Battle of Literature

I have an urge to write, but only nebulous ideas for a subject. This sudden outburst of undefined creativity is inspired by Edgar Allen Poe, whom I have more or less despised since 4th grade.

For at least a few months now, I've been reading through American Tradition in Literature: Volume 1. It's an overview of our country's history through the writings of of its prominent citizens. Currently I am at Poe, and it's highly fascinating in some ways. See, I view literature as a chance to  become acquainted with the author, and Poe is definitely a study! His writings range from slightly dark/strange poetry, to grotesque stories of the occult/insane, to perfectly rational critiques of other authors' works. And I think I've figured him out.

Poe has a decent helping of PTSD, plenty of bipolar to go around, and a pinch of Satan worship.

In any case, I just finished an article Poe wrote- a favorable critique of Nathaniel Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales. It piqued my interest because some of their styles have a bit of overlap, in fact, some of their writings are super similar, but I prefer Hawthorne WAY more.

And of course, since I'm (borderline) obsessed with introspection and psychology, I had to delve into my own psyche.

Both Poe and Hawthorne wrote stories of the darkly mysterious, where reality and symbolism are all tangled up together until you start to question both. But Hawthorne's stories always have an insinuated point/moral, or a slight glimmer of hope, or both. On the other end of things, Poe, at least in his darker writings or emotional states, just ends his stories at the bleakest, most confusing moment. I think this style was designed to create a certain, strong emotional effect, but for me the emotion is too straightforward (always gotta complicate things!) and somehow incomplete. Poe can horrify and confuse me, but Hawthorne can hold me, hovering halfway between hope and despair with horror; he can let his characters into my head/heart where they find our commonalities. Their evil reflects my own, their struggles mirror mine. And this second effect is much more powerful for me. It's just way more captivating and well-rounded.

And you should read The Scarlet Letter.

I also think I trust Hawthorne more. While he dives into the supernatural realm, he does it with a bit of balance. He writes of fiends (demons) and Satan and witches, but with at least a vague sense of the Divine (God) in the background. Wrong and right are kept firmly in place even while they are tested and questioned. Poe's exploration into the invisible is off-kilter. Rationality is thrown unceremoniously out the window and hope is entirely dismissed. He chokes up his own talent by choosing to write with fear and confusion rather than the much more powerful literary tool of contrast.

Of course, I'm not an expert, just a nerd. 😅 And since my English IV class this past year went through The Scarlet Letter, I've studied Hawthorne much more than Poe. I'll probably go back and reread some of Poe's stories to see if I can understand them (and him) better, and then update you of any changes in my opinions stated here.

Happy Reading! (Remember the assignment I gave ya'll? 😉)

~Dolly

P.S. After some rereading, I'm only slightly less confused than I was originally. My point still stands, as far as I'm concerned.

Empty Places

A memoir assignment in English IV landed around the one-year anniversary of my grandparent's death. Here's what I wrote:

"I love you Grandma!" a little girl exclaimed while rolling out sugar cookie dough. Flour and sugar dusted the table, as well as most of her lime-green jumper and one small eyebrow. 

"I love you Grandpa," that same girl, a little older now, thought as she climbed out of a farm truck. Her eyes sparkled as she thought of the joke they'd just shared.

That little girl was me. Years later, as I stood beside a pair coffins, part that little girl still inside me. . . died.

I clearly remember the weeks leading up to the car wreck. Grandpa and Grandma were going to go on a road trip across the United States, stopping in at friends' and family's houses on the way. Spring was coming- Easter was soon. Grandma talked of almost nothing else, and Grandpa talked of almost nothing (as usual). He still showed anticipation though, in his quiet way. Everything reflected hope.

Just a few days before they left, we stopped in for a quick visit. Grandma excitedly beckoned Mom and me over and pulled something out of her dress pocket- a cell phone! She showed us how it worked, told us how many minutes they had rolled over. Her excitement was contagious, and we all laughed before she gave me and Mom each an enthusiastic hug.

Then a few days after they left, a Friday- Good Friday- Mom and Dad called my brother and I downstairs. Somewhere in Wisconsin, there had been a random car wreck. But for us, it wasn't so random. Because Grandpa had died immediately. Because Grandma was in a hospital somewhere far away, on life support. This wasn't just a random wreck on the news. This was pain. Loneliness and uncertainty, yes; but nothing at all like random.

At first, there were no reactions. Just silence- then came quiet crying that morphed into sobbing; this was real. Dad flew out to Wisconsin that day. He came back and got me a week or so later, I think. Time blurs around these memories: there are clear scenes and moments, but no full, coherent timeline.

The hospital was comforting. Sterilely white; white walls, white hospital beds with white sheets, white ceiling, white tile floor that reflected the blindingly white lights. There were no emotions here. Everything moved on a schedule, everything was structured. Everything would be fine.

I spent a lot of time in Grandma's hospital room, and often there was just the two of us. I'd sit in an office chair that was about as tall as me and I'd color and pray. I also brought a paperback, spiral-bound hymnal and my Bible, and sang out of one and read out of the other. Days at Grandpa and Grandma's house had always been bookended with Bible reading, and Grandma and I used to sing together while washing dishes. I hung on to hope that those things would happen again.

Then on Dad and my last day in Wisconsin, a cocky young intern or something came in and started unhooking the tangle of wires and cords attached to Grandma's head. I asked why.

"Because she's just doing so much better!" he replied cheerfully, barely glancing up from what he was doing.

Hope! Maybe God wanted to help us!

We flew home shortly after that. Driving away from the airport, Mom and Dad started discussing what would happen when Life Support was pulled off. I freaked out. Uncontrollable crying; intense, sharp jabs of pain through my heart and stomach. Complete helplessness. Everyone knew this was coming. But Dad was dealing with so much that he'd forgotten to inform me of what was going on. So, I had no introduction chapter to grief- not for the wreck that killed Grandpa- not for the sustained injuries that killed Grandma.

Coming home was hard. As in, it-would-not-be-Christian-to-punch-this-person-in-the-face, kind of hard. Whom did I want to punch? Those relatives who put on an elegant display of tragic grief, the people I didn't know at all who introduced themselves just to force their grief on me, and definitely that lady who looked at me so sympathetically and insisted that things were absolutely terrible for me and I was completely miserable from being reminded of my horrible loss at every turn. "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy. . . long-suffering. . . " Sigh.

Now, as I sit in what used to be Grandma's kitchen and write about her, as I gaze out at the washroom where Grandpa used to come in to clean up and I write about him, I realize how much they taught me and how much their death changed me. From Grandma I learned industriousness, how to respectfully disagree, and the importance of loving those people you disagree with. From Grandpa I learned to wait for others to speak, to value words, to talk (safely!) to a stranger, and how to say things without speaking.

In losing them, I utilized what they taught me. I had to love those people I wanted to punch, and to express that love by letting them speak their grief. I had to learn to say, "I get it. I'm dealing with this loss, too," without talking, to use a simple facial expression to communicate openness and sympathy. I learned that people struggle, and I need to have patience and love them anyway. I learned that hurt doesn't come all at once, but in waves. Even now, over year later, some residual grief will wash over my heart, and its salt will sting the places that are still cut open.

But I can look back, back over what my grandparents taught me without saying a word, and forward- forward to seeing them again sometime, who-knows-when, and saying "thank you" for all the things they taught and still teach me.

You are honored, missed, still loved and forever(?) remembered. 

Am I a Good Samaritan?

Hello! Just imagine an introduction here: I have none. 😁

The Parable of the Good Samaritan

25 And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and tested Him, saying, “Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?”26 He said to him, “What is written in the law? What is your reading of it?”27 So he answered and said, “ ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind,’ and ‘your neighbor as yourself.’”28 And He said to him, “You have answered rightly; do this and you will live.”29 But he, wanting to justify himself, said to Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”30 Then Jesus answered and said: “A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, who stripped him of his clothing, wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. 31 Now by chance a certain priest came down that road. And when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. 32 Likewise a Levite, when he arrived at the place, came and looked, and passed by on the other side. 33 But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was. And when he saw him, he had compassion. 34 So he went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine; and he set him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. 35 On the next day, when he departed, he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said to him, ‘Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I come again, I will repay you.’ 36 So which of these three do you think was neighbor to him who fell among the thieves?”37 And he said, “He who showed mercy on him.”Then Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”

I've been reading a book Alana, one of the youth leaders at church, gave me. It's A Glorious Dark by A.J. Swoboda, and it's definitely something I'd recommend! (Like, go read it. Now.)

Anyway, in one of the last chapters, Swoboda starts talking about the parable of The Good Samaritan. Y'know, the story Jesus tells to teach us all to be "Good Samaritans" to everybody around us, right? But then he goes into a story about his friend who visited Tanzania, which is a really low-economy, physically unhealthy country. And the Tanzanians were all like, "Good Samaritans? Yeah! Those are all the people who come and help us!"

They identified with the beat-up guy!

Which slightly stunned me. I had no idea that there even could be another perspective on this story!

But what if the Tanzanian perspective is closer, and we're all just helpless people bleeding in a ditch?

Later that evening I was talking to my cousin Daisi, and told her what I'd read. We both like hearing/thinking about perspectives beyond our own, so I thought she might find it interesting. While we were chatting, something hit me, and when I passed it on Daisi thought it sounded well-thought out. I had just come up with it off the top of my head. That's a pretty sure sign someone *cough, God, coughcough* came up with the idea, and someone not being me!

Here's what He mentioned:

What if Jesus is the Good Samaritan?
I mean, He was God and human: Samaritans were Jew and gentile. Jesus was a misunderstood outcast, attacked especially by the Jews: Samaritans were social outcasts, and the word "Samaritan" was banned from being spoken by Jews. (I think. Either way, the Jews HATED Samaritans.)

And in context of a devout Jew asking Jesus a question, it makes no sense that the young hotshot would see himself as the Samaritan in this story! He'd want to admit to identifying more with a beat up guy than a... Samaritan.

Which puts a whole 'nother spin on the story. Think of it this way:
We go through life, and at some point, everyone gets knocked out by something. That tragedy, struggle, loss, addiction, etc. that leaves us completely powerless. We turn to religion (the Priest) or our learned knowledge (the Levite) for help, but they can't offer any solutions. We're disillusioned, spiritually/emotionally bleeding, and have no way to fix anything. Then a Samaritan comes...Jesus. We've heard of Him. He wants to take charge of our lives, He claims to be God, He's supposed to have done unrealistically amazing things. But He's the only one who can help and heal us.

We don't save anyone. He saves us.

Ouch. That dings the pride a bit. But isn't that kinda the whole idea of the Bible? It turns our thinking upside-down. I don't know why I always assumed this was the one story that could feed my ego a bit, because that's the exact opposite of the rest of Scripture! Scripture is about God showing me exactly who I am: nothing until He saves me and makes me everything.

Just to clarify: I am NOT gonna start saying "You're wrong! This is what The Good Samaritan really means!" Just... Scripture is deeper than any first glance, and I love when God peels back a layer to show the gems underneath.

Man, isn't our God awesome!?!

Wanna praise Him with me? 😊😇😄

~Dolly