Stand-Out 2025 Reads

I read an outlandish number of books in 2025, from some massive classic chunksters to a re-read of the entire Murderbot Diaries series (and that genre range is a pretty good example of the eclectic nature of my reading). A few highlights: I’ve been thoroughly enjoying an ongoing long-term reading project with my Litsy Kindred Spirits group. We’re reading L.M. Montgomery’s complete journals, re-reading LMM’s novels along the way, and interspersing lots of the books she mentions in her journals. My reading of various classics went up this year (thanks to all manner of Litsy buddy reads), and in reading one book by Terry Pratchett every month (thanks to another Litsy book club), I’ve been amazed by the depth of his all-too-relevant satire and social commentary (his books are hilarious, but there’s so much more there than just jokey fantasy).

And here, in a little more depth, are some of my stand-out reading experiences from 2025… the best, and a little bit of the worst!

Contemporary/Literary Fiction

North Woods by Daniel Mason
This is the story (or rather, the stories) of a house and its surrounding forest in New England: a multigenerational saga of sorts, but of a place instead of a family. We follow the people who come and go—but also the trees, the beetles, a catamount—as they shape and are shaped by the unique history of the place in which they dwell, a place that outlasts them all. Each section has a very different feel, and between each, there are photographs, letters, and other ephemera from which readers can piece together connections and clues about the place as we follow its story through time. Usually interconnected stories like this feel disjointed to me, but here, the connections kept me engaged and eager to read on. I loved the way the pieces added up to an interlinked whole, the structure echoing the known and unknown connections we forge with the places we inhabit and the people who’ve gone before us.

Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor
I had mixed feelings through most of this! I admired the main character, Zelu, but didn’t much like her, and her family was infuriating. There’s an interwoven book-within-a-book, which I enjoyed much more—but the framing made Zelu the focus, so I didn’t enjoy the book as a whole as much as I wanted to. Until the end. The ending not only surprised me, it absolutely made the book for me. There was a LOT going on here—disability and culture and family and fame and prejudice and difference—and at times, it felt like the plot went completely off the rails. But by the end, I loved the questions the narrative(s) raised.

Woodworking by Emily St. James
I loved this so, so much. Erica, a trans teacher in small-town South Dakota—who’s not yet out—befriends the only other trans person she knows: her student Abigail. Told from multiple perspectives, this gave such a rich, complex portrait of trans experience. The characterization and nuance here were phenomenal—complicated characters who were anything but one-sided. These characters were so human, so real and surprising—showing a wide spectrum of love, compassion, care, support, and ally-ship—as well as failures of all of the above. I was especially impressed with the way St. James handles perspective, voice, and naming throughout the book. Just SO well written.

Heartwood by Amity Gaige
I’ve seen others criticize this for moving too slowly, but for me, it was a 5-star read. Perspectives alternate between three women: a hiker lost along the Appalachian trail, the State Game Warden leading the search, and a retiree who takes an interest in the search from afar. The character development here was well done, and Gaige strikes a balance between mystery, survival, and reflection that really worked for me.

The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
The book cover’s description of “quietly devastating” is spot on. This is a book I’ve been meaning to read for decades. I knew I’d love it, but in recent years, I haven’t been in the mood to be devastated, even quietly so. I was prompted to pick it up this year for a reading challenge, and am so glad I did. Such deep characterization is built through a slow-burn gradual reveal. Denial, self-delusion, and pretense are gradually laid bare as pride and desperate self-preservation. Heart-wrenching perfection. Quietly devastating. Yes.

Major Undertakings

Everything in this section has been on my shelf for YEARS, but I’d never mustered up the fortitude to tackle any of them. I have Litsy buddy reads to thank for the push I needed to finally read these classic chunksters.

Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset
This trilogy is a masterpiece of historical fiction. The scope and depth of it is staggering. From the history and setting to the characters and their relationships, Undset pulled me into a whole world—completely foreign to me, rarely pleasant, but thoroughly human. It’s all here—love and lust, faith and doubt, orthodoxy and heresy, faithfulness and betrayal, intrigue, family, death and LIFE.

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
I’m stating the obvious here, but this was heartbreaking. Relentlessly sad (which I expected because: Steinbeck), but also infuriating for a multitude of reasons, from the injustice throughout to the bleakness and suddenness of the ending. (Which I also should have expected, because: Steinbeck.) But what a masterpiece. I’m glad I read it, but I don’t think I’ll ever re-read.

Lots of Dickens
I LOVED Dickens in college and grad school, and in many ways I still do, but in all of these, I was really feeling the “paid by the word” vibe. It’s a tribute to Dickens’ skill as a storyteller that I often didn’t mind!

Nicholas Nickleby
Dickens spins an engaging, wide-ranging story here, full of delightfully implausible coincidences and over-the-top caricatures. There were so many characters that I loved, but many of the supporting characters were grating rather than amusing or lovable. (I did find the Mantalinis ridiculous and hilarious—and frequently find myself saying “demn’d” and “demnable” now—so there’s that.) The stakes felt higher and more serious here, to me—and I think the combination of that seriousness with so many silly, irritating supporting characters just jerked me around a little too much.

Little Dorrit
This has all the classic hallmarks of a Dickens novel: a sweet, industrious heroine and her imprudent, foolish, silly family; a kind benefactor with a grim, secretive mother haunted by a dark, mysterious past; and a full complement of comic side characters who provide levity as the twists and turns of the various intersecting plots are revealed. And Dickens’ satire of bureaucracy is a little too spot-on for comfort. In the end, I did enjoy this even though it was unnecessarily long-winded.

The Old Curiosity Shop
This one was over the top for me. Too sentimental, too overwrought. I loved sweet Nell and her story was heartbreaking. Quilp was a truly chilling villain, and the story took some very dark turns I was not expecting. I completely understand how gripping this would have been in serial format. But the resolution of it all was overdone, unnecessarily tear-jerking—and amazingly abrupt for how long it took to get there!

Pure Enjoyment

These books were just a delight to read.

Best Wishes, Sister B by Fran Smith
I thoroughly enjoyed this epistolary novel. Sister B’s letters describe ups and downs at the convent of St. Winifreda as they open a farm shop and begin to engage the community in their struggle to remain open—meanwhile, church leadership is pushing to close the convent and sell their land. An unexpected bonus for me was discovering that the setting was the Fenlands of East Anglia, not far from Ely—where I lived as a child.

Black Sheep by Georgette Heyer
This was SO MUCH FUN. I loved the main characters: their banter, humor, and romance, as well as the contrast and balance that becomes apparent between these two such well-matched characters. Heyer just gets everything right: Abigail’s pitch-perfect near-caricature relatives (lovable and infuriating by turns), a surprising but thoroughly appealing male love interest, and comeuppance where it is due. The ending is WAY too abrupt, but adorable all the same.

The Library at Night by Alberto Manguel
Manguel writes about being a reader in ways that are so relatable, even though I’m pretty sure his reading is much more erudite than my own! Starting with reflections on setting up his own library, Manguel used each chapter to examine a different aspect of libraries—the library as myth, as order, as space, as imagination, and so on. He brings together historical tidbits about personal and national libraries with his own reflections on reading and the collecting of books.

Five Little Pigs by Agatha Christie
Just a top-notch Agatha Christie! Poirot is called in to solve a 16-year-old case, by the daughter of the woman who was convicted of the murder. He examines the accounts of the five people who were present, investigating the contradictions and conflicts between their memories of that day. I went back and forth on who I thought was the murderer, and was conflicted about who I wanted to be the murderer! A clever mystery, with lots of great Poirot content.

The Dark Horse by Rumer Godden
This is a hidden gem I picked up at a library sale. It’s based on a true story of a racehorse in the 1930s, who was shipped to India from England—and the various lives this horse brings together. There are themes of hurt and healing, prejudice and acceptance, redemption, and found family. The backdrop of 1930s Calcutta—from the poor and the privileged, to the convent and the racetrack—was fascinating.

All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot
Herriot’s descriptions of the Yorkshire countryside made me long for England. His stories of life as a vet range from hilarious to charming, as do the personalities he introduces us to along the way. I loved every one of Herriot’s anecdotes and devoured the short chapters like the best treats, using the book as a reward to follow heavier reads.

The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion by Beth Brower
I read the first two volumes of this series in the last few days of the year, and they are utter joy. Quirky, hilarious, full of lovable (and a couple of love-to-hate-able) characters, these are lighthearted and delightful dessert books.

Excellent But I Didn’t Necessarily Enjoy Them

All of these are excellent. Masterful writing. Thought-provoking themes. They’re also often emotionally wrenching (Go Tell It on the Mountain and Separate Peace) and sometimes infuriating (Brideshead). I’m not sad I read them. I rated them highly. But I’ll borrow a writing professor’s analogy here, and compare reading these books to pounding on your thumb with a hammer: it feels so good when you stop.

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
This was beautifully written, the characters are richly drawn, and it left me cold. I actually kind of wanted to throw the book across the room at the end. I found the characters so unlikable that the book’s sadness and nostalgia for a disappearing place and time didn’t really land for me—and the overarching themes of conversion and grace felt like too little, too late. And maybe that just underscores the loss that characterizes the whole book. It’s so gorgeously written that I can’t not include it here.

Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin
I can’t quite take it in that this was Baldwin’s debut novel. The structure—alternating between a church meeting in the present and the core characters’ lives in the past—is intricate and deftly woven together, and its themes of race, class, and especially religion are heart-wrenching. An incredible book. But again: heart-wrenching.

A Separate Peace by John Knowles
This is an American classic I’d somehow missed reading up till now. The characters here are so skillfully drawn—an understated but intimate portrait of friendship and coming of age against the backdrop and looming dread of WWII. I’m still not over the ending. I needed another volume of Emma M. Lion to follow this one up.

Food for the Soul

Our Unforming: De-Westernizing Spiritual Formation by Cindy S. Lee
I read this for my spiritual direction training program—and it was EXCELLENT. Cindy Lee reorients spiritual formation within non-Western approaches, and it was both illuminating and freeing for me. I grew up squarely within Western spiritual traditions. Encountering other approaches to Christianity while living in South Africa in my late 20s/early 30s was world-expanding for me, and Lee gives voice to a lot of approaches that I’d been introduced to or had partially explored but hadn’t fully acknowledged or articulated. She suggests a shift from linear to cyclical, cerebral to experiential, and individual to collective, examining how each of these are lived out in non-Western traditions. This shift in perspective enriched my views of spiritual formation and gave me new entry points for working with those who have different spiritual and cultural backgrounds than my own. 

A Timbered Choir by Wendell Berry
I’ve wanted to read Berry’s Sabbath poems for a while, and I loved these quiet meditations centered in the natural world.

This Here Flesh by Cole Arthur Riley
Partly a memoir, partly a series of reflective essays—I loved this exploration of the spiritual as grounded in history and in story—but even more so in the body (here, specifically: in the black body). Riley’s discussion of faith, rage, justice, rest, wonder, and joy challenged me to examine what an embodied faith looks like (as well as how different that is, depending on the bodies we inhabit).

The Unfolding by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
This broke me wide open in the best ways. Trommer’s poetry explores themes of grief and loss, beauty and love, with the sacred woven throughout.

Cherished Belonging by Gregory Boyle
My spiritual director first mentioned Fr. Greg Boyle’s work to me—and then Boyle kept popping up everywhere, from assignments in my spiritual direction program, to conferences I attended, and even with the book group at my church. (Honestly, this is a recommendation of anything by Greg Boyle!) His core message is two-fold: everyone is unshakably good, and we belong to each other. The second of those is something I deeply affirm. The first is something that deeply challenges me—and is also something I deeply need to hear, in fostering compassion for myself and for others. As in his other books, Boyle emphasizes his message through story after story of his work with the “homies” in LA—from hilarious to heartbreaking and back again. Each story illuminates more and more facets of his message: the incredible value of each human life, our inextricable connections to each other, and God’s deep, deep love for us.

The Hungering Dark by Frederick Buechner
I didn’t realize how appropriate this would be to read during December. Buechner’s reflections here all seem to center on and circle around the Christmas story—and on Christ—moving through themes of darkness and light, doubt and faith. Buechner’s writing is gorgeous as always, and the prayers that conclude each chapter are especially rich and meaningful.

Series Installments (and all that Pratchett)

The Tomb of Dragons by Katherine Addison
I loved this just as much as the others in Addison’s Cemeteries of Amalo series. As in previous books, Addison combines a murder mystery of sorts with the “usual” duties assigned to her main character, and the character development we get along the way is fantastic. The structure of this book—Things happen to Celehar. People ask Celehar what happened. Celehar explains what happened.—could have gotten tedious, but somehow never did. 

Silverborn by Jessica Townsend
I’ve loved every installment of the Morrison Crow books. I loved this, too. Silverborn explores new areas of Nevermoor we haven’t seen yet, and reveals a bunch of previously unrevealed secrets about Morrigan’s family. Secrets are a theme here…from the secrets Morrigan carries, to the secrets she uncovers about her past. And, the plot is basically a murder mystery, which I loved.

Raybearer by Jordan Ifueko
Rich world-building, a unique magic system, complex characters, nuanced political dynamics, and a fascinating examination of power, culture, history, and gender. All wrapped up in a fast-paced chosen-one/coming-of-age story with a (very complicated) found family vibe. The author makes bold choices here, exploring several very heavy themes and offering some jaw-dropping twists that kept me on my toes.

All That Pratchett
Going Postal and Making Money
In spite of the fact that the main character’s name is Moist, I thoroughly enjoyed these, from the characters to the satire. (And golems!) The present-day parallels and satire of government in both books were maaaaybe a little too relatable right now.

“What kind of man would put a known criminal in charge of a major branch of government? Apart from, say, the average voter.”
—Going Postal

…yeeeeaaaah.

Monstrous Regiment
I loved the way this pokes fun at and takes down gender stereotypes. I loved its diverse characters and the little cultural glimpses each one gives us. I loved its examination of political/religious propaganda (especially in wartime or in service of conflict). I loved the slow reveal of each character. All of this in spite of the fact that the middle of the book felt like it needlessly meandered on its way to the ending and the various reveals I loved so much.

Basically the entire City Watch series
Notably: Feet of Clay, Men at Arms, and Thud!—but all of them. Excellent. Uncannily relevant. And also hilarious.

Here’s that “bit of the worst” I promised

The Ladies of Missalonghi by Colleen McCullough
I include this here as a stand-out reading experience because of how bad it was—the lowest rated book I read this year—and because of the contrast between it and one of my absolute favorite books. My sole reason for reading it (and subjecting my Kindred Spirits group to it) was the accusation that McCullough plagiarized L.M. Montgomery’s The Blue Castle. And there are an uncanny number of similarities between the two books. Whether you believe the author’s justification of “unconscious recollection” or not, this doesn’t hold up on its own. Or even not on its own. I told a friend it went beyond “discount Blue Castle” and became “Temu Blue Castle.” The parts that mirror Blue Castle do it worse—the way McCullough changes certain details of the plot weaken both the characters and the story. There are a couple of unique plot threads where it diverges from the plot of Blue Castle, and those were interesting… but not enough to redeem it in any way. I was not a fan. Especially not a fan of the coarse, manipulative “romance” or the preposterous, nonsensical ending. I did want to know how everything turned out in the end, so it did keep me reading—but mostly in a “can’t take my eyes off the train wreck” sort of way.

Current Events

Back to the best-of… although current events-related books never feel like “best of” anything right now. These were both stand-out reads, though.

Being Jewish after the Destruction of Gaza by Peter Beinart
This was an excellent, difficult, and needed read—a Jewish perspective on current events in Gaza that both examines the impact of the persecution Jews have faced and interrogates Israel’s conflation of religious and national identity. It traces how Israel’s establishment as a nation-state has largely changed its position from persecuted people to perpetrators of violence themselves, and how deeply problematic a persistent story of victimhood is, when those victims now themselves wield power over others. Illuminating and heartbreaking.

Blueprint for Revolution by Srdja Popovic
Popovic was part of the movement (Otpor) that ousted Milosevic from power in Serbia, and this book is a handbook of sorts—taking principles from Otpor and discussing how those principles could be applied in a variety of contexts, using nonviolent activism and resistance to effect change. The wealth of examples he offers are inspiring and often hilarious. I couldn’t help but wonder if the Portland Frog was inspired by this book…

More Delight: Classic Children’s Books

Let’s finish up with more books that were just a joy to read. Sometimes a good children’s classic is just what I need.

Mr. McFadden’s Hallowe’en by Rumer Godden
There was so much about this that I loved: irrepressible Selina, her pony named Haggis, the food descriptions, the Scottish setting, and a goose named Big Wullie! Selina befriends a crusty old farmer when her pony refuses to stay out of said farmer’s turnip field—but there’s so much more to the story than that. The story’s exploration of what it means to take care of others, even when you and they are misunderstood, is full of complexity, depth, and heart. There were a few events for which the resolution seemed too simplistic/glossed over, but even with that—this was like a warm hug.

Secret of the Ron Mor Skerry by Rosalie K. Fry
Fiona returns to live with her grandparents on the beloved Western Isles of her childhood. When she visits her family’s former home on the island of Ron Mor, she’s sure she sees a glimpse of her baby brother, who disappeared when her family left the island four years before. Such a sweet, lovely story of family and return, with hints of myth and magic—enhanced by Fry’s drawings throughout. 

Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter
I loved this delightful children’s classic and found it hard to put down! Initially I was worried it would be too sweet or too cloying—and there were moments that could have veered into toxic positivity—but Porter balances those moments with others that acknowledge the reality of grief and hurt and disappointment. Pollyanna’s determination to look for—and be glad in—the good in every situation doesn’t dismiss the reality of hardship and pain, rather it gives her the determination to work for change where she can, and her childlike trust in others in turn calls out the best in them. This sweet book was a reminder to me to look for the good and to call out the good in others, as well.

Target Magnificat

(with thanks to Tania Runyan)

As I pulled into a parking spot, I paused to let a woman cross in front of my car. Wearing bright red lipstick and a bright green Christmas t-shirt, she stomped determinedly toward the Target storefront, gripping a small crucifix tightly in one hand. As I got out of the car, I heard her syrupy, almost sing-song voice ring out across the parking lot: “Praise Jesus! Merry Christmas! It’s Jesus’ birthday!” I headed toward the entrance, and heard her continue to half-shout a running patter of Jesus-slogans punctuated by an occasional “God bless you!” whenever someone looked her way.

Keeping my head down, I walked briskly past her into the store, avoiding eye contact and inwardly cringing at her sing-song tone and the cliched phrases she kept shouting as people walked in and out of the store.

“Jesus came to save us! Jesus loves us! Celebrate! It’s Jesus’ birthday!”

I’d seen this woman several months before, in front of the grocery store, and I had the same reaction then: embarrassment that this was the picture of Christians shoppers would get that day. There was also a strong undercurrent of irritation over what I see as more of a turn-off to Christianity. There are effective ways to reach people with the message of the gospel. That ain’t it. I wanted to reassure passersby that not all Christians feel the need to remind random people at Target to remember Jesus’ birthday.

I do believe that Jesus loves us. I just don’t feel called to sing it outside a Target.

However. That morning, there was also a poem in the back of my mind. Earlier in the week, I’d listened to a recording of Tania Runyan’s “El Train Magnificat” in my poetry Advent calendar. And I couldn’t help but see the parallel.

El Train Magnificat
by Tania Runyan

Just when I think I’ve entered my rest,
the dull glare of the office two blocks behind me,
a woman under the Wells Street tracks
opens her arms and shouts, Lord, I thank you!
Her massive breasts quake in a gray T-shirt;
a sprig of hair trembles in a rubber band.
You made me! I’m here! I’m here!
The metallic rumble of the Green Line
can’t drown her voice. She swings her hips,
clapping to the rhythm. I cross through a line of taxis
to avoid her. Now she is turning in grand circles,
her face lifted toward the tracks.
Thank you, thank you, Lord of mine.
I hum to myself, count sidewalk squares, anything
to escape the eye of her swirl. I quicken my stride
around the corner of Madison, until her voice is nothing
but a drift in the storm of buses and horns.
Yet at night, in the cool hour of unrest,
I feel her words rumbling through me
in a constant loop—I thank you, Lord;
I thank you, Lord—sparks flickering along my bones,
singeing the edges of my silent life.

Mary’s Magnificat in Luke begins with the words: “My soul glorifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” I can’t know the motivations that were in the heart of this woman in front of Target. I don’t know what her spirit and soul were up to as she proclaimed “Praise Jesus!” to the shoppers passing by. But odds are there was some rejoicing and glorifying going on. And there’s something about considering this woman’s words as their own Magnificat that makes me embarrassed again—not embarrassed of her, but embarrassed of my own dismissal of her.

In many ways, she’s a puzzle to me. She’s not “my kind” of Christian. Her faith doesn’t look like mine. Her words may yield nothing more than a bit of discomfort and awkwardness, some baffled smiles and rolled eyes outside of Target. But that doesn’t make her less holy or less beloved.

As Mary’s Magnificat continues, she declares more and more of what God has done, showing the reversals that God is up to:
Scattering those who are proud in their inmost thoughts
Bringing down rulers from their thrones
Lifting up the humble
Filling the hungry with good things
Sending the rich away empty

And with Runyon’s poem as the filter, I experience a reversal of my own. As my own pride is scattered, I’m able to see this woman as holy instead of embarrassing: standing there, in her red lipstick, shouting “Praise Jesus!” and holding that crucifix high.

And Mary said:
“My soul glorifies the Lord
   and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful
    of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed,
    for the Mighty One has done great things for me—
    holy is his name.
His mercy extends to those who fear him,
    from generation to generation.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm;
    he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
He has brought down rulers from their thrones
    but has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things
    but has sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
    remembering to be merciful
to Abraham and his descendants forever,
    just as he promised our ancestors.”
—Luke 1:46-55

Still Running

Several years in a row, I did a musical advent calendar in December—posting one song each day, accompanied by some small reflections. This one popped up in my memories on FB today, and I found it particularly resonant—these same themes have been echoing in my mind and heart this year: the truth of what God is up to is love.

“…you meant only love, and love
And I felt only fear, and pain
So once in Israel, love came
And we were all afraid.”
“Still Running” – eastmountainsouth

Ever notice how when an angel shows up in the Bible, just about the first thing they say is “Fear not!”? I feel like it would be frustrating to appear with a message of importance, of peace, hope, and comfort, and have to offer “Don’t be afraid!” as a caveat every single time.

During a discussion tonight, we briefly talked about why it might be that we focus so much on Christ’s first Advent, at Christmas, and shy away from his second Advent, in Revelation. I think it’s because we prefer baby Jesus in the manger, meek and mild, “no crying he makes”—he doesn’t yet challenge us to reckon with ourselves and with God. Jesus coming in the clouds in all his glory? That’s a different matter. How easily we perceive glory as judgment, and the deity of Christ as more than we bargained for.

“I am still running
Oh, I am still running
Running from the knowledge
That eye, that love…”

I’m pretty good at avoidance. I think we all are, in our own ways. Avoidance and misunderstanding God. I’m quick to run from what I think God might be up to, because it scares me. It’s easier to avoid than to know the truth. But what’s amazing is that the truth of what God is up to… is love. He means love when we fear disapproval; he offers grace when we fear judgment. Even when we run, over and over. He still comes to us, love incarnate, just waiting for us to turn and embrace “that love from which there is no refuge.”

“I am sorry I ran from you. I am still running, running from that knowledge, that eye, that love from which there is no refuge. For you meant only love, and love, and I felt only fear, and pain. So once in Israel love came to us incarnate, stood in the doorway between two worlds, and we were all afraid.”
—from “God in the Doorway” by Annie Dillard

Filled to the Top with Joy

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When I was in my early 20s, my church sent a team to Wales several summers in a row, to lead a Holiday Bible Club in partnership with a church in a seaside town near Cardiff. We would spend the week teaching Bible stories, playing games, doing crafts, and singing songs with a couple hundred Welsh children. And we would go home with those songs in our heads—some fun, some annoying, some with spiritual truths that stay with me today. One year, there was a song with the following repeated lyric:

“The Lord has done great things for us; we are filled to the top with joy.”

This line takes just a tiny bit of poetic license with Psalm 126:3: “The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.”

The rest of the song listed some of the things God has done for us, all related to creation (to fit with the farm theme for the week): God made rain and rainbows, “butterflies and wrinkly rhinos,” night and daytime, rest and playtime. Given those lyrics, perhaps it’s not a surprise that I hadn’t realized the context for the verse that makes up the main lyric of the song.

The Psalm from which this verse is taken begins with the Israelites returning to their homeland after their exile in Babylon. And it closes with the following verses:

Those who sow with tears

will reap with songs of joy.

Those who go out weeping,

carrying seed to sow,

will return with songs of joy,

carrying sheaves with them.
—Psalm 126:5-6

I guess sowing with tears and going out weeping didn’t quite fit the vibe the songwriters were going for. Fair. Wrestling with the complexities of joy and sorrow, the connection between weeping and songs of joy—well, that might be a bit of a tall order for a one-week children’s program.

But it wasn’t too tall of an order to be included in the book of Psalms, basically the hymn book for the Hebrews.

So what is the connection between joy and sorrow, between tears and songs of joy? And why does this Psalm connect the two so closely? Cole Arthur Riley suggests that in this Psalm, “the joy of the Israelites was rooted in memory.… Almost as if their capacity to lament was what awakened the joy in them.” She continues:

“That is not to say that those who have lived painful lives have access to more joy. (It may certainly be the case, but of this I am unsure.) But it is to say that those who refuse or neglect to tap into the sorrows of the world may find joy elusive.

“There is so much that is worthy of lament, of rage. Joy doesn’t preclude these emotional habits—it invites them. Joy situates every emotion within itself. It grounds them so that one isn’t overindulged while the others lie starving. Joy doesn’t replace any emotion; it holds them all and keeps any one of them from swallowing us whole. Society has failed to understand this. When it tells us to find joy in suffering, it is telling us to let it go, to move on, to smile through it. But joy says, Hold on to your sorrow. It can rest safely here.”
—from This Here Flesh, pp. 164-5

Sorrow resting safely inside of joy. This transcends the toxic positivity of the platitudes Riley mentions above. Joy doesn’t ignore weeping and sorrow. It holds them. It has space for them. Joy doesn’t expect us to get over our pain before joy will show its face.

In my late 20s, I was part of a young adult fellowship that had “Sharing Sundays” every so often. The usual Bible study would be set aside, and anyone in the group could share what was going on in their life; often these were stories of feeling God’s presence, of new spiritual insight, of answered prayer. But one Sunday, a friend got up to share his struggle with grief over the loss of a parent. He spoke of his sorrow and pain, and then he sat down. There was no happy moral of the story, explaining how God had helped him through his grief, no nice little Christian platitude at the end. He was in pain, and he spoke about that pain from the middle of it, before there was any resolution. And after he shared, I don’t remember anyone rushing in to say, “Just have faith”, “It’ll be okay,” “God is with you,” or “We’ll pray for you”—all those well-worn phrases that may be true, but often do more to cover our own discomfort than to offer much real comfort to the grieving. And yet, there wasn’t any lack of support. This group just held the pain with him.

I was floored. It was the first time I’d been part of a Christian community that created space for that kind of sharing, from within the pain. I’d always felt an unspoken expectation for that kind of vulnerability to be followed by tying things up into a neat little bow at the end.

I don’t think I’d ever been given space to recognize that there is room for sorrow within joy. I expected joy to wait for the nice neat little bow. This friend didn’t share about joy. I don’t know that joy was even on his radar. But a space where pain can be shared, from the middle of it, opened me up to the idea that we don’t have to wait for the happy ending. We can embrace life—and joy—from within the messy middle.

Donna Ashworth’s poem “Joy Chose You” brings this truth to life for me: that we don’t have to deserve joy. We don’t have to clean everything up before joy shows up. We can only embrace her when she arrives.

Joy does not arrive with a fanfare
on a red carpet strewn
with the flowers of a perfect life

joy sneaks in
as you pour a cup of coffee
watching the sunlight
hit your favourite tree
just right

and you usher joy away
because you are not ready for her
your house is not as it should be
for such a distinguished guest

but joy, you see
cares nothing for your messy home
or your bank balance,
or your waistline

joy is supposed to slither through
the cracks of your imperfect life
that’s how joy works

you cannot truly invite her
you can only be ready
when she appears
and hug her with meaning
because in this very moment
joy chose you.

So am I filled to the top with joy? I don’t know. I guess joy is big enough for that. More accurate: joy is bigger than that. Joy holds me. It’s less of a filling and more of an immersion. Swimming in joy. Floating on joy. Held up by joy. Embraced by joy.

Chosen by joy.

Burning Coals

The Anne of Green Gables series is one of my favorites. I’ve returned to these books again and again over the years, and each time, I find not only beloved stories from my childhood and teen years, but words and characters and scenes that speak to me in new ways.

I don’t remember much about reading Rilla of Ingleside, the final book in the series, as a kid. As an adult, I’ve found it to be a rich and deep portrayal of life in Canada on the “home front” during WWI. And re-reading it recently, I was struck by a little insight from a minor character.

“I would like to turn the Kaiser into a good man—a very good man—all at once if I could. That is what I would do. Don’t you think, Mrs. Blythe, that would be the very worstest punishment of all?”

“Bless the child,” said Susan, “how do you make out that would be any kind of a punishment for that wicked fiend?”

“Don’t you see,” said Bruce, looking levelly at Susan, out of his blackly blue eyes, “if he was turned into a good man he would understand how dreadful the things he has done are, and he would feel so terrible about it that he would be more unhappy and miserable than he could ever be in any other way. He would feel just awful—and he would go on feeling like that forever. Yes”—Bruce clenched his hands and nodded his head emphatically, “yes, I would make the Kaiser a good man—that is what I would do—it would serve him ‘zackly right.”

—from Rilla of Ingleside by L.M. Montgomery

L.M. Montgomery frequently puts wisdom in the mouths of children, sometimes through cute little misunderstandings that betray a deeper truth. And here, little Bruce Meredith hits on something that feels very relevant right now. Bruce’s wish for the Kaiser of Germany, in the midst of WWI, reminds me of this verse from Proverbs:

If your enemy is hungry, give him food to eat;
    if he is thirsty, give him water to drink.
In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head,
    and the Lord will reward you.
—Proverbs 25:21-22

Bruce wants to make the Kaiser into a good man—not for the Kaiser’s own good, but so that he’ll feel bad about what he’s done. Bruce’s vision of reform is not for the sake of the Kaiser’s own soul and heart, but for the Kaiser’s torment. Burning coals.

It’s not a generous view of repentance. Bruce wants the Kaiser to get what’s coming to him, and the best way he sees that happening is the Kaiser realizing the enormity of the evil he has caused, and being forever tormented by that knowledge. I get where Bruce is coming from. There are quite a few people I wish would feel tormented by their present actions.

There’s a bit of Jonah to this. Jonah gets angry when the people of Nineveh repent of their evil ways and God actually forgives them, withholding the previously-threatened judgment. Jonah doesn’t think this is fair. The Ninevites were supposed to get what was coming to them. He preached to them so they’d realize just how bad they actually were. Not so they’d change, but so they’d know. Bruce gives me Jonah vibes.

Bruce doesn’t want the Kaiser to become a good man so the Kaiser can be forgiven.
Bruce doesn’t want the Kaiser to become a good man so the Kaiser can do better in the future.
Bruce wants the Kaiser to become a good man so the Kaiser will feel eternally miserable over what he’s done.

Burning coals.

Anne Lamott has a similar take on Trump. But there’s an until to her feelings about him. She feels the burning coals vibe, until. She says:

“Twenty percent of me remembers that he is a man who has never once been loved, never once, except maybe by his kids.… Twenty percent of me aches for the total barbaric ruins of his inner life. Twenty percent. That is a miracle. And on top of that, I’ve realized that God looks at Trump and sees His own suffering son, never leaves him and aches for him, too, pulls for him to be transformed by Love, loves him as a mother does her child. Love is WAY beyond what I am personally comfortable or familiar with, tending as I do toward thoughts of perp walks and commissary cheese snacks.”
—from “To Reduce My Crazed Fever Dream Hatred of Certain People” by Anne Lamott

When it comes to Trump—or the Kaiser, for that matter—I, too am more comfortable with revenge fantasies than I am with love. I don’t want to have to think about Trump as someone God loves. I don’t want to have compassion for him. I’m not big on transformation here, because I want that man to understand what he’s doing and what he’s done and feel bad about it.

Something else I’ve been reading lately: that 1913 children’s classic, Pollyanna. Yep, the character who epitomizes our ideas of rose-colored glasses and unrealistic positivity. Except in the context of the book, Pollyanna’s gladness is much deeper than that. She doesn’t ignore pain and suffering, but instead, looks for the good in the midst of that pain. Looks for the good. Huh.

There’s a scene where Pollyanna encounters a minister who’s “sick at heart” over the “wrangling, backbiting, scandal, and jealousy” in his congregation. He’s on the verge of preaching a scathing sermon focused on the “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees” verses. But then he meets Pollyanna, who just happens to mention the Bible’s eight hundred “rejoicing verses” that her father loved. Then that minister comes across the following words in a magazine:

“Instead of always harping on a man’s faults, tell him of his virtues…. Hold up to him his better self, his REAL self that can dare and do and win out!”
—from Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter

And we’re told that “the Rev. Paul Ford’s sermon the next Sunday was a veritable bugle-call to the best that was in every man and woman and child that heard it; and its text was one of Pollyanna’s shining eight hundred: ‘Be glad in the Lord and rejoice, ye righteous, and shout for joy all ye that are upright in heart.’”

So much for burning coals.

Father Greg Boyle talks about the idea of being returned to ourselves, of creating spaces where others can be returned to themselves. This idea of return is that each one of us is already God’s child, worthy and valued and loved. When we forget that—when we struggle, when we are wounded, when we are marginalized, when we are victimized, and when we ourselves cause harm—it is through kinship, through relationship, that we can be returned to ourselves. Reminded of who we are. Reminded that we are loved by God.

And I think all of that is what little Bruce Meredith in Rilla of Ingleside misses. Bruce doesn’t want to call the Kaiser’s attention to his better self. Bruce doesn’t want to return the Kaiser to himself. Bruce isn’t interested in the Kaiser understanding that he is a valued and loved child of God. But the thing is: I believe that to truly become “a good man” as Bruce articulates, the love part has to come first. One of the steps along the way may be feeling bad about what you’ve done. But if it stops there, if you never absorb the being loved part—you never return to yourself. You never truly change. An understanding of who God created you to be is impossible without understanding and experiencing the deep love of God. And, like Anne Lamott, 80% of the time I do not want that for Trump. 80% of the time I figure why pray, why have compassion, why nurture grace? Because let’s be honest: it’s not going to happen.

80% of the time I don’t trust that holding up a mirror to someone’s good will actually recall them to themselves. Reminding Trump he is loved by God? Reminding Elon Musk of how he could use his wealth to bring joy to others? Reminding Putin of the good he could do in the world? Yeah, right. Because that’ll be effective.

But effectiveness isn’t even a consideration for Pollyanna. She starts by assuming that others are as kind and good-hearted and interested in the welfare and gladness of others as she herself is. I don’t know if I can do that. I’ve seen too much selfishness and greed and callousness and cruelty—but maybe I can get to Anne Lamott’s miracle of 20%. Can I pray for such men to return to themselves, to change and be transformed by the love of God, 20% of the time? Maybe. Through a miracle of prayer and hope and faith—what Anne Lamott calls the mystery of grace. Grace, not burning coals.

That verse about the burning coals shows up more than once in the Bible. It’s in Proverbs, then it’s quoted in the New Testament. And it feels a bit different in the midst of the surrounding verses in Romans:

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. On the contrary:

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him;

    if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.

In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

—Romans 12:17-21

Do not repay evil for evil.
Live at peace with everyone.
Do not take revenge.
Overcome evil with good.

Maybe less with the burning coals and the revenge fantasies, and more with the overcoming evil with good.

Liminality

Today on Holy Saturday—in the space between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, between the crucifixion and the resurrection—it’s a good time to lean into the idea of the liminal. “Liminal” is an adjective that basically means in-between. It’s transitional space, between one phase and another. Richard Rohr defines liminal space in this way:

“Limina” is the Latin word for threshold, the space betwixt and between. Liminal space, therefore, is a unique spiritual position where human beings hate to be but where the biblical God is always leading them. It is when you have left the “tried and true” but have not yet been able to replace it with anything else. It is when you are finally out of the way. It is when you are in between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer. It is no fun.

I resonate with Rohr’s description of liminal space—especially spiritually—as a place where humans hate to be. Maybe you do, too.

The most significant experience of liminal space in my life was in 2010. I’d been serving with a team in South Africa; our team’s leadership and focus had changed, and it had become clear that it was no longer a good fit for me. I decided to leave that team and that place, but I had no idea what was next. A couple of my fellow teammates left a few months before I did. They quickly found a new team in a new country and were making arrangements to move to London before I’d even finalized my departure. Meanwhile I’d visited six teams in three different countries without finding a fit. I joked that I was moving on to Plan G. I couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated that I hadn’t yet found “what was next” for me, especially when these friends had experienced such a smooth transition and what seemed like very easy answers to what lay ahead for them. But at the same time, I had experienced deep, transformational growth—in trust, in knowledge of self, and in relationship with God. I remember saying that I wouldn’t trade the journey I was on for their easy answers.

Fast forward another six months, and I remember telling God I was ready for the easy answers. I was done with liminal space. I agreed with Richard Rohr—it was no fun.

We see so many stories of liminal space throughout the Bible—thresholds between, times of transition and waiting. And in general, these experiences were also no fun.

Jonah spent three days in the belly of a whale.

Abraham waited 25 years between God’s promise to make him into a great nation and the birth of his son Isaac.

The Israelites spent 40 years wandering in the wilderness before they reached the Promised Land.

But perhaps the most intense experience of liminal space was that time between the crucifixion and resurrection. It’s not given much space on the page in the Gospels—we don’t hear a lot about what Jesus’ followers did in those days after Jesus’ death—but I feel like that empty space in the story is fitting. That’s often what liminal space is like. A lot of waiting, a lot of wondering.

Liminal space can be a time of excitement, of planning and dreaming for the future—when you know what you’re planning for. But when what’s on the other side is unknown, it feels a lot different. In the time after Jesus’ death, I imagine the disciples were deeply uncertain about what came next. Their friend and teacher, the one they’d believed would usher in a new kingdom of hope, love, and liberation—had been brutally executed. In the midst of their grief and shock, the question of “what comes next?” was no doubt an all-consuming one.

The one thing they knew to do was to prepare Jesus’ body for burial. The women who came from Galilee with Jesus prepare spices and perfumes for his burial. And then they wait. And they rest—because it’s the Sabbath.

We live in a culture where the focus tends to be on getting somewhere, accomplishing something—we don’t tend to value the in-between states, where it seems we haven’t gotten anywhere or accomplished anything. And we don’t much value rest, either. If we’re between one thing and another, the expectation is that we’re still working toward the next thing. There’s a discomfort around times of rest, times of waiting, times of uncertainty.

But there are gifts in those liminal spaces. That kind of waiting forces us to slow down—much like the observance of the Sabbath. That kind of waiting loosens our tight grasp of control over our circumstances. The unknown nature of liminal space can build trust, it can foster healing, and it can deepen our growth.

Something else about liminal space? It can be sacred space. That space between can be a threshold into the holy, a doorstep to the Divine. Maybe you’ve heard of the idea of the “thin place”—a moment or a place where the veil between heaven and earth, the sacred and mundane, seems to lift and the holy is close enough to touch. When we lean into these liminal spaces, when we release control and welcome the gifts of the unknown, the holy can be close enough to touch. As close as the next sunrise, perhaps. As close as resurrection.

Best of 2024 Reading

Usually as I look back on a year in reading, some themes emerge, but this year feels more scattered. In writing the below, I went through my top-rated books for the year, organized them by genre, and compiled some thoughts from various reviews I wrote. And I’ve been looking at the list, thinking I should narrow it down some more, take some more time to reflect on patterns and themes, maybe consider how well I did on my goals of reading books from my own shelves, etc. But you know what? It’s January 31. I’m gonna follow the example of Aldous Huxley in not rewriting Brave New World: “resisting the temptation to wallow in artistic remorse, I prefer to leave both well and ill alone and to think about something else.” (Aldous Huxley, foreword to Brave New World, 1958)

So here you go. My favorites from my reading in 2024: some new, some old, some from my shelves, and a lot from the library because the siren song of the library hold is strong.

Contemporary Fiction

Saltus by Tara Gereaux
Heart-wrenching, beautiful, hopeful: this got right into my heart and pulled all the strings. Set in small-town rural Canada in the 1990s, this short novel delves deeply into a set of characters linked by their connections to a teen denied gender-affirming care. It’s a quiet story exploring discomfort and transition and sometimes surprising connections—some fleeting, but all transformative.

I Cheerfully Refuse by Leif Enger
Leif Enger is SO GOOD, and this was absolutely gorgeous: beautifully written and beautifully human, as expected. I was surprised (in a good way) by its exploration of topics of injustice in a post-apocalyptic landscape. A very different setting from Enger’s other books, but I loved it just as much.

The God of the Woods by Liz Moore
This is billed as a mystery/thriller, but it read like literary fiction. Moore takes her time establishing both past and present, shifting between characters and timelines as two disappearances are slowly revealed. I was impressed at how well she fleshed out so many different characters, while carefully concealing or revealing just what was necessary. (Also, it was super weird reading a book where the main character shares my name!)

True Biz by Sara Novic
True Biz follows one academic year at a boarding school for the deaf, told in alternating perspectives, including several students and the school’s headmistress. The breadth of issues raised here was impressive—from the history of sign language to the nuances of language acquisition to racism and bodily autonomy and civil rights—and although some issues are only explored briefly, I didn’t feel like anything was given short shrift.

Also:
Happiness Falls by Angie Kim—This had the feel of a fast-paced mystery, but brought up so many intriguing ideas about language and speech and intelligence and the assumptions we make about all of the above. It kept me turning the pages, but also thinking deeply about the issues it raised.

Bear by Julia Phillips—This was difficult to read, emotionally speaking, but so riveting it was also difficult to put down. I was impressed by how Phillips used a close, limited third-person perspective, filtering everything through one character’s POV but stopping short of first person. This narrative technique tightly controlled the reader’s view, leading up to a stunning, literally breathtaking ending.

Classic Retellings

James by Percival Everett
A retelling from a different character’s perspective invites its readers to consider things from a new point of view—and it was high time someone did this with Huck Finn. In telling the story from Jim’s perspective, Everett offers new layers to ponder, and there’s plenty worth pondering: from the way Everett uses language and dialogue, to the plot changes at the end. James gives voice to a character worthy of deeper exploration, inviting readers to consider another point of view on an American classic. This is the first book I’ve read by Everett, and now I need to seek out a few more.

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver
Kingsolver has been hit or miss for me over the years, but this contemporary reimagining of David Copperfield, set in 1990s/2000s Appalachia was impressive. Kingsolver took the issues Dickens was concerned about in the 1800s and transferred them to a contemporary setting—constructing a compelling story around grief and loss, foster care, and the opiod epidemic—revealing how little has changed, and how a completely different system still fails children so profoundly. My biggest gripe is how grim this was to read. There is a humor and lightness in Dickens’ novel that was sorely lacking here. And yet, Kingsolver’s style is so different—her characters are not caricatures as so many of Dickens’ are—so perhaps that kind of humor would have felt off here. Ultimately, this was a tough read, but a good one.

Also:
Right after reading Demon Copperhead, I re-read David Copperfield. It had been over 20 years since my first reading, but I still remembered so much of the plot and even more so Dickens’ always-memorable characters. I remembered how much I loved David, his sweet mother, Peggoty and Agnes and Traddles, and of course, Aunt Betsey. And I loved to hate creepy Uriah Heep and insufferable Steerforth. On this re-read, I didn’t love the characters like before. They’re still so vivid and they still come to life for me, but I was so frustrated by David’s blind innocence and gullibility! For all that happens to him, he should be WAY more worldly wise—too often he’s a terrible judge of character and so easily manipulated. And I just wanted Agnes to stand up for herself rather than just patiently enduring in the background. Some things never change, though: I still had no patience for Dora, Uriah was as creepy as ever, and Peggoty and Aunt Betsey were still hilariously endearing. In spite of my character frustrations on this re-read, Dickens still wins on character. I didn’t enjoy this as thoroughly as my first read (I think the Victorian mindset grates on me now in ways I excused back then), but still: what a masterpiece.

Non-Contemporary Fiction

(These aren’t necessarily “classics”… but with publication dates from the 1930s-60s, they’re not contemporary, either…)

The Lord Peter Wimsey Mysteries by Dorothy Sayers
I finished the final three books of this series in 2024, and GOSH are they good. The Nine Tailors was an excellently plotted mystery, but the final two books were masterful. I’d heard over and over that Gaudy Night was the best of the series, and now I understand why—but I think the final book is just as good. I love the deep character growth that Sayers accomplishes for both main characters in Gaudy Night, but the ending of Busman’s Holiday hit me hard—instead of solving the crime and wrapping it up nice and pat, it actually deals with the aftermath.

The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer
This was my first Heyer outside of a couple of her mystery novels, and it was so much fun. Sophy swoops into her cousins’ home, takes stock of everyone’s lives, and happily meddles in everything to hilarious effect. The witty dialogue and Sophy’s deft machinations were a delight. The ending went a bit off the rails, but I loved it anyway!

The Dean’s Watch by Elizabeth Goudge
I loved this book so very much, from its characters and themes to its setting (a fictionalized version of Ely, the English Cathedral city where I lived as a child). The Cathedral is almost its own character in the story, and the descriptions of both the Cathedral and the city evoked so many memories for me. Beyond the personal connections, the story itself is simply lovely, exploring the transformative power of kindness, compassion, friendship, and love—demonstrating love as the heart of faith.

Fantasy

The Curse of Chalion by Lois McMaster Bujold
This one checked so many boxes for me: court intrigue, a mysterious curse, an intriguing and thought-provoking magic/religious system, and a humble and clever protagonist who’s more than he seems. I loved the main characters and was infuriated by others. I’d heard Bujold was good, but somehow missed reading her until now—this will definitely not be the last book of hers that I read!

The Adventures of Amina Al-Sirafi by S.A. Chakraborty
The premise here is fantastic: a 40-something single-parent retired female pirate is pulled back into the seafaring world for “one last job.” Of course there are… complications. The fantasy elements are woven into an impeccably-researched story (complete with sources at the back). I loved the characters, I loved the writing, I loved the story—and I’m looking forward to reading more of Amina’s adventures (because it’s never one last job).

Children’s

The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill
This has all the wonderful trappings of a fairy tale—a misunderstood witch, a young girl bursting with magic, selfish city leaders, and a tiny dragon!—and it combines those ingredients to explore themes of found family, truths revealed, sorrow, and love.

The Hotel Balzaar by Kate DiCamillo
I love Kate DiCamillo so, so much. I read both of her Norendy Tales books this year, and wanted to hug both of them. (This one edged out The Puppets of Spelhorst by a slim margin, but both are highly recommended.) The Hotel Balzaar explores the power of stories—seven, to be precise—told to young Marta, each in its proper order, at its proper time. The stories frustrate Marta’s expectations as she struggles with her own sadness and worries over her father, who is missing. I loved watching the way Marta is transformed as the stories gradually reveal their truths.

Nonfiction

Lost & Found by Kathryn Schulz
This exquisite book was one of my first reads of 2024. Schulz reflects on losing her father and finding her partner, offering a beautiful meditation on grief and loss, love and finding, and how both are inextricably linked. One of the things that fascinated me about this book is how individual her experiences were, of both loss and finding. It was fascinating to feel like I was inside someone else’s experience, able to understand how different it was from my own—and also to resonate with her reflections, even where my experiences of love and loss feel vastly different. And her writing is gorgeous: from sentences to structure and pacing—it’s impeccable.

Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H
This is such a powerful memoir—written under a pseudonym, Lamya narrates her experiences as a queer Muslim woman, from her childhood in the Middle East to her life as a student and young adult in New York City. She recontextualizes stories from the Quran, finding strength and hope in her faith (as well as in the queer community around her). So many of her readings and interpretations resonated with me in my own journey with the Bible.

The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory by Tim Alberta
This was excellent, but challenging, because the content is so troubling. Alberta offers a detailed and nuanced look at the rise of Christian nationalism in the US, going back to Jerry Falwell Sr. and the “Moral Majority” of the 80s, and exploring the current political landscape from Trump’s first term through COVID, Black Lives Matter, and beyond. Alberta weaves in the stories of pastors and Christian leaders both inside and outside the Christian nationalist camp. One of the book’s many strengths is that Alberta is a Christian himself, and does a fantastic job of setting Christian nationalism alongside the actual teachings of Jesus and the actual words of the Bible. He draws a stark contrast between Christianity and Christian nationalism—calling Christians back to the truth of their faith rather than the lure of transitory political power. Highly relevant and highly recommended.

The Cross and the Lynching Tree by James H. Cone
It’s a measure of my own privilege that the parallels between the cross and the lynching tree are ones I’d never considered. Never had to consider. Cone explores these parallels as well as the way the cross provided a radical identification with Jesus for the black community during the era of lynching in the United States. I read this just before Easter, so I went into Good Friday with the image of the lynching tree standing behind my reflections on the cross. This was profoundly uncomfortable. But it also deepened my experience of Good Friday and rightly refocused my eyes on Christ’s radical identification with the oppressed. I’d highly recommend this to anyone interested in issues of racism and religion in the United States. It’s a heavy, troubling read, but an excellent one.

Also:
An Altar in the World by Barbara Brown Taylor—A beautiful exploration of non-traditional spiritual practices: of finding God in the everyday. The chapters on getting lost and finding purpose were especially meaningful for me.

Into the Silent Land by Martin Laird—This made connections between the practice of contemplation and the fruit of the practice in ways that clicked for me. I’ve found centering prayer to be a profound exercise in trust and letting go, and Laird’s descriptions of the journey into silence resonated with that experience. It’s one of the best books I’ve read on Christian contemplative practice.

The Last Advent in Palestine by Kelley Nikondeha—A deeply reflective and also heartbreaking read, given current events in Gaza. Nikondeha positions the stories of Advent in their historical as well as present-day context, offering fresh insights and thought-provoking connections I hadn’t previously considered. Her discussion of Mary and Elizabeth as a story of resistance was profoundly moving.

Surprise!

—cartoon by Nathan W. Pyle

“Oh, but we should talk about your career. Because don’t you want to be doing more than just checking documents in and out?”

It was a mean and petty question, and under the pretense of career development, he asked it to make me feel small. He asked it to put me down. He asked it to avoid, to deflect from a difficult conversation about an issue he didn’t want to address.

He knew very well it was a diminishment of my role, a mischaracterization of the work I actually did, and at the time I unfortunately took the bait and argued with him about the nature and value of my work. And a year later, I finally quit.

But that question—and its meanness, its pettiness—stuck with me.

Until months after I’d quit, when I realized that my answer to that question was yes. Of course yes. In that job, I did far more than “just checking documents in and out.” But I wanted more. More than that job, more than that kind of leadership, more than meanness and pettiness and refusal to listen.

Sometime between that “don’t you want to be doing more” conversation and the time I quit that job, I came across the poem “Sweet Darkness” by David Whyte, which closes with the lines:

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet

confinement of your aloneness

to learn

anything or anyone

that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

I hung on to that. Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.

That job did not bring me alive. That manager did not bring me alive. They were both too small for me. It took some separation, some giving up, some space to breathe—some darkness, and some aloneness—before I could really absorb that, before I could wonder about stepping into something that does bring me alive.

Many people choose a “word for the year,” finding it a valuable way of expressing their hopes for the year to come. The times I’ve tried the practice myself, it hasn’t really clicked for me. It’s felt a little false, as if I’m trying to contrive some magic word that will grant my wish, like rubbing Aladdin’s lamp or blowing out a birthday candle. And I don’t have a lot of faith that reality will work that way.

But I guess I can get on board with a retroactive word. Because looking back, I think my word for last year was “more.” I quit that job because, yes—I wanted more. And the year turned out to be full of “more”—unexpected and yet also perfectly-fitting “more.”

But this year, I think I have a word for the year. Well, two words. Surprise and curiosity.

Let me just clarify: I don’t like surprises. For several reasons.

For one, they make me feel excluded, left out, and forgotten. So often with surprise parties, in order to maintain the surprise, secrecy takes precedence over inclusion. Instead of feeling special, the honoree feels like everyone has forgotten them. It’s almost a point of pride with the surprise planners to make the person think no-one remembered them on their birthday (or whatever occasion is being celebrated). Why people think this is a good way to celebrate a loved one, I have no idea. It certainly doesn’t make me feel loved or celebrated.

Two other reasons I don’t like surprises: trust, and control. I like to have the latter, and I don’t have a lot of the former. The couple of surprise parties I’ve been subjected to, as a matter of course, have left me out of the planning. Which is fine if the people planning the surprise know me well, but not so fine if they don’t know my preferences, likes, and dislikes. (Perhaps most significantly, my dislike of surprise parties.)

The birthday surprise I remember most vividly was planned by a group of people I’d known for about two months. In the lead-up to my birthday, I had expressed a desire to be involved with planning my birthday celebration. This was ignored. Instead, there were several instances of people talking about a surprise party in thinly veiled terms in front of me. I felt excluded and left out of my own celebration. I made it known that if they were planning a surprise, they should probably know that I did not like surprise parties. This was also ignored.

On the day before my birthday, our community was involved in a service project, during which the exclusionary and coded conversations continued, both behind my back and in front of me. I grew more and more frustrated as the afternoon went on, and I finally said to someone that these thinly veiled whispered conversations made me feel like crap. I felt like I was the butt of their joke, as they whispered and laughed and looked over at me meaningfully.

Finally, a couple people came over and told me that they would be going to a concert that night.

I replied with: “Well, I hope you have fun.” And I walked off.

Not one of my finest moments.

All this to say: not a fan of surprises.

So it was a surprise (ha!) when during an Advent retreat I attended in December, the words “surprise” and “curiosity” emerged for me. Somehow pairing curiosity with surprise makes surprise a bit more palatable to me. Because curiosity? Curiosity takes a step back and wonders. Curiosity releases control. Curiosity trusts that there will be something worthwhile to discover. And when seen through the lens of curiosity, surprise doesn’t feel exclusionary or assumptive. It places me in a mindset where I can welcome surprise as a good thing.

One of my favorite quotes is from the very end of Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen. And what do you know, it closes with the words: “Surprise me.”

“We try to be formed and held and kept by him, but instead he offers us freedom. And now when I try to know his will, his kindness floods me, his great love overwhelms me, and I hear him whisper, Surprise me.”
—from Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen

The “him” of this quote is God. The one who says: “Surprise me” is God. That always staggered me: the idea that when I seek to know God’s will, he would trust me enough to say, “surprise me.”

Trust. There’s the other aspect of surprise I have a hard time with. But Hansen flips that on its head. Never mind me trusting God, with a surprise or anything else. Hansen suggests: God trusts me. God floods me with kindness, overwhelms me with love and says: I trust you. Surprise me.

Another poem “just happened” to cross my path before I quit that job. This one feels like a poem for beginnings—ultimately, it’s a poem about birth. I go back to it often because of the way it stirs up a familiar desire for things that bring me alive. It resonated in my mind as I stepped out of that too-small position and into the unknown. Into the surprise, if you will. And I’ve been revisiting it in this first month of the year, as I walk into 2025 with curiosity, welcoming surprise.

Go to the Limits of Your Longing
Rainer Maria Rilke

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

—Book of Hours, I 59
Translation by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows

J-O-Y

“Toward Joy” by Kai Skye

“I heard someone in an interview the other day say that no one gets to take her joy. I’ve been coming back to that now & then over the last couple of days & this morning, it struck me that, in my life, it’s less that someone took my joy than that I decided to give it to them to keep the peace…”
—Kai Skye, from Flying Edna’s Story a Day for Nov. 17, 2024

“I decided to give them my joy to keep the peace.” Oof. How many times have I handed over my joy? I don’t know if I can count them.

That time in a committee meeting when I suggested an idea and it was ignored, only to later be parroted by a man in the room—to great acclaim from the rest of the committee.

That time during a Zoom meeting when I literally thought my microphone wasn’t working (although it was) because of how many times people interrupted and talked over me.

That time I gave up on trying to be understood by a manager who refused to listen.

Over and over, when I stopped speaking up for myself after countless times of being ignored.

It becomes wearying—demoralizing, even. It’s easier to hand over the joy, to give up, to shut up, than to keep trying. It’s easier to keep the peace. To avoid being “that person.”

Reading the above quote got me thinking about some of the messages I’ve absorbed over the years—as a woman, and as a Christian. So many influences floating around in the cultures in which I was raised taught me that I need to put myself and my own needs last.

Women are largely socialized to keep the peace, to be nice, to make sure everyone else is taken care of before attending to their own needs. In general, to put others first and themselves last. And in Christian contexts, selflessness is taught as a high value—a message I managed to interpret as always putting myself last. Well, some of it was my own interpretation. Some of it was overtly taught to me.

I remember singing a song in Children’s Church that claimed to teach the true meaning of joy. (Sung to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” As you do.)

J-O-Y, J-O-Y,
This must surely mean
Jesus first
Yourself last and
Others in between

“Yourself last.” Yep. There it is.

Then in Sunday School, I memorized those verses from Philippians:

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.” (Phil. 2:3-4)

The last part there somehow didn’t sink in for me—the part after the “but.” The part that indicates what you’re supposed to do instead of putting yourself first: “each of you [looking] to the interests of the others.” The verse does say to value others above yourself. But it goes on to say that we’re all supposed to be looking out for each others’ interests. And that’s where I’ve struggled.

I’ve found myself in so many contexts where others were not looking out for my interests. I’ve handed over my joy, my well-being, my best self, to those who had no concern for my own needs—because I’d internalized the message that I always come last.

While I wholeheartedly agree that putting others before self is a Christlike virtue that needs to be practiced far more widely than it is, there’s a big difference between looking out for the interests of others and always putting yourself last. There’s a balance there—or there should be. And joy certainly does not “surely mean” perpetually putting yourself last.

But what does joy mean, then?

Over the past several months, I’ve been participating in a weekly practice called “5 Joys Friday,” on my favorite bookish social media site. The challenge is to list five things—large or small—that brought you joy during the week. It’s been challenging me to look for joy—well, everywhere. Whether it’s a beautiful amber half-moon in the sky, a poem I stumbled upon, or the tasty soup my husband made for me while I was sick—this practice is building in me a habit of looking for the joy that’s already there. As Mary Oliver would say:

“…to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world—

 to instruct myself

 over and over
in joy, 

and acclamation.”

I don’t know if the habit of looking for small joys is counteracting that message of putting myself last. But it is putting joy back into my own hands, as I “instruct myself over and over in joy,” and as I notice glimpses of God in the world around me: in people, in food, in poetry and nature and music. And it is rooting my joy in things that aren’t easily handed over in order to keep the peace.

Mindful

Every day
I see or hear

 something

 that more or less
kills me

 with delight,

that leaves me

 like a needle
in the haystack

 of light
It was what I was born for—

to look, to listen,
to lose myself

 inside this soft world—

 to instruct myself

over and over
in joy, 

and acclamation
Nor am I talking

 about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,

 the very extravagant—

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations
Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help
but grow wise

with such teachings

 as these—

the untrimmable light
of the world,

 the ocean’s shine,

 the prayers that are made

 out of grass?

—Mary Oliver

Sabbath as an Act of Trust

We often read the story of the manna in the wilderness (Exodus 16:2-30) as a story of God’s provision—and it is. But it’s also a story about trust, as well as a story about rest. When the Israelites grumble about not having enough to eat, God provides “bread from heaven” and instructs them to gather only what they need for each day. As is usual with large groups of people, not everyone follows instructions. Some gather more than they need, and subsequently discover that the extra goes bad overnight. Lesson learned: take just what you need. Trust that God will provide what is needed tomorrow.

Then comes the end of the week. They’ve been instructed to gather twice as much on the sixth day of the week, so they can rest on the Sabbath. And, again, as is usual with large groups of people, not everyone follows instructions. Some of the Israelites head out on the Sabbath to gather more bread, only to find that (just as God had told them) there was nothing to gather. Lesson learned: set aside time for rest. Trust that what God has already provided will be enough.

I may be a rule-follower myself, but I still really identify with those people who didn’t follow instructions and kept some extra for the next day. I also identify with the people who headed out on the Sabbath to gather more bread. (I also wonder if they’re the same people. I’d guess that several households still had vivid recollections of what happened when they took too much, and were worried about keeping extra overnight. If I’d gathered too much and found it went bad, I’d definitely be worried about keeping extra at the end of the week!)

I have a hard time trusting that I’ll have enough (just like the people who gathered extra), and I feel like I need to make sure things are taken care of (like the people who went out to gather on the Sabbath). I need to gather plenty while it’s there, because I don’t necessarily trust that God will come through with more tomorrow. Or, I don’t trust that what God has given me will last, so I head out when I’m supposed to be resting, to gather more.

So often, I live from a scarcity mentality: worried that there won’t be enough, or that there won’t be enough for me. Worried that what God promised wasn’t true, and that there won’t be more the next day. Worried that God won’t provide, so I’d better hoard what I have. Or: worried that what I have won’t be enough, so I’d better go out looking for more.

I have a feeling that many of those Israelites who didn’t follow instructions were stuck in that same kind of scarcity mentality. There are a lot of ways that living in scarcity can manifest for us today. You’re probably familiar with the concept of revenge bedtime procrastination. The idea is that when you don’t have enough free time in your day, you sacrifice sleep to get some time to yourself. You procrastinate in getting to bed, exacting revenge on your too-full schedule by grabbing leisure time at bedtime—at the expense of your sleep. This leisure time is almost always spent on our phones—further disrupting our rest when we do finally get to bed.

Sound familiar? We’re mad that we didn’t have enough time today, we’re worried that we won’t have enough time tomorrow, so we trade true rest for perceived leisure. We steal from our sleep so we can feel like we had enough time today, almost guaranteeing we won’t have enough time tomorrow, and the cycle will repeat itself.

When I think I don’t have enough time, it seems counterintuitive to slow down, let alone to stop completely for a day of Sabbath rest. It seems like what I need is to speed up. Go go go so that I’ll eventually have enough time to stop. But that’s counterintuitive, too.

Really, what I need is trust—and rest. Trust that God will do what he has said, trust that God will give me what I need, when I need it. I waste so much mental and physical energy trying to make sure I have enough, trying to make sure everything is taken care of—when God has assured me that I can rest, because He’s got this.

The scarcity mentality is the opposite of what God promises. God promises enough. God promises we’ll have what we need. And God even promises abundance—extra on the sixth day—so we can rest on the seventh day. Rest from worrying about tomorrow. Rest from the daily hustle to get ahead.

That’s what Sabbath is: God actually commands that we rest.
God gives us what we need, when we need it.
God gives us enough, so that we can rest.

And also:
God asks us to prepare for the Sabbath, to set aside that extra day’s worth of bread.
God asks us trust that our preparation will be enough.
And God asks us to rest anyway—even if we feel like we didn’t do “enough.”

In John 6 (verses 30-51), we see Jesus revisiting this story. And we hear that just as God provided bread in the wilderness for the Israelites, he now provides Jesus: the bread of life. It’s significant that this particular passage, where Jesus teaches that he himself is the bread of life, comes right after the miracle of feeding the five thousand. Jesus has quite literally just provided more than enough food for a large crowd of people. The next day, they track him down, hoping for another meal. They ask him for a sign, like the bread in the wilderness, and Jesus tells them:

“I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”
—John 6:35

Jesus doesn’t give them more bread. He offers so much more than the all-you-can-eat bread-and-fish lunch of the day before. He offers himself. And Jesus himself? Jesus is more than enough.

On Generosity
by Walter Brueggeman

On our own, we conclude:
there is not enough to go around

we are going to run short
of money
of love
of grades
of publications
of sex
of beer
of members
of years
of life

we should seize the day
seize our goods
seize our neighbour’s goods
because there is not enough to go around

and in the midst of our perceived deficit
you come
you come giving bread in the wilderness
you come giving children at the 11th hour
you come giving homes to exiles
you come giving futures to the shut down
you come giving easter joy to the dead
you come – fleshed in Jesus.

and we watch while
the blind receive their sight
the lame walk
the lepers are cleansed
the deaf hear
the dead are raised
the poor dance and sing

we watch
and we take food we did not grow and
life we did not invent and
future that is gift and gift and gift and
families and neighbours who sustain us
when we did not deserve it.

It dawns on us – late rather than soon –
that you “give food in due season
you open your hand
and satisfy the desire of every living thing.”

By your giving, break our cycles of imagined scarcity
override our presumed deficits
quiet our anxieties of lack
transform our perceptual field to see
the abundance………mercy upon mercy
blessing upon blessing.

Sink your generosity deep into our lives
that your muchness may expose our false lack
that endlessly receiving we may endlessly give
so that the world may be made Easter new,
without greedy lack, but only wonder,
without coercive need but only love,
without destructive greed but only praise
without aggression and invasiveness….
all things Easter new…..
all around us, toward us and
by us

all things Easter new.

Finish your creation, in wonder, love and praise. Amen.