The Golden Year

After Christmas last year, I bought a daytimer in a moment of nostalgia for a similar one I had in Oxford. My Oxford one was purple, but this one was gold, which I thought fitting because, in my mind, 2012 was going to be a golden year. I think I expected this because 2011 was a time of transition and stress in various ways. I suppose I was trying to predict how God would work, that a year of pruning is followed by one of growth.

Yet, here in November, I am tempted to characterize 2012 by a list of its tragedies. I'm not trying to trivialize them down to a list of life lessons or try to find redemption where tears are more appropriate. But it is a human impulse, I think, to see a story emerge from disconnected pieces, and to reconcile expectations with reality.

The year started crumbling one April morning when I called my mom to confirm the news I'd found in my inbox: my fifteen-year-old cousin had committed suicide the night before. Even as I fought nausea, I understood, a little, why he did it. I remembered a day when that despair flickered across my own mind.

A few months later, I drove home from work with ashes falling on my truck as the smoke from the Waldo Canyon wildfire clouded my mind with fear. My roommate and I threw some hastily chosen belongings in our vehicles and drove to her family's house on the north end of town, where we watched the flames engulf homes. Not sure where they would stop. Helpless.

As Colorado was still recovering from the fire, the Dark Knight shooting made me wonder when will it end. When will life go back to normal? I remember thinking that the arrival of cold weather would make it safer. After the lethal summer, the rain and snow would blanket us in security again. Yet the fall brought another blow.

There had been rumblings of what was happening, bits of news and conversations. But when my dad called and said the doctors thought he might have cancer, that was no comfort. Lung cancer. Asbestos. Aggressive chemotherapy. All words I now need in this golden year. Good news now comes in pieces I seize like life rings. News that the cancer has not spread. That the chemo is working. While my dad's cancer is not always the first thought I have when I wake up, it's there by the time I hit the shower. The new normal.

A few days after I got the news, I was flipping through a gift catalog and saw a plaque with a quote from Winston Churchill: "If you're going through hell, keep going." And while it sounds irreverent, I think that's what God would say. He doesn't tell me this year's events are not so bad. He doesn't wave them off and tell me they're all for a greater purpose (even though they may well be). They are hell. They are the work of Satan on earth.

So why should I keep going? Why is it so tragic when someone doesn't keep going? It's easier to stop waiting for the golden year, for Tolkien's eucatastrophe, the sudden and unexpected turn for good.

I suppose what I'm trying to understand is that the eucatastrophe has already happened. Every so often I'll catch the faintest hint of an almost mythical joy trying to break through. As if the most beautiful story in the world has been true all along. Tolkien wrote that "the Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy."

Why do we keep going through hell? Because Christ already did. And while there is certainly cause for grief, there is none for fear. None. "We do not lose heart...for this light and momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison" (2 Corinthians 4:16-17).

I think I can still call 2012 a golden year (1 Peter 1:7).

New York: A Photo Tour

I loved visiting New York with two international friends, representing France and South Africa, respectively. It was a good way to connect with the character of a city that is at once iconically American and essentially cosmopolitan. While preparing for the trip, I remembered that New York used to be called New Amsterdam; it was Dutch before it was British. In the American Revolution, New York served as the base for the British Army.

Speaking of the Revolution, here I am thanking my French friend Juliette for her country's gift: the Statue of Liberty (you can barely see in in the background).


Also in Battery Park, not far from where we took the first photo, is "The Immigrants" statue. This reminded me of the haunting Famine Memorial along the river in Dublin--one of the most moving pieces of art I've ever seen. I don't know the circumstances under which my own ancestors came to America from Germany and Romania, but very likely it was with the mix of desperation and hope represented by these figures.


After Battery Park (and the obligatory photo with the bull on Wall Street), us three internationals visited the 9/11 memorial. Here you see one of the two reflecting pools, which will eventually mirror the new World Trade Center towers. Just to put this in perspective, before we could enter the memorial we stood in line for about an hour (this was after reserving tickets for a time slot) and went through an airport-style security check. It was a bit frustrating, but after what happened here, who can blame them?


Unexpected pleasures: one of the best things about the trip! After dinner at a gourmet pizza kitchen, we found ourselves at a folk concert in the middle of the subway.

Another serendipitous moment of a different sort: Tiffany's "Autumn Landscape" in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After visiting the medieval tapestries, I wandered into the American Wing of the huge museum, and stopped in my tracks to stare at this stained glass. I associate stained glass with biblical scenes, but this was more beautiful than anything in a cathedral. Its beauty pointed to the beauty already present in the world; light on trees and water actually IS that stunning. It made me think of how nature is God's "stained glass," and that this artistic celebration of it is deeply fitting.

...more later!

Pottermore

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

—Dumbledore

I’ve never read the Harry Potter books, but last summer I watched all the movies in the space of a few weeks. Last night I rewatched Deathly Hallows Part 2 and spent an hour afterwards reading about various plot holes/details. And I understood how people could and did get drawn into that world of Hogwarts. (I might have been among them but for The Lord of the Rings.)

But what I really wonder is this. All those fans who love the story and write wikis about the spells and charms and don’t want to say goodbye to the characters—the fans who would presumably enter that world if given the chance—why would they not fully embrace the unseen “true magic” of Christ? (I’m now speaking of fans of any fantasy epic.) Why would such fans not take seriously the true supernatural—that there is indeed great power and transcendent forces and self-sacrifice and love?

Of course it is self-sacrificing love that forms the most powerful force in Harry Potter. Yet we will not believe that same kind of love in our own world. If we feel that we would stand with Neville Longbottom and the others to defend Hogwarts—if only we could have magic castles and wands—will we not stand guard over our own souls? Why? Why will we not fight for something we cannot see?

I’m sure there are other Christians who, like me, would admit to being more moved by the sight of Gandalf riding out to face the Nazgul than by even the most haunting Good Friday service. We ache for beauty; we wish we had a heritage and home to defend; we wish for the camaraderie that is only born of deadly peril. At least we think we do.

What would we really think if Harry and his gang broke into our world? If we were faced with a mission that would certainly mean death? Would we not want to slam the book shut? Say that such things belong in stories, not in real life? We prefer the Muggle world. The world that says transcendence belongs only in your head.

In the end, we will find it is real.

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the sign that the things not seen are true.”

—Hebrews

New Start

For the second time in less than a year, I am writing from a new home: this time only a few miles away from my previous abode. This has been a summer of stressful circumstances: an unexpected move and atypical work projects top the list. But such goodness has accompanied me through all of it that I can't help but feel, as I'm writing from a new laptop in a new apartment, that this fall marks a new start.

Perhaps it's the seventeen plus years of an academic schedule, but September is more of a new year for me than January. Suddenly the library seems like the place to be. I have an urge to surround myself with books, notes, and maybe a paper to write.

But of course, little of that enthusiasm is left when I get off work (which, oddly enough, involves surrounding myself with books). I did give myself a "research project" for the next few months (or however long it takes to satisfy my curiosity/college nostalgia): looking into first-century Judaism (and whatever Jewish-history bunny trails I follow along the way).

Another new start began when a manuscript I edited last week rekindled a desire to be around horses. I am planning to volunteer at a local therapeutic riding center, possibly take a few riding lessons to see how much I remember, and maybe lease a horse a few months down the road.

We'll see.

Homesick

This post has been marinating in my brain for several months now; no doubt it will end up saying less than I wish.

But, given that my fellow 2010 MA Publishing students officially graduate tomorrow, my thoughts again return to England and Oxford, and I have to admit that I'm homesick. That's not to say I don't enjoy Colorado and my work here. On the contrary--lately I've started taking walks in the evenings when I get home from work, and the beauty of the Rockies makes me stop and stare every time. The crisp air tinged with woodsmoke. The fleeting sight of deer running like shadows over a neighbor's lawn. The rugged, undiluted Western beauty of this place cannot be denied.

It is still not home, though. Even when I was in England, I tried to figure out what made me love it so much. The best way I can describe it is peace between you and your surroundings. It's almost as if that place has a personality, that it understands you, reaches out and touches you.

Recently I read a question in a book-discussion guide. It asked if you would be willing to die to defend a piece of land. Would it be your country? State? The home you grew up in?

I've been listening to The Grapes of Wrath on CD as I drive to and from work, and Steinbeck's description of the land...the land your ancestors have bled and died on, the land you've worked with your bare hands, that has fed you and your family...that is land you will fight and die for. That land is part of you.

I guess the closest thing I have to that is Oxford.

Motivation

I know, two posts in two days...what is the world coming to?

But I feel strangely motivated to write. No doubt this will be short-lived...but here's one thing I hope is not.

Tonight I went to a discussion group hosted by a few members of the Anglican church I started going to a couple months ago. The group is loosely based around the books Radical by David Platt and Christianity Beyond Belief by Todd Hunter. I found this time immensely refreshing on several levels. Following a challenge from David Platt, several people in the group are reading through the Bible in one year.

So I decided I want to try. There's several reasons, probably, but foremost is that I am not doing a very good job without a plan. Last night I spent about thirty minutes reading Gods and Generals and about thirty seconds glancing at the Psalms before I decided to go to sleep. Also, and this is slightly concerning to me, but I am the sort of person who likes lists and plans. I like getting a syllabus at the start of a class--marking off the reading chapters, knowing exactly how much I have to accomplish and when in order to reach a goal. Now I readily admit that is often a weakness. You can't chart out a relationship, especially with God, in this way--ticking off chapters is no sign of real commitment or change. But even relationships have their disciplines and habits. And I've neglected this one long enough.

So here's to motivation, and the chronological reading plan I'm starting...now.

Light

Candles are forbidden in dorm rooms. On both sides of the Atlantic.

So in the last few months, after moving into a real house, I've been making up for lost time. Early in December I bought one of those evergreen-scented candles, one of my few attempts at Christmas decorating.

I've been in the process of settling into a new room, and along with a bedspread and bookshelf, I bought a candle that I burn nearly every night when I get home. What's interesting to me, though, is why a little flame in a glass jar is so appealing to the modern homemaker/newly hatched college student. It serves almost no practical purpose. My bedside lamp provides all the light I need, and if I want my room to smell like sandalwood, I can buy Febreze and not bother with matches and lingering hints of sulfur.

Why the entire aisles devoted to candles? Like a real wood fire, why do they mean cozy, romantic, comforting ... even mysterious?

Is it nostalgia--a longing for a past time? Yet I'm sure none of us seriously want to go back to lighting our homes with oil lamps. If it is nostalgia, it is very confined. Odd how the old-fashioned things become luxuries ... candles are far less efficient than light bulbs. Baking bread costs more than buying it. And don't get me started on ebooks.

We'll move past the 40-watt bulbs, too. But even then I doubt they'll gain the allure of the candle. There's something about the living flame.