Ps. 119: 14
TUESDAY
You probably think your friends don't have heartaches. That their sleep is undisturbed by chronic worries. That their spouses give foot massages at least once a week and that their kids are only irritable when they miss a nap. That their fridges are stocked with nutritious and appetizing foods (and never anything molded or rotten). That their cars only break down in easily-fixable ways and in convenient circumstances. That their bank accounts are full and their bills are paid. That their health is stable.
Maybe you know a few people of whom this is not true. The ones with piecemeal homes and too much debt and too many calls from the school principal. But for the most part, especially in the church, everybody's whole.
Or so you think.
Until you learn about a sister who has felt betrayed for years. Or a mom whose teenager is on the brink of running away. Or a wife whose husband has been less than honest about finances.
These are friends and colleagues and relatives, members of the church, people you thought were whole. And as you start to see other people's lives from the inside you see the broken pieces you didn't know were there. Slowly, you see your own dinged-up life in a new light, realizing that your embarrassing job loss and your stack of unsent apology notes and your nagging worry about your daughter's rebellion don't isolate you. Your heartaches link you others.
In a coffeeshop late at night, or a diner early in the morning, or a living room in the late afternoon, we share our hurts, our worries, our really difficult things. We find peace in the aches of others - not because we want them to feel pain, but because their pain means that our pain is normal. Spreading the messy pages of life out on a table together and sharing them with someone helps. If we don't do this, we keep thinking nobody else is battered. And we miss out on the comfort of helping each other press on.
WEDNESDAY
The drop ceiling in the den is out. The die is cast.
We're doing something with this room, that's for sure.
FRIDAY
First, the exhaustion. The heavy eyelids, the heavy limbs, the long slow walk to the morning shower, then down for coffee, food-processing lunch soup for Henry, crock-pot meal prep for this evening, a minute in my quiet time chair before the day is underway.
Then, work. Emails and invoices. Students at the door, parents on the phone, teachers in the office. Paperwork, deliveries, planning, discussing, sorting mail, and counting cash. (Some days my to-do list doesn't sound very glamorous.)
Then, finally, that blissful 12-noon drive to pick up Henry. The freedom of the weekend stretching out ahead. Time with my son, time to plan meals, buy food, clean the house, work on crafts. Sit in the morning dining room sun. Spend more time than I should in the aisles of Target. It all starts now.
Usually on Fridays after Henry's nap we drive over to school for Pete's elective class called Under the Lamppost, a half-hour read-aloud time with about 10 students who've been listening to Mr. Mountz read Dickens' A Christmas Carol since November. Henry steals the limelight when we show up for class, the kids watching him far more than listening to the story. But nobody minds and it's a delightful way to cap off a long week. Today, though, Henry got a late start on his nap and didn't wake up in time for us to go to Under the Lamppost.
Aunt Ruth and Uncle Dave came for dinner. Chicken chili, cornbread muffins, lots of rice, salads, and cranberry shortbread for dessert. After dinner they brought in an early birthday present for Henry.
His first desk! Open, close, open, close. He's enthralled. Success!
After it all - after the goodbyes, the jammies and the bedtime bottle, the kitchen cleanup - the eyelids are heavy again. The day slows, the night eases in. Weekend, in this case three whole glorious days of it, has begun.
SATURDAY
"Read the book first," we say. We, the readers, the word lovers. No movie, no matter how true-to-the-book, can make up for words on a page.
Unbroken, the true story of Louie Zamperini's life made it to the bestseller list in 2010 and hit the silver screen this past Christmas. Pete and I went to see it this weekend.
I stand my usual ground. Read the book first. But I was surprised to be so delighted with the film adaptation. Try to condense two years of wartime horrors into two hours of screentime and you'll need to skip some things. The film, though, condensed effectively and without the loss of any key events. Louie's life grips nearly as tightly on the screen as on the page. You'll come away grateful and moved. If you have read the book, the magic isn't lost. The shark scenes will still make you jump, even though you know they're coming. The Bird's reappearance will still make your heart sink, and war's end will still bring tears to your eyes.
Christian viewers might bemoan the omission of Louie's coming to faith in his post-war years, a deletion that worried me before I went to see the movie. It's Louie's faith in Christ that puts Unbroken among my top three favorite books. A story of a POW who survives WWII would be only a story of man's strength unless the survivor ultimately found his hope in the Lord. But that's not the part of Louie's story the movie sought to tell and from a theatrical perspective, it would have felt disjointed to tack on the post-war years. So watch the movie knowing its limitations. For the whole account, nothing can replace the book. Except maybe talking to Louie, which I can't wait to do when I join him in heaven one day.
Grateful this week for:
a mouse caught in a trap
veggie straws
fresh laundry
cloth diaper liners
Mom and Dad watching H so we could have a date night
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