The Book Thief

In one of my favorite books, The Book Thief, the protagonist, Liesel, a young Jewish girl in Nazi Germany, steals a book that had fallen into a grave dug for her brother. The Grave Digger's Handbook. This begins her love of reading and words. I thought about that today. Would she have become passionate about words if she had first seen them on a flat impersonal screen, void of tactile stimulation, the feel of paper as she turns each cherished page with her adolescent fingers. Would she have discovered the value of literature and find her own voice during the terror and uncertainties that encompassed her world? If she had held a Nook or a Kindle in the palm or her small hand, would that have deposited the same desire for words? My favorite bookstore (other than Powell's) is declaring bankruptcy. When I received an email from Border's President and CEO, reassuring me that they were operating as usual, suspicion draped my mind. Was this a ploy to gain an entire online audience? Will I still be able to browse the aisles, touch book jackets, turn to the back cover, and peruse the author's photograph and bio? I love books. I love the musky smell of a beloved novel as I flip through the pages, perhaps blowing dust into the atmosphere. Sometimes I re-read a favorite paragraph or chapter and an elfin sigh escapes from the happy place inside. A friend of mine has a Nook. She said you can read and multi-task, "Isn't that great!" I don't know what else I would like to do while reading a good book, other than sip on my favorite espresso or a glass of Pinot Gris. Literature was Liesel's escape from a bleak life and she wrote a book herself. With the popularity of online shopping and ebooks, I wonder how many adolescents will share Liesel's passion for words. I hope that the lure of downloading a plethora of books at whim won't in fact steal our beloved books from our eager hands. And wipe our minds free from an age-old  romance with words.

Love As A Weapon

I happened upon a website the other day titled, Love Is Our Weapon. Before seeing that title, I had never really thought about love as a weapon. Webster's Dictionary defines love as a strong affection for another, a warm attachment, a beloved person. I continued on through the entries. Unselfish, loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another. The fatherly concern of God for mankind. Brotherly concern for others. I grew up with four brothers and they owned boxing gloves. Love as a weapon? Pondering the possibility, wrapping my mind around the true meaning meant I would have to change the way I think about love. Perhaps it's not about buying the perfect gift, or saying the right things at exactly the right moment, but more about a state of being and a deeper understanding of why we are here. At any moment I can wield my weapon against evil, do something kind for someone who drives me insane, or sit and listen to an elderly person re-telling the same tale for the zillionth time. Or buy myself a present, just because. When I hold my grandchildren, I sense a great importance to brandish weapons of mass destruction around their innocent bodies, shielding them, protecting their minds and hearts. It's not easy to surrender my concept of love. But as I wake each morning, roll over and peer at the clock, I am reminded of a vast responsibility. Like two men preparing for a duel at dawn, with ribbons of fog curling around their ankles and light filtering between barren tree limbs, I will do my best to outwit the bad guys and choose my weapon oh so carefully.

Pass The Carrots Please

Proverbs 11 v 24 says, "One man gives freely , yet gains even more; another withholds unduly but comes to poverty." During the past few weeks I have had the opportunity to witness benevolent acts of generosity. With two newborn babies and recovering from surgery, my daughter and her husband have been the recipients of great kindness from friends and family. But one gift plays across my mind like those old vinyl records. The ones with the tiny grooves, reminding me of an era when our parents believed in the importance of following the rules they inherited, rather than simply lifting the needle and changing to a different song. In our family, like many baby-boomers, we were forced to adhere to strict eating guidelines. We had to finish every morsel on our plate before being excused from the table. We longed to pedal our Schwinn bicycles, play hide-and-seek, or even do our homework. I would cut my potato pancakes into tiny pieces, hoping the dreaded food would disappear. My brother hated carrots. With a passion. He would sit at our long maple table, his round cheeks puffed up, storing the detested veggies inside, afraid to swallow. I am sure he implored my mother with all of his heart to please let him spit the horrid stuff back onto his plate. My mother usually won the battle. Sometimes he darted to the bathroom and while we scraped our plates, the toilet flushed and we knew he had caught a break. Last Sunday he cooked a dinner for my daughter and her husband. I peeked through the glass lid. Inside, scattered around a pot roast, hugging white potatoes, sitting as proud as pieces of dense chocolate cake, were the nemesis from his youth. I wondered how he could do it, handle the carrots as if they were friends and all. After delivering his meal, and he readied to leave, my brother handed me a plastic bag housing the unused portion of the odious food. "Here, I won't need these. I hate carrots," he said. This week his words flashed through my thoughts, painting a vivid picture of the art of giving. In my book I wrote, When you fully give all that you have-and then give some more-you find yourself the proud owner of everything that can't be bought. In our giving, we discover freedom from the illusions that kept us practicing safety. The only thing it costs us is our false beliefs. My brother gave and then he gave some more. A pot roast is naked without carrots and he understood that even though he had issues with the super-food, others would enjoy the bounty. My brother was a rich man last Sunday.

Joy To The World

Joy cannot be purchased. It cannot be borrowed from your best friend. It does not hide, but rather begs to be found. Once you have experienced joy, you will say to yourself, Oh yes! More please! If you stay in that hidden place long enough, the place that is yours alone, you will learn two things: that joy is the truest expression of love, and that without joy your life is hollow, doleful, even depressed. I think joy is one of God's greatest gifts. We are meant to cultivate joy, to deeply appreciate the benefits received when we live a life in search of joy. When we reach for those things that bring us happiness, the result is an outpouring of peace and love to those around us. This past week, I met my twin grandchildren, cradling them in protective arms. Tiny bundles of joy. Not being prepared for the peace that swathed my heart, the innocence of newborn boys, the miracle of life itself, my lips made an Oh-shaped expression. Swaddled up in blankets, eyes not quite ready for the world, and tiny hands that reached for each other soon after birth. I was thinking today that it must begin in the womb, the cultivation of joy, for why else would these babies seek each other, if not for the truest expression of love?