“Doubting” Thomas and Waiting for Jesus

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas, by Caravaggio

On the evening of that day, the first day of the week, the doors being locked where the disciples were for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.” When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples were glad when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you.” And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you withhold forgiveness from any, it is withheld.”

Now Thomas, one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.”

Eight days later, his disciples were inside again, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

John 20:19-29

This Gospel reading technically isn’t a reading for Holy Saturday—it’s a post-Resurrection story. But to me, it feels like a Holy Saturday story. Yes, we have Jesus appearing to the disciples, but not to all of the disciples. Thomas isn’t there when Jesus appears. And because Thomas isn’t there, when Thomas hears about it, he continues to feel all the doubt and uncertainty of Holy Saturday. The others have seen Jesus, but he hasn’t seen Jesus.

This story takes place on the evening of the first day of the week. In the morning of that same day, Mary Magdalene saw Jesus at the empty tomb. She spread the word of Jesus’ resurrection to Peter and John, who went and saw the empty tomb for themselves. She also told the other disciples, but at the beginning of this passage, we see the disciples still hiding in fear, behind locked doors. Jesus appears and says “Peace be with you.” He shows them his hands and his side. He gives them the Holy Spirit.

And Thomas isn’t there.

So Thomas asks for proof. He wants corroboration. He doesn’t want to take others’ word for it; he wants to see for himself.

I’ve always related to Thomas a little bit. I don’t want to believe anything blindly. I don’t want to be gullible. I want to have reasonable proof for what I believe.

This tendency is perhaps evidenced by my childhood approach to Santa and the Tooth Fairy. I suppose I was a fairly logical child. I didn’t “find out” that Santa wasn’t real—I figured it out for myself. I vividly remember one Christmas Eve: going up the stairs to bed, I looked out the window at the night sky and thought to myself, “Santa will be flying through the sky with his reindeer tonight!” And then I remember thinking: “Wait—reindeer can’t fly.” I followed this realization to its logical conclusion: Santa was just a story.

It can’t have been very long after that Christmas when I began to wonder about the Tooth Fairy, as well. It occurred to me that I always excitedly told my parents when I lost a tooth. And maybe… maybe the Tooth Fairy was really just my parents. Maybe they were the ones leaving money under my pillow. The next time I lost a tooth, I tested out my theory. I didn’t tell anyone. I just quietly put the lost tooth under my pillow before I went to sleep, thinking to myself that if during the night, the tooth was exchanged for a coin, I would know the Tooth Fairy was real. The next morning, I checked under my pillow, and sure enough: the tooth was still there. But that wasn’t quite enough proof for me. I took it one step further. That day, I showed my parents I’d lost a tooth. Then that night, back under the pillow went the tooth. In the morning, guess what? There was a bright shiny coin! Proving what I had suspected: my parents had been behind the whole Tooth Fairy racket all along.

My testing out of the Tooth Fairy feels very akin to Thomas asking to see Jesus’ hands and side. Of course, Thomas got very different results! But I relate to his need to have Jesus’ resurrection proven to him.

In reflecting on this passage recently, I realized there are other reasons I relate to Thomas. Because I started wondering how Thomas would have felt about everyone else getting to see Jesus. I know I would have felt left out. Why did Jesus choose to show up when Thomas wasn’t there? Why did the other disciples get to see Jesus’ hands and side? Why did they get proof, while Thomas got left out? And I wonder whether there was a personal, relational side to Thomas’ doubt.

Thomas just wants what the other disciples have already received. Thomas is asking to be included. Thomas is asking for Jesus to show up, for him personally. Maybe his doubt, deep down, was not disbelief that Jesus was alive, but doubt over whether he was included in Jesus’ resurrection life. Maybe Thomas’s disbelief was directed at a Savior who showed up for the other disciples, but didn’t show up for Thomas.

So many times, I have felt like Jesus shows up for others, but not for me. I don’t doubt the experience others have had with Jesus. I don’t doubt his resurrection, I don’t doubt that he’s alive and in the world, I don’t doubt that he appeared to the other disciples—but I doubt that he will do those things for me. And that’s a very different question than a simple request for proof. That’s a question of trust. It’s a question of relationship. It’s not a question of whether Jesus can, it’s a question of whether Jesus will.

I think it’s interesting that poor Thomas is forever after known as Doubting Thomas. Because he’s just asking for the same experience the other disciples were able to have. He’s asking for what he missed out on. The other disciples don’t seem to have more faith than Thomas does—they were just in the right place at the right time.

Thomas has to wait another eight days before Jesus appears again to the disciples—in that same locked room, where they seem to again be hiding. This time, when Jesus appears, he singles Thomas out, personally. This time, it’s not about the group—it’s an interaction just between Jesus and Thomas. Jesus offers what Thomas has been asking for: to see Jesus’ hands and side.

And Thomas believes.

I don’t have an answer to whether Jesus will show up in the circumstances of my life, when and where and how I need him—or think I need him. In so many ways, that’s the key question of Holy Saturday. And that’s where I have to hold on to faith.

In her book, Plan B, Anne Lamott says: “I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me—that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns.”

This is where we are, on Holy Saturday. And this is where Thomas was, for the week after Resurrection Sunday. In the middle of the mess, the emptiness and discomfort. Anne Lamott tells us that faith includes letting that mess be there. But it also includes waiting for the light to return—asking Jesus to show up, and waiting for him to give us whatever it is that we need. And when he does show up—faith includes accepting the proof that Jesus offers, and trusting him to show up again, next time.

The Massive Reading Review of 2023

2023 was a year for both classics and chunksters: from the Little House books to The Count of Monte Cristo and Clarissa, I read lots of old books, lots of long books, and lots of long old books. And I read plenty of other stuff as well!

As has become usual for me, a lot of my reading this year was influenced by my favorite bookish social media outlet: Litsy. I can’t resist a good Litsy buddy read! I continued to facilitate my Kindred Spirits group on Litsy, this year largely reading L.M. Montgomery-adjacent books: biographies, literary analysis of LMM’s fiction, and a few Anne retellings for good measure. I greatly enjoyed diving deeper into the life of a favorite author. And Auld Lang Spine, my favorite way to kick off my reading year, continued throughout 2023 as I read my way through a list of great book recommendations. Highlights and standout reading experiences are described below, but if you want to go right to a best-of list, you can skip down to the Auld Lang Spine section at the end!

Long Old Books

I started the year with a spontaneous last-minute decision to read Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa. This was a surprising decision for someone who, in college, proclaimed the 18th century to be their least favorite era of English literature. Although the 18th century turned out to be my favorite grad school professor’s area of expertise (and I even took his class on the Augustan Age), after grad school, I planned never to read another 18th century novel if I could help it. Apparently 20 years’ distance and a Litsy buddy read were sufficient reason for me to alter that plan.

Clarissa is an epistolary novel, and the days and dates of the letters in the book corresponded with the days and dates in 2023 (i.e., the book begins on January 10th, which falls on a Tuesday both in the book and in 2023). I loved the idea of reading the longest novel written in the English language, in (mostly) real time, with a group of people cheering each other on.

Reading this gave me a greater understanding of Clarissa’s influence on later writers, but also, I just really wanted to know how things turned out: to see the villains punished, and find out each character’s fate. The voices of the different characters were so individual—it says a lot about Richardson’s skill as a writer, and his usage of the epistolary format, that I was able to picture each of the characters so distinctly, and that they all evoked such strong emotion. (Never mind that the emotions evoked often consisted of rage and disgust.) Ultimately I’m glad I read it, and not just for the bragging rights: it was a delight to discuss (i.e., rant about) it each week. I wouldn’t have read this without the camaraderie of the group to keep me going, but the weekly chats also immeasurably increased my enjoyment of the book. Learned Slatterns Unite!

Other long old books this year included:
The Once and Future King by T.H. White: Such an interesting and rewarding book. The first section was delightfully playful and lighthearted, and then the subsequent sections were much darker and more thought-provoking. It was fascinating to read how T.H. White frames the Arthurian stories.
The Agony & The Ecstasy by Irving Stone: The depth of research that went into this is staggering. I loved reading the historical and biographical background for Michelangelo’s art, as well as seeing Renaissance Florence and Rome through his eyes.
The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas: I can see why this classic is so well-loved: it’s fascinating, engaging, and meticulously planned out. I don’t think I liked any of the characters, but it was so satisfying to see all the threads come together in the end.

Continuing the theme of long books…

I read Edward Rutherfurd’s Sarum the summer before I began grad school. That fall, on the first night of my class on the English novel, the professor (the aforementioned favorite grad school professor) asked each of us to share the most recent book we’d read. I mentioned Sarum, and his response was “Ohhh, Barbara… I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting through this semester’s reading…” Context: that semester, we read approximately one 400-500 page novel every week. (I think we got two weeks to finish the 800-page David Copperfield.)

All this to say, reading Rutherfurd’s London this year felt like another piece of my reading history being picked up 20 years down the road. I enjoyed Sarum enough, hefty tome though it was, to have purchased the 800-page London at a long-ago library book sale. It has followed me through the years, until in 2023 I decided to participate in a “Chunkster Challenge” on Litsy. London fulfilled one of the five categories and, naturally, this completionist wanted a full set. As with Sarum, I enjoyed following the history of London through the eyes of several fictional families. It was fascinating to see their fortunes rise and fall against the backdrop of familiar and not-so-familiar historical events—and to root for or against certain individuals based on grudges built over generations.

Classic Mysteries

Another thread in my 2023 reading was classic mysteries: from Josephine Tey, Cyril Hare, and Agatha Christie to Dorothy Sayers. I’m thoroughly enjoying reading my way through Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries: the dialogue is witty and hilarious, and Lord Peter has a delightful combination of flippancy and earnestness that’s incredibly endearing.

Favorites:
Miss Pym Disposes by Josephine Tey: A delight. The dialogue throughout is witty, the characters are well-developed, and the observations of human nature are fascinating.
Strong Poison by Dorothy Sayers: This Lord Peter Wimsey mystery is glorious. I fell in love with Miss Climpson and her full retinue of “spinsters” who do most of the actual investigating here.

Mary Westmacott

Related to the classic mysteries, but distinctly different are the Mary Westmacott books: six novels Agatha Christie published under a pseudonym. I’ve seen them referred to as her “romance novels,” but they are decidedly not love stories. The four I’ve read so far do touch on themes of love, but that theme is used to explore the psychological complexities of the characters she draws so deftly. These books are completely different from Christie’s mystery novels, but somehow still have many similarities. The same sharp insight into human nature, for one. They’re also oddly darker than most of her mysteries. All have offered lots of food for thought and resulted in some rich buddy read discussions.

Favorites:
Giant’s Bread: Explores the question of what it is that feeds genius. Its cast of mostly unlikable characters was still utterly compelling and I had a hard time putting it down.
Absent in the Spring: The characterization here is masterful. While leaving the reader inside the main character’s POV, Christie gradually reveals the gap between reality and that character’s own view of self. This was excellent—one of my top reads this year.

Speaking of thought-provoking…

I listed Giant’s Bread above as one of my “favorites” of the Westmacott novels. It was a 5-star read, but honestly, the term “favorite” doesn’t really fit. There are several others I read this year that fit this same category—I’d call them thought-provoking, excellent, fascinating, but would not say I loved them. Our first IRL book club pick of the year was one of these. The Echo Wife by Sarah Gailey had SO much to discuss, from free will to personhood to grooming—but it was also full of so many triggers that I have to recommend it with a whole list of caveats. Similarly, Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin was excellent, but I still can’t pin down how I feel about it. I both loved and was frustrated by the characters, and the different perspectives were so well done, but there’s also a toxic relationship that stressed me out for a good part of the book. It left me feeling conflicted, but glad I read it—and sad to leave its characters behind.

Other equally thought-provoking books that left me feeling conflicted:
Babel by R.F. Kuang: Excellent in so many ways—characters, historical context/world-building, magic system—but the implications of and responses to colonialism it suggests left me mulling this over for a long time.
The Promise by Chaim Potok: A sequel to Potok’s The Chosen, this is just as thought-provoking and reflective. It follows a young Orthodox Jew in post-WWII NYC, as he struggles to define his faith in contrast to both conservative and liberal sects within his community. I was fascinated by parallels to contemporary debates between fundamentalist/evangelical and more progressive Christians, and conflicted about its descriptions of mental health treatment (granted, this was written in the 60s, but still).

Young Adult and Children’s Books

Surprisingly for this bookworm child, I had never read the Little House books growing up. I enjoyed reading them with a chapter-a-day buddy read in 2023, and found the Ingalls’ adventures (and perils!) fascinating. I’d read so much controversy about whether these beloved children’s classics should still be read/taught, given the colonialism and racism woven throughout the story. I’m glad to now have first-hand knowledge of why they’re both very problematic in places, and yet still so valuable. Especially in the titular novel, the racist characterizations of the indigenous people were difficult to read, as was the settlers’ attitude of entitlement as they settled on land that wasn’t theirs. But at the same time, its bias is a good representation of the usual attitude of those settlers. It’s one-sided, but important to understand—when it’s not represented as the only side of the story.

Other stand-out YA/MG reads this year:
The Ogress and the Orphans by Kelly Barnhill: A middle grade fairytale-like story about a town that grows suspicious and selfish under a selfish, greedy leader—and then re-learns what it means to be a neighbor.
Legendborn & Bloodmarked by Tracy Deonn: An intriguing take on Arthurian mythology—with an exclusive secret society and all its trappings of privilege. Deonn deftly uses the Arthurian material to explore themes of heritage and racism, and the books’ treatment of grief is powerful.
The Magician’s Elephant by Kate DiCamillo: Sweet and reflective and hopeful—and the illustrations are wonderful as well!

Auld Lang Spine

One of my favorite reading events on Litsy each year is called Auld Lang Spine. At the end of the year, you submit your best-of list from the year, and the organizer pairs people up to trade lists. Then January is spent reading titles from your match’s list (although I’m not alone in continuing to read selections from the list throughout the rest of the year). I’ll close by sharing the Auld Lang Spine list I compiled from my 2023 reading, which includes some gems not discussed above.

1. The Echo Wife by Sarah Gailey
2. Babel by R.F. Kuang
3. The Ogress and the Orphans by Kelly Barnhill
4. The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone
5. When Women Were Dragons by Kelly Barnhill
6. The Narrowboat Summer by Anne Youngson
7. The Magician’s Elephant by Kate DiCamillo
8. Our Missing Hearts by Celeste Ng
9. Watch Us Shine by Marisa de los Santos
10. The Promise by Chaim Potok
11. Thank You for Listening by Julia Whelan
12. Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree
13. Strong Poison by Dorothy Sayers
14. Legendborn by Tracy Deonn
15. Horse by Geraldine Brooks
16. System Collapse by Martha Wells
17. Absent in the Spring by Mary Westmacott

Enough

I had no idea what a collect was until I started attending an Episcopal church. And it took me a while to piece together a hazy understanding of the term I’d seen in the weekly liturgy. It’s something like a prayer, right? One that we say at the beginning of the service? I learned that it’s pronounced COLL-ect instead of coll-ECT when I sat down with a friend on the contemplative ministry team and she walked me through putting together Morning Prayer for a Quiet Day.

And then last summer I attended a weekend training for EfM, and I learned to facilitate writing a collect as the final piece of a Theological Reflection. So this year in my EfM group, we’ve been writing collects. We write down what stood out to us from our reflection, then organize those thoughts according to a simple form:

Dear God…
Thank you for…
Help us to…
So that we…
Amen.

A couple weeks ago, Anam Cara Ministries offered an introduction to writing collects as a daily Lenten practice. I had a Lenten Journal and liturgy writing guide from Every Moment Holy that I was planning to use weekly, along with attending a Wednesday night group on the Way of Love, and I didn’t want to overload my Lent, so I kind of set it aside. Until Sunday night. With stress from the previous week and lots of other tasks left undone, I’d been avoidant over the weekend, not able to muster up the mental space I needed to reflect or write in the ways I’d intended. But I thought about the collect-writing practice. And I talked myself into it, because: five lines. Five lines before the weekend was over. Maybe I could do that.

God had been stirring up some thoughts in me about my own uncharitable thoughts toward certain others. Thoughts on community and grace, on seeking and serving Christ in all persons, on loving my neighbor as myself, on respecting the dignity of every human being (as it’s stated in the Baptismal Covenant of the Episcopal Church). So I collected those thoughts and I wrote me a collect.

Creator God,
who made each of us in your image,
and who loves us in all of our fear and brokenness,
help us to recognize the value and worth inherent in everyone,
that we may see others as You see them,
and learn to love them as You first loved us.
Amen.

It was a start, and it was an encouragement—to remember that a simple five-line prayer is enough. (And hey, look at that: I wrote seven.)

Tonight at EfM, we ran out of time before we could write a collect. But that, too—our reflection itself—was enough. I’m thinking that’s something I need to lean into during this season of Lent. Enough. My practice doesn’t have to be elaborate. It certainly doesn’t need to be another anxiety-producing task to check off my list. But five lines? I can do that. And it’s enough.

The Lord Is Near

Sunset at St. Andrew’s, Fullerton

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

—Philippians 4:4-7

The above passage was the focus for a time of Lectio Divina at last weekend’s Quiet Day. It’s a familiar passage, and I wasn’t expecting my experience with the text to go the way it did. Which, I suppose is actually to be expected—God often shows up in unexpected ways when I slow down and take time with a passage as in a time of Lectio.

The first phrase that stood out to me was “The Lord is near.” It’s not a sentence I even remember being in this passage. But there it was. And somehow, imagining God’s nearness, imagining God sitting down next to me, brought anxiety. As if God’s presence means I need to be doing something—or that I’m not doing what I should. It’s the picture of an authority figure checking up on me rather than a friend wanting to spend time together. My mind didn’t immediately assume relationship, instead it jumped to a to-do list, to expectations unfulfilled, to measuring up.

But the next phrase is “do not be anxious”—as if God knew that’s where my mind would go. I mean, of course God knows…

I was struck by how my response to God’s presence during this Lectio echoed the very same reflection I’d prepared to share with the group to start off the day, my question and response with God from those years of transition in 2010-2011. I was doing the same thing now as I did then: focusing on practical, action-oriented, task-related thoughts, when God’s focus was on relationship. Relationship with no expectations. Except for my expectations, I guess.

When God sits down next to me, it’s not because He wants to take me aside for a talk on what I need to be doing, or what I’m not doing right. It’s because God wants to be there, with me.

My hopes for the Quiet Day had been focused on doing—setting up, offering reflections for others, making sure the day ran smoothly—rather than on rest, or being with God. In the various reflection materials I had prepared for the day were the questions: “Why are you here?” and “What are your hopes for this time?” My own answers to those questions weren’t even on my radar—even though they were part of the reflections I’d prepared for others. But I was able to see a glimpse of God’s hopes for me, as I was reminded of that relational answer to my practical question over ten years ago.

When I asked “What should I do?” God responded, “Be with me.”

Without anxiety, without expectations.

The Lord is near.

Listening to God in the Changes

On Saturday, my church held its first Quiet Day (sort of a day retreat) since 2020. As part of our time of morning prayer to start the day, I shared this reflection on our theme of “Listening to God in the Changes.” I thought I’d share it here as well.

2010 and 2011 were years of big transitions in my life. I had been living in South Africa working with a mission organization there, and after a change in leadership and a different focus and direction for our team, it seemed that God was leading me into something new. The problem was that I didn’t know what that something new was going to be—or where. I spent a lot of time listening for God’s voice, asking what was next, where I should be, what I should do. 

When I’m seeking God’s guidance, I try to listen in a lot of ways: prayer, Bible reading, counsel from friends and mentors, and through what I call “convergence”—when reading and circumstances and advice and opportunities all come together to point in the same direction. But nothing seemed to be lining up. Circumstances and counsel from friends and what seemed like likely opportunities only led to a series of closed doors, and it felt like God was silent when it came to practical next steps. Over and over, I would ask God: “What should I do?” and the response I heard was: “Be with me.” I kept asking a practical question, and then I’d get frustrated when God’s response wasn’t practical, but relational. I kept telling God, “That’s not what I meant!”

In John 10, Jesus tells us: 

“The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. . . the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. . . his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger; in fact, they will run away from him because they do not recognize a stranger’s voice.”

John 10:2-6

So how do the sheep know the difference between their shepherd’s voice and a stranger’s voice? How do any of us get to know someone else’s voice? Well, the answer is relational—we get to know someone’s voice by listening to it. By spending time with them. By doing exactly what God was asking me to do when I heard Him say “Be with me.” As we spend time with Jesus, we get to know His voice. As we listen to His voice, we begin to recognize it more readily. This isn’t easy when we don’t really know what His voice sounds like in the first place, when maybe we don’t know if we’ve ever heard it before.

I’ve found that one place to start is just by paying attention. Each week in my Education for Ministry group, we open our meeting by asking: “Where did you see God this week?” or “Where did you experience God this week?” And because I know someone’s going to ask me that question pretty much every Monday night, I start looking for God in my week. And the more I look for God, the more I notice God. The more I notice God, the more I get to know the kinds of places God is likely to show up—and the more I grow familiar with what His voice sounds like for me. I often hear God’s voice in a poem or a song or a story, in a sunset, or in the kindness of a friend. I even hear God’s voice on Sunday mornings, in a hymn or a sermon or a conversation after the service. For you, God’s voice might be found elsewhere. But I’m convinced the key is paying attention.

One of the things that helps me pay attention is poetry. Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Valentine for Ernest Mann” is about about finding poems, but for me (and for the poet, I’m sure), it speaks about much more than poetry. When it mentions poems, I also think about God’s voice.

You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, “I’ll take two”
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, “Here’s my address,
write me a poem,” deserves something in reply.
So I’ll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn’t understand why she was crying.
“I thought they had such beautiful eyes.”
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.

“Valentine for Ernest Mann” by Naomi Shihab Nye

What Nye says about poems—“What we have to do / is live in a way that lets us find them”—is, I think, true of God’s voice. We have to live in a way that lets us find it. We need to check our garages and the bottoms of our shoes; we need to take a second look at our odd socks and those people we almost like. Sunsets and stories, hymns and sermons, garages and socks and unlikely people—God’s voice may be found in all these places. 

Jesus says: “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” May we listen for the voice of Jesus in our lives—in everyday moments as well as in times of transition. May we come to know his voice and may we come to know Him, that we may follow faithfully through all the changes of life.

Favorite Books of 2022

This past year, I was not at all consistent with blogging, but you can kind of always count on me popping in with my annual look back on my year in reading. 

2022 started strong, with January holding some of the best books I read all year: Piranesi by Susanna Clarke, Exhalation by Ted Chiang, and David’s Crown by Malcolm Guite. In February and early March, through no design of my own, I read a trio of books focused on seasons of loss: Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto, Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner, and Wintering by Katherine May. Looking back, it feels like these were both preparation and provision for the difficult season waiting for me in mid-March, as my mom’s health quickly declined. Following the loss of my mother in early April, I read The Summer of the Great-Grandmother by Madeleine L’Engle. It was a welcome companion walking me through that time, along with A Rhythm of Prayer, a collection of prayers and reflections edited by Sarah Bessey. Another companion through this time was volume 2 of Every Moment Holy by Douglas McKelvey, a collection of liturgies for times of grief. I continue to be humbled by the way God sends books across my path at just the right time, and how the written word resounds in my life in profound ways.

Below I’ve listed my favorite books read in 2022, along with some comments on each. I hope you find some gems for your own reading; some titles that may accompany you well in your own life this year.

Overall Best-of:

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke – This was the first book I read in 2022, and it was a wonderful way to start off my reading year. Piranesi is mysterious and a bit melancholy, its twists and turns mirrored by the fantastical labyrinth of the House and its ebb and flow of tides. I loved piecing together Piranesi’s past and the mystery of the House. Such a lovely read.

Exhalation by Ted Chiang – I read Ted Chiang’s Stories of Your Life and Others several years back and was stunned by how good it was. This collection was just as good: thought-provoking, fascinating short stories that vary widely in tone and setting but all circle around questions that made me think deeply about life, technology, and our world in new ways. I loved it.

Address Unknown by Kathrine Kressman Taylor – This short but powerful epistolary novella takes completely unexpected and gut-punching turns for such a brief narrative. I’m still thinking about it months later: how quickly events can change (or reveal) a person, and the power of words to save or to destroy.

Passing by Nella Larsen – Set in New York City during the Harlem Renaissance, this follows the aftermath of a chance encounter between two childhood friends—Black women originally from Chicago, one of whom is now passing as white. The emotional and psychological intensity packed into this brief novella was thought-provoking and compelling. And the ending? I sat there stunned for a few minutes. Excellent, excellent book.

Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner – I loved this. It’s quiet and slow and thoughtful, almost a meditation on a friendship between two couples. The characters felt so true to life—at times thoroughly familiar but also so often unknowable, in the same way it’s so difficult to completely know even those we are closest to. Such a lovely book.

The Wanderers by Meg Howrey – This is sci-fi that’s not really sci-fi. I saw several reviews criticizing it as literary fiction masquerading as sci-fi, but I like that mashup. Through alternating perspectives, the narrative follows three astronauts (and their families) as they undertake an intensive 17-month simulation, to prepare for a mission to Mars. It’s very internal, very psychological, and I found it fascinating and beautiful. If you’re looking for action-packed space adventures, this is not that, but what it is really worked for me.

Also worthy of mention:
Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel
People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks

Sequels and Series

Prayer for the Crown-Shy by Becky Chambers – Another hug of a book from Becky Chambers. I loved this—it picks up just where Psalm for the Wild-Built left off, with Dex the tea monk and Mosscap the robot venturing into society to seek answers to Mosscap’s question of what humans need. This has much the same feel as its predecessor: I found it reflective and thought-provoking, comforting and affirming. Becky Chambers somehow always knows just what I need to read.

The Golden Enclaves by Naomi Novik – A fantastic conclusion to the Scholomance trilogy. Seeing the main character’s growth throughout the series has been wonderful, and I loved seeing her friendships deepen as she found her own way in the aftermath of the previous book. There were some jaw-dropping revelations in this book—all so well done. I want to go back and re-read the whole trilogy now. 

Seraphina by Rachel Hartman – I just loved this YA fantasy. It’s an interesting take on dragons: many are living within human society while in their human form, but of course there’s anti-dragon prejudice and an uneasy peace between the two races. The main character is relatable and likable, and I really enjoyed the palace intrigue and the emphasis on music. My only quibble is that it ends in such a way that you really do need to read the next book to finish up the story, and the sequel has a very different feel (so your mileage may vary).

Also worthy of mention:
The Grief of Stones by Katherine Addison

Spiritual

David’s Crown by Malcolm Guite – I loved this. Written during 2020, it’s a collection of 150 poems that are responses to each of the Psalms. I found it comforting and challenging and entirely timely; with its personal responses to Scripture, it so often resonated with my own thoughts and emotions from the past couple years of pandemic and general upheaval. This is one I’m sure I’ll go back to again and again in tandem with my reading of the Psalms. 

A Rhythm of Prayer edited by Sarah Bessey – I loved this so much. I had a copy from the library and intended to use it through Lent, but ended up renewing it multiple times because it was such a comfort, through Lent and beyond. The prayers collected here capture well these past few years of upheaval, and while they don’t expressly deal with grief, they helped me during the difficult weeks leading up to and following my mom’s passing. This went on my Christmas list and I now have a copy for my own shelf. 

Also worthy of mention:
Where the Eye Alights by Marilyn Chandler McEntyre
The Church Cracked Open by Stephanie Spellers

For the Hard Times

Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto – Kitchen is a novella published alongside a companion story (“Moonlight Shadow”). I found the two stories charming and oddly calming, as they both deal with grief and loss. I read this just before reading Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner, and it was a lovely pairing—with food playing a central role in both books, alongside their exploration of daughters grieving the loss of a mother/grandmother. 

Wintering by Katherine May – I finished reading this just before an intense and difficult time of my own. Although I didn’t recognize how much I needed its quiet beauty and wisdom at the time, it kept resonating for me over the next few difficult months. It turned out to be a timely blessing and a comfort—as did May’s lovely conversation with Krista Tippett for the On Being podcast.

The Summer of the Great-Grandmother by Madeleine L’Engle – This was a lovely meditation on memory, aging, and grief. Randomly chosen for a reading challenge in April, it was a timely choice, as my own mother passed away at the beginning of April. I found so much that was relatable in L’Engle’s reflections on her mother’s decline and eventual passing. The family memories she narrates are lovely—some sweet, some impressive, and some hilarious—something I found to be true of my own mother as family and friends have shared memories of her over the past couple months. 

Young Adult/Middle Grade Favorites

Elatsoe by Darcie Little Badger – This was my book club’s January pick. Two good friends had been telling me for months I should read it, and they were spot on with their recommendation. Drawing on Lipan Apache folklore and including many other traditional fantasy/folklore elements, this is both a murder mystery and an indigenous urban fantasy—or maybe make that suburban fantasy? I loved the main character and her best friend, and the positive involvement of older family members was refreshing.

The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier – This was wonderful—a perfect October read for me. (I don’t do scary/horror, but I can do kid-level scary!) I loved its tumble-down English-manor setting, and growing feeling of unease. The book’s exploration of the power of stories, the lies we tell ourselves, and the enticement of desire gives the story depth and makes it much more than just a fun, creepy little tale. Definitely recommended.

Jane of Lantern Hill and Magic for Marigold by L.M. Montgomery – I’ve been reading through L.M. Montgomery’s books with an online group I started toward the end of 2020, and as part of that buddy read, I read Jane and Marigold for the first time in 2022. Both were delightful and full of classic L.M. Montgomery themes. In Jane: the overbearing relatives who don’t understand the delightful child in their care, the romantic quarrel/misunderstanding, and lovely descriptions of PEI’s natural beauty. And in Marigold: a large, rambling family with all its history—good and bad. Marigold is very episodic, and Jane’s ending entirely predictable, but both were lovely comfort reads.

Also worthy of mention:
Heartstopper by Alice Oseman
We Dream of Space by Erin Estrada Kelly
Shakespeare’s Secret by Elise Broach
All the Greys on Greene Street by Laura Tucker

Believing the Impossible

This post is a repeat, from 16 years ago, from my old abandoned blog. Because today I’m nostalgic, and on this day in 2006, I had one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

In college, I studied in Italy for a semester. My roommates and I were at the Trevi Fountain together on October 4th, 1996. We made a pact that if we lost touch after the semester was over, we would reunite at the Trevi Fountain on that day in ten years’ time, at high noon. When we got back to our apartment in Florence, we wrote the date on a piece of paper and all signed our names. That piece of paper stayed on the fridge for the remainder of our semester, a reminder of our promise. At least, that’s how I remember it. And so, in 2006, having lost touch with all but one of those girls, I set out to keep that promise along with my friend and former study-abroad roommate, Melinda. This is the story of that pilgrimage.

Trevi Fountain, High Noon, October 4, 2006

“I can’t believe that!” said Alice.

“Can’t you?” the queen said in a pitying tone. “Try again, draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.”

Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said. “One can’t believe impossible things.”

“I dare say you haven’t had much practice,” said the queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

—from Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

A dear friend gave me a magnet with the above quote, around the time we were both searching for publishing jobs. She added a note with it assuring me that seemingly impossible things can come true. Tuesday’s appointment at the Trevi Fountain was a reminder that this is still the case. Rather than rewrite the account, here’s an excerpt of what I wrote that night in my journal:

There we were at the Trevi Fountain, just before noon… the appointed time. And it was packed with people. It was so completely crowded! Mel had been saying we should make signs of some sort, so anyone who was there would be able to find us. Because otherwise? No way.

I had been kind of skeptical about seeing the girls, excited to talk about it, excited in theory, but I don’t know that I thought anyone else would come. But when we got there and I saw the crowd, I realized how much I wanted this to work. We stood there above the fountain, and I took a picture of the massive crowd because it was so daunting. [I later went back to this picture and zoomed in to where we found Lisa. She’s IN this picture.]

Trevi Fountain crowds

I scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces, for others who might be searching through the masses of people, for Wynne’s red curls or Lisa’s blond ones. Nothing. So we decided to plunge in and walk through the tons of people, looking as we went. Halfway to the far side of the fountain, where I’d stood to throw in my coin ten years before, I saw Lisa. I said to Mel: “Is that Lisa? Mel, I think that’s Lisa!!” And it was. Mel started calling her name, Lenay spotted us, and we started yelling to each other and pushing our way up the step to where they were. There was hugging and screaming and I was totally shaky with nervous excitement. They had husbands! And kids! And Lisa’s husband…was Tom! Lenay introduced us to her husband, Danny, and then Lisa said, “And you know my husband…” AAA! So crazy! She dated our painting professor on a semester abroad…and now they’re married, and have a 2-year-old girl!

It was so good to find them there. No one else came (or we didn’t find anyone else), but there we were, the four of us. Half of the girls from Via della Pergola, ten years later in Rome.

Lisa, Melinda, Lenay, and me

After the amazing reunion that we had, I feel a little selfish wishing for more. But I wonder about the others, the four who didn’t come. Laura, Wynne, Jen, Zuleika. Mel and I had said all along that if anyone would come, it would be Lisa & Lenay. They’re sisters, so they had each other to make this pilgrimage with, as Melinda and I had each other.

And the others? Zuleika dropped off the map almost immediately after our time in Florence. She stayed behind in Italy for a bit, with family in Napoli, and someone said she was in Spain for a while, but I never heard from her. Jen was going back to a life in transition and I was never sure where to reach her. Laura I kept in touch with for a bit, as I did with Wynne. Melinda and I had a small reunion with Wynne during the first semester we were back in California. But before a year had gone by, those contacts had fallen by the wayside as well. I actually ran into Laura one afternoon on campus at Chapman when I was in grad school. We exchanged info, and then never got in touch with each other again.

The four girls from Via della Pergola…
and Lisa & Lenay’s mom!

I remember wondering once if we set ourselves up for losing touch. Part of the pact of meeting again at the Trevi was the idea that we could find each other again if we lost each other in the years to come. The idea of meeting at the fountain had just that much more charm because we didn’t know who would be there. And now that it’s over, there’s a finality to losing track of the other four. We don’t have another “In ten years at the Trevi” to anticipate. And so I wonder.

In spite of the incredible gift of finding Lisa and Lenay waiting there for our reunion, there’s a sadness in the story. For those lost connections, for the four who didn’t come–whatever it was that kept them away.

Partial reunion or not, this is a story that will be told for at least another ten years.

At lunch, Lisa & Lenay’s mom offered the toast: “Here’s to believing in dreams…and to keeping commitments.”

“Here’s to believing in dreams…
and to keeping commitments.”

I’m good at keeping commitments, but I’m not much of one for believing in dreams. I don’t like to be disappointed. But that moment of finding Lisa and Lenay waiting at the fountain will continue to remind me for years to come that dreams can be believed and the impossible can be hoped for after all.

–Editorial note: in the intervening years, the eight of us girls have gotten back in touch. We had a 20-year reunion (missing only one of the roommates, who’s now living in Seattle), full of memories and photo albums and stories about those brief months that so shaped all of our lives. I still look back on that semester as one of the most formative experiences of my life. And I still look back on that 10-year reunion at the Trevi as a reminder to let myself believe in dreams and hope for the impossible.–

Celebrating our 20-year reunion with a little champagne

Let Us Be Forgiven Together

Though we’re strangers, still I love you
I love you more than your mask
And you know you have to trust this to be true
And I know that’s much to ask
But lay down your fears, come and join this feast
He has called us here, you and me

And may peace rain down from Heaven
Like little pieces of the sky
Little keepers of the promise
Falling on these souls the drought has dried
In His Blood and in His Body
In the Bread and in this Wine
Peace to you
Peace of Christ to you

And though I love you, still we’re strangers
Prisoners in these lonely hearts
And though our blindness separates us
Still His light shines in the dark
And His outstretched arms are still strong enough to reach
Behind these prison bars to set us free

So may peace rain down from Heaven
Like little pieces of the sky
Little keepers of the promise
Falling on these souls the drought has dried
In His Blood and in His Body
In this Bread and in this Wine
Peace to you
Peace of Christ to you

“Peace (A Communion Blessing from St. Joseph’s Square)”
—Rich Mullins

I grew up in a church tradition where the main emphasis at communion was self-reflection. It was a remembrance of Christ’s sacrifice, but it was also a time to examine your heart, your mind, your life, and discern with God where you’d fallen short of what was right. It was a time to confess and turn away from sin.

“So then, whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord. Everyone ought to examine themselves before they eat of the bread and drink from the cup. For those who eat and drink without discerning the body of Christ eat and drink judgment on themselves.”

—1 Corinthians 11:27-29

I was always very diligent about this. I was very worried about taking communion in an “unworthy manner.” After all, I’m a rule-follower who wants to do things the way they’re supposed to be done. That rule-following nature, though, ended up making communion a deeply meaningful experience for me, a time of sitting with God to listen for where I might need to change or grow. This is still a primary emphasis for me in receiving communion, but over the years, another aspect of communion has broadened and deepened my experience of the Eucharist: community.

Madeleine L’Engle tells a story in her book, The Irrational Season, of an acquaintance she had “who was a far more regular churchgoer” than she was, who always got up early to go to Communion before going to work. But this acquaintance had a hatred for people of Asian descent, to the extent that he would refuse communion if offered by a priest who was Japanese. She speaks of being “outraged” by his racism one morning at Communion:

“I am not in love and charity with this man, I thought, and therefore, according to the rubrics, I should not go up to the altar. And yet I knew that my only hope of love and charity was to go forward and receive the elements.

…Surely within me there is an equal blindness, something that I do not recognize in myself, that I justify without even realizing it.

All right, brother. Let us be forgiven together, then. I will hold out my hands for both of us today, and do you for me tomorrow morning when I will be asleep while you trudge through the dirty streets to church.”

—Madeleine L’Engle, The Irrational Season

I often think of this image of being forgiven together, when I myself am “not in love and charity” with others in my community of faith. That image has become even more poignant in the last few years, for a couple of reasons.

The first reason is that I’ve been part of my church now for four and a half years, which is long enough to get to know people, long enough to have gotten involved, long enough to peek behind the curtain and get disappointed with people. It’s long enough to have seen some of the ugliness that lurks in all of us, that inevitably rears its head when a diverse group of people have wildly different opinions on things they’re passionate about.

And the second reason is the way we do communion in the Episcopal church. For most of my life, I’ve been part of churches that pass the plates when it comes time for communion. You stay in your pew, the ushers come to your row, they pass the plate full of crackers down the row, you take a piece and pass the plate on down. Then at the appropriate time, the ushers come around again and hand down an ingeniously-constructed communion plate with holes for all the little plastic cups of juice—definitely not wine, I mean, we were Baptists—and you take one down and pass it around… wait, also definitely not that. What I mean is, you take a cup and pass the plate along. It’s all very stationary. It all takes place among those you’ve chosen to sit next to. But at my church now, we receive communion at the altar rail. The usher comes to your row, you get up and follow your fellow congregants down the aisle, and you kneel down at the altar, next to whoever happens to be in front of or behind you in the line that particular Sunday.

And often, when I have found myself “out of love and charity” with someone at church, I end up behind them in the communion line. I end up kneeling down next to them, and together, we hold our hands out to receive the bread and the wine—yes, wine, I mean, we’re Episcopalian. As was Madeleine L’Engle. And her words resonate in me every time I find myself at communion with a grudge or an irritation, a lack of charity or love, a failure to extend grace to my brother or sister in Christ.

Parker Palmer has said that the definition of true community might be “that place where the person you least want to live with lives.”

“In true community we will not choose our companions, for our choices are so often limited by self-serving motives. Instead, our companions will be given to us by grace. Often they will be persons who will upset our settled view of self and world. In fact, we might define true community as that place where the person you least want to live with lives. And when that person moves away, someone else arises to take his or her place…”

—Parker J. Palmer, A Place Called Community

Perhaps, true communion takes place next to the person you least want to take communion with. When you don’t get to choose your companions, in the pew or at the altar rail, there’s a reckoning that happens within. You have to wrestle with who it is you’ve knelt down next to.

Sometimes there are grave sins in our neighbors’ lives. Sometimes there are grave sins in our own. Sometimes, we are given the gift of someone who gets under our skin, someone we can’t escape. That aspect of community enables the kind of transformation we could never reach if we only knelt down next to people who made us feel comfortable and affirmed.

But we also need that self-reflection that I was so diligent about. Because it is so easy to kneel down next to our difficult neighbor and reflect on their sin, their failings, their need for forgiveness—with no thought for our own.

Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, “Let me take the speck out of your eye,” when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.

—Matthew 7:3-5

“Let us be forgiven together, then.”

Statements of Fact

One afternoon at school, during the last week of 4th grade, my teacher handed out a math worksheet for the class to complete. As we all quietly worked on our multiplication, something occurred to me. The honors banquet was scheduled for that evening. Everyone who had made honor roll had already been invited, along with their families. Which meant the school already knew who was on the honor roll. Which probably meant that our grades had already been turned in. Which meant that the math worksheet I was currently working hard to complete almost certainly wasn’t going to impact my grade.

I shared this theory with the friend sitting next to me. Her eyes lit up. Both of us proceeded to finish the worksheet by filling in random numbers, then grabbed books from the free reading shelf to occupy our time while the rest of the class finished their work. We both went to the honors banquet that night, received our awards, finished out the remaining couple of days in the school year, and never heard anything more about the worksheet.

I told my mom this story after the fact—after my theory had been confirmed, that the infamous math worksheet meant absolutely nothing.

That was when she told me the following story.

She had a class in junior high or high school in which one of their regular assignments was to read a publication the teacher distributed to the class, and then write out 75 “statements of fact” that they’d learned from their reading. They were given the entire class period for this assignment, but that was hardly long enough to finish the reading AND come up with a whopping 75 statements.

My mother quickly determined that the best way to accomplish this assignment was to dispense with any kind of careful reading and just copy down random sentences as she skimmed through the publication. Her logic was that any given sentence in her reading could usually be counted as a “statement of fact.”

Week after week, she turned in her 75 statements of fact. They’d be returned to her with nothing more than a letter grade at the top. No comments, no markings on the statements themselves, no indications that the teacher had actually read the 75 statements. She developed a theory similar to my own regarding my end-of-the-year math worksheet. One day, she tested it out. Right there at number 11.

“You don’t ever read these papers.”

And that paper was returned to her with an A at the top. Confirming that “You don’t ever read these papers” was indeed a statement of fact.

Like mother, like daughter, as they say. I guess that’s a statement of fact, too.

Favorite Books of 2021

As I am a frequent library user, there are many favorites not pictured above…

It’s halfway through January and I’m only just posting my “best of” from 2021… and as usual, I’ve had a hard time narrowing the list down to a semi-manageable size. Compiling my top 21 books from 2021 was enticing, but many of the books on my list are series, which throws me into a quandary as to how I should count them. (Do I count the entire series as one spot on the list? Do I count each individual book? Should I really devote five spots to all the Abhorsen books I read in 2021?)

So, the below doesn’t have a clever 21-from-2021 theme. Instead, I’ve organized it by genre or category. As usual, I’ve included my bonus picks, because maybe you’ll really like one of the almost-but-not-quite books that could just as easily have made it onto the main list. If you’re impatient, here’s the list, sans bonus picks. If you want further description, continue on below the list.

Series
The Galaxy and the Ground Within by Becky Chambers
The Abhorsen Series by Garth Nix
Dragonsong & Dragonsinger by Anne McCaffrey
The Witness for the Dead by Katherine Addison
The Hidden Palace by Helene Wecker

Fiction
Burial Rites by Hannah Kent
A Place for Us by Fatima Farheen Mirza
The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey

Sci Fi/Fantasy
Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers
Door on Half-Bald Hill by Helena Sorensen

Young Adult/Middle Grade
No Fixed Address by Susin Nielsen
A Place at the Table by Saadia Faruqi and Laura Shovan
Far from the Tree by Robin Benway

Justice
Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson
The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander

Spiritual
Telling the Truth by Frederick Buechner
House of Light by Mary Oliver

Series & Sequels

One of my biggest patterns in 2021 was reading books in series. It seems I’m always attempting to finish a series (or eight), and my series reads ratcheted up even further this year since my in-person book club read through four trilogies this year. I also thoroughly enjoyed completing a re-read of the Anne of Green Gables and Emily books by L.M. Montgomery—very much a comfort read highlight for me! Reading series poses a difficulty in putting together a best-of list, though. It’s not very helpful to recommend a sequel or a third book in a series without mentioning the first book (and often, my reading of the first book fell into an earlier year). Accordingly, below you will find “this-is-not-the-first-book” caveats, and recommendations within recommendations!

The Galaxy, and the Ground Within by Becky Chambers: This is the fourth (and last?) book in the Wayfarers series, but it can certainly be read as a standalone. It introduces three travelers stuck at a waystation along with their host and her child. None of the characters are human, which offers a fascinating look at several of the sentient species in the world of the Galactic Commons. It’s wonderfully diverse, and full of the fantastic worldbuilding and depth of empathy and character development I’ve come to expect from Becky Chambers. I have absolutely loved the Wayfarers series, and this one was no exception.

The Abhorsen Series by Garth Nix: Sabriel, Lirael, Abhorsen, Clariel, Goldenhand
I’d heard a lot of good things about this series, and they were all true. There’s fantastic character development and strong worldbuilding, with an interesting magic system. Sabriel and Lirael are both strong and capable main characters, with just enough self-doubt and inexperience to make them believable and thoroughly likable. And it was SO refreshing to read a YA fantasy series that doesn’t put romance (or…ugh…a love triangle) at center stage. Several of these books subtly explore some heavy themes—trauma, depression, and deep feelings of not fitting in—without feeling like YA “problem novels.” The first three books are the strongest, but Clariel and Goldenhand were wonderful follow-ups.

Dragonsong & Dragonsinger by Anne McCaffrey: These are the first two books in the Harper Hall series, a trilogy within the larger Dragonriders of Pern series. I hadn’t read any of the Pern books and these two felt like a great place to start. They’re classic 1970s YA fantasy, and are such gems. They tackle some heavy themes—from tradition and gender roles to the effects of emotional abuse—but it’s all woven into the story so naturally that it never seemed overt or heavy-handed. And, I mean: singing fire lizards. If that doesn’t draw you in, I don’t know what will. (Caveat: the third book in this series is… fine. It follows a different character and felt a bit mismatched with the first two books.)

The Witness for the Dead by Katherine Addison: Set in the world of the Goblin Emperor, this standalone novella follows a character from the first book as he searches out two intertwined mysteries. I loved returning to this world, though it took me a little while to settle back into its culture and terminology. It has the same depth of characterization and compassion I loved so much in Goblin Emperor. And there was a whole new cultural element to love—tea houses. (I would happily buy a range of teas based on this world’s tea houses!) I really missed the court intrigue, though!

The Hidden Palace by Helene Wecker: This is a sequel, and the first book really does need to be read first. The Golem and the Jinni was such a perfect marriage of historical fiction and fantasy that I was both eager and a little hesitant to return to its world with this second book. I needn’t have worried—this was wonderful. I loved seeing the stories of the Golem and the Jinni continued, as well as the introduction of some new characters and a closer look at returning characters. And I’d be happy to read another sequel!

Bonus:
Tuck by Stephen Lawhead (final book in the King Raven series)
The Last Graduate by Naomi Novik (second in the Scholomance series)
The Murderbot Diaries series by Martha Wells (I’m only 4 books in, but these are excellent!)

Fiction

Burial Rites by Hannah Kent: Beautiful and bleak, gripping and gorgeously written—I was so impressed by this book. Set in 1830s Iceland, it follows the story of a woman convicted of murder and condemned to death. Through conversations with the priest who is to prepare her for the next life, and her interactions with the family she’s housed with as she waits out her sentence, the reader gradually pieces together what happened in the lead-up to the fatal night.

A Place for Us by Fatima Farheen Mirza: This is a beautifully written chronicle of an Indian-American Muslim family, exploring the perspectives of both parents and children navigating deeply-held cultural and religious values. The author draws each character so sympathetically, as they struggle with holding on to (or letting go of) aspects of their faith and culture. It was a bit of a slow burn, but I couldn’t put it down, and although the narrative is mostly non-linear, the shifts back and forth in time felt natural and never confusing. It reminded me a LOT of Celeste Ng’s Everything I Never Told You, with its exploration of family and themes of how well and how little we know those who are closest to us.

The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey: Far from a traditional mystery, this novel has a glaring lack of a body, a murder weapon, or the usual parade of suspects and alibis. A historical mystery is at stake, solved by a police inspector looking for something to occupy his mind as he recovers from a broken leg. He lands on the puzzle of Richard III and the princes in the Tower, and with the help of a young British Museum researcher, puzzles out quite a different conclusion than has been assumed in the history books. I was struck by the novel’s critique of our unwillingness to question dearly-held or long-established beliefs. It’s a surprisingly timely reflection on accepted wisdom, new information, and challenged biases; a bit of a cautionary tale against entrenched conclusions based on tenuous evidence.

Bonus:
The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Sci Fi & Fantasy

As if I didn’t give you enough SFF under “Series & Sequels”… here are a few more.

A Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers: Another Becky Chambers book I was compelled to hug when I finished it. I loved this so much. I was amazed to find such a comforting, challenging, compassionate story contained in a 160-page novella. Also: tea monk. I mean, how can you go wrong there? I walked away from this one with a lot of thoughts about purpose and calling.

The Door on Half-Bald Hill by Helena Sorensen: This gorgeously-written Irish-influenced fantasy was a perfect October read, with its growing sense of fear and foreboding. Under the Bloodmoon, the land of Balilean is plagued by bitter water and a growing poison in the earth… and in the hearts of its people. Idris, Bard of Blackthorn, seeks the Sacred Word and a hope for the future of the land. This is definitely slow-paced, but it’s also beautiful and sad and hopeful and I loved it.

Bonus:
Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune

Young Adult/Middle Grade

No Fixed Address by Susin Nielsen: I really enjoyed this middle grade novel exploring themes of homelessness and child poverty, through some wonderful characters and a good dose of humor. Nielsen brings out a lot of complexity and depth in Felix, her almost-13-year-old main character, who along with his mother, is living in a van “temporarily.”

A Place at the Table by Saadia Faruqi and Laura Shovan: This story follows two daughters of immigrants from quite different backgrounds as they’re thrown together in a cooking class and begin a hesitant friendship. Their different perspectives and experiences combine to offer an honest look at friendship, cultural differences, racism, and bullying. With plenty of descriptions of tasty tasty food. There’s also some wonderful inclusion of the parents’ experiences surrounding immigration, which broadened the perspective without detracting from the narrative focusing on the kids’ experience.

Far from the Tree by Robin Benway: After giving up her baby for adoption, Grace looks for her own biological mother, which leads to her discovering two half-siblings, Maya and Joaquin. I felt so deeply for each of the three as they navigated their own struggles as well as what it means to be siblings. I was impressed by the emotional depth and complexity here, as well as the varied perspectives the story offered on adoption.

Bonus:
Tristan Strong Punches a Hole in the Sky by Kwame Mbalia
Scythe by Neal Shusterman (This could also go in the series section—it’s the first in a trilogy with a lot of promise, but I found the first book to be the strongest)

Justice

In mid-2020, a friend at church began an anti-racism book group. We met monthly over Zoom for about a year, and had some wonderful, rich discussions about the heritage of racism in the United States and the work we can do now, internally and externally, to stand against that ingrained heritage. These are two of the selections from that group—books I had intended to read, but might not have picked up without the motivator of discussion with this group. This kind of reading is difficult to reckon with emotionally, and I’m thankful to have had this group to process my reading with.

Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson: This was heartbreaking, infuriating, and very informative. I grew up (as a pretty sheltered white kid) believing that in general, the “system” worked, obviously innocent people didn’t get sent to jail, and wrongful convictions were few and far between. I’m realizing how inaccurate those assumptions are, how uninformed I’ve been, and how broken the system is. I appreciated the breadth of this book—focusing on the details of one case, but also bringing in other relevant stories that highlighted related issues throughout the criminal justice system.

The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander: This is a difficult topic to tackle, and a tough book to read—a thorough, informative, well-researched look at mass incarceration and the ramifications of the War on Drugs in the U.S. The hardest thing about a book like this is feeling helpless in the face of such a vast, far-reaching system. Definitely a motivator to research what I can do, beyond just my vote.

Bonus:
Caste by Isabel Wilkerson

Spiritually Meaningful

I read for many reasons, but one of those reasons is because it’s one of the ways I connect with God. Several of the books mentioned above have been spiritually meaningful to me as well, but the below more explicitly deal with faith (or they’re poetry, which is often reflective and God-connecting for me!).

Telling the Truth by Frederick Buechner: I love Buechner’s writing—his use of language has a poetry to it that makes me slow down to savor each sentence. Here, he frames his discussion as a charge to the preacher, exploring elements of tragedy, comedy, and fairy tale within the Biblical story. I love the progression of his text, as he writes of how the tragedy must come before the comedy, the mystery before the answer. A beautiful little book.

House of Light by Mary Oliver: Mary Oliver’s poetry explores the natural world in such a reflective way; her words draw my eyes to the beauty of nature and my soul to prayer. Her well-known poem “The Summer Day” is in this collection (“Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?”), as well as “Roses, Late Summer” (which showed up in this post back in June).

Bonus:
Circle of Grace by Jan Richardson
Everything Comes Next by Naomi Shihab Nye