Building a Bridge with Katherine Paterson

I love Katherine Paterson's writing because her books speak to all faiths, resonate with those who profess no faith at all, and are infused with her own Christian identity. She says this about the relationship between faith and art:

We live in a Post-Christian society. Therefore, not many of those writers will be Christians or adherents of any of the traditional faiths. Self-consciously Christian (or Jewish or Muslim) writing will be sectarian and tend to propaganda and therefore have very little to say to persons outside that particular faith community. The challenge for those of us who care about our faith and about a hurting world is to tell stories which will carry the words of grace and hope in their bones and sinews and not wear them like fancy dress.

--Newbery medal winning author, Katherine Paterson

As someone who struggles to reconcile a Christian identity with a world view that occasionally contradicts, I find comfort in these words as I string together my own. Even more importantly, they provide sound guidance for how a person of any faith ought to live life.

We're All Growing Up

It's happening more and more like this. My son returns from an overnight band trip exuding a subtle, yet distinct new maturity. Aside from the little flush of parental pride, I search for words to capture this new person. Listening to him talk I wonder, when exactly did this latest bit of growing up happen?

Was it while sipping his first coffee in Starbucks? Maybe while playing in the hotel pool with friends, his parents wonderfully far away, with knowledge there is much more independence to come? Likely he doesn't know, the moment having fizzled into the subconscious of one who lacks context.

In good fiction, of course, these moments cannot fizzle, but must carve themselves beautifully into the highest points of the narrative. Those places where a character opens eyes to something never seen before that was there all along.

Discovering the instant a character touches glimpse of a fuller self is often the culmination of so many drafts written that seem to touch nothing at all. The writer continues to put one word in front of another, in faith that they will lead, in their own tedious and meandering way, like life itself, toward something true.

Jam Session

In my life I have jammed many things: to music playing Guitar Hero, staplers, photocopy machines, my finger, the gears on my Mazda. The list goes on. Even so, there is a kind of jamming I had overlooked until yesterday. The kids and I went strawberry picking at a local farm and discovered a dying art.

Freezer jamming.
We picked a few different kinds, tart and sweet, big and small. We are an equal opportunity freezer jamming operation.
My children, quiet and working together. We've not only been introduced to a new hobby, but I'm now convinced that these particular strawberries contain a kind of miraculous, "peaceful sibling" property. My research is not scientific, but I'm thinking it's in the seeds.
My son's favorite part was "murdering the fruit," which, though somewhat in conflict with the berry's miracle attributes, was quite theraputic for all of us.
There is a lot of sweetness in jam, but we decided to focus on vitamin C and antioxidents instead. And miracles can be only encouraged by sugar.
Stirring jam is loads of fun, until you feel a handstand coming on. . . and must take a break to indulge acrobatic urges.
And to think, if we wanted jam a hundred years ago, we'd have HAD to preserve it ourselves, and probably not the easy, freezer kind!

"Then I'm glad I live now," Mary said.

Me too. There is charm in the unnecessary.
Yet I think it is necessary to focus on process when I need a little inspiration. My writing suffers when I'm too focused on product, and forget that the work itself has sweet rewards of its own. Twenty jars of jam later, I can't wait to open one next January, and remember the miracles of June.

My Dog is Airborne

We're having gusts up to fifty miles per hour here in my little midwest town. I'm posting to inform you that for the second time in her, so far, short yet meaningful life,

My shitzu has blown off the deck.

She's fine, just a little surprised. I mean she was kind of close to the edge, but not that close. I wish I had a picture. Imagine a scene out of the Wizard of Oz, for when our dear little Molly hit the grass, squinting and making a valiant attempt to stay on all fours against the elements, I'm quite certain I heard her whisper, "We are not in Kansas anymore."

Perhaps I'll hire her out as a stunt dog.

Post 100

This post marks the 100th of my short, low-profile blogging career.

Having a blog has forced me to do something I have never been able to do. Keep a journal for more than ten or twelve entries. I have scads of blank books. It's the go to gift for people who don't know what to get me, and none of them have enough entries to represent a significant amount of time. In January it will be a year since my friend Erin and I both decided to do this (it was her idea in the first place). I'm glad I did. 2008=100 posts=the most well-recorded year of my life. And it was a good one.

There's something about celebrating the 100th anything (100 days in school, 100 years, 100 bottles of beer on the wall. . . .) that creates an expectation for number 100 to be special in some way. So. . . .

Since this event of the 100th post coincides so nicely with the approaching new year, I will be changing the look of this blog in observation of both. Also, my husband got a fancy schmancy new camera from his parents for Christmas. To give him an opportunity to use it often, and encourage his long-time photography hobby, I will begin a new "Yet-to-be-named" photo series of some kind in January. Maybe I should call it "Inspired by Ann."

Rainy State of Mind

There's no looking forward to stepping out in the rain for a very necessary trip to the grocery store. I grab the only umbrella I can find: The expensive one that shouts irony in its inability to stay open.

I decide not to fill up with gas yet, to avoid watching the dollars and cents grow and grow and make me feel so poor. I walk up and down the aisles in the store and marvel at how much everything costs, ponder taking every sub teaching job in sight so I can afford luxuries like pitted kalamata olives and orange juice in the carton. I buy them anyway.

We commiserate in the check out line, complain about the weather while also agreeing the rain is needed. We shake our heads about Texas and hope for the best. It's pouring hard now. I make an attempt to push my cart through the parking lot and hold the faulty umbrella as it slowly closes around my head and eyes. Surely I look like an idiot.

I can't see ahead of me and yet I have a sudden and overwhelming feeling that I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing precisely what I'm supposed to do. And this rush of happiness has nothing and everything to do with the rain and broken umbrellas and quotidian tasks. I find myself a welcome visitor to the world, and grateful for it all.