Well-Read Mom
When I consider what entices me to read a literary work, I find myself focusing on specific criteria: Is the reading style pleasurable? Is the content informative or inspiring? Does it bring joy, peace, or truth to my spirit? After all, there are only so many hours in a day to devote to reading (however earnestly I wish there were more). A busy mother must be somewhat picky in her literary decisions between juggling work and kids’ schedules, chores, and errands. While it is natural to have partialities—favorite authors, subject matter, or writing styles—there is merit in persevering through works that do not immediately resonate with us or perhaps, even repel us. Indeed, plenty of literary works are devoid of value and should be something we avoid. However, a myriad of offerings exists that, while they may jar our sensibilities, still relate universal truths.
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My ten-year-old daughter, Josie, has been obsessed with the Anne of Green Gables books by L.M. Montgomery for two years. She dressed as Anne for Halloween, carries her pencils in an “I’d Rather Be in Avonlea” case, and has read the entire series three times. She tried to persuade me to read the books many times.
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Flannery O’Connor and L.M.Montgomery, though their visions are so different, are both writers who urge the reader to awake to the beauty and meaning in reality that is illuminated with signs of God’s divine grace and even further to hear God’s call to us through these signs.
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More often than I would care to admit, particularly in the closing weeks, I found myself bitterly lamenting my emotional loneliness. In my hormonally-impacted state, the problems were undoubtedly exacerbated. I genuinely felt unheard by those within my own home as I struggled to contend with the chaos of a bustling household. I attempted to balance limitless baskets of laundry in addition to Cheerios strewed across my living room, countless errands, and a toddler in a leg cast while simultaneously being increasingly impeded by an ever-expanding belly and an ever-diminishing level of patience. Suffice to say, “nesting” is next to impossible when you have nine other children. Not only did the tranquility and rest I was naturally craving seem unattainable, but it also seemed hopeless to expect others to empathize with my weariness.
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As I spread a pile of books on the table at The Roadside Cafe, the waitress was curious, “What kind of work do you do?” She was surprised when I told her I run a national book club for women.
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What does it mean to live out the generative capacity that all women are called to when you have borne no children? All women possess the calling to be fruitful, but each of us must ask what that means for us in particular. Some of us will continue working out the answer to this question for our entire lives, whether because of singleness, infertility, or a commitment to the religious life. A darling, fuzzy-headed toddler sleeps peacefully in the next room as I write this. Still, it took over a decade of marriage and a beautiful yet heartbreaking adoption journey for me to become a mother.
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In An Experiment in Criticism, C.S. Lewis asserts that there aren’t two types of books (good and bad), but instead, there are two types of readers: the “many” and the “few”. I feel confident that everyone reading this blog post falls into the second category.
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Even in Christian culture we have a tendency to magnify the extraordinary and minimize the ordinary. It’s laughable, really, because Christ Himself lived a beautiful ordinary life.
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It seems like a questionable decision brought on by too few hours of consecutive sleep (not unlike when I put the ketchup bottle in the dishwasher or when I machine washed and dried my favorite wool sweater). According to lots of people who know me (and everyone who doesn’t know me but sees me at Costco), my hands are full. I don’t have time to start a book club. Maybe, just maybe, I could join a book club that someone else started (probably not, though, because I wouldn’t have time to keep up with the reading). That’s why I love Well-Read Mom.
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Wendell Berry’s Jayber Crow left a significant imprint on my heart and mind. My heart was captivated by his sincere interest in understanding people and the depths of their stories and discovering—through honest reflection—what it means to belong. But I also found such a strong moral vision in Jayber Crow. This story in particular teaches us more than statistics can about the beauty of the land and the necessary stewardship that follows. Having lost our collective memory of the land and our illiteracy when it comes to nature, we need to re-learn how to see the goodness and beauty of nature to know the moral limits of technological control.
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