The Greatest Miracle in the World

After a rejuvenating spiritual retreat weekend, a dear friend and mentor recommended that I read The Greatest Miracle in the World by Og Mandino. Recommended isn't quite right -- she gave me and the others who joined us on the weekend our own copies of the book, so certain is she of its potential impact. This book is vastly different than what I usually read and talk about here. It simply doesn't fit into the same category as the other literature, fiction or nonfiction, that I usually read. I don't, however, want to give away the plot of the book or any of the insights, as they carry the most weight within the story itself, but I'm desperate to share all the quotes I loved and connected with. So, to have my cake and eat it, too, I need you to go out and read it before reading any more of this post. Go on -- it's only 108 pages, and I'm sure you can find it in any bookstore or online as an ebook. You can probably even download it from your library and read it on whatever you're reading this. So go on -- read it, and then come back, and we can compare notes.

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See, wasn't it amazing?! Aren't you glad you read it before I spoiled all the surprises and told you my insights before you could develop your own? Yeah, I thought you would be. Just as the book is vastly different than what I usually read, so this blog will also be vastly different than what I usually write. Here goes.

Overall, I love the general premise that we are the greatest miracles on earth, each and every one of us. That we are each "the most valuable treasure on the face of the earth," that we are each "the rarest thing in the world" because we are so very unique, and just as importantly, because our Creator is a master at His trade (p. 97). I have no doubt that Mandino is right, that our colossal lack of self-esteem, stemming from a thousand different influences, makes us forget that we are this grand miracle. It blows my mind to think that we, that I am already God's greatest creation, even in my not-so-grand state, and even in the lesser state I am bound to be in some day through this pilgrimage (p. 96).

Since Mandino claimed earlier in the story that the greatest miracle is the resurrection of those who are essentially the living dead -- those whose lives have hit rock bottom and who have lost hope of it ever getting any better -- I was at first surprised that he seemed to change his claim in the God Memorandum. In the end, though, it's all the same miracle, just an ongoing one. That's an insight I keep coming across, over and over again every couple of years, that this miracle of a life full of peace that surpasses all understanding (Phil. 4:7) and joy that is complete (John 15:11) is ongoing, ever changing, a constant ebb and flow. I first discovered this thought while I walked the Pilgrimage of St. James many years ago, that although one day I had learned how to trust God for the physical and emotional strength to continue, I had to keep working on that trust every day. It wasn't like I had downloaded an updated version of my software and all of my doubts and fears were replaced with an impeccable will to trust and walk on; I have to activate that trust daily, hourly. It is my hope that after each valley through which I pass, I travel higher than the peak before, closer and closer to the One who travels with me.

The way that Simon describes the need for Og to read the God Memorandum nightly for 100 nights felt like a gentle shove in the right direction. I have no doubt that we "can actually become whatever [we] are thinking," and that "[w]e can do it for ourselves or others will do it for us" (p. 25). I know that whatever I spend my time doing becomes a part of who I am, that it "affects [my] actions and [my] life," and this reinforced it (p. 46). I hope the look I feel Simon giving Og in this passage comes rushing back to me each time I don't feel like doing something that I know will bring me closer to God -- reading, praying, writing, singing (even out of tune). Simon says it well: "Remember that the most difficult tasks are consummated, not by a single explosive burst of energy or effort, but by constant daily application of the best you have within you" (p. 85).

Those of you who know me might not be surprised that I have often struggled with the thoughts of simply becoming a drone for God -- blindly following rules and expectations because someone claimed God said it was to be so -- something that did not sound appealing to this woman, strong-willed, aware of what she knows and wants and unwilling to merely ask, "How high?" when told to jump. Recently, though, I heard a wise man say that God does not want us to simply act out a major play that He's written, but that instead God wants to create the future with us. Phrases in the book solidified this for me -- that God has intentionally given us the "power to choose" and "complete control over [our] own destiny" -- we are "not a slave of forces that [we] cannot comprehend" (p. 102, 101). Instead, God wants to rebuild the world with us, not in spite of us. I'm glad to hear the same message from two unrelated sources; this reassures me that my power of thought is a gift from God, not part of my nature that I have to lay down in order to pick up the cross and follow Him.

And just as I've relatively recently begun working through that lesson with God, there was likewise a lesson that I've struggled with since my elementary years. Simon calls it "our fear to take chances, to venture into unfamiliar enterprises and territories, and how even those few who risked their future in order to advance still found it necessary to constantly fight that compelling urge to flee back..." (p. 51). I can vividly remember my godmother, who was also my teacher in elementary school, talking about how so many of us would too often rather do nothing than risk making a mistake, and how that was simply not the way to go about life. There have been times when I've pointed out in my mind my own student who is missing out on so much by avoiding the chance for failure, and not long after shaking my head, I find myself hanging back as well, playing it safe to keep my reputation high, even if that means avoiding improvement or some phenomenal discovery. I feel I need to connect this thought with the one above about an ongoing pilgrimage -- why would it need to be ongoing if someone was expecting us to be perfect from here on out? It's easier said than done, but one more reminder is bound to help increase my understanding and application of this learning target.

Many thoughts Mandino addresses apply directly to my work in the classroom. I constantly keep these in mind as I work with students, and it encouraged me to hold on to this mindset as we begin a new school year in a matter of weeks. For instance, I love that Simon wanted to tell people about God through a memo, meeting his audience where they are and in terms they understand -- God does it with us, so why shouldn't we do it with others? (p. 45) Also, I always approach a new task with the mindset to "render more and better service than is expected of [me], no matter what [my] task may be" (p. 99). Most importantly, I always remember that the students with whom I work still want to "reach [their] full potential" regardless of the facade they may display, but it is up to me to convince them that I still care and that their improvement and success is of utmost importance to me (p. 61, 43). After all, "why not try to change the world?" -- because all of these ideas will undoubtedly change the world (p. 66).

The idea that knocked me flat, though, that left me speechless (which, as you may guess, is a rare occasion) was one that I have heard a million times but had never heard put quite this way: "to receive love it must be given with no thought of its return...[that to] love for fulfillment, satisfaction, or pride is no love" (p. 94). While my head is nodding away and murmuring that of course I know this is true, my heart is standing wide-eyed, jaw dropped, stammering incomplete questions about how to truly approach love that way. I'm still working on that one. 

And finally, I think the four "laws" from the God Memo are thoughts I need to read as often as possible, to help them seep into my mindset and out through my actions.

"Count your blessings.

Proclaim your rarity.

Go another mile.

Use wisely your power of choice." 

(p. 104)

Sharing a Watermelon with Grandpa

I've been thinking a lot about my Grandpa lately -- his birthday isn't around the corner, Father's Day last month didn't trigger it...but summer was Grandpa's time.

Memories flooded my entire apartment today as I cut up a watermelon -- memories of sitting on a 90s style lawn chair or, just as often, a 5 gallon bucket in my grandparents' back yard on Sunday afternoon, completely entranced by Grandpa cutting up the huge watermelon he'd picked from his own garden and chilled in his old ice box in the garage the day before we all arrived. We were all there with him, aunts, uncles, cousins, my own immediate family and Grandma, eventually, but not immediately. Sometimes I'd join him in the yard before all the others came out of the house. He'd "plunk" the watermelon with his large, knobby, arthritic knuckles, look at me from under his greasy ball cap and grin. He taught us all that the watermelon had to sound hollow when you plunk it; the more hollow it sounds, the more ripe it would be. And sure enough -- each time he cut a small triangle plug out of the melon to double check its ripeness, he would pull out a deep red flesh, sweet and juicy. Being the first in the yard meant that I got to eat the plug, and I was assigned to hold the other side of the wide cross section while he cut it into smaller pieces, more manageable for the little ones and those who cared about keeping the sticky juice off their cheeks. That rarely mattered to me, and it didn't matter this morning as I nibbled on my own melon while carving it up. We would pass around Grandma's salt shaker, assuring her that we weren't clogging the holes with watermelon juice. I was older than I'd care to admit before I found out many people eat melon without salt. Together the family would transform from a loud, buzzing swarm to a quietly munching group -- until the one feeling orneriest that day would start spitting the seeds, aimed specifically at someone's forehead. I don't remember Grandpa ever teaching us how to perfect our aim, but I certainly don't remember him stopping us either. Grandma, on the other hand, would get into quite a tizzy over our little watermelon seed wars.

I've been thinking of both of them off and on lately, each evening when I take my ice tea glass to the kitchen and hear him saying, "Yes, I put my cup on top the ice box -- I can just use it tomorrow, it just had tea in it, and it will again tomorrow..." and Grandma's immediate and flabbergasted response that it would be washed tonight, just as it always was. But standing there this morning, juice dripping from my wrists, my elbows, my chin, thinking the watermelon will be even better once it's chilled but unable to stop eating it, I think Grandpa was standing there with me, grinning from ear to ear.

A Different Perspective

I just finished Chris Cleave's Incendiary, which I originally picked up because I was so impressed with his Little Bee. I doubt I otherwise would have so willingly read a book about a woman coping with the loss of her husband and son in a fictional terrorist attack in London had I not held so much faith in Cleave's ability to teach me something new in a way that no one else can, and teach me he did. The entire novel is told from the unnamed narrator's very personal perspective, formatted as a letter begging the terrorists to stop. She tells us exactly how she feels, what she thinks, leaving no detail unmentioned. Cleave writes in stream of consciousness reminiscent of V. Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. She tells us just how grief can paralyze a person, and just how that same person can find the strength to continue on in a world unlike anything she could have ever predicted.

Just like with Little Bee, saying much of anything about the plot of Incendiary would be giving too much away, but I do want to share one of my favorite pieces: "...but you never can squeeze every last bit of pride out of a human being. It's like a tube of toothpaste. You can twist it and you can crush it but there's always a tiny bit left isn't there?" (p. 229).

And I'll end on a final thought, one of the very, very few positive and decent thoughts that Petra, one of our narrator's acquaintances, has to offer: "So be brave" (p. 165).

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Speaking of being brave, I highly recommend checking out Sara Barellies's new album The Blessed Unrest, on which is her newest single "Brave." The video for it is here.  As always, Miss Sara B. has somehow written songs that say what I was thinking three days ago, two weeks ago, the last year, and want to think for the next twenty. I'm considering making one of her lyrics my motto for the upcoming school year as I tackle the grand task of teaching our school's first year of AP Calc, which requires a whole different set of words that I haven't used in about a decade. 

"Show me how big your brave is." :)

Carrying On

Last night I finished Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried, and it blew me away. As an early Millennial, I feel I was exposed to a pretty traditional United States History Course in high school -- beginning with George Washington and Paul Revere in August, and ending with a rushed discussion of the aftermath of World War II in May. Thus, I've never formally studied the Vietnam War, but I had read parts of O'Brien's work in college before picking up the book. His words bring to life experiences I'll never really understand, and his vivid imagery made me feel as if I were sleeping in the "shit field" right along with him and the other soldiers. It was eye-opening for me, and I'm glad I learned about the conflict through his  perspective and not that of a cold, soulless textbook. This has more meaning, more truth.

O'Brien discusses several times the fluidity of truth when it comes to war stories, about how some are fiction and some aren't, but the best ones are those that have an impact on the listener, the ones that serve a purpose. Don't we often tell our stories this way, or at least in hopes that what we provide, truth or not, has the desired impact?

Although I was impacted by O'Brien's work, I am afraid I am still too much like his nine year old daughter when he took her to Vietnam -- too far removed from the situation, from the stories, to really understand their magnitude. I only know a small handful of men who served there, and I'm not close to any of them. I know, intellectually, that the War had a huge impact on our culture as a whole and on individual men and their loved ones across the country...but I don't personally know that impact. Being inside O'Brien's mind and emotions through his work is perhaps my only way to approach that level of understanding. Approach, but never truly grasp. I am also well aware that this issue is linked directly to events and people right now in our culture, and I hope that reading The Things They Carried can help me better understand the people who face our generation's version of the story every day.

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As my summer vacation begins and I dive into my mathematical lesson plans (calculus is a whole new way of thinking and teaching, in case you were wondering), I am also looking ahead at my fiction reading list. I am slowly but surely filling my small home with more and more books, and I'm hoping to chip away at the "Haven't read yet" stacks. Even so, I am always looking for more ideas as well, and these lists have recently helped me A) feel good about many books I've read over the years and B) find more titles to fill my shelves. 

http://www.buzzfeed.com/doree/books-you-need-to-read-in-your-20s

http://blog.ted.com/2013/05/31/your-mega-summer-reading-list-180-books-recommended-by-tedsters/

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/02/books/review/what-i-read-that-summer.html?pagewanted=1&_r=2&

If you've read any of these listed and recommend them, please let me know! Likewise, if you're interested in which ones I recommend from these lists, I'd be happy to share.

(I especially liked reading the first entry in the NY Times article, where I learned that my hero Louise also read Katherine Anne Porter's Ship of Fools, which is one of my all-time favorite books and yet one that most people have never heard of. It just makes me smile.)

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Lastly, polymath is now one of my most favorite words, and it gives me a goal to which I aspire to achieve. What will it take for me to be considered a full-fledged polymath?

Thankfully, a Very Different Time and Place

Over the last week, I read Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale; I couldn't put it down. My only concern in my hard-to-find moments of free time was whether or not Offred would ever make it out of this terrifying dystopian society, ever find her family and friends from the time before -- before she was reduced to a "womb with legs." Essentially, in the novel North American society has been overtaken by a group who believe only certain people are worthy of the rights and privileges we have today, and those who do not fit into that group are merely used for their services to the so-called greater good, while in reality they're required to serve the same group who decided who qualifies as worthy. In the case of the Handmaids, their only viable service is to use their bodies to propagate.

There's not a lot I can say about the plot without giving too much away, but I can say this -- what a motivation to promote valuing all lives, all people despite differences of opinion. Doesn't it boil down to that? In its simplest form, this is a story of a powerful group refusing to accept, refusing even to tolerate other human beings, reducing them to objects in order to justify using and discarding them. I'm not claiming we should not be passionate about our beliefs, values, morals; I'm insisting that shoving them down others' throats will never convince others to change their minds. Mandating beliefs is an oxymoron.

Addition:

The more I think on the whole novel, the more I think of a passage I want to point out.

Offred said: "But remember that forgiveness too is power. To beg for it is power, and to withhold it or bestow it is a power, perhaps the greatest" (p. 135).

I'm still pondering on just how much and what that means to me; right now it's still brewing in my mind, and I know it's strong. I just don't have words yet for how true that is for me.

Surprise Endings

         After months of listening to Louise Edrich's The Plague of Doves while working on crocheting projects and reading Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte on again and off again, I have to admit both endings surprised me. I tackled both stories rather haphazardly, picking them up and putting them down for something else -- either due to convenience, with the former on audio book, or sheer difficulty moving onward, with the latter. I don't think this approach fostered my prediction skills, but who knows.

        Let's start with The Plague of Doves, which I thoroughly enjoyed. As I mentioned in my post about The Round House, Erdrich starts the stories of these characters in Plague, and I have high hopes that these two books aren't the only ones about this particular family. Plague gave many, many smaller stories, and listening to it over several months did make it difficult to piece them all together and see how they were connected. (To my mathematical readers: sometimes it felt like a piecewise function made up of the most random components -- an absolute value grafted onto a cubic curve, grafted yet again onto a logarithmic, all with perfect continuity, and somehow still gracefully approaching infinity in the end. Can you tell I've been working with calculus this spring break?) Sometimes I wasn't sure why we needed to know about a certain person's specific experience, but as always, Louise brought it all together perfectly in the end, showing how each tiny detail played a role in discovering the true murderer from decades past. The interconnectedness of the characters, despite their inability to see it, fascinates me, and it makes me think about how such interconnectedness isn't a fictional characteristic of communities. It's like finding out that someone you've worked with for years knows someone you went to high school with (thank you, Facebook, for indicating mutual friends), except that's happening on a grander scale, and we are as oblivious to it as Erdrich's characters. Side note: I also found it interesting that just after I listened to a character's obsession with Anais Nin, she was described on The Writer's Almanac (where she was quoted as saying, "I write emotional algebra," which I think is cool), and she was mentioned on Bunheads (a tv show -- don't judge). While Nin seems a bit too intense for me to continue to follow, I just liked how so many small areas of my life intertwined for a moment.

    And then there is Jane Eyre. And here is where I might make some of my English major friends very unhappy. I really just didn't enjoy it. (*scramble under the desk to avoid being hit with projectile paperweights of a reader or two*) Personally, I've never coped well with romantic novels' explanations of the drawing room's curtains and the like. (Yes, it's true, I didn't like Austen all that much.) I also know that I read such literature through a 2013 feminist's lens, and that's simply not fair. It doesn't change the fact that I do; I just know it affects my perception of the story. I also know that some of my most feminist-driven friends love this book, which means it really is just my personal lens that makes it difficult for me. I didn't connect with Jane, and I was more than perturbed with Rochester for not being up front with her about Bertha before they were in the church. Seriously? I had a hard time letting go of that incident. I'm sure I would have enjoyed analyzing it for reflections of social norms (gender roles, perception of mental illness and poverty, all sorts of things) in a class in undergrad, but I don't think I would've enjoyed reading it to get to that discussion even then. I even watched the movie from 1996 in hopes that seeing it would foster my connection with Jane and Rochester, make me want them to be together forever. It didn't work. Jane -- both Eyre and Austen -- just aren't my cup of tea. (Pun intended.)

    With all of that said, I'm left with the great knowledge that it doesn't really matter that I have a huge literary crush on Erdrich and would rather leave Jane Eyre and the like for anyone else but me, even though it seems many, many people I know have the exact opposite opinions. (No one I've recommended Erdrich to has enjoyed her the way I do. No one. I even just found out that the professor who introduced me to Erdrich doesn't like her that much. Talk about a downer.) What matters is that I know what I like, and I try other pieces every now and again, and other people know what they like, and they try other pieces every now and again, too. So, take my opinions or leave them; I'm off to read another book from during or after the Modernist movement.

To another world...

In a mere week, I completed Louise Erdrich's The Round House, and now I find myself missing some of the characters. Wondering what happens next. How Joe fares after the final trauma of the novel. The moment I began reading the book, I fell into the world that Erdrich created, this time recognizing characters from The Plague of Doves and even a few names here and there from her earlier novels. That's how she always hooks me -- she plays on my desire to see how everyone ends up after the last page of the last book I read, how everyone becomes even more intertwined than before. Perhaps it's my small town heritage that feeds this desire; perhaps I just like maintaining the friendships she fosters. Regardless of why, I have a desperate hope that Louise someday tells us more about Joe and Margaret. About Geraldine and Bazil.

The novel is undoubtedly Joe's coming of age story, a story of how a summer that really wasn't about him at all became the most defining months of his life. It is about his mother and, more importantly, his family as a whole. The string of violence and trauma that Joe's family endures is horrendous, but his family shows how strong we can be in the face of such atrocities. How we can make some sense of complete and utter nonsense, and cope with the lingering nonsense that is never resolved. How we justify our actions, yearn for justice, for peace. How we want back what we knew before, and how we cope with knowing that nothing will ever be that way again. Coping, even transforming through coping -- both are vital threads of the story.

Between the award Erdrich has received for the book and its themes of gender, native, and justice issues, I foresee professors including this book in their syllabi soon. I hope this happens, at least -- it has the potential to open serious discussions about rape, tribal and non-tribal politics, justice, morals, religion, and the basic process of uncovering one's identity. I could only imagine the classroom discussions we could have when Joe and Cappy find themselves asking one another, "What are we?...What are we now?" Comparing their struggling, shaky sense of identity to Linda's strong understanding of who she is, despite her convoluted history. This is why I hope someday Louise writes more about Joe's life -- to find out just what he becomes, who he becomes, what good he does in the world. Whether or not Father Travis was right, that God does "draw good from any evil situation," even the evil that seemed to compound in Joe's life up until the final pages of the book.

If you love Erdrich and the world she has created, you'll love The Round House, too. If you don't know her yet, this would be an excellent way to get to know her, and then I highly recommend reading more of her works to see how all of these people are connected.