Book Ende

In sports, fairytales, and life we like to know that where we are is not where we’ll always be. These stories give us hope, hope for change, hope for redemption of what often seems like a dark and gloomy present reality.

I recently found a book on the top floor of the library, buried way in the back corner, that I picked up simply because of the author and the title. "A Sense of Wonder: On Reading and Writing books for Children" by Katherine Patterson. I never preview books at the library. I just grab and go and hope that I picked up something enjoyable. This book, it turns out, was meant to be in my hands at that point in time. The next week I was suppose to talk to a group of people about Children's Literature, both the reading and the writing. I ended up doing very little original talking and mostly just quoting from the book, starting with this...

 "An earnest young reporter asked me: ‘What are you trying to do when you write for children?’ ‘I’m trying to write as well as I possibly can,’ I answered. He thought I hadn’t understood his question. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘What I mean is, what is your philosophy of writing for children? Isn’t there some moral you want to get across to them? Aren’t there some values you wish to instill in your young readers?’ ‘I’m trying,’ I said, ‘to write for my readers the best story, the truest story of which I am capable.’ He gave up on me and changed the subject, frustrated and annoyed. He seemed to share the view of many intelligent, well-educated, well-meaning people that, while adult literature may aim to be art, the object of children’s books is to whip the little rascals into shape… But those of us who write for children are called, not to do something to a child, but to be someone for a child."

My question, first to myself and then to my audience, was this: What does it look like, rather than trying to do something to my audience, to be someone for my audience?

The answer, in another Patterson quote:

"When I walk into a room full of well-dressed people, I never walk in alone. With me is a nine-year-old who knows her clothes are out of a missionary barrel, her accent is foreign, and her mannerisms peculiar- a child who knows that if she is lucky she will be ignored and if unlucky she will be sneered at. But the gift of maturity is this- not that I can ever excise that frightened, lonely nine-year-old or that I even want to, but that when I walk into that room I quickly recognize a hundred children just as fearful and desperate as I. And even if they are afraid to reach out to me, I can feel, along with my own nine-year-old loneliness, a kind of compassion, and make an attempt to reach out to them… The reader I want to change is that burdened child within myself. As I begin a book, I am in a way inviting her along to see if there might be some path through this wilderness that we might hack out together, some oasis in this desert where we might find refreshment, some sheltered spot where we might lay our burden down. This is done by means of a story…"


Think of the stories that were your favorites as a child. Do you remember the sound of your Mom or Dad’s voice reading it to you? Or the colors and shapes in the pictures that signaled to you, the child, everything that was going to take place in the words surrounding it in just one glance? Maybe you remember feeling that you were that main character, that his or her problems were your problems and if you could just get to the end of the book and figure out how they fix it, then you’d know to fix it too.  For one reason or another these stories were precious to you. That author met you through that story at the place where you needed to be met, whether the author realized it or not.  Their story met your story.

As a writer, I can’t know who is going to read my book and I can’t know what story they need to hear. The only thing I can do to make sure it's a good story - to make it art. “I’m trying…to write for my readers the best story, the truest story of which I am capable" (Patterson).

Christopher Robin in the Rain

"A little boy named Danny
sat looking through the glass,
While watching all the raindrops
go pitter, patter, splash.

Poor, downcast little Danny
stared through the window pane
and asked the clouds politely
to hold back all the rain.

The clouds just wouldn’t listen,
The rain kept pouring down,
So little downcast Danny
Spent Monday with a frown.

     Danny tried to read a book…
     Danny tried to play with blocks…
     Danny even helped his mother
     Fold his shirts and pants and socks.

But suddenly in one clear thought
He knew just what to do
He found his boots and raincoat
And to the door he flew.

He ran into the puddles
And made a great big SPLASH!
Jumping, jumping, up and down
He’d beat the rain at last!

Yesterday was Kenneth Grahame's birthday. I first discovered his most well-known work, The Wind in the Willows, in college. If you aren't familiar with it, it is a children's book based on stories he used to tell his son about the adventures of Mr. Toad and his friends, Ratty, Mole, and Badger. The original illustrations were done by a man named Ernest H. Shepard whose name you may recognize from his illustrations in The House at Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne.

The Wind in the Willows falls into a special category that I call "quiet books" along with Crow Call by Lois Lowry, Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo, Blueberries For Sal by Robert McCloskey, The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf- even Tolkein's The Hobbit would fall in this category. Their colorful characters, clever, well developed plot, and brilliantly simple illustrations stand the test of time against frenetic, action-packed books with bright, busy illustrations.

That doesn't mean nothing ever happens in a quiet book. Mr. Toad's jail break is hardly nothing. But in the midst of the action, the author has woven "inns" along the way where the reader feels the plot slow, and can stop to take a breath- Tom Bombadil in The Lord of the Rings, The Weasley's home in Harry Potter, and Badger's house in The Wind in the Willows:

"It seemed a place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where weary harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their Harvest Home with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of simple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and talk in comfort and contentment" -Wind in the Willows

Quiet books are also very good at economizing words. No one wants to read three paragraphs when three sentences would have done just as well. As Dr. Seuss reminds us "the writer who breeds more words than he needs is making a chore for the reader who reads." Picture book authors have this down to a science. Most picture books are under 500 words and think of the complexity of story and depth of character in works like Great Joy by Kate DiCamillo, and Strega Nona by Tommie dePaula. The most brilliant example of how big ideas can be communicated with minimal words is Shaun Tan's recent book about immigration, The Arrival. There are no words in this book and yet it is practically flawless in its narrative flow.

A big part of what makes a book "quiet" is it's ability to be still. The plot may not always move forward, and when it does so, it may not be quickly and yet you loose nothing from the story. On the contrary, you gain texture and atmosphere that put meat on the bones of a plot. In The Lord of the Rings we meet the character of Tom Bombadil when the hobbits are in a dark place at the beginning of their journey. Tom serves (amongst many other things we won't go into here) as an "inn" to refresh both the hobbits and the reader. The description of his person, his home and his land help to further flesh out the world of Tolkien's imagination- a world where a table filled with "yellow cream, honeycomb, and white bread and butter" is the best possible table to come home to.

I've only looked at quiet children's books in this post because that's the focus of my blog and my work. But quiet books are certainly not limited to children. If you've ever read any fiction by Wendell Berry, you know what a quiet book is. So, if you're feeling a noisy world closing in, pick up a quiet book, and let it do it's work...

"Do you hear the people sing?
Lost in the valley of the night
It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light
For the wretched of the earth there is a flame that never dies
Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise."

Yes, this is from the musical, but the theme rings true with Hugo's novel, the last book of which is entitled "Supreme Shadow, Supreme Dawn." There is an entire genre of literature that hinges on the idea of the darkness that precedes the dawning of a new day -Hugo's Les Miserables, Dostoevsky's The Brother's Karamazov and Crime and Punishment, Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. We like these stories- to read them, to quote them, to make them into musicals and movies. We are hooked on stories that redeem the darkness of life, that reassure us there is sunlight waiting just on the other side of what seems to be an endless night.






For the last two years, my family has faced Christmas, a season of light, in the dark shadow of loss. In October of 2011 my grandpa died, we mourned, and then there was Christmas. In August of this year, less than four months ago, my uncle died, we mourned, and then there was Christmas.

It's true that the holidays are the hardest times for people who have recently lost someone. Thanksgiving and Christmas are times steeped in old family traditions, that hold so many memories, and when the family gathers together as regular as clockwork, the absence of a dear one is felt most of all.

But what would grief look like without the light of Christmas? What would the darkness be without the dawn - Without Christmas, death would have no end. Without the incarnation, there is no resurrection. Without Christmas, mourning would be infinite. Instead, "weeping may tarry for the night but joy comes with the morning (Psalm 30:5)."

This is why we like our stories- they remind us that on the darkest of nights, we have a light. Christmas reminds us who that Light is and that He has come.

The word "advent" is a noun - it means "coming" or "the arrival of a notable person, thing, or event" but in our house, "to advent" is a verb. It is an action, or, rather, a deliberate cessation of action for 10, 20, maybe even 30 minutes every evening. We read, we sing, we pray, we laugh, we talk, we listen... listen to each other and listen to God...we wait, and we advent.

It's hard to wait. Our culture doesn't wait. We, as Christians, forget what it is we are waiting for. What is it that is suppose to be coming? A Savior? In one of my favorite children's books, The Magician's Elephant by Kate DiCamillo, a woman hears news that a magician has conjured an elephant and the elephant fell straight through the roof of the opera house. The woman's reaction? Cynicism. Unbelief... "Who expects something special nowadays anyways?" said the woman. "Not me. I've worn myself out expecting something special." And she continues purchasing fish from the market.

There is another character in this little book- Leo Matienne, the policeman. Leo Matienne has three questions that he asks over, and over again throughout the story, "What if?" "Why Not?" and "Could it possibly be?" This man's heart sings, he hopes, he waits for the extraordinary.

For the next week, in the frenzy leading up to Christmas, in the midst of "the most wonderful time of the year" I pray that I would not grow weary of expecting something special, that I would continue to wait, and wait expectantly for the Advent of Emmanuel, God with us.

"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone... For to us a child is born,to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace, there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this." -Isaiah 9

I have a poster hanging on my bedroom wall of the Eiffel Tower covered in snow, the entire surrounding area obscured by cold, winter fog. There is a thick layer of freshly fallen, undisturbed powder on each branch of the trees lining the walkway to the tower. There are no footprints, no people, no noise...

The rest of the world is still asleep.


I got this poster in college at a dorm poster sale. It was mixed in a bin with pictures of album covers and boy bands. I rescued it. I bought it along with a poster of photographs of Monet's gardens which now hangs opposite of it over the corner affectionately referred to as my "reading corner."

I bought the Eiffel Tower poster without hardly a second glance because my 18 year old self wanted to look artsy and French and what better way to do that than to hang a picture of the Eiffel Tower in your room like some "good omen." But every time I looked at it, I didn't see the tower, I saw the lamp in the foreground of the right hand side.

It is tall, black, iron, standing there bold and unaffected by the fog surrounding the rest of the landscape. It has several rings near the bottom serving as shelves for the flakes to rest on as they make their way to ground and it is capped with a perfectly round pile of snow that looks like it fell there intentionally, to keep the lamp warm. The lamp stands as one of hundreds lighting the way in all their extraordinary ordinariness to the iconic tower in the background.