I’m reading a book that I thought I wouldn’t like.  Sorry JT!  I thought the idea of it sounded cheesy and I couldn’t imagine the execution being anything but laborious.  I’m reading it for my book group–just a small group of women who like to read and discuss what we’re reading.  I’ve probably liked about half of the books we’ve read over the course of about a year and a half.  And sometimes the ones I haven’t liked have prompted the best discussions.  So, being open-minded, I set to reading Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson.  In the book, an aging father writes to his young son in a journal/letter form.  See…CHEESY, right?

NO!  Not right.  It’s beautiful.  Here’s an excerpt:

“For me writing has always felt like praying, even when I wasn’t writing prayers, as I was often enough.  You feel that you are with someone.  I feel I am with you now, whatever that can mean, considering that you’re only a little fellow now and when you’re a man you might find these letters of no interest.  Or they might never reach you, for any of a number of reasons.  Well, but how deeply I regret any sadness you have suffered and how grateful I am in anticipation of any good you have enjoyed.  That is to say, I pray for you.  And there’s intimacy in it.  That’s the truth.”

Maybe I like this because my grandmother is ill and I am having to adjust to the reality that her life is nearer to the end than the beginning and I long to know her like this.  Maybe it’s because I like honest writing about life–even the everyday and the mundane.  Or maybe because I have relationships that I wish were more meaningful.  Or maybe it’s because I’d like to know the inner thoughts of my parents more than I do.

Oh, well.  Whatever the reason, I like it!