my hasty offer without knowing all the facts. It had seemed too good to be true and it was all that.  My kids were disappointed, they had gotten their hopes up. I was in Colorado when the answer came. The powers-that-be returned my deposit. I was only out three hundred for the house inspection.  Talk about being thankful! Thank you, Jesus.

Three offers and three no-deals. It seemed as if God wasn’t in it. I had looked at many houses, gone out with my agent several times, pursued a course of action, but had run into problems with every step. The cycle of anticipation and then let-down was not fun, it seemed to not be working. I decided to stop looking.  I didn’t want to waste my real estate agent’s time and good faith anymore even though she was upbeat and enthusiastic. I made a vow, no more offers unless I am sure God is in it, but the wishing continued on. I even wrote about it in my Meeting Place journal, what I wanted my future home to be like. You see, for me it wasn’t just about having a place to live, it was about having a place that people can come to find peace and the love of God, a place where I can minister to others and has an ease of use that lends itself for ministry (which is my heart’s desire).

A quote from my book, The Meeting Place~

"I wrote out my dreams for my future home that I hope to purchase in the near future. I tried to put the words together to show exactly what I want in a home that can be used for God’s purposes. This is what I wrote.

My Future Home  (April 2010)

May this home know

Love and peace,

Joy and happiness,

Forgiveness and caring.

May this home be a haven for weary people,

Where laughter is in the walls,

Where problems are brought to Jesus,

Where solutions meet us where we’re at.

May this place be a sanctuary,

A place of healing,

A place of surrender,

A place of renewal and refreshment.

May all who come here find

The peace of God,

The joy of God,

And the love of God."

.  .  .

I gave up and quit looking for a home to buy. I didn’t want to act outside of God’s determined will for me. Then life jumped up and threw me a curve ball. My professional employment as a reading specialist was curtailed and I found myself teaching general education in a fourth grade classroom.  New programs were challenging and many pressures and health stressors were taking a toll on me.  I found myself toying with the idea of working part time, an idea which I pursued with diligence.  The District, in the end, responded with an emphatic, “No!”  During this time I read a book on God’s calling of us, a calling to fulfill a destiny specific to His divine intentional will. It had been coming to a head for a few years, I often wrestled with a sense that God had another something He wanted me to pursue and embrace, to accomplish with my life. After much deliberation, I said, “Yes,” to God, feeling it was time to take the next step of faith.  I gave my notice stating my intentions, to quit my job as a teacher---coming as a shock to my colleagues, there-by receiving a modest retirement pension since I lacked longevity in employment. I had planned to teach at least six more years. The decision was a hard one to make for I felt it would cost me my dream of home ownership. I had never owned my own home. Since my early twenties it had been my dream. Plunk! My heart sank. I decided I would not look back. Throughout the course of the teaching year, I had been in process of self-publishing my first book, a time consuming task.  My book published in the fall. At the same time, I started looking for a duplex to rent instead of a house to buy. Plunk! It was disappointing. My kids expressed their sadness.  More than anything, it was their wish for me to have my own home, they knew my dream since the days when they were youngsters. Due to my living situation, I needed to move. It was long over-due. I found a duplex I liked a lot. But I didn't get it! Why? It had seemed a slam dunk.

Around the same time my book was going to press, I received a letter from the mortgage company I had submitted paperwork to prequalify for a home years before, they wanted to know my intentions, if I was still in the market, and whether to shred my loan documents. Taking my time to respond, I asked them to keep my paperwork until January. I explained that my situation had changed. I was no longer teaching and my income was much less. In a “by-the-way,” I asked if I would still qualify to buy a home, expecting an answer to the negative. The answer was a resounding “Yes,” because I have a part-time job in farming and excellent credit. This was pleasantly surprising! Again, my first response was to pray. I would need God's direction. I didn’t know which direction to pursue. Where does God want me to buy? Nearer my parents or elsewhere? How big of house? What price? My affordability? These questions continuously bothered me. They ran in circles in my brain. I had no peace. One morning during my quiet time with my Lord, I became specific. "Dear Father, please put the house you have for me directly in my path. Make it clear to me that it is the house, the one you have for me, a house I can use for you and will meet my needs. I need your help in this so I don't head a wrong direction. May my next offer on a house be the last one. Thank you, dear Father, I trust you in this." I sensed His presence. The thought came, I have a house for you.

The Answer Comes

It was in the evening a few days later, I was doing my usual walking on the gravel driveway by the old farmhouse where I farm walnuts, when a dominant persistent thought entered into my thinking.  [I want you to] “Buy in C____.  Buy a house that is solid and well-built. It needs to be a place you can rent to a family should you need to rent it in the future. A place where it is safe, in a safe area of town.” These thoughts were quiet and strong. As soon as I thought them a tranquil peace centered in me. I sensed it was from God. I knew the answer. Where and what to look for, the clamoring of my endless questions subsided as the thoughts settled in. Finally, peace and assurance entered in. I knew where I should buy and the price as well.

In a conversation later that same week, I told my mother about my decision to return to the home-buying mode, she knew I had been actively looking for a place to rent. I told her where and what I was looking for now, which was in a different town and county than my original preference. She was surprised. The following Sunday while at lunch with some of her church friends, one lady mentioned to my mother that she would be moving in a couple of months and selling her home.  Mom excitedly called me up.  I asked the when and where questions, later that day I drove through the neighborhood of this woman’s home.  The houses on the quiet street looked like 60s era, which meant I possibly could afford it.  I asked Mother if she could call her friend and see if we could take a look at her house and if my real estate agent could join us.  I already had made plans with my real estate agent to look at some other houses that same day and I wanted to know if I would like the inside of the house or not. It was a go! She said to my mother, "Come on over, even today if you want to!" That very same day, I entered what is now my new home, from where I am writing this blog. The house was immaculate, it was as if she had been expecting us, everything in place and spotless, the woman gracious and charming. The house—well-maintained, nice cabinetry, solidly built, and welcoming. As we chatted, this charming Christian woman told me that her husband and she had raised four children in this lovely home. They were its original owners. This elderly woman had a sense of wit and cheer with a great positive spirit. I liked her, I liked the house. I knew I would look no further if it we could agree on a price and there were no road-blocks to its purchase. A sense of peace and calm made its presence known within me.

We walked out the door to stand by our cars while we talked it over, my agent, my mother, and me. My mother said that she could see me living in the house. She was enthused, saying things like she sensed God was in it. I was thinking to myself, I like this house, a very nice home which will lend itself nicely for entertaining, has ease of maintenance, nice arrangement and style I like, is in a safe and quiet neighborhood, a plus for sure. I hope this one is it! My real estate agent asked me what I thought about the house. I responded, “I like it for many reasons, its lay-out, its birch cabinets, how well it’s been taken care of.  But what I like the most—is that the people who have lived in it love the Lord. It is a house that has known love. That’s like icing on the cake!”  She smiled at me and then said a curious statement.

“Look up, Norma,” and she indicated the sky above us. In radiance, a full rainbow arced across the sky just to the east of us. We could see the rainbow’s complete arch.  The Promise. God would be with me. She smiled again, “Do you think it’s a sign?” she said to me. I smiled back. 

Easter Sunday was my first day living in my new home. I love it more each day and can't wait to use it to bless others. I'm not there yet, for most of my furnishings were tired and worn out, but slowly I'm filling the house as I hunt for the right items to make this a home where everyone will feel welcome as they enter its door. My family and friends who have come to stop by and check it out have all said the same thing, "What a perfect house for you and such a lovely yard."  God gave it to me is what I think or say as they express their enthusiasm for my new digs. In June, my kids and grand-children will be coming from Washington, Los Angelos, and Colorado to join me in a house warming and family celebration of the promise that God has fulfilled to me, my new home. I am grateful.

Norma L. Brumbaugh

Author: The Meeting Place: Moments with God at Lookout Point

Loneliness is Profound

Yesterday I was at a restaurant with a group of ladies for the Birthday Club, a once-a-month gathering where ladies bring a card each for the birthday "girls" for the month, and pay for their lunch as well. It was my second time. I happen to have a birthday in April so I was treated to lunch.  Now that I live in semi-retired state I can do these things, and it is sweet!  Most of the women are elderly so this is a real treat, a time to get out and visit and eat good food.  The lady to my left talked about her late husband's career in banking.  We talked and talked.  Later mention was made of moving closer to family by one of the other women.  My new friend said, "Loneliness, let me tell you about loneliness!  My husband's been gone for sixteen years now,"she exclaimed.  I understand loneliness.  I've been on my own for over a decade, raised kids, supported myself, and worked hard.  It's never been easy.  And there have been some hard bouts with loneliness.  Her comment made me want to share my writing about Loneliness, written on Valentine's Day after having lost someone who had been close to me.  From my book and for your enjoyment and understanding.



The following excerpt is from my book, The Meeting Place:  Moments with God at Lookout Point.

Loneliness Is Profound

It seems to me that there is a debilitating grain in the fiber of loneliness—a weakening section that follows the grain, a deadwood streak that affects the strength of the heartwood, making it harder to be well and healthy, harder to return to health. I also perceive through personal experience that not all loneliness is the same. Some is generalized. To be lonely on its own merits, not involving loss of someone, is the feeling of being by oneself, alone—not that of pain associated with losing. The other type of loneliness, the loss of someone that makes a hole and a vacuum created by the loss is another matter it seems to me, although related by its empty, alone feeling.

 

These come in varied increments of tragedy, some after a long history of conflict, the type that leads to divorce. Some after a short duration, such as an infant’s death, though not to be discounted because of the much-loved time attached to the shortness of life. And then the experience of losing someone who loved you and you have loved in return, who has loved you in tenderness and deep affection in a shared meeting of hearts, a soul mate, a defender, and even protector. The loss of this person adds a loneliness that freezes action and recovery. They simply aren’t there to pick you up when the day is hard, to smile with you at a pretty rainbow, to help you create your future, or help you put the dishes away after a big fancy dinner with the family. Missing like this is profound in its ability to make us stop, possibly cry, feel an enveloping sadness that grows to a dark blanket covering our souls as we succumb to its numbness; a retreat of mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical proportions. We hate it, yet we can easily get lost in it—almost like a comforting retreat from the world and our own reality. We want help—but we also don’t want help. It would mean giving up that attachment, that person, that memory—that has grown to mean so much to us. Self-pity seems to be a wrong definition to me. Yet it could be seen that way at times. Denial? I suppose it’s there, too. Self-absorption, I’m positive, has its part.

To face loneliness is hard. It may require something of us—a letting go, a giving up, a moving forward, a looking to the better good, an action, a formula, and a purpose, and more; the list is endless. But we get stuck in the loneliness so often, especially on days fraught with association of memories. Loneliness is feeling like you can’t breathe—a grief of sorts: a gray heart on a sunny day, no lover on Valentine’s Day, an absent child on Mother’s Day, no gift on your birthday, a missing plate on the table, an empty room with its bed made, a pet leash hanging unused on the wall, an empty pillow next to you on the other side of the bed, photos in an album, no hugs, no kisses, no touches, no fingerprints, no paw prints, no car door slamming—or happy sounds of walking feet. You are alone. You have to face it—and you don’t want to.

What are the colors of loneliness? I picture dim to gray to blue to black in muted colors, now brown, greenish-gray, and checkered black and white.

Loneliness has a way of bringing back memories—memories we want to keep of better days, of cherished moments, interactions in word and deed, kindness interplay, intercourse, co-habitating special days, all those things we took for granted that now become bigger than life—more than they were at the time, a grand deception of the mind but a welcome intrusion on life as it is. Such is loneliness.

I think loneliness often involves an awareness that a part of our self is not where it should be and is functioning in a subpar way; a sense of being detached from real living—the “alone,” by-yourself sort of feeling.

...

“Loneliness is Profound” was written on a particularly lonely Valentine’s Day. I had loved and lost, cared and caused pain, tasted of that which is sweet and in the end to taste of its bitter dregs. My joys ultimately became the meat for my sorrows. I finally understood how it feels for people who lose a precious, much-loved partner and find it difficult to recover from their loss and struggle to find the inner desire to live again. This association of pain was different than in divorce; the pain factor not of the same emotion. The grief was like losing part of my own self and not being able to recover it. I felt so alone, and my mind was full of memories from the Valentine’s Day of the year before, when everything had seemed good, fresh, and happy. I decided to write a record of my feelings, knowing that while my thoughts were in process, my words would capture how it seems when loneliness or grief keeps you from being all that you want to be. I found that the light of the soul became dim and muted, it was almost like being in a fog, going through the motions, living but not living. I hoped the insight would be of benefit to read in the future, to help me remember its debilitating effect in productivity and spirituality. I offered a copy to my minister with this in mind, since he counsels many people in varying stages of grief.

N. L. Brumbaugh

Holy Masquerade, The Masks Revealed

“There is an area where pain and blessedness meet. A little contraction in the muscles around the mouth and the smile becomes weeping.”

                                                                                    Holy Masquerade,  by Olov Hartman

Recently I recovered a book thought lost forever for I did not remember its title nor the author’s name. There it was— in a box of books ready to be put on a shelf in my new home. I do not remember packing it just days before. As I unpacked it a sigh escaped and a smile lit my eyes.  I’d been wanting to read it for a couple of years but didn’t know how to find it. Holy Masquerade, a book that has stayed in my thinking since my freshman year in 1973 at a Bible college in Salem, Oregon.  What I remembered was its first person narrative by an unfaithed woman married to a man of the church, a priest. The scene that stayed in my memory was one in which the speaker of the narrative witnesses the spilling of the Eucharistic wine on the white blouse of her husband’s paramour (symbolically) on Palm Sunday. Her husband refrains from participating in the elements. Her suspicions are aroused. In the next day or two the significance of this strikes her heart and she formulates the truth. The lie exposed.

She, as a woman of unknown undeveloped unbelief in God, is deeply aware of the contradiction resident in her husband’s faith as he leads his parishioners in a faith that is not fully his own. A faith (religion) that does not move him, that is a remote thing that one talks about but one doesn’t live, at least not in the way it should be lived, yet in truth, is more like that of a form that alters and bends according to the desire at hand.  In his actions, to please his flock or himself, is a whole underlying deception, a religious manipulation, he never fully acknowledges. 

I am moved by Klara-the story narrator. She, at least, is honest with herself. She is being brought to faith by an attraction to the mother of God and then to her child, to the Christ. He is appealing but she bars Him from entry. But He bids entry. The mask of religion is a masquerade that she comes to experience in vivid mirror images until she becomes free of its projection. The split is relevant, the person without religious "faith" that being herself, is more concerned about the holiness and holy treatment of those things holy, than the man of the cloth to whom she is married. The beginning quote is one she makes as she considers a broken down wooden statue of the Madonna with her Child. 

 “There is an area where pain and blessedness meet. A little contraction in the muscles around the mouth and the smile becomes weeping.”

This week I re-read Holy Masquerade, its meaning readily came back to me. The words speaking much more plainly in my understanding for I now have grown in my depth as a lover of God and have more understanding of the liturgical form of worship.  The story’s setting is the church and its manse.  The time is the season of Lent.   How apropos.

A year ago I read Vipers’ Tangle by Francois Mauriac, another book of the same type and from the same college class, skillfully written to expose the hypocrisy that hides the truth of the real.  In an insidious way it is profound, showing and exposing both the human and the human’s contradictory ways and especially the duplicity found it some of the human’s most important of relationships, the lie that generates a falseness. This novel presents a first person narrative fiction, a story that makes me grapple with religiosity and catholicity and the ugliness of hatred. I can’t say I like the main character, Louis, an evil vindictive old man, who makes vengeance an art form. He begins to see truth in the end, love softens when least expected.

Two other well-known novels were read for that class so long ago, a college class I no longer remember its name but I do remember its professor, Mr. Gaylord Johnson.  We read, Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis, a story I find myself unwilling to read again although it sits on my shelf, about an evangelist who is gifted with star quality but knows debauchery in his personal life.  The thing isn’t real, its a personification of “real” but makes one think of many such people, ones who have failed the test in the end, fallen from grace with the faithful, not able to deliver the goods as a preacher of God, although the attempt is made. Some have been a great embarrassment to the Church and fodder for jest on late night TV.  At least, most started with faith but lost their way. It isn’t that hard to do when one is in the fore-front.  I remind myself, those in the front lines often get hurt. I did try to read Elmer Gantry  awhile back, but found it an unpleasant read.  Yet, Sinclair Lewis makes his point.  It can be taken as a warning or a condemnation. If we are truthful with ourselves, we all have the capacity to be frauds and will go that route if we let our gaze fall to our own wit and devices.  For some crazy reason, Elmer Gantry makes me think of one or two entertainment personas, who could not rule their own passions and talents, lives shaped by others and what others wanted of them--caught in the unreality of fame, much like a person who wants the most out of life but finds that in the end, they are the enemy--for the enemy is within.  The enemy is our own self.

The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne was the fourth book we read for that class.  Its story line is famous, and Hollywood movies document its offering. The Salem witch trials are the perfect setting for such a book.  It is a careful exposure of the hidden truth about sin and freedom. The hidden is what haunts and defiles, the religious as the condemning, and the condemned as the free, the free-spirit who does good and gives generously.  It is a story line that can trouble a receptive mind, a mind set on pleasing the God of love, justice, and righteousness.  Which one is the God we serve?  It makes our religious conventions less comfortable.  Hester, the one with the scarlet “A” embroidered on a label affixed to her dress across the chest, is not bound by the constraints of the religious-bound but her silence and protection of the one who compromised his faith, speaks in volumes.  The contrast is notable.

These four books seem written for current times.  They seem to glide from the past to the present.  The Church is grappling, trying to make sense of the reality of the fallen state of these times. What is genuine? Where is the power? Who is real?  The lines are dividing the Church. What do we do about  gender identity, same sex attractions, the user, the hater, the post-abortive, the molester, the needy, the families living on government assistance, the illegal aliens, the ex-felon, the hurting? Do truth and love go together? Is holy living for these times? Those of us who claim Christ in our names as Christ-following Christians are challenged by reading such books as are addressed in this writing.  It is so easy to speak the truth, but it can be so hard to love.  It can be so easy to love, but it can be so hard to speak the truth.  Do you see the contradiction, the struggle?  It rattles our cages. Everyone is telling us how to think! Opposite voices are clamoring for our attention. What to believe? Blogs and Tweets wage war with the religious community of readers. There is an endless group of “versus” that I can bring forth—another contradiction of religion exposed, affirming vs. condemning, positive vs. negative, truthful vs. deceitful, kind vs. mean-spirited, liberality vs. selfishness, and so forth ad nausea. I think I understand this, why it is to some degree.  It is the "Real" that frees and it is the "Real" that reveals the attachments of the heart.  It is the "Real" that makes someone real. Real is real attractive in a space or time in history throughout the ages.  And, the "Real" is what sets apart the genuine from the mediocre or false. Christ is both what is true (truth) and what is love.

I have wondered to myself, just where would Jesus Christ hang out if he walked into my town or went on a visit to San Francisco?  Who would he associate with and talk to as he went town to town.  Would he go downtown to the college section, maybe even step into a bar? I used to think, "Never!" but now I'm not so sure. In His walk on earth, Jesus went to the places where the sinners would congregate, spoke with an immoral Samaritan woman, ate with a dishonest tax collector, stopped the stoning of an adulterous woman. It was the religious hypocrites of the day that He took issue with.I wonder, would Jesus visit my church, our churches?  Which churches would He be welcome as a friend or accepted for His simple ways?  Would some of us be seen--stroking our whiteness, our cherished way of outward living of our spiritual lives? Would we be the Pharisaical whited sepulchers, so quick to condemn the societal pariahs?  And what about those who have lost their desire for God, would they find His holy genuine way something that compels and draws them to His presence?  This one, I think is true.  What about the ones of the Way? Those of the faith, who have the true spirit of God alive in their lives, those who have a inner sense of this same Presence. If Jesus came to their town, they would kneel at His feet in humble adoration with tears of gratefulness and joy streaming in rivulets down their faces, and they would be next to the town drunk or prostitute. It would not matter. The holy masquerade would be obliterated and The Real would be real.

Norma L. Brumbaugh

Author: The Meeting Place

Are We What We Read?

Mary Stewart to G. K. Chesterton, Louis L' Amour to Thomas Aquinas, L. M. Montgomery to Anne Graham Lotz, C. S. Lewis, Emily Bronte, Thomas Merton, George MacDonald, Jane Austen, Walt Whitman, Herman Melville, Chuck Swindoll, Saint Augustine and the list goes on and on, all authors I have enjoyed and felt kinship with in the reading of their books. I have my favorites. Who doesn't? These ones, however, stay with me.  Their writings occupy a space in my little den-office I am setting up. A few have been packed away and are seeing the light of day after a long season at rest, ready to be enjoyed once again.  They beckon me.  Read me!  And I'm sure I will.

I began my reading career with books for pleasure. Tom Sawyer with Miss Elliott in fourth grade; the class read together in old unabridged green hardbacks with a limited number of copies open on our desks, taking turns as chapter by chapter it consumed much of the year. The Yearling in sixth grade with Mr. Hibdon, a reading privilege given as a reward for we students who had reached an advanced level on our SRA tests. I managed to get there part way into the year gaining a bit of status in my own thinking. The years swiftly swept by, some books made their way to me but other years the offering was lean, life too demanding for time to indulge my interest. Books cost money and there wasn't always money for many a year. The county library became my weekly venture or as often as it could be visited. Scanning the shelves for just the right book could take many minutes. When a writer has that style that makes me want more, I read every one of their books, feeling sad on the day that there are no more to be read. Several authors took me in in such a way.

My reading career has spanned a variety of styles and subject matter.  Relaxers come in the form of mysteries, whether Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, or Nero Wolfe, I've loved them all. But, much of my reading has been according to the themes in my life at the time. They leave their imprint and then I decide if I will revisit them again or let them go--their work as done. Purposes vary, books have been to teach me, others have been to entertain, still others have been to help me grow as a person with a psychological offering, some to guide me in spiritual paths, and some for just plain old fun!

Last night, or I should say, early this morning, I was unpacking boxes of books in my new home. Box after box, book after book, I plugged away. First I unpacked the little kid books soon relegated to the bottom shelf for when the grand kids come to visit. A top shelf has the classics, Jane Eyre, Black Beauty, Johnny Tremain, Moby Dick, Walden, hard back old copies loved by others before they became mine. Lots of boxed sets found their way to the book cabinet tops. Anne  with an "E" went there, Aslan and His adventures with some Kids in a land where the creatures talk,  and some well-loved books featuring a sixteen year old detective named Nancy, join my collection. Nancy's the  reason I became an independent reader. My best friend in fifth grade, Deborah, an only child, got the books brand new, one or two copies every month. Being a good friend, she always loaned them to me when she was done with her most recent copy.  I  would read them as late into the night as I could get away with, which wasn't too much when you share a room with two older sisters.

Another category presented itself as I emptied my boxes, what to do with my books on spiritual stuff, a collection that has grown vast over the years. They rapidly sorted into biographies, devotional-positive thoughts, books on the human stuff that needs dealing with--personal growth and emotional health, then some doctrinal, apologetics and study books. Eventually, I came to my newest pursuit, books that are about the human element who finds God in unexpected ways, and from that point begins a quest, a personal odyssey, looking, seeking, and finding a way to know God with their heart. The authors are more divergent in this group, from more than one viewpoint, but the flavor blends/ They are more alike that different if their pursuit of the Divine is genuine. Their writings have impressed me that God doesn't limit or put a boundary in His way of calling a person to Himself.

At three a.m. I knew I needed to stop even though the task was incomplete. I surveyed my books, considering the journey of my life.  It was an interesting enterprise. I thought of the people who might come into my room and read the book titles. Would they be compelled to slide open a glass door on the book cabinet to pull out a book? Will some wonder why I have extra copies, two, three or four of the same book?  Will I answer that I buy extras of books I think have something to offer because they  seem especially rich in content or depth, or warmth, their words relevant to the human experience, these books just waiting for their opportunity for to be given as gifts in future moments for people yet to be determined?

Yes, my books tell a lot about me, my life, my quest to learn and know, help and grow. And they speak to me of other people, who like me, have something to say as they pen the words or touch their IPad as I am at this moment. It would be cool if one of these days I learn that my book, The Meeting Place, has taken a place of honor on someone's shelf , someone I don't know and they don't know me, my book one that they can bring into their understanding, enough so that they don't plan to  give it away just like I have kept the books I like and want as part of my personal library.  I will just have to wait and see.

N. L. Brumbaugh Wieland
April 6, 2013