The Banya

“What pictures flash in your mind when you hear something about the public baths? Probable like most people, not very nice, do not have nothing to do with cleanliness, hygiene and enjoyable pastime. But it’s all superstition, friends. Currently, public baths, for example, up to 20 people, for the comfort of not much different from private ones… We are waiting for you to look in the Russian bath!”

-From www.banya-lefortovo.ru (translated by Google)

When my roommate John Mark and I began preparing to travel to Russia, we knew a visit to a banya would be in order. In our research we had read accounts of the renowned Hermitage Museum and the Mariinsky Ballet, but it seemed to us that nothing would display this country’s soul better than a steamy room full of naked old guys beating themselves with birch branches.

For the uninitiated reader, a banya is similar to a sauna, differing only in its steam, which is wet rather than dry. For centuries, Russians have visited banyas to wash, recover from illness, and enjoy community. As one Moscow banya claims: “In the life of a Russian man, the tradition of the washing bath holds a special place… banyas in Moscow bring the magical health benefits.”

Choosing the right banya was no easy matter. Like most tourists, John Mark and I were eager to escape other tourists. With this in mind, we bypassed any banya website written in English. Instead, we found websites made for Russians, and we relied on Google for a translation. Which is always a good idea.

The first website we found offered various banya experiences, including but not limited to the following:

-Russian bath on the 1^st person: 600 rubles, at one o’clock

-Starorussky massage – a broom in the steam room – 1 person (brooms not included): 1000  rubles

-Hovering in the steam room of honey – 1 person (honey is not included): 650 rubles

The banya also offered a service called “massage and the guy.” Massage and the guy was available for “honey massage the belly,” “lymphatic drainage massage,” and “massage cervical zony,” none of which sounded remotely appealing (or possible, considering my lack of a cervical zony). And although hovering in the steam room of honey piqued my interest—I’m only human—I worried this one was for pros only.

So we kept looking. After scrolling through pages of banya websites, we found Coachman’s Banya and decided it was the one. According to their website, “the walls of [their] baths remember Lenin, Dostoevsky, and Mussorgsky.” This would seem to go against our aim to avoid tourist traps, but the entry price of 150 Rubles ($2.17 USD) gave us hope that this banya was a local joint.

Owing either to a busy schedule or to sub-conscious trepidation, we waited to visit Coachman’s until our last day in Russia. Inside the poorly-marked building, a woman on the first floor sent us up three flights of stairs to the men’s banya. Walking through the door, we expected to find a lobby where we could pay. Instead, we’d entered directly into a dank locker room filled with wrinkled men in various stages of nudity. Inside a booth at one end of the room sat a dour man who would take our money.

When we travel, John Mark and I try to keep a low profile. We talk in low tones and try not to act blatantly American. I walked to the booth and blew my cover right away.

“One—um—one banya, please.”

I gave my rubles to the man, and he returned a few coins change. John Mark offered his credit card, but the man wouldn’t allow it. John Mark left to find an ATM, and I motioned to the man that I would return in a few minutes, but the man wanted me to take my money back first, an awkward process involving my counting back to him the change he had given earlier. John Mark and I descended the three flights of stairs, found an ATM several blocks away, and returned fifteen minutes later. So much for a low profile.

We found a locker for our clothes and walked into an adjoining room to shower. The room was lousy with naked men. I’d visited the Hermitage museum the day before, where I’d beheld the beauty of the human form in myriad paintings and statues. I’d seen men so elegant they resembled women, women so resplendent they looked like angels. Collarbones burst forth into marble wings.

The banya welcomed me back to Earth. No painting had depicted such lumps and sags; no marble bellies had grown so large as to fold into themselves. These men resembled nothing so much as spuds, which, if forgotten in a cool, dark place, might soon sprout roots. Looking at them and trying not to look at them, I thought, this is what I will look like in thirty years.

Not that my body is anything sculpture-worthy. After comparing myself to human perfection in gilded halls, there was a part of me that felt relieved to be back among my fellow unshapely men.

I showered and walked to a heavy wooden door in the back. This was it. I opened the door to an explosion of steam and walked in. My lungs seized and my eyes stung, and I stumbled toward a place to sit in the darkness. Several men shouted crossly at me, and I realized I had left the door open. I trotted to the door and closed it, trying not to laugh hysterically—my reflex response to awkwardness.

I sat. The room resounded with the sound of men beating themselves. I had read about the use of the venik, a bundle of birch branches soaked in water and used to beat oneself. Ostensibly, the practice draws blood to the surface of the skin and opens the pores. Somehow I had not imagined the beating to be so loud, so heartily administered, or to release such a pleasant aroma. The men employed the venik with gusto, boisterously whacking their arms, their chests, their thighs. I could feel the spray of their branches on my skin. They grunted and breathed; they loosed throaty yelps. It was hard to imagine women doing the same, only one floor above.

For me, there was something inherently masculine in the Russian banya. How many Russian men I had passed on the street, looking formidable and impassive. Here I saw these same men with guards dropped. Whatever burdens they carried through life, whatever bulwarks they raised to steel themselves, were here abandoned. Here they were only men. I wondered if they knew I was American.

John Mark sat beside me, and we sat and sweated in silence. Somehow, after anticipating the banya for several months, we had at the last moment forgotten to buy our venik. In the shower room, I’d noted rows of benches with buckets holding birch clusters. I considered taking one at random, but feared being confronted by a burly, nude man deprived of his birch. (Come back, birches!)

A man behind us lay down full length across a bench and enjoyed the beating of two friends on his back, buttocks, and legs. He seemed to enjoy it. As one banya’s website describes so poetically, “And what an unforgettable feeling of lightness and purity will give you an effective use of a broom experienced master!”

I wondered what a banya would look like in America, but I couldn’t imagine it. There is something too self-conscious in the American man, too well-groomed. Glancing discreetly at the other men in the room, at their slack, contented faces, I felt our key difference: None of them were thinking.

The heat rose. Or maybe it simply maintained its sweltering pitch. My body temperature climbed until sweat pattered on the floorboards between my feet. I couldn’t help thinking of an oven, and of poultry that I’d made edible in heat not much more than this. I finally fled the room and found the cold water tank in the shower room. I am squeamish about cold water, and also about tanks where hundreds of sweaty men have bathed, but none of that mattered as I climbed the ladder and dropped into cool, refreshing water. My muscles chilled. My whole body relaxed.

I was ready for another round.

At the door to the banya I found a trashcan of discarded birch clusters and stared into it enviously. Was I desperate enough to use another man’s venik? I grabbed the one on top and examined it, reevaluating my hygienic spectrum. These branches certainly weren’t “Used—like new.” The leaves were withered and still damp; worse, I had witnessed the most recent departure and could give their former owner a face—along with a belly and jocular buttocks.

I didn’t care. I hurried into the banya, climbed a platform where the heat was greatest, and commenced the beating. The leaves stung, and their bite only grew as the air baked them. My skin burned. I lowered my head and breathed deeply, letting my thoughts slow to a halt. John Mark came in from a dip in the tank, and he leaned forward so I could hit his back with the branches. I leaned forward while he returned the favor. All around, men were enjoying the “magical health benefits” of the sauna, and I too could feel the magic. Bowed and naked, sitting blankly in the primal heat, I felt like a man.

An Encouragement to Those Still Trying to Believe

It's been awhile, so I thought I'd post a short encouragement to anyone who needs it.

I was reading John 11. Jesus has barely escaped Judea with his life when He finds out that His friend Lazarus is ill. He waits two days and then decides to go visit. The passage goes like this:

(I've put in a few flourishes to emphasize how Jesus has some of the same social awkwardness as a homeschooler. No offense, Jesus. No offense, homeschoolers.)

Jesus: "We're going back to Judea."

Disciples: "Isn't that where people were just trying to kill us?"

Jesus: "Are there not twelve hours in a day? If anyone walks in the day, he does not stumble, because he sees the light of this world. But if anyone walks in the night, he stumbles because the light is not in him."

Disciples: [eye roll]

Jesus: "Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I go to awaken him."

Disciples: "If he's fallen asleep, he'll just wake up in the morning."

Jesus: "Lazarus is dead."

Disciples: "Who taught you to have a conversation?"

Anyway, here's the cool part, which I won't butcher by paraphrasing. Jesus then says, "For your sake I am glad that I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him."

1. Jesus was glad that Lazarus had died, so that his disciples could believe.

When things go wrong in my life, my first response is not naturally to believe. In fact, my first reaction is often to blame God--and also to say I told you so. You promised _____, but the opposite happened! I knew it, I never should have trusted you!

It's happened with all sorts of situations. I was believing for provision, but instead I got a speeding ticket. I was believing for freedom from sin, but instead I messed up more than ever. I was asking for healing, but I'm worse off than ever.

God, where were you?

Reading this passage, I'm wondering how many times Jesus has responded by saying, "I'm glad for your sake that I was not there, so that you may believe."

Jesus sees our defeat, and he's somehow using it to help us believe.

2. Negative Nancy

The second encouragement I take away from this is Thomas's awesome response. He turns to the disciples and says, "Let us also go, that we may die with him."

Ha! Way to be honest, Thomas.

In my life, I have sometimes acted like one of the more awesome disciples. Peter, the water-walker. John, the breast-leaner (...ew?). But just as often, if not more, I've been Thomas, refusing to budge until God gives me a sign, and sometimes staying faithful with no greater expectation than to die.

Somehow God honors that. I mean, probably he'd prefer that we simply take him at his word. But I do take comfort from the fact that God doesn't kick Thomas out of his gang, that Thomas somehow makes it into God's inner circle.

How often I've thought that my unbelief exempts me from God's favor, that I will be shunned from the fellowship of believers if I don't believe with the same exuberance as everyone else. After all, what place does a doubter have among believers?

But in Thomas we see that God doesn't shun the doubter. In fact, reading this passage, I suspect that God sees the humor in the doubter's complaints.

So I want to encourage anyone who feels like I've been feeling: afraid of believing, because you've been let down before. There's hope for you. Maybe you're like Thomas, sticking around with Jesus, if only to fail with him. Maybe you're expecting defeat.

But you've decided you're not going to leave. You've decided you're going to stay with Jesus.

God has something to show you. I believe it. I believe that, for all the devastation you've experienced, this is not the final chapter of your story. God may even be glad for the odds stacked even higher against you (against him). If the story of Lazarus is any indication, God may be about to do something wonderful.

Crop Signs

The water rose to my chin, and splashes got into my mouth. I was quivering in the frozen water. The sound was deafening. “Let’s get out of here,” I gurgled… Swimming against the sub-zero current that was trying to bring me back into the bus was complicated.

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This is an excerpt from my first novel, The Captives. I wrote it in Junior High. The storyline is so convoluted that it’s hard to give a synopsis, but here goes:

On his birthday, a Christian teen named David is on his way to school when his bus crashes into a river. All his friends drown, but David escapes only to be taken CAPTIVE by a ruthless gang which is touring the country kidnapping Christian teens and martyring them. He falls in love with a fellow Christian prisoner, Megan, and together they lead a revolt against the terrorist gang.

Obviously, The Captives is a literary masterpiece. I can’t resist offering a few more of my favorite quotes:

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What I saw made a shower of fear grip me and shred me to pieces.

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I didn’t want to stand there anymore—and I had gained a little bit of strength—so I walked towards the road slowly, mourning the loss of my friends… Some birthday this was turning out to be!

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“Were there any survivors?” My mom asked it, hoping for a glimmer of hope.

“No.” Mom’s tears flowed like the unstoppable river that had drowned so many people earlier that day.

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The whole hallway echoed with cheers after Joe left. “Man, you were good!” “Yeah, you told him!” “I can’t believe you said that about his breathe!” “Too bad you have to die on a cross.” “I hope that you escape again and rescue us all!”

I yelled over the roar, “Thank you! But it wasn’t just me. It was God who gave me the courage.”

The applause thickened. “You’re too modest, Mike!” “I hope that your God saves you!”

                “I hope so too!”

----

I stopped working on The Captives around page 100. I can’t remember why, but I think it had something to do with how excited I was for my new project, The Warrior’s Heart. Here’s a brief synopsis:

A Christian teen named David is on his way to Argentina for a missions trip when his plane crashes, and he alone escapes by parachute to a mysterious island, only to be taken hostage by a ruthless band of natives. He falls in love with a girl named Megan, and together they hike through the mountains, escape an avalanche and keep warm in a frozen canyon by hugging through the night. Then they kill a dragon and save everyone.

I wrote The Warrior’s Heart for several years in high school, rushing to the theaters every December among a host of other teenage novelists who found inspiration in The Lord of the Rings.

However, I never completed The Warrior’s Heart. I stopped around page 100. I’m not exactly sure what happened. I remember reading through the chapters I had written and noticing their enormous shortcomings. I remember despairing of ever being a real author, and consoling myself by starting a new novel: The Five Fates.

I worked on The Five Fates for a couple years, wrote about 100 pages, and stopped.

Exactly a year ago, I started The Red Road. This week, I passed page 100. I can feel the chapters dragging behind me, slowing my momentum. The past few weeks of writing have been hard. Reading backwards, I am not proud of everything I’ve written. Looking forward, I’m not confident I can write anything better. Maybe it would be best just to start from scratch with a new story, a better story.

In some ways, writing has only gotten harder as I’ve grown older. I’m not the Junior High student writing about dragons anymore. Each year that passes adds greater stakes to dreams like these.

I’ve talked to military kids who grew up moving every two years. When they finally decide to stay in one place for good, a restlessness assaults them at the two-year mark. They experience an impulse for flight as strong as that of migratory birds, an impulse which seems wrong to resist. For them, breaking the two-year cycle requires a feat of perseverance, a breaking of wrong instinct.

I think this is common to all of us. Who knows what wrong instincts we are all harboring in our bellies, unbeknownst to others and perhaps even to ourselves? Only you can know what secret, often nonsensical, urges you must work against.

For my part, I must break the 100-page barrier (among many other, more sinister, impulses in my life). Communicating how I feel is half the battle. As any verbal processor knows, there’s great significance in winding your way toward the perfect words. Some conversations I’ll spend hours processing through the same vague impressions, turning over the same words again and again until I’ve come by that perfect, distilled image or phrase. When I find it, I may repeat the phrase for days or even weeks, trying to remember which friends I’ve shared it with so the revelation doesn’t seem rehearsed when I process it for the tenth time.

Finding a good phrase is like discovering a diagnosis for your sickness. These muscle pains, fevers, and wheezing cough aren’t just random symptoms anymore: they have a proper name.

There are many truisms we writers use to encourage ourselves. One of the most famous (and one that’s helped me from time to time) goes roughly like this:

Writing is like driving at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole journey that way.

I recently stumbled across a new metaphor that makes sense of how I feel today as I sit down to write:

Writing is like making crop circles without a ladder.

I start the day where I left off, tracing the previous day’s curve until I arrive at a dead end of corn. Then I start clipping away, projecting from the previous day’s trajectory to guess today’s. Some days I take a machete with me and cut stalks in wide swaths. Other days I bend them with tiny scissors, troubling over each stalk.

In the beginning I had a clear picture in my mind of what I wanted this crop sign to look like. But it’s been a year, and the picture is getting blurry. I don’t have a helicopter or plane, and even when I drag my stepping stool into the middle of the field, it doesn’t afford much perspective. The stalks rise over my head. I try to measure out the distance between lines and circles, but there’s no way of knowing whether it’ll look right from the sky. I’m lost in my own corn maze with a pair of scissors.

So there’s my picture, my phrase. It doesn’t solve my problems, because novels can’t be solved, only made. But at least I have a few words for why this is so hard. Like David from The Captives and The Warrior's Heart, I am committed to surviving, slaying my dragons, and—most importantly—romancing a girl named Megan.*

*The name Megan, like the dragons I'm slaying, is metaphorical. Just in case you were wondering.

Encouraged by Steven Curtis Chapman (and others things cool Christians don’t say)

I’m just going to come out and say it. Last month I cried while listening to Steven Curtis Chapman.

It was an accident! I was searching my iTunes for a soundtrack for a drive to Denver, and I happened to see a Steven Curtis Chapman album, leftover from when I helped my mom load songs on her IPOD, and I decided to listen to a few songs for laughs, and—

There’s no escaping it. I cried. Steven Curtis Chapman reduced me to babyish tears—maybe because I listened to him when I was a baby.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Steven Curtis Chapman—or perhaps you didn’t know he was still alive and able to sing—he is a Christian songwriter whose career began in 1987, one year before I was born. The Christian music industry we know today didn’t yet exist. Chapman was a pioneer, a description easily confirmed by a glance at his stallion mullet and a quick listen to his lyrics:

Saddle up your horses, we’ve got a trail to blaze

Through the wild blue yonder of God’s amazing grace!

I don’t listen to Christian—or any other—radio. Having worked many years for a magazine that marketed to Christian bookstores, I have a distrust for the industry. I thought I was inoculated against campy Christian lyrics.

But there comes a day when you’re driving along, just trying to pick up a lamp from IKEA, and BAM!—Steven Curtis Chapman happens. His golden retriever soul might make you weep, but he’ll wipe your tears with his luxurious mullet.

Alright, I’m getting carried away.

This has been a rough [week, month, year…?], which has made me extra susceptible to surprise jolts of encouragement, especially in musical form.

Music is emotional. Feeling complacently content, we hum. We get frustrated, and the humming stops without our noticing. If I want a quick gauge of how I'm feeling, singing provides an easy reference.

A few months ago I felt like God was asking me to sing to Him. I ignored Him. Far from singing, most of my prayer times had involved me sitting on my bed with a glum expression and praying with a weary voice. I knew that if I showed how miserable I was, He would feel sorry for me and respond.

Remember being sick as a kid? There’s a certain showmanship involved. You must show that you’re sick enough to stay home from school another day, sick enough to get out of chores, sick enough to justify lounging on the couch with a drawn face. But you must also be well enough to go to a friend’s house if they invite you over, well enough to eat the pizza your mom is making, well enough to enjoy the perks of being sick.

God asking me to sing was like asking me to give up my claims to sick person perks. No more looking miserable, no more begging out of duties, no more complaining about how bad I felt. I’d been feeling bad a long time, and I'd developed some fine tricks for surviving in conservation mode. I didn't want to lose them.

When God did speak to me, I was slow to respond. It was just so ridiculous. I would have been more apt to take action if he’d given me a prescription for more introspection, more analyzing, talking with a new mentor, reading a book about despair, reading a whole stack of books on despair. I could have read the heck out of those books!

But singing was stupidly easy. And it was the only thing I felt God might be leading me to do.

I started singing in my living room when my roommates were away. Haltingly, with pitiful, uncertain tones, I made up aimless songs with lyrics like, “I believe you’ve been really good to me,” and, “I think I still love you, God.”

It’s been awkward, but also really good. I’ve begun to thaw. I sing made-up songs to God, and it cheers me up almost against my will. The singing reminds me what it felt like to love God, what it felt like to be grateful. It’s almost like I could feel that way again.

I’ll admit, it’s hard to say that God is good, to smile, to tell people how lucky I am to be a son of God. The pain I feel is precious to me—so precious that I am loathe to let it go. I’m quick to add disclaimers to my praise. “He’s good but I’ve been let down before.” I prefer the position of a judge, evaluating a spread of feelings and experiences to decide whether God is in fact good.

In the Psalms, David continually writes phrases like, “I will open my mouth” and “I will not hide your goodness within me.” He is quick to openly declare God's goodness. I want to be like that. I want to acknowledge the good that has been done to me. There’s so much of it!

I’m not suggesting we ignore our deep pains. The Bible is clear that those who mourn are blessed, while those who laugh now will soon mourn. But the blessing Jesus spoke to those who mourn is a promise of coming comfort. For me, singing has preceded the comfort of the Lord. I sang of God’s goodness before I felt it, and somehow that opened the door for me to receive.

It’s not natural. Children of a skeptical generation, we tend to turn up our noses at exuberant adoration. It’s hard to stomach Steven Curtis Chapman’s optimism, his cheerful assertion that “God will finish what He started/No thread will be left unwoven… We’ll stand as the ones completed/By the miracle of His love.” But it’s hard to retain a callous attitude when I remember that these lyrics were written by a man whose daughter was tragically killed not too long ago, accidentally run over by a family member in his own driveway. And somehow he’s still able to sing. That’s something I can’t easily belittle.

I don’t know what God is asking of you, what key He will use to lead you out of mourning. But I want to encourage you to give in to His strange tactics. I want to encourage you to praise before you feel thankful, to stretch yourself for a sure and coming joy.

God has helped me worship Him, even when I felt I couldn't. God has been good to me.

Blog Hop: What I’m Writing and Other Reflections on Claiming Artisthood

A few weeks ago, my friend Meredith posted a blog entry answering four questions about her writing. When I read to the end, I was surprised to see that she had asked me and some other writers to answer the same four questions. So here I am, coming back to my blog after a long absence for this pleasantly self-indulgent exercise. Hope you enjoy it!

What am I writing and working on?

Last fall I quit my full-time job to begin writing in a more concentrated way. It’s been nearly a year, and even though I am once again working about 40 hours a week, I am still writing.

The main project is a novel, but I also dabble in short stories, songs, and essays when the mammoth weight of the novel gets too much.

Fiction:

The Red Road. This is the biggie. I started this novel in college for a novella class and placed the first fifty pages into my professor’s hands, if only to remove them from my sight. My A- earned, the novel sat mostly dormant for three years. Last fall, with much encouragement from friends, I sat down with a basic memory of the story and began to type, starting at the very beginning as Maria Von Trap recommends.

The novel follows two boys as they walk along a forbidden road to save their village. It’s a journey narrative, fraught with danger, brotherhood, and mythology. I spend nearly 10 hrs a week plugging away on this story. I hope that, many years from now, you’ll pick up a copy at your local bookstore if those are still a thing.

“Churchgoing.” This is a short story about a seminary student visiting his mom’s church during Christmas break. His high-minded sensibilities clash with the church’s charismatic exuberance, pushing him uncomfortably toward an O’Connor-esque encounter with grace. This story is a ton of fun to write, and I sometimes embarrass myself by laughing out loud at my own writing. I haven’t shared fiction publicly since college, but I hope to post “Churchgoing” on the blog when it’s complete.

Non-Fiction:

You may have noticed that my blog has been dormant for awhile. This is due in part to the amount of focus The Red Road demands, but also in part to the difficulty I’ve had making sense of my life. Every now and then I’ll record a partial thought on my computer, dipping a ladle into a boiling pot to see if anything has congealed. The thoughts that emerge generally land in one of two categories, which will eventually form the basis of two blog series:

“Recovering Narrative.” Recently I’ve struggled to form a meaningful narrative from the disjointed pieces of my life. “Recovering Narrative” discusses various crises of faith, confusion over where my life is heading, and the way God has led me painstakingly back toward a meaningful narrative.

“In Defense of Beauty.” I’ve been gathering material and writing notes for this piece for many years now. I’m fascinated by the ways we avoid beauty, insisting on mediators which inoculate us to its influence. “In Defense of Beauty” is my love-letter to the world, the kind that’s written both to praise and provoke.

Music:

Does anyone remember that one time I promised to have a homemade CD out by April 2014? Does anyone remember how that never happened?

Well I’m SORRY! I’m still working on that, although not very consistently. I’ve been pretty disappointed by the sound quality of what I’m able to do at home. I really should take a month off from writing the novel to make some headway on this project. I should also lower my standards—a lot. But let’s be honest, neither of these is likely to happen anytime soon. I guess the world will have to wait.

I am, however, writing some songs. My current favorite:

“Eyes Facing Out.” This is a simple ditty I’ve been turning over in my mind for several months, concerning the strange way God made us. I think it’s really interesting that we can’t see our own faces or really even hear what our voices sound like, that we need others to see and hear us.

If you’re interested in any of these projects, give a shout out! Your encouragement keeps a tired writer going!

How does my work differ from others in the genre?

My work differs from others’ in one key way—it is unfinished. I know that’s a big copout, but I’ve always been a restless policeman. (That’s an attempted pun on “cop-out.” It doesn’t really work. Pretend it does and laugh!)

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that my work is unfinished. That in itself sets it apart from nearly every work that has inspired me, encouraged or chastened me, and ultimately inspired me to write. When I compare myself to Marilynne Robinson or C.S. Lewis, I am comparing my beginning endeavors to their finished work. I have no access to their scribblings, their embarrassing false starts, the dirty layers hidden beneath years of revision.

I’ve sometimes compared writing a novel to building a plane. It can’t fly at all till the work is mostly done. A constant labor of faith and imagination is required to believe that such a heavy thing will ever get off the ground.

Why do I write what I do?

In a broader sense, I write novels because that is the form that best facilitates the way my mind works, allowing space for interconnectedness and slow-brew revelations. I enjoy the marathon pace.

In a specific sense, I’m writing The Red Road because I promised I would. I have been a novelist since I was young, but I have never finished a novel. There are many days when I don’t feel any affection for this story (and many days I do). And there’s no guarantee I’ll be published. For me, writing The Red Road is mostly about becoming a person who can persevere beyond aborted projects and half-formed ideas, becoming a person who finishes things that matter.

How does my writing process work?

People often ask me if I’m done with that novel I’m working on. For the next several years, assume the answer is no. A better question would be, “How’s the novel coming along?” An even better question would be, “Would you like a generous coffee patron?”

Flannery O’Connor describes novel-writing as “a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay.”

I like that quote because it makes what I do sound EPIC. In reality I’m just sitting at a coffee shop, typing, my hair and teeth fully intact. I quietly add paragraphs and pages to a work that seems not to grow longer.

I keep a tally of my writing hours in an excel spreadsheet like a budget. The danger is to think I’ve been writing when I haven’t. The numbers keep me honest (mostly).

When I sit down to write, I try not to rehash my identity as a writer. I try not to question whether my work has any worth. A year ago, I made a decision through prayer and a lot of consideration, and I have to trust it. The right time for self-doubt was approximately 75 pages ago. Which must mean that now is the time for faith.

I’m not going to tag more friends, because I don’t know enough bloggers. But do yourself a favor and check out Meredith’s blog, Very Revealing. My favorite entries so far are “My Mustache Brings all the Boysto the Yard,” “Walking off the Career Path,” and--what has to be the most encouraging thing I've read in a long time--“Learning How to Run (well, walk).”

Becoming Korean #5: The right time for foot massages, mentoring, etc.

Last night, I went to a special dinner with the Koreans.* David (second youngest and most energetic of the boys) rode with me, while the others drove in the van.

“In America,” David said, “what age can you get a driving license?”

“Sixteen,” I replied.

“In Korea, any age can get a foot massage license.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Even five-year-old,” he added. “But tiny hands, so maybe not.”

I have been tutoring Korean students for a year and a half now, and I am still caught off guard by these strange and precious moments.

I suspect that I am not the only teacher who is on the lookout for “moments.” Hollywood has trained me to expect sudden breakthroughs of insight or connection, in which the student suddenly blooms. The gangbanger teeny opens up about his abusive father. The school outcast stands on her desk and bursts into song. These are the moments a teacher/mentor has been taught to expect.

I’ll admit, I’ve tried to force one a few times. Early this year, while helping Daniel with his homework, I came across a question that asked, “What would you like your friends to remember you for?”

Daniel had written, “Math.”

“I think it’s asking for something a little different,” I said, seeing an opportunity to get down to the nitty gritty (yes, I am using my Nacho Libre voice here).

I explained, “Like, maybe I would want my friends to remember me for being a nice guy. Or caring about them. You know what I mean? Is there anything that you would think, ‘I hope my friends will remember me for that?’”

He lit up as if struck by sudden inspiration and said one word: “Scientist.”

It’s real-life epiphanies like this that make you realize life isn’t as dramatic as the movies. The “moments” we stumble upon are mostly ordinary, accented with comedy.

But then again, some moments are awesome.

Some moments, you take two Koreans to your sister’s orchestra concert.

Daniel is enthralled by the orchestra, and Paul has brought a camera to document the concert. Taki, who is the boys’ guardian while the house parents are out of town, is enamored. Throughout the concert, Daniel whispers to me twice, once to ask me if this is a Christian school (no), and second to ask if I know that he will turn 13 in February (didn’t know that either).

When the concert is over, I introduce the boys to my grandma.

“This is Paul, and this is Daniel.”

“Daniel,” my grandma says, and she stares into the distance. “That’s what we were going to name…”

My mom gives her a warning look, and she trails off. I’m left standing on the brink of a mystery—that’s what you were going to name WHO?—and Daniel is left stranded on half an introduction. On my list of the awkward ways Grandma has introduced herself to my friends, this claims second. (Number one was when she introduced herself to some college friends by wiggling her fingers toward their feet and saying “Ticky, ticky.”)

Later, my mom introduces Daniel and Paul to a Korean girl from the orchestra who is friends with my sister. While Paul and Ju Yung converse in Korean, I overhear my grandma asking Daniel, “Is ‘Konichiwa’ Japanese?”

Daniel says yes, and then goes to inspect the snack table.

A friend touches Ju Yung’s arm and says hi, and Taki takes advantage of the opportunity to lean close to Paul, cup her hand next to his ear, and ask, “Is she a Christian?”

“Of course!” he whispers back.

As we’re walking out, I say in a playful manner, “That was a good concert. Nice cookies, nice girls…”

“Nice cheese balls,” Daniel adds.

In the car going home, Daniel asks me if I am good at math. Daniel is a math wiz.

“I was good at algebra and calculus, but it’s been eight years, so I don’t really remember much.”

“If you were a maniac for math, you would remember.”

“That’s true,” I say. (“That’s true” is my go-to response when I’m dumbstruck by the awesomeness of something Daniel says.)

I ask Daniel, “Are you a maniac for math?”

“Yes. And for Toby Mac.”

Without exaggeration, we have had no fewer than 15 conversations about Toby Mac, each of which begins with Daniel asking if I have heard of Toby Mac. Other recurring questions include “Have you heard of John Steinbeck?” and “Did you know Of Mice and Men has swear words in it?”**

“If you could be a car,” Daniel says, “what car would you be? Not like, you could drive it, but like you are the car.”

“I don’t know. I guess a Jeep Rangler or something.”

“I would be a Rolls Royce,” Daniel says.

“Your grandma very nice lady,” Taki says.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Josh, I saw a Rolls Royce commercial… Mr. Josh?”

When we drive at night, Daniel often thinks I have stopped listening if I keep my eyes on the road.

“I’m listening,” I say.

“I saw a Rolls Royce commercial, and there were three characters, and they were all holding up their M-I-D-D-L-E finger.”***

Moments like these are some of the highlights of my life right now. They are unplanned, unexpected gifts that make me surge with gratefulness and a certainty that life is indeed good.

Yet, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t mention that being a tutor can be a fearful endeavor. Not fearful in the way that being an ER nurse or a foster parent would be fearful. More like an uncle who suddenly realizes his responsibility to his nieces and nephews goes deeper than being the fun-initiator.

Some days, Mrs. Joy has stepped onto the porch with me as I leave, shivering in her slippers and clutching her arms against her stomach. She tells me how worried she’s been about the boys, how some of them have been getting into trouble. She asks me to pray for them, to be a good example. She asks me to help. Only Daniel is her son, but she calls the students “my boys.”

During a time of frequent uncertainty, restlessness, and melancholy, the Koreans’ home has been a source of unexpected grace. Yet, I’ve become increasingly aware that this is more than just a blessing to me, that I am meant to be a blessing to them, and I feel my inadequacy. I am not a dad. Neither am I a trained teacher. I don’t know how to encourage these boys. I want to invite them to do things with me, to go bowling, to get coffee, but I find myself shy and insecure.

Some insecurities I face:

1.                    Is this creepy? (There’s this kid next door whose family is pretty messed up. I recently asked if he wanted to play basketball or go hiking or something, only to be told later by my family that my “reaching out” may have sounded regrettably close to, “Hey kid, want some candy?”)

2.                    Will I be rejected? (What if they would rather I left them alone?)

3.                    Do I have anything to offer? (I can barely keep my own life together, so what makes me think I could mentor others?)

Several of my friends and I have been talking lately about the verse in Malachi that says, “God will turn the hearts of the fathers to the sons and the sons to the fathers.” Many of us have had the experience of reaching out to spiritual fathers and mentors, only to feel frustrated when the vulnerability isn’t reciprocated. I am not old—I relate more to the son than the father—but even in my small way I’ve encountered fears that I imagine many fathers face, ones which hinder the Biblical movement of father to son. I am now of “mentoring” age, and I find myself second-guessing every interaction. Do I have anything to offer?

I cling to the same hope that inspires most of my interactions with friends and family—that somehow merely loving them will be enough.

A few months ago, as I was struggling to overcome my insecurity in loving these boys, Paul sat down beside me and said, “I respect you.”

I thanked him and laughed it off awkwardly, but he punched me in the arm, looked me in the eyes, and said, “No, I respect you.”

I was shocked at how vulnerable he was being with me, how much courage he displayed. Could I be that vulnerable, not only when I’m the younger one, the one in need, but when I’m acting as a father?

There are people in my life who may secretly be longing, if not for a father, for an older brother to come alongside them. If I quietly decline to engage with the young people in my life, no one will call me a coward.
But let's be real here: the people in my life are not hard to love. God has seen fit to surround me with incredibly lovable people. So why not start taking those risks now, while the sacrifice is small?

*Incidentally, I use the term “the Koreans” because I can’t think of a better way of naming this ragtag group of people. They are not all from the same family or attending the same school, but they are all Korean. So, at the risk of reducing them to their lowest common denominator—the Koreans.

** Daniel once opened to the final page of Of Mice and Men and read the final sentence aloud to me: “Curly and Carlson looked after them. And Carlson said, ‘Now what the h-’” at the word “hell” he breathed out an “h” sound and then mumbled the rest of the line. He looked at me to see if I was scandalized. I was not.

***While blogging, I often wonder if people would care if they knew I was mentioning them online. I have had several conversations with my mom that conclude with her saying, “Don’t put that in your blog!” This has become a bigger concern with this entry in particular, as I have recently become friends with Paul and David on Facebook. I don’t think they’ve read any of my blogs, and I wonder what they would think if they did. The ethics of blogging is something I’ve thought about a lot, and I still haven’t come to a conclusion. I hope that anytime I write about another person, any resulting humor or empathy arises from a shared humanity, not alienation or a violation of trust. What do you think about the ethics of blogging? Leave your opinion in the comments!

Becoming a Writer

The past several months have brought considerable change in my life. September 30^th was my last day working at Every Home for Christ. I left on good terms, and although two or three co-workers questioned my decision to quit during such a poor economy, I was blessed with the support of my friends and family. I had enough of a financial buffer to go a few lean months without a job, and I was looking forward to some time to pray, seek God’s vision for the future, and write.*

I have decided to become a writer.

For many, this so-called “decision” will sound a bit silly. After all, I’ve been writing (although not finishing) novels since I was in junior high. I have a degree in English. I read a lot, and then I talk a lot about what I read. Of course I’m a writer!

But there has always been a safety net, one which isn’t immediately apparent to others. You wouldn’t know it, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I am whispering to myself, It doesn’t really matter. I enjoy writing, but it’s just a hobby. I’m only playing.

This shrinking away—where nobody knows it but me—keeps me safe if I fail, protects me from the vulnerability of full commitment. Secretly, I have been holding out.

I’m tempted to wait until I know I’m a writer, deep in my gut. I want 100% certainty. I want a renowned writer to press his hallowed fountain pen into my hand and pronounce, “Son, you’ve got what it takes.”

Unfortunately, this mystical passage into writerdom has yet to take place. “I am a writer” is a statement I can only breach with a deep breath and a running start. I’ve read dozens of interviews with writers, and they all say the same thing: insecurity is part of the job. Even after being published, many writers wonder if it was a fluke. The more writers I read, the more I realize that the only thing uniting them is a decision to write, a decision that has to be made day after day after day.

I am a better writer than most people I know, a sentiment that sounds proud until you consider that your garbage collector is a better garbage collector than most people he knows. But I am not a better writer than most people I read, which is where insecurity comes in.

Not to mention the social implications.

Every time someone asks me what I’m doing these days, it’s with a certain sheepishness that I admit I’m working on a novel. I’m afraid they might associate me with that pale dude who lives in his parents’ basement, constantly mentions dead writers, and sometimes wears a Batman onesie. (Wait a second… that’s me.)

Consider: I am 25 and living with my parents. I am 25 and single. I am 25, and I just quit my full-time job with benefits to work at a coffee shop and write a novel. From day to day, I can hardly keep up the confidence that I am doing something worthwhile, let alone explain this to someone else.

The greatest encouragement I’ve found comes from (surprise!) Flannery O’Connor. She writes in a letter to a friend, “No matter how just the criticism, any criticism at all which depresses you to the extent that you feel you cannot ever write anything worth anything is from the Devil and to subject yourself to it is for you an occasion of sin. In you, the talent is there and you are expected to use it. Whether the work itself is completely successful, or whether you ever get any worldly success out of it, is a matter of no concern to you… You [must write only] for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as he sees fit. Resignation to the will of God does not mean that you stop resisting evil or obstacles, it means that you leave the outcome out of your personal considerations.”

I could write an entire blog on this idea alone, but I believe that we will all be held responsible for what we have been given. Whether it is much or little, we must all bear increase to God. That’s why I have chosen to be a writer. I’ve allowed ample time for the desire to desert me, time to realize that writing was merely a schoolboy’s dream. I don’t know that I am “called” to be a writer. But this desire, and the skills the desire has honed, aren’t going away.

So I choose. And I am thankful for the grace God has given me to keep that choice, with the encouragement of my friends and family.

Choosing to pursue writing has been difficult—more than I expected. But it is a choice I am free to make, whereas other choices have not been opened to me. I have been reading Ecclesiastes, a book of unlikely comforts, and it reminds me that we go through seasons. Yes, I have decided to become a writer, but I will not always have 10 hours a week to write. Seasons change. I hope to get married someday (soon?!) and have kids.

But I have been given this space, today, to write—and I don’t want to have to give an explanation as to why I squandered this time. Life offers seductive halls of ornate locked doors, all of which must be ignored in favor of the few that are open.

The only commonality between writers is that they write. And I think by choosing to write—in whatever capacity I am able—I am entering territory that many so-called “writers” have declined to tread. (How many artists, intercessors, entrepreneurs have yet to follow the most basic necessities of their pursuits?) I must write. I must sit down before a literal computer and type physical keys, and through this process I must suffer the dry feeling that comes when all the advice and all the theory and all the mysticism surrounding this mysterious endeavor is peeled away. I am only writing.

I have committed to create for at least 10 hours every week, a goal I have only come short of twice. Most days I write for two hours—which takes three hours, because (similar to other important endeavors) the first step is to surmount the distractions, insecurities, and impediments to the work. This takes more or less time, depending on the day, but I do not include that extra time in my weekly count. If there seem to be fewer blogs lately, it is because I fear anything that might make me lose momentum on my novel. There are many momentum killers. I follow the advice my friend John Mark has posted next to his easel, which reads, “Don’t think. Just work.”

I don’t know if I will ever be published. I would love to sell millions of novels, to win a Nobel Prize for literature. Heck, I would love to get a good review on Amazon. But being published isn’t something I can decide. Writing is.

Of course, writing is but one of the many things I give myself to, all of whose outcomes “are best left out of my personal consideration.” To be a writer, or intercessor, or lover of God, or lover of people—these are decisions which must be reawakened each new day, dressed, and snapped to attention, to await what grace God will give.

*This is an impossibly brief recap of the past several months. I will probably write more soon. Blogs aren’t optimal for describing all that goes into a big life decision, but I’m happy to talk in other forms if you’d like to hear the full story.

Becoming Korean Part 4: Things You Don't Say to a Korean Momma

Never tell a Korean momma that you don’t feel good.

I walked into the Kim’s house last night with a sore throat and stuffy nose. When Joy, the mother of the house, asked how I was, I told her I was good but feeling a little sick.

Five seconds later she was pouring me a thick tan smoothie from the fridge. “Homemade!” she said. “Whole grain, vitamins, seafood!”

The moment I finished it, she swapped my empty glass for a full one, this one filled with a dark brown liquid. “Drink!” she commanded. As I raised it to my lips, she added, “Tastes bad!”

I hesitated, but she urged me on, and I took a sip. It did taste bad. I couldn’t nail down any of the flavors, and I didn’t have time to try, because Joy Kim was not done with me yet. Not by a long shot. She pressed her finger against the base of her throat and motioned for me to do the same. I did, pushing my finger into the soft space beneath my Adam’s apple.

“Press hard,” she said.

I shoved my finger deeper into my throat and tried not to wince. This was made more difficult when she insisted I continue drinking. Finger lodged deep, I tipped the cup back and downed the rest of my glass.

For a few minutes we made small talk. Much of our talk is small, even when I’m not cutting off my respiration. Mrs. Kim is not as good at English as Mrs. Choe last year. Talking with her is good practice for using short sentences and inventing new sign language. Here’s a short conversation I recently had with her:

Joy: “John Wesley?” [grins and nods vigorously]

Me: [nod]

Joy: “We see where he die.” [clutches throat and lolls head, still smiling]

Me: [smile]

Joy: “In Fiji…” [makes outline of an island] “…people eat… other people” [brings her arm to her mouth and gnaws, tilts head, smiles]

Me: “Yeah. Cannibals?”

Joy: “Yes, yes! Cannibals! John Wesley, they eat him.”

Me: [smile and nod]

When talking to Joy, I always feel a pressure to smile as big as she does. I don’t want to seem unengaged. After many grand attempts, however, I’ve decided that I simply cannot equal her smiling power.

Still standing in the kitchen, I tried removing my finger from my throat.

“Joshua,” she said, her voice stern. “Keep press.”

I keep press another five minutes.

While we talked small, she mentioned that she did acupuncture. I nodded and smiled, but then I realized she was offering to do it to me and I quickly said, “No, that’s okay.”

Disappointed, she released me to go tutor the students.

When I came back up an hour later, she asked, “You feel better?”

“A little,” I lied.

“Not better?” She seemed shocked. But then she smiled. “I do acupuncture after dinner.”

“Okay,” I said. Why did I say that? I don’t know.

“I put needle in throat and ear.”

“Okay,” I said.

She studied my face. “Fear?” she said.

“No.” I lied again.

Throat and ear? Before yesterday, I’d had no experience with acupuncture. The pictures I had seen were all of people lying facedown on a clean white sheet, needles protruding from their backs. On the list of places I wouldn’t want a needle, throat is third (eyes and crotch claiming gold and silver, respectively).

Dinner was a short reprieve from the building tension. We were having one of my favorite Korean meals—Bulgogi, a kind of Asian barbeque lettuce wrap. (Note: Don’t verify this definition with a Korean.)

Joy finished eating last, which meant that I had a lot of time to observe her deft use of chopsticks. I kept imagining her plunging one into my neck.

She ate with careless delight, and I began to hope she had forgotten. But after rinsing her plate, she washed her hands and said, “Ready?”

She motioned for me to wait on the couch, and a few minutes later she returned with a tray, loaded with foreign instruments and needles.

“Fear?” she asked again.

“No,” I laughed.

She gave me a container of vitamins, and I ate one. She gave me another container. I ate another vitamin. She gave me a small packet like one Americans would use for sweetener. I tore off the top and choked down a chalky substance. She gave me another packet, this one bigger. I tore off the top and tipped it back, spilling tiny beads into my mouth. She told me to hold them in my mouth for one minute, then chew and swallow. Then she added:

“In one half hour, you will… very sleepy time. Your nervous system… down.”

It was at this point that I began laughing uncontrollably. It was like a case of the laughing hiccups for the next fifteen minutes.

She prepared her instruments, removing tiny needles from a package as she described how she had learned acupuncture. “In Korea, I am healer,” she said. Later, she added, “I do five years ago.” I wasn’t sure if this specified the last time she’d done acupuncture, or the year she graduated from healing school in Korea.

“I learn healing from Dr. Wong,” she said.

Ah yes. Dr. Wong.

I know all about Dr. Wong.

Dr. Wong is to South Korea what Steve Jobs is to America. His name has popped up in conversation throughout the year I’ve worked with the Koreans, always spoken with a hushed sense of awe. Throughout the house, you will not find a single picture of the Kim family—but you will find several of Dr. Wong and his family. When you eat dinner, Dr. Wong looks over your shoulder like the dining room’s own personal Chairman Mao.

Somehow, Dr. Wong was the one who had taught Mrs. Kim acupuncture. I didn’t know what to feel about that.

“How does it work?” I asked.

She tilted her head, confused.

“The acupuncture. How does it work?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How do you do it?”

Nothing. I tried again. “What happens when you do the acupuncture?”

“Huh?”

“Like… what does it do to make health come back?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “It make blood cells come together and heal you.”

Thank you, Dr. Wong. I watched Joy compile the needles. Have you ever taken apart and reassembled a pen? It was kind of like that. She loaded each needle into a metal socket, and then affixed a spring over it, followed by a metal, torpedo-like canister. Each was about the length of my thumb.

Watching her, I felt myself getting light-headed, and I remembered how many times I’d passed out because of needles. (Three times. Twice while giving blood. Once in health class watching a video of a heroin addict shooting up.)

Assembly complete, she brought the first torpedo toward my neck. She whispered, “Very dangerous!”

I burst out laughing and pushed her hand away from my neck.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to calm down. She looked at me, confused. “I’m sorry,” I said again.

“Be very still,” she commanded.

I felt the metal tip against my throat, which was still sore from finger pressure. Four quick needle stabs burst through my skin, and then it was over. I cautiously reached to feel the needles protruding from my neck, but there was nothing there. Apparently, this kind of acupuncture only pierces with the needle, but doesn’t implant it.

Next, she started applying tiny needle pads to my ears. These are like miniscule Band-Aids, with a needle protruding from the center. The pain was minimal, and after a few minutes my ears were covered in the little things.

She looked at me straight on and grabbed an ear in each hand. Then she squeezed so hard that I felt the pain in the back of my neck.

“Hurt?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes!”

She seemed pleased. Perhaps this is the Korean version of a knee reflex test.

She brought the needle-torpedo to my left ear and punctured the top. Then she fled from the room and returned with a paper towel. “Bleeding,” she said.

She did the same to the right ear, but this time she looked concerned. “Dark blood.” Her face dropped, and she gazed at my ear as if seeing a bad omen. “Daaark blood.”

I nodded solemnly to show her I appreciated the gravity of the situation.

She replaced her tools in the tray and grabbed my left hand. She singled out my index finger and stared intently at it. After several beats, she met my eyes and said, “Intestine, not very good.” This she said with a motherly, scolding tone. I almost wanted to apologize. But then she looked at my pinky and smiled. “Kidney good.”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“Finger shape… color…” Trying to reassure me about the intestines, she said, “Many Korean, their intestine very bad. Yours, a little bad.”

“Oh good,” I said.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“Yes,” I lied. "I feel good."

Why Flannery?

Describing herself to a friend while struggling with the disease that eventually took her life, Flannery O'Connor writes, "I am practically bald-headed on top and have a watermelon face... I stay strictly out of the sun and strictly do not take any exercise. No great hardship." Unhappiness with her physical appearance, coupled with a natural camera shyness, led her to submit a painted self-portrait to her publishers for the dust jacket of an upcoming novel. You can imagine her publisher's shock at receiving the above portrait, which she painted with a palette knife because she felt disinclined to wash brushes.

Her publisher refused to use the portrait and soon sent a photographer to her farm in Georgia. After the photo shoot, Flannery writes, "I had to go have my picture taken for the purposes of Harcourt, Brace. They were all bad. The one I sent looked as if I had just bitten my grandmother and that this was one of my few pleasures, but all the rest were worse."

Which is how we get gems like this:

This is how I usually imagine her. There's something guarded in her posture. Her eyes are aggressive in the manner of an animal aware of being observed. In many photos she is smiling, but even in her smile, one notes a barely restrained mischief, coupled with an intensity of perception. It's this perceptive quality that marks both her personality and her work. Never leaving their perch, her eyes reach farther than her arms, grip harder than her fingers.

At this point, you're thinking, Wow, this guy is really into Flannery O'Connor!

Congratulations. You caught me red-handed.

When I reach that point in a friendship where I feel safe enough to confess that I am infatuated with a dead Catholic writer of Southern Gothic literature whose house was guarded by an army of peacocks, I always receive the same response: "Oh my God! Me too!"

But just in case I someday meet someone who doesn't share my obsession, this blog entry is an attempt to shed light on the question, why Flannery?

It wasn't immediate. When I first read her work, I was equal parts impressed and confounded. Mystery and Manners enlightened and fortified, but Wise Blood completely mystified me, so much so that I never finished it. I started reading her short stories. A traveling Bible salesman steals a girl's prosthetic leg. A boy drowns himself in an attempted baptism. Each story, I would turn to the last page and have no idea what I had just read.*

My admiration didn't truly solidify into something more until I began reading her letters. You see, I'm not as much enamored with her work, as with Flannery herself.

Condensing her mission statement into one sentence, Flannery writes, "You have to make your vision apparent by shock--to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the blind you draw large and startling figures."

This has become a sort of creed for me. Increasingly I am certain that, for those who desire such an aim, to live righteously requires an act of violence.

Flannery O'Connor lived by this violence. She lacked that useful camouflage, by which most of us distort ourselves to fit in more easily with those around us. Whether by choice or some kind of innate deficiency, Flannery lacked this adaptation mechanism. She was undiluted.

Fellow Southerners were scandalized by her writing. When she published Wise Blood, people hid copies in their closets, embarrassed to own such scandalous material. One cousin even sent her a note with just one sentence: "I do not like your book."

And yet, she was not revered by the writing world either. Initial reviews were scathing. Even the positive ones could be condescending. "If this is really the unaided work of a young lady," one author wrote, "it is a remarkable product." To which Flannery's mother irately responded, "Does he suppose you're not a lady?"

The key facets of Flannery's identity were rejected by those to whom she was most dedicated. To fellow Catholics, she was offensively profane. To fellow writers, she was offensively Catholic.

But really, she was just Flannery. Obstinately so.

Every age makes its own war against the godly. One generation will attack them for being too merciful, while the next attacks them for being too harsh. One age condemns Jesus for calling Himself God, while the next despises Him for calling Himself a man. Decades pass, while humanity proves that saying of GK Chesterton, when he writes that "there are many, many angles at which one can fall, but only one angle at which one can stand straight."

In response to a humanity that is always changing, most of us choose one of two options. One: we submit, mimicking the specific limp of our age until it becomes our own. Or two: we revolt, falling left when those around us fall right, painting ourselves black to combat an aggressive white.

One submits, the other revolts, but neither stands fast.

Spiritual violence is to laugh in grave situations, to be kind when kindness is out of season, to stand in silence when accused, to cast out demons in an age of materialism, to defend beauty against brutal efficiencies, to pray small prayers in secret while big men make shows of doing good, to marry for life, to make peace, to value others before yourself... to write very, very long sentences.

I aspire to be like Flannery, to live as a "startling figure" for the blind.

I know that she wasn't perfect, and I readily admit that the Flannery in my head is a mere caricature of the historical figure. Ms. O'Connor is merely one bold soul among a host of men and women who in every age have taken hold of a kingdom by violence.

I have many answers to the question, "Why Flannery?" But on this day in particular, July 24th, I must admit that my admiration for Flannery largely stems from her strong resemblance to another bold soul. In all of her coy humor, her bravery in the face of fearful circumstance, her keen sight, and her goodness, I know that one chief reason I love Flannery is because she reminds me of my mom.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!





*If you are interested in checking out the literature of Flannery O'Connor, I recommend you start with "Revelation" or "Parker's Back," which are two of my favorite stories, both of which can be found in the collection, Everything that Rises Must Converge. If you are a writer, I also recommend a collection of her essays and speeches on the craft, entitled, Mystery and Manners. Either way, let me know what you think. I'd love to discuss!