On the First Sunday of Lent, one of our parish’s deacons gave the homily. He spoke about how, when his family first moved to Kansas City one summer, he was struck by the beauty of the trees. He had moved from the desert and wasn’t accustomed to so much green. Now, of course, the trees aren’t green. He likened the bleak, bare winter landscape to the Lenten season. We repent and let go, just as the trees let go of their leaves, he said, trusting that come Easter, come spring, we can glory in the Resurrection. Clearly, there is something going on here. It makes sense to me that trees are meaningful to Christians.
If “true grit” is an unflappable determination in the face of any circumstances, however horrific, challenging, or dire, the question remains: is this a natural gift or an attainable virtue?
I have found myself wallowing in pity lately. I have found myself screaming to God, “Why me? Why can’t you let up? Why do we have to have one legitimate trauma after another?” I have found myself trying to reason with God, believing the maxim that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, but telling God that I think I am plenty strong enough for the time being; thank you very much. And then I picked up True Grit, and I met Mattie Ross.
How do people find hope in the face of flagrant cruelty or disdain? The answer, as the ten Booms poignantly and concretely discovered, is found in the One Who endured the greatest suffering of all.
This book appears on my Top 10 list. It’s just plain fun. And how often do I allow myself to read for pure pleasure?
We are a lonely culture that values “being rebellious” over true, deep happiness and fulfillment. Really, it all boils down to pride, yes? But truly, I need people. I always have and always will need people—and there is true freedom in following something proposed in love.
Reading the same books together gives people a common language with which to facilitate broader discussions. It builds culture and community.
And while there is nothing wrong with wanting to avoid sin and seek spiritual perfection, if not motivated more by the love of God than by personal pride, we can vitally miss the point. “The Practice of the Presence of God,” by Brother Lawrence—a 17th-century Discalced Carmelite who offered spiritual direction to others through his counsel and writings—emphasizes the importance of serving God in trust and love rather than cowering before him in fear and inadequacy.
We want to have thoughtful homes; we need to have thoughtful homes. Every human being has needs—fundamental and yet specific to the individual. Our culture is fast losing the practices and routines that for generations fostered this necessary human contact. So what can we do?
More than a mere horror story, Dracula invites the reader to examine what is required to seek and protect the Good from the evils which are always present, though not always easily recognized or seen, in our world. What fascinates me most, particularly during this latest encounter with the novel, is Stoker’s proposition that the most potent methods of promoting the Good are also some of the most ancient and timeless.