Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy.
That is not our business and, in fact, it is nobody's business.
What we are asked to do is to love, and this love itself will render both ourselves and our neighbors worthy if anything can.
~Thomas Merton (1915 - 1968)
I have a stack of Thomas Merton books that I have yet to read, but this quote that I found at one of my favorite daily reads,
Quiet Life, has me inching my way closer to them. I do have quite a collection of to-be-reads on my nightstand. And in my purse. And on my shelves. And on the kitchen counter.
Buying books is one of my many weaknesses. When I'm in a thrift store, used book store or yard sale, they call to me. I usually find at least one that is going to either complete or change my life, and into the shopping cart or bag or basket or under the arm it goes. Sometimes I know right off the bat that I'm not going to read it, that I just like the look or feel or smell of it. Sometimes I get very excited and I read the first three chapters before I misplace it or lose interest or another book comes along. And sometimes I do get all the way through. But if I don't even turn the first page, I don't feel badly about buying a book. First of all, I look at it this way: it's kind of like rescuing an orphaned cat; I know that I can give it a good home, adore it, parcel off a comfy place for it to rest, and that will give us both a warm feeling. Secondly, I consider books a very inexpensive decorating tool. What looks more interesting than a wall of books, a stack of books, a book in your hand? What empty shabby chic bird cage or glass urn full of white Christmas lights could I buy that would ooze with as much potential? Because, while I love antique furniture, and ironstone dishes, and porcelain tubs, and blue glass, and old lamps, and just about anything made of real wood, vintage books are fashioned of stuff which actually tells you their story, sometimes in more ways than the story itself.
For instance, when my children and nieces and nephews turn six, I try to make sure they get a copy of
Now We Are Six by A.A. Milne. When Sweetheart was a turning six, I happened upon two copies of this book, one in a mediocre antique store (you can find bookish surprises everywhere, so I never assume there's nothing!). In the inside cover was lettered the inscription, "Happy Birthday, Jack! Now you are six! With love from Mother and Daddy" and it was dated 1936. So I know now that this book was purchased for Jack on his 6th birthday in 1936. Fun thing is, my nephew's name is Jack, so while he was yet a toddler, I tucked this book onto my writing desk shelf and, miracle of miracles, remembered to pull it out, add my own, "Happy Birthday, Jack!" inscription, and send it to him for his sixth birthday!
I recently became a blogger reviewer for Thomas Nelson Publishers, which is great because I get advanced copies of excellent books, but it's also a challenge because I have a deadline, and that can pose a problem for a highly distracted, slow reader like this gal. It kinda makes me break out in a sweat, but I think I can handle it.
What really makes me break out in a sweat, though, is when someone loans me a book! I gave up on borrowing books from the library long ago, because I'm pretty bad about returning things I've borrowed (remember that when you consider lending me your last copy of...well, just of anything), so when someone loans me a book, I enter into this kind of tug of war with myself. Accept the book and then just give it back a week later, unread? Accept the book and put it on my nightstand where it becomes lost in a pile of other hopeful thinking? Accept the book and lose it forever?
If I had learned anything from my nature, I would simply tell the lender kindly, "No, thank you. Being given a book to borrow is kind of like an arranged marriage for me. My heart's simply not in it, and I'm afraid it won't get the attention it deserves. It will all end in tears, to be sure."
That's why I don't post a list of what I'm currently reading. It would be a huge list, and it would rarely change. As a matter of fact, I have a friend who talked me into joining GoodReads, and I'm ashamed every time I see her name pop into my inbox with a new update. She reads circles around me! Book after book after book, fiction, non-fiction. One or two a week! And as much as I'd like to say that I have a good excuse, I have children and a husband and a busy life, even when I've been virtually childless for three weeks, I've not managed to reduce my reading pile.
Perhaps I should work harder on applying my love without inquiry to people as I do to books. It's what I've been commanded to do, right? Even those difficult people who chew me out, make me feel like poo, then drop out of my life or pretend like nothing ever happened? How hard would it be to tuck those relationships under my arm and bring them home, give them a nice, sturdy shelf on which to rest, and revisit them as I'm able, as I'm called to them? Maybe I need to crack some of the older ones, the neglected ones, open, see what kind of history they have, what stories and lessons are there to be shown to me, to marvel at their illustrations and dog-ear their pages with my attention, to make notes in their margins. Not to borrow those friendships to be returned another day, to be penalized for their loss, but to accept them for keeps, to treasure them and look at them as my life's best adornments, digesting every word, even if the endings are not how I would like them to be.
Perhaps then I would be rendered worthy.
