I love Alyosha

I'm an Audible.com member, and get my audiobook cravings sated there, after some anxious minutes of tricky downloading. Right now I am waiting for the computer to download War and Peace, Pride and Prejudice, and The Number One Ladies Detective Agency. I am particularly looking forward to War and Peace, since a dear friend recommended it. This friend was the one who initially recommended The Brothers Karamazov to me, the last book I listened to. When I told him in college that I hadn't read it yet, he was adamant: "How can you call yourself a Christian if you haven't read this book?" So in order to get right with God, I read it, loved it and understood what he meant.

Initially, as I listened to the book, I was a bit annoyed by the narrator's voice, which doesn't bode well for a book that is around 36 hours of listening time (just listen to The Da Vinci Code and you'll see how an awful narrator can grate on one--granted, it was an awful book anyway so it didn't deserve a better reader). Anyway, after a while I realized the reader knew the book far better than I did, as it is "narrated" by an anonymous person in the town where these events happen, and that narrator is a gossipy, somewhat affected, but tenderhearted person who is a little bit apologetic about the sordid nature of the events that transpire.

(For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of reading the book, here's a description: Fyodor Pavlovich, a drunken, lecherous, rich old sot, fathered three sons (well, four, but that one isn't quite proven). Dmitri was the oldest, abandoned by his father after his mother died and raised pell-mell until he becomes a dissipated drunken soldier. Ivan and Alyosha were born to Fyodor's second wife, and duly abandoned as well after their mother died. They were both raised by others, but took very different paths; Ivan went to university and became an intellectual, a nihilist and atheist. Alyosha, who was about twenty in the book, didn't finish his studies and was a novice when the book starts. Dmitri and his father are in love with the same capricious woman, Grushenka, who plays them off each other and drives Dmitri into a frenzy. Fyodor is brutally murdered, robbed of money he was saving for Grushenka, and all signs point to Dmitri as the murderer. The book follows each of the brothers through these ordeals, and Alyosha's crisis of faith as his spiritual guide, Father Zosima, dies.)

When Fyodor Pavlovich started to talk in this audio version, I shuddered with revulsion. A strained, slurring, insinuating voice that fully brought home how terribly evil this man was, as if I needed more proof than what the narrative already described. By contrast, I was more in love with Alyosha in this reading than when I read it by myself. It's a warm, modest, gentle voice that totally fits the beauty of his character.

The women in the book, unfortunately, are all either evil, vindictive, stupid, or hysterical (not in the funny sense, but the I'm-losing-my-already-weak-grip-on-reality sense), which is really a shame. Dostoevsky can create some incredible female characters, but none of them are here. I really want to slap all of them, for different reasons.

One of the best parts of the book is Dostoyevsky's treatment of boys. Here are people he understands to the core, from their idolization of and slavish devotion to older peers, to their attempts at cool detachment when they don't want to appear moved. "Sloppy sentimentality," as one boy, Kolya, describes any show of emotion. A perfect example of his portrayal of boys is when they are almost running back to a dead classmate's house after his funeral. They are all crying and trying to catch up with the boy's father, and one boy picks up a rock and throws it at some birds, misses them, and keeps running. When I first read it, I thought, "random?" but then I knew it was the truest expression of boy-grief I have ever read.

I felt pretty low after finishing the book, as it ends somewhat abruptly and was intended to be part one of a two-book epic. Dostoevsky died 8 months after publishing it. Plus, spending all that time with characters automatically creates an affection for them, and pain when they continue to make bad decisions. I miss Alyosha the most. Though I married Kolya.

numb

Two articles that succinctly say what I am thinking about the tragedy in Virginia. The first by Peggy Noonan, the second by the prophet of Baltimore, Dan Rodricks. Namely, that this kind of junk is so commonplace now, that I can't summon up the horror and shock. That our media has proved itself to be the province of blood-crazed vultures with no discernment, and that more of the same will surely follow. It's sad, not shocking. People are scrambling to explain how this could happen. Is it really that difficult to find a reason? One of my favorite quotes from Noonan:

Actually I thought of Thoreau. He said he didn't have to read newspapers because if you're familiar with a principle you don't have to be familiar with its numerous applications. If you know lightning hits trees, you don't have to know every time a tree is struck by lightning.

In terms of school shootings, we are now familiar with the principle.

Now there will be calls for tougher gun laws, as always, school programs about bullying, and a further castigation of angry young men with no positive role models. Nearly every teenager I know or knew had angst. Every thinking teenager, that is. You can't help but have an existential crisis if you sit long enough with your own thoughts. But the difference between my angst and most others' is that I had people around me, adults and friends, who at least attempted to explain some of the mysteries to me, to give me some sense of perspective, some hope that in the midst of the evil, we know that evil will not ultimately be the victor.

There isn't such a safety net for most kids. They hear "you should be moral, you should respect human life by not shooting people," but the louder, overwhelming message of our culture, is Ivan Karamazov's philosophy: without God, everything is permissible.

spring crochet me and a thousand resurrections

After much waiting-with-baited-breath (what is baited breath, anyhow?), the new issue of Crochet Me is up! Yours truly has a featured article about how your hook size affects drape of the crocheted fabric. Maybe some of you wouldn't know a crochet hook from a chopstick, but I think the article might be entertaining nonetheless.


I've felt like I'm in a sort of mental limbo this week, doing a whole lot of reading and more reading, and not much else. Well, thinking about what I have read of course. I finished the Rwanda book mentioned in my last post, and then read A Thousand Resurrections straight through in a day. The book is by a pastor's wife in Baltimore, and her family's twenty-some years of trying to live and make a difference in a blighted NE Baltimore neighborhood (well, the words "blighted" and "neighborhood" are kindof redundant here). The neighborhood, in fact, is about a five minute drive from the one I grew up in. I passed through it every Sunday on the way to my home church, and I drive through it to get to the Y every week.

It was a bitter-sweet book to read; there were so many familiar sensations, familiar names even (her kids went to the Lutheran school I attended), and the disconnect of being nearly the only white family living in a black neighborhood. There was the struggle to shield her five children from the drug culture, the violence and the decay, but at the same time wanting to fully share in the lives of neighbors and church members, many of whom were mentally ill, addicted to alcohol or drugs, and/or had troubles with the law. Her kids had the same identity crisis that African-Americans had at the elite private school where I taught: you're not the same color as the rest of us, but when you want to hang out with people like yourself, there's a suspicion and isolation from everyone else. You go back home and you don't fit in there either: you're acting black, acting white, and you aren't being true to your race, whatever that means. Whatever you do, you are wrong--you're either the oppressor or you're a victim, and sometimes both. The issue of race is so stark in Baltimore, one of the most segregated, depressed cities in our country.

The church and school this family started have been a sortof touchstone for reconciliation--her husband co-pastors with an African-American man, and their church has members from the community, from nearby universities, immigrants, and people from other neighborhoods in the area. They have sought to offer an alternative, a hope to people of the city who have no options. When you're raised by a teenager and a tired grandmother, then sent off to a criminally negligent school system run by bloated bureaucrats and overrun with gang violence and intimidation, when the cops are corrupt and hate you, and snitching will get you killed anyway, what else is there? Every neighborhood needs healing and redemption, and no amount of government money or special initiatives is going to get the job done. No political party or sports stars or pep talks are going to change a person from the inside. I'm just wondering how long it will take people to realize their cherished hopes are incredibly naive--spend enough money, lock up enough bad people, and then people will remember that they are inherently good and will choose the right thing. They'll choose the difficult, less lucrative way; they'll delay gratification and hold every life sacred; they'll use their new power to lift people up. No, people are bad, self-serving to the end, and cannot stop choosing evil by an act of the will. No one is righteous, not even one, as it says in the Bible. Whoever had been oppressed before, when they come to power, will merely pay back their oppressors. It happened in Rwanda. Nothing but a supernatural break-in will stop the cycle of recrimination. Nothing but the resurrection.

Add to all these thoughts my own struggle: what do I do with this information? How can this sheltered, suburban white mom help to bring healing? All I can do most days is cry about the injustice, scream at God for allowing generations of children to be abused by everyone and turn into abusers themselves. What can I do that won't be patronizing, exploitative, or counterproductive? I guess right now I am in the education phase. I'm reading a lot, learning the history and the theology. I have been forced to confront my own ingrained racism and suspicion, fear of violence and the unknown. I can pray for my own healing, for the grace to see people as God sees them, and do the job God has for me to do. Not run away from Nineveh like Jonah did. God asked him, "Should I not be concerned about that great city?"

it's been a while

I'm hoping my scanty crew of faithful readers hasn't deserted for good! I have been, shall we say, on Extravert Overload the past two weeks. They have been two good weeks, full of really interesting experiences, but as you know if you've read this blog long enough, I can only take so much before I need to crawl in a hole and twitch for a few days. Today was day 1 of twitching; went well, and even D is working late so I have the quiet to myself. Tomorrow I will not be able to twitch quite so much, but I at least had a reprieve today.

So what's been going on? Hm. Two parties (which includes a very yummy Easter dinner), an overnight visit by some friends, D was sick for a day or two, A was sent home from school early for the first time (he was "pretending to be a monster" with claw hands, several times, and scratched many of his poor unsuspecting classmates), we saw the Anglican Bishop of Rwanda speak at our church, I did my first sortof installation piece for the Good Friday service, started making a beautiful vest with silk/cotton blend yarn, and watched A eat his weight in Jelly Beans yesterday and wonder how he doesn't have diabetes yet. D says I'm a Puritan, feeling guilty for letting A indulge in intense hedonism on holidays--and yes, I do feel somehow that there is something inherently wrong with doing whatever you want for as long as you want sometimes. Even if it's not harmful, ultimately, I still have that guilt for some reason. D grew up with no restraint on his video game habits, his curfew was non-existent, and he had McDonalds with his grandfather nearly every day. I felt guilty for reading straight through a Nancy Drew in 3 hours...Anyway, I'm improving in my mindset--I want A to associate Easter with joy, and what is more joyful than plowing through Easter baskets loaded with sweets? He knows what the meaning of Easter is, and understands a little of it (who understands all of it, besides God himself?), and we don't spend weeks telling him that he will get snowed under with candy on Easter Sunday. All the same, I still worry when he's got that look in his eyes like sugary electrical sparks are zooming around in his skull, and it's only a matter of time before Sugar Chernobyl becomes a reality.

But of course, he was fine. So much for worry. We're back to normal today.

The visit by the Bishop of Rwanda was really excellent. He and his wife are touring churches in America to gain support for the work of healing every aspect of the country through education, prison ministries, economic development, and so forth. I just finished reading his book, which details the history of the genocide--why it happened, how it was carefully planned and financed, excruciatingly horrible stories of slaughter and betrayal by fellow villagers, friends, family and the church, and the world's absolute abandonment of the entire country during and after the crisis. The last quarter of the book describes the miraculous healing of the country through reconciliation and forgiveness, and all through the love of Christ. I have been astounded many times over, first by the depths of cruelty to which normal people can go, and then astounded by the fact that thousands of people have pieced together their lives, repenting and being forgiven, and are rebuilding an entire nation together. He says at the end something that I was thinking through it all: if we can heal from this, the most terrible bloodbath of the twentieth century, then anyone can heal. Nothing is worse than what people did to each other in Rwanda, and if they can get through it, anything is possible for the whole world. Growing up in crack-riddled, gang-infested Baltimore is luxurious by comparison, and could so easily be turned around. God make it so. It isn't an unproven, naive wish that "everything will work out ok," but a gritty determination to face the truth, heal the bitterness, and work to forgive and be forgiven, because Christ forgave us. The Bishop points out to his people that Christ didn't wait till he was off the cross to forgive people. He was still nailed up there, ridiculed, scourged and humiliated and still said, "Father forgive them." He was still in pain, but that pain brought about the healing of the world and the defeat of death. Amazing.

Speaking of the cross and all that, I had a great opportunity to use my long-dormant artistic side this Good Friday at my church. This year and last, they have had a sort of "stations of the cross" experience for Good Friday, where different rooms of the church are set aside for reflection on different themes related to Christ's passion. In some, people can pray or write, or draw in response to the theme. In others, people confess their sins to God or watch a drama sketch related to the theme. My room was about denial and betrayal, and focused on the responses of Peter and Judas during the bitter hours of the trial--one was seized with remorse and hung himself, and the other went on to be the pillar of the early church. People followed a path on the floor, with words on it about Judas' returning the thirty pieces of silver and Peter denying he knew Jesus, then the path stops at a table with tons of silver paper coins on it. People took a coin and wrote what they had done to deny Christ, or their own disappointments with Jesus or the church (both Judas and Peter had very mistaken notions about what Jesus had come to do, and could not handle the course of events, much like when we believe God will just fix everything in our lives without effort). After people wrote these things, they followed the path to a brightly-lit area with round stickers for them. The stickers have the words to the song "How deep the Father's love for us", and they placed the stickers over what they had written, covering those sins as it were. Then the path has the words of the restoration of Peter after the resurrection, where Jesus asks him 3 times if he loved him, and three times Peter was told to "feed my lambs" and "look after my sheep." I had 3 songs playing during the time people were there, each about God's love and rescue from the depths. It was great to brainstorm for this, and watch people go through the room, first very sorrowful and then have a look of great peace.

Now for the peace of sleep for me! Maybe I'll post again this week with pictures...