Reviewing: A Glorious Dark

A Glorious Dark: Finding Hope in the Tension Between Belief and Experience
A.J. Swoboda

When I read a book, be it fiction or nonfiction, and I come across something that strikes me—a turn of phrase or an important point—I fold the corner of the page over, marking that spot.  Then, when I’m finished with the book, I go back to that page, reread it, and see if something strikes me again.  If it does, I must have really meant it, and I underline it. 

In A Glorious Dark, I had 23 pages folded over.  In a 15-chapter book.  And I almost skipped the folding over and went straight to the underlining.

A.J. Swoboda has a way with words.  He mixes humor with heartfelt vulnerability and thought-provoking seriousness, and he does it all against a backdrop of Good Friday, Easter Sunday, and the in-between Saturday. 

It has been said, “It’s Friday, but Sunday is coming.”  That is almost always spoken to move us quickly from the trauma, the sadness, the fear of Jesus’ death and into the celebration of His resurrection.  And Swoboda does start with Good Friday.  He starts with Jesus’ death, and he asks us to sit there in the numbness of it.  But then he doesn’t rush from that into the joy and celebration.  He calls us to pause and fully enter in to Saturday first.  Saturday, when Jesus had been killed and was dead in the tomb.  Saturday, when nobody knew Sunday was coming.  Saturday, when it seems like my life is falling apart, and I can’t even find a friend let alone God.  Saturday, where we live a good portion of our lives.  Saturday, where Jesus may have lain dead in a tomb but, just like a river in the winter, there is a glorious dark underneath.

I have truly never read a book like this.  It is with regret that I can only recommend A Glorious Dark to anyone who reads this review, and I can’t actually go out and buy a copy for every one of my friends, my family members, and people I don’t even know very well.


 Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers www.bakerbooks.com/bakerbooksbloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html.

Finding Hope

I just finished reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb.  It is a book that had long been on my "To Read" shelf on Goodreads, and I was excited to walk past it on the shelf at the library while I was stocking up on vacation reading . . . for my daughter.  (I'm not sure how looking for books in the Young Adult section led to me being in the adult fiction section, but those sorts of things happen to me.  Any time I'm around books.)

It's a long, long book.  Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read.  Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else.  At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long.  And then he says it.  On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

And that's it.

That's what all these things have in common.

And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers.  Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research.  And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza.  Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.

"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years.  The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds.  But they have hope.

I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD.  He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was.  But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.

For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me.  It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it.  Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it.  Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings.  Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School.  We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died.  And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere."  Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.

As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction.  And all I have to offer them is this.

Life is messy.

Life is violent.

Life is confusing.

But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.

Oh, my God.  He will not delay.
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always.  Always.

{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}

When We Last Left Our Heroes . . .

We used to be a bit more innocent.  A bit more naive.  A bit more trusting.  And we used to own a different laptop and have a shady back door or two.  Oh, and we had a piggy bank I painted when I was first pregnant, before anyone but Beau and I knew.

My last post was in May. Early May.  That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down.  I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party.  We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family.  It was busy, and it was fun.

And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail.  It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone.  He asked me to call him back right away.

My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car.  So I prepared myself for that.

Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."

Robbed.  Awesome.

Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken.  We also determined our back doors were both toast.  And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.

So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen.  We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done.  And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door.  And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them.  We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers.  And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.

Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace.  There are also emotional ones.  There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing.  There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police.  There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank.  And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids.  Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.

We've installed a security system.  And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects.  And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.

But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson.  Or maybe relearned it.  There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God."  (Ps 20:7)

And I know He won't let us down.  Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal.  I trust in the name of the LORD my God.

A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight

My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it).  I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer.  It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow.  It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night.  It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest.  It's broken.  But it's honest, and it's beautiful.  And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.

In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.

We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make.  And our tears were better than a hallelujah.

We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that.  But we still walked.  One foot in front of the other.  A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh.  And then a whispered prayer.  And then a sob.

And then the phone rang.

My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years.  One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack.  Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me.  He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had.  Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq.  You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do.  So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad.  Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life.  This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great.  We'll take it.  And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.

Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq.  We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch.  For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay.  He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well.  But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.

We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son.  A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost.  As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death.  Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did.  And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers.  There was a rifle salute and taps.  The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body.  He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.

And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can."  We did.  We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.

 But the memories . . . we can carry those further.  There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack.  Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared.  None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva.  And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself.  I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him.  Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.

Because that was Zack.  He was beautiful, and he was broken.  And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight."  He was tired, so he went Home.  And he was greeted with arms open to catch him.  To hold him while he rests.  And it is better than a hallelujah.

Thoughts On Saying Goodbye

Bruce Coeling died this morning.  He suffered a massive heart attack last Saturday and was never really responsive again after that.  His children made the hard decision to remove him from the machines keeping his body alive on Thursday, and around 1:30 a.m. on Friday, June 8, 2012, he died.  He was 67.  He is a father and a grandfather and a friend.

I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group.  Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team.  I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late.  The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello.  Because most of the time you just don't know.

As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life.  At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects.  In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident.  In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers.  How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents?  It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.

There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history.  We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone.  We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord.  And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them.  That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death.  We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land.  So we grieve, even while we celebrate.  When we grieve, we grieve with hope.  But we still grieve.  And it sucks.

I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there."  I wonder when Bruce really did die.  I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.

Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus.  I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial.  That is a pain that cannot be matched.  Life shouldn't include death.  But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times.  I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.

Saying goodbye is a funny thing.  We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain.  I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too.  This is a tender time.  And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts. 

Bruce Coeling died this morning.  He was only 67 years old.  But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.

Why Do We Want to Go to Church?

Overheard at the dinner table tonight:

Addie: "Why do we want to go to church tomorrow?"
Ellie: "Because it's Sunday."
Addie: "But why do we want to go to church tomorrow?"
Ellie: "That's what we do on Sundays."
Addie: "But why do we want to go to church tomorrow?"
Meg: "Because we want to praise God."

Amen, and amen, Meg.  Because we want to praise God.  Why do we want to go to church tomorrow?  Because we want to praise God.  It ended the conversation at our dinner table, certainly.  But it also answers a question that our pastor asked us last Sunday:

Why are you here this morning?

So many of us struggled to find the church answer--or even admit our honest answer.  Leave it to Meg to get to the heart:

Because we want to praise God.

A (Wo)Man After God's Own Heart

2001 was a rough year for our family and friends.  It began with several family funerals and ended with 9/11/01, when our grief became corporate, shared by the country.  Tucked in between were a separation between my husband and me, a desperate fight to come back together, and the death of my husband's best friend's twin brother.  It was a year from hell.  And I have never learned more.

Today in my Bible readings I read four different psalms.  The thing that strikes me most about David is that, despite his royal mess ups, God calls him a man after His own heart.  The sinning surely isn't what does that.  The sinning is just part of his job description as a human being.  We can't get away from that.  Now, maybe we don't do it quite as "big" as David, but I don't think that measurement is something God cares about. 

I think what God sees in David is his honesty.

In three of the psalms that I read today, David went from running "straight to the arms of God" (Psalm 11) to declaring, "Long enough, God--you've ignored me long enough" (Psalm 13).  Now I know that the psalms aren't necessarily listed in chronological order, but I do believe that God had everything to do with how the Bible is laid out.  He isn't surprised by the change in David's tune any more than he was surprised that Samuel "prayed his anger and disappointment all through the night" after God said that He regretted making Saul king (I Samuel 15:11 The Message).

And the best part is that God isn't angry about any of it.  I think He loves it.  In the heart of 2001, my Writer Friend shared with me a story of her high school boyfriend.  He and his dad used to play fight, and his dad would pat his shoulders, encourage his son to come at him with all he had, and say, "I can take it.  I've got big shoulders."  She said, "Beka, God can take it.  He's got big shoulders."  Another friend pointed out that while I was crying on the floor, God was lying there holding me and crying with me.  I began to picture Him sitting in His throne with me in His lap sobbing and pounding my fists on His chest.  And I've never been closer to Him.

I know that God is the only one who could have spared our friend's twin brother.  I also know that God is the only one who could have softened the blow from the bull's hoof on my cowboy cousin's chest, keeping his aorta from rupturing.  I also know that God is the only one who could have kept the planes in the air on September 11, despite evil's best efforts to crash them into buildings.  But I also know that God is the only one who can hold me while I cry, dry my tears, and help me heal.

So whether it's praying my anger and disappointment all night long, pounding my fists into God's chest as I continue to grieve the loss of one of our twins, or dancing with joy in front of Him, He is worthy of my honest praise.  It's the thing that makes me a woman after God's own heart.

Worthy, You are worthy
Of a childlike faith and of my honest praise
And of my unashamed love
Of a holy love and of my sacrifice
And of my unashamed love

"Unashamed Love," Jason Morant