Lift Up Your Hearts!

A Morbid Taste for Bones: The First Chronicle of Brother Cadfael by Ellis Peters (Little, Brown, first published 1977)

Everyone wants to give the surprise, spot-on birthday gift. True, the wish list was a great invention, allowing us to give gifts that will be welcomed, even though we aren't close enough (physically or emotionally) to a person to know well what he wants or needs. But perhaps the best gift is one that comes unbidden and meets a need or desire we didn't even know we had.

Such was this book for me. Once having cleared up my initial confusion of reading the author as Ellis Potter, an entirely different sort of writer, I recognized Brother Cadfael as a PBS show, of which we may have seen an episode long ago. Apparently we were not impressed enough to continue the series.

Not so with the book! I was hooked immediately by this medieval murder mystery, combining as it does two of my favorite genres. And, much more than that: the characters, plot, and actions are all touched by that quality so rare in any tale and especially modern writings: grace. To quote the last sentence of the second book, One Corpse Too Many, without giving anything away: From the highest to the lowest extreme of a man's scope, wherever justice and retribution can reach him, so can grace.

I began this review after having read just two of the books in the series; at the time, my thoughts were almost entirely positive. Now I have devoured five books, and binge-reading tends to exaggerate the presence of small negatives. Hopefully all that has done is make me more realistic in my assessment. After all, I still adore the books of Miss Read, even though a recent re-reading of everything I have of hers—which is very nearly everything she wrote—similarly raised the profile of the books' faults.

The negatives (with some mitigation) of the Brother Cadfael series, based on the first five books:

• Too much romance. As a genre, Romance ranks only slightly better than Horror in my mind. To Peters' credit, the romance takes second place to the mystery, but it's still too prominent for my taste. In many ways the Cadfael books remind me of George MacDonald's novels. MacDonald is one of my favorite authors (as he was of C. S. Lewis), but many of his novels (as opposed to his fantasies and children's stories) have Romantic elements clearly designed to appeal to his 19th century audience. I bear with the Romance because of the serious philosophical content of which it is the vehicle. (MacDonald was a preacher, and it shows—but far from detracting, that is what makes his novels worth reading.) In Cadfael, I bear with the Romance because of the detective story content. The Romantic elements are also (at least so far), pure love stories—nothing embarrassing about them.
• The stories are somewhat predictable. That is, I find myself able to guess many of the plot twists and outcomes. But hey, it doesn't bother me to feel smart.
• More troublesome is the occasional feeling of anachronism, with both attitude and action sometimes owing more to modern sensibilities than to those of the 12th century. But it's reasonably subtle and does not get in the way of the story, at least not in my limited experience. In any case, I don't know enough history to be certain of calling it out. The author seems to take seriously the historical accuracy of the setting—the period of English history known as The Anarchy. Perhaps when you write in modern English—and what else could she do?—modern phrases and modern perspectives will creep in.

The positives:

• Grace, as mentioned above. For the most part, it's not cheap grace, either. (“Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession...Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.” ― Dietrich Bonhoeffer)
• The character of Brother Cadfael: come late to his life as a monk, carrying with him his experience as a soldier, a sailor, and a Crusader, he's a gentle, kindly man with a vast store of knowledge and a razor-sharp wit. He is wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove.
• The respect shown for the Christian faith and the Church. Peters—and Cadfael—do not brook hypocrisy, arrogance, boorishness, and deep evil when they appear within the monastery, but there is goodness there, too, and also self-sacrifice, justice, mercy, patience, forebearance, duty, responsibility, and humanity.
• Happy endings. I love happy endings. Love triumphs, justice prevails, courage and hope live. The real world is quite full enough of darkness and sorrow. Happy endings, at least if done right, are not escapism nor foolish denial, but an expression of faith in the ultimate victory of justice and mercy. As C. S. Lewis said, "Since it is so likely that they will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage."
• The mysteries. They're clever, and fun.
• The setting. The castles and monasteries, medieval towns, knights, monks, squires, damsels in distress—and not in distress. (One of the giveaways that Ellis Peters is a modern author is her use of strong, intelligent, and courageous female characters. That's okay with me.) Brother Cadfael's herb garden and medicinal concoctions. Evil that is portrayed as evil, but not luridly painted. Good that is good, and desirable. Indeed, the Good, the True, and the Beautiful shine here.

Incidentally, should any of my family decide to read these books, be aware that you are related to some of these historical figures. For example, the Empress Maud (aka Empress Matilda) who is contesting with King Stephen for the English throne, is my 25-great-grandmother, and Porter's 24th-great-grandmother. Genealogy makes history—and historical novels—personal, which adds to the pleasure of the experience. Brother Cadfael also serves to render more familiar those bizarre Welsh names that appear in our family tree, such as Efa ferch Madog and Hywel ap Meurig. And I have our new rector to thank that a character's pilgrimmage to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham is meaningful to me, and not just another unfamiliar historical reference.

If the rest of the series lives up to the promise of the first five books, I should be set for a while with temptations away from my more serious readings. (Thanks to Wikipedia for the list.)

1. A Morbid Taste for Bones (published in August 1977, set in 1137)
2. One Corpse Too Many (July 1979, set in August 1138)
3. Monk's Hood (August 1980, set in December 1138)
4. Saint Peter's Fair (May 1981, set in July 1139)
5. The Leper of Saint Giles (August 1981, set in October 1139)
6. The Virgin in the Ice (April 1982, set in November 1139)
7. The Sanctuary Sparrow (January 1983 set in the Spring of 1140)
8. The Devil's Novice (August 1983, set in September 1140)
9. Dead Man's Ransom (April 1984, set in February 1141)
10. The Pilgrim of Hate (September 1984, set in May 1141)
11. An Excellent Mystery (June 1985, set in August 1141)
12. The Raven in the Foregate (February 1986, set in December 1141)
13. The Rose Rent (October 1986, set in June 1142)
14. The Hermit of Eyton Forest (June 1987, set in October 1142)
15. The Confession of Brother Haluin (March 1988, set in December 1142)
16. A Rare Benedictine: The Advent of Brother Cadfael (September 1988, set in 1120)
17. The Heretic's Apprentice (February 1989, set in June 1143)
18. The Potter's Field (September 1989, set in August 1143)
19. The Summer of the Danes (April 1991, set in April 1144)
20. The Holy Thief (August 1992, set in February 1145)
21. Brother Cadfael's Penance (May 1994, set in November 1145)

We couldn't see yesterday's Falcon 9 launch from home this time, due to clouds between us and the coast. We did catch the first stage landing live, albeit via the television coverage. That was impressive enough for one who grew up with expendible rocket boosters and landing scenarios that did not look at all like those depicted in the science fiction novels I loved.

After staying up all night to watch the moon walk, I was glad the next two days on our Girl Scout European adventure included not much more than relaxing at Hemsby Beach. When you realize that I had grown up with the warm Atlantic waters and the soft, sandy beaches of Daytona Beach, Florida, you will realize that the following entry was actually high praise for Hemsby Beach and the North Sea.

Went to beach—nice but sort of rocky. Not nearly as cold as I thought. Pleasant to swim in.

We stayed up late again on the 21st, to watch the Eagle (lunar module) rendezvous with Columbia (command module).

Then on the 23rd we had an adventure that had nothing to do with the moon landing. We waited an hour and a half for a bus to take us into Yarmouth to do some shopping, not my favorite activity to begin with.

Saw a grand total of 2 stores. Didn't see anything I wanted so Mrs B. told Bonnie S. and I to explore a nearby street and meet her back at a certain store at 12:15. We were there, and she wasn't. So we waited and waited. For an hour and 45 minutes. We figured that they must have realized we were missing, and would come back for us. [That was the standing instruction in my family: If you get separated, stop, stay where you are, and wait for us to find you.] We didn't know whether Mrs. B. expected us to go back of our own accord or wait for her. So we played it safe and waited. Finally, we decided to call the camp. We found a phone but oh, what problems. We had to call the operator to figure out how to call. Then we couldn't get the money in the machine. We called the operator and she placed the call. Talked to a panicked Mrs. B. who said to come back via the Wellington Bus Station. When asked where it was she said, "ask anyone." So we did. A very complex story, but the end of it was we ended up in the factory section of town. We finally found it, and arrived at the camp about one and half hours late.

I have no idea what happened, why it was we didn't connect up with the group when we were sure we were in the right place at the right time, nor what directions we were given that had us going through the factory district. In fact, I only remember two parts of that adventure: trying to make that phone call at the British pay phone, and what we stared at while sitting and waiting to be found: a gigantic photo of a singer, and the words, "Englebert Humperdinck," covering one wall of the building in front of us. At the time, I knew that name only as the composer of the opera, Hansel and Gretel. This young singer with the same name was soon to be giving a concert in the area.

Little did I know that fifty years later, one of my friends would be touring the world, singing with that same Engelbert Humperdinck.

On July 24 we paid a visit to Sandringham Palace, the Queen's private residence. Alas, not to see the queen; the building wasn't even open. We enjoyed her gardens, however, and had a picnic. We arrived back at camp in time to watch the astronauts return to earth.

Watched astronauts come on board ship. Laurie and I threw an Apollo victory party just after a TV review of all Apollo. Mrs. B. provided drinks (7-Up and Coke); Laurie, Kathy M., and I bought goodies, and nearly everyone who came brought something. We ate and sang and took pictures.

Even though I didn't experience as much of the historic moon landing coverage as I would have liked, the timing could not have been better for where we were in our trip. We missed very few of the major events, and it was a great week to be an American in Europe.

"Ate and sang and took pictures"—I guess that's been my favorite way to celebrate for at least half a century.

I was eleven years old when the Beatles first came to America. The cultural effect, as viewed from sixth grade, was more momentous than the Cold War. Air raid drills—filing out of the classroom at the sound of a siren, covering our heads and leaning up against our lockers—we considered a normal part of life, but the Beatles dropped like an atom bomb on our world.

Their debut on The Ed Sullivan Show left me less than impressed. I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Truthfully, I still don't. Oh, I listened to Beatles songs, I sang Beatles songs, I even almost liked Yesterday. That was the cultural water we swam in, back in the mid-60's.

My negative feelings toward their music were exacerbated by a detested art teacher. No doubt my memory does her a disservice, but I hated her looks and style of dress, especially her heavy makeup, which bordered on scary—and most of all I hated that she single-handedly dismembered, destroyed, and demolished any thought I may have had that I could ever learn to draw. Art class was torture to me, and the fact that she insisted on playing Beatles records while we worked added injury to insult. I'm sure she thought she was doing us a favor, and I suppose that for most of my classmates she was right.

Some of the boys and nearly all of the girls were stark, raving mad about the Beatles. I never saw anything like the screaming crowds and high emotions that followed them wherever they were glimpsed. It's possible that my dislike of crowds and my distrust of mob mentality had their birth right there. I always say that the 1960's have a lot to answer for.

That's the backstory.

Our choir director recently went to New York City to attend a workshop. Broadway musicals being for him a large part of both vocation and avocation, he attended several while he had the opportunity. At one of them, he recognized the man who sat down beside him: Sir Paul McCartney.

Knowing Tim, he was (outwardly) cool and calm and didn't even trouble the man for an autograph. Inwardly I can only guess.

Being faceblind, I wouldn't even have recognized the former Beatle. Besides, I'm the kind of person who can go to New York City for two weeks and never see a Broadway show, preferring to spend all that glorious time in the New York Public Library. It was thrill enough for me to run into Gary Boyd Roberts, the New England Historic Genealogical Society's genealogist who guided my first faltering steps in family history back in Boston seventeen years ago.  (For those who are wondering, I had no trouble recognizing him, because I heard him speak before I saw him.)

But had they been in Tim's position, most of my female friends in middle and high school would have fainted on the spot.

On July 19 our touring Girl Scout group had left London and a madcap sightseeing itinerary behind and settled into a hostel of sorts at Hemsby Beach in Yarmouth, England. July 20 was a day of rest and recreation for us, for which I was grateful, as there was a television set in the camp on which we were able to watch the Apollo 11 moon landing. Not well, because it was a small TV, almost certainly black and white, and the room was packed—but we saw it.

My journal tells me just those bare facts, because I poured my stream-of-consciousness "live" reactions into a letter that I sent to my family. It's possible I have that letter somewhere, and if so I hope to unearth it in my lifetime. But sadly, that time is not now. As a long-time science student and science fiction fan, with grandparents who lived in Daytona Beach and an uncle who worked as part of the space program, this was a big moment for me. I'm glad my once-in-a-lifetime (or so I thought) trip to Europe didn't cut me off completely from the joys and triumphs of the moon landing.

Mrs. B. made us all go back to our rooms at midnight, so I was once again grateful to have my contraband radio. Several of us huddled together in the tiny, one-room "chalet" I shared with my friend Laurie, and stayed up all night following the coverage so as not to miss Neil Armstrong's first step onto the moon.

Fifty years ago a few intrepid adults gathered a flock of teenaged girls and took them on a tour of Europe. What were they thinking??? The group primarily comprised members of a Girl Scout troop from the little village of Scotia, New York. That had been my own troop until my family moved to Wayne, Pennsylvania after my freshman year of high school. But we had been working for this trip for years, and didn't let the move keep me out: I joined the rest of the gang at JFK airport. The longer I live, the more I marvel at the energy and courage of the chaperones, especially "Mrs. B.," an extraordinary English war bride turned American citizen who was our troop leader. What a world-expanding, eye-opening opportunity that was for a group of small-town “innocents abroad.”

It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I was sure. Whenever else would I have either the desire or the opportunity to return to Europe? That’s how little we can imagine what the future holds for us.

While we were walking through lands that were strange and new to us, Neil Armstrong took the first steps of a human being on our moon. The world available to travellers has continued to expand—though not, alas, to the moon. 

July 16, 1969 was an extraordinary day. Having already visited Paris, several places in Switzerland, and Lake Como, Italy, we were then in London. The day began with a tour of Girl Guide headquarters, of which I remember nothing except that near the end someone mentioned that it was nearly time for the liftoff of Apollo 11. I still have the little notebook in which I kept a brief journal of our trip.

We entered a room where we could sit down, so I snuck out the earphone of my radio and turned it on just in time to hear, "We have liftoff!" I jumped up, pulled out the earphone, and we all [in my tour group] listened until the station left the Cape, after Staging. Everyone shouted and waved a U. S. flag Mrs. B. had bought. I learned [then] that we weren't supposed to have radios, but no one minded.

From there we walked to the U. S. Embassy. The Embassy visit was my baby, because Robert Montgomery Scott, special assistant to Ambassador Walter Annenberg, was from the town where my family was now living. How my mother persuaded Introvert Me to contact him I have no idea—but she did, and he responded gallantly, inviting our group to the Embassy for a tour. We were wearing our Girl Scout uniforms. Mrs. B., though often relaxed and informal, was firm about protocol.

We arrived about 3:20, changed shoes [from our walking shoes to heels], put on gloves, and entered.

I was embarrassingly naïve, and easily impressed.  But it was a fine experience.

I told a man at a desk who I was; he knew I wanted Mr. Scott and said he would get him. A man came later to take me to the Ambassador's Office—at first I thought he was Mr. Scott and shook his hand. Oh, well. He took me up to "hallowed ground." Mr. Scott took me into his office—a very nice guy. We talked over his plans for the group. He got a call from Mrs. Annenberg. He took me on a sneak preview tour of part of that floor, including the Ambassador's office. Very nice. Then downstairs to meet the rest. Another man was to conduct the tour (although Mr. Scott came with us), and it thrilled me no end when Mr. Scott introduced me as "a neighbor of mine from Wayne." Wow! The tour was great but short, and we ended up in the basement for Coke (with ICE) and cookies. It was sweltering, and our first ice since home. We next went next door to the Embassy Auditorium to watch on color television a program on Apollo. Unfortunately, they showed no shots of the liftoff and we had to go. But a very successful visit, I think everyone decided.

But the day wasn't over, not by a long shot.

In other cities we had stayed in youth hostels, and once in a convent, but in London our group was parceled out in different lodgings. My own, with a few other girls and a chaperone, was a small private house. It had seemed delightful, but when we returned around dinnertime the atmosphere had changed drastically. I never did get the whole story, but apparently there was some misunderstanding and/or disagreement between the woman who had welcomed us, and her husband who showed up later. Things got loud and scary, and we were hustled out of there and onto the street with barely time to stuff things randomly into suitcases and coat pockets. We did find another place to sleep that night, though I have no memory of it.

All that excitement meant that we missed the first half of the first act of Mame, starring Ginger Rogers. It was still a great experience, and I had my program autographed by a few of the cast members, including Ginger Rogers. We caught the last train, missed the last bus, and had to walk a long way—but we were young. As I said, it's the chaperones who impress me.

And the moon landing. More on that later.

I've been looking over some of my posts from years ago, and rediscovered this inspiring short film.  Take a 16-minute break and smile today.

Three cheers for small-town America! I know small towns and villages can be narrow and stifling and ingrown—but they can also put on festivals that warm my heart and give me hope for our country. I love the Independence Day parade and party put on by little Geneva, Florida, an eclectic and heart-warming mix of modern America and old-time Florida. And I'm sure that if I were in Hillsboro, New Hampshire this weekend, I would love their Fest and Fair, which sounds like something from my own childhood. Until this year, the event was called the Balloon Festival and Fair.

Long ago, nine balloon pilots lived in Hillsborough. They’ve all left or stopped flying, and balloons have become too expensive for the fair, which serves as a fundraiser for local firefighters and service organizations, Daley said, so the Hillsboro Balloon Festival and Fair has dropped “balloon” from its name.

The man quoted above is Jon Daley, our son-in-law. In addition to being one of the town's three selectmen (the form of local government in New England), he is a fireman and an EMT with the Hillsboro Fire Department, and his wife (our daughter) is part of the Ladies' Auxiliary, so planning for, working at, and attending the Fest and Fair is mandatory in their family.

Mandatory—and fun, at least for the kids, even without the balloons. I suspect one or more of our grandchildren may be running a lemonade stand there, too.

The fair hopes a bigger car show and a new skillet toss will bring fresh air.

The skillet toss must be New England's equivalent of Geneva's cow-chip toss (which in these modern times does not use the real thing, in case you were wondering).

Aside from the lack of hot-air balloons, there was only one thing I found depressing about the article:

[This year] here will be cheaper beer. “Before we had fancy beers, and everyone said they don’t like fancy beers, so we’re doing Bud and Bud Light,” Daley said.

Better stick with the lemonade.

The fireworks – “a lot better, a lot bigger, a lot longer than any of the other small-town stuff,” according to Daley – are back. So is one of last year’s hot draws: the unicorns. “This year they’re bringing two bigger horses too,” Daley said, clarifying that he meant to refer to horses’ elusive and horned relatives.

I know a couple of Swiss granddaughters who would want to come to the fair for the unicorns alone.

Admission is free, though some activities may cost money, and parking is $10 per car. No animals, aside from working service dogs, are allowed.

And unicorns.

It's time to reprise a favorite G. K. Chesterton quote.

Sex is an instinct that produces an institution; and it is positive and not negative, noble and not base, creative and not destructive, because it produces this institution.  That institution is the family; a small state or commonwealth which has hundreds of aspects, when it is once started, that are not sexual at all.  It includes worship, justice, festivity, decoration, instruction, comradeship, repose.  Sex is the gate of that house; and romantic and imaginative people naturally like looking through a gateway.  But the house is very much larger than the gate.  There are indeed a certain number of people who like to hang about the gate and never get any further.

— G.K.'s Weekly, January 29, 1928

Item: Football player Colin Kaepernick kneels before the American flag during the National Anthem as a protest against racism in America, and kicks up a storm of protest and counter-protest. He is accused of being disrespectful to the flag and the country.

Item: Nike, the shoe company, decides to make an Independence Day-inspired line of sneakers featuring the "Betsy Ross" flag, then reneges when Kaepernick objects, saying that the flag is a symbol of racism.

Item: Another shoe company takes up the slack—and I'd say the profits, except those are apparently going to a veterans' charity—and starts producing shoes with the Betsy Ross flag design. It is cheered by those who are offended by both Nike and Kaepernick.

Has the world gone totally mad?

No one can truly know another's thoughts, but I'm pretty sure that when Mr. Kaepernick knelt during the National Anthem he was not expressing his respect for America and her flag. I'm equally confident that the manufacturer of the new shoes sees this as a way to express love for flag and country—giving no thought to the idea that the flags thereon would soon be worn on the feet and dragged through the dirt.

I care nothing for Nike (their shoes are out of my price range) and no more for Kaepernick than is required of me by my claim to be a Christian (usually less, I'm afraid—but I can't blame him for my own fault). But it was firmly impressed on me as a child that kneeling is the ultimate gesture of respect, save only for complete prostration, and that wearing the flag as an article of clothing—let alone footwear!—is disrespect beyond the pale.  I believe that attitude has the force of history behind it.

It's at this point that my inner cynic rises up and declaims, "A plague on both their houses!" How can we hope to communicate when words and symbols have inverted their meanings?

The Story of Christianity, Volume 1: The Early Church To The Dawn Of The Reformation by Justo L. Gonzalez (HarperOne, 2010)

My list of books read this year shows June's tally to be woefully short, a mere two books. In part that shortfall is due to being on vacation with much else calling for my attention, but the primary cause was this 530-page book. I read most of it in June, but it squeaked over into July before completion.

Our rector chose this book for his six-week class in church history. I chose the Kindle version because that enabled me to begin the reading while still out of town—unfortunately we had to miss three of the six classes, and I wanted at least to keep up with the reading.  It wasn't easy, because Fr. Trey set a pace that was blistering even to a bookworm like me, though perhaps not to one who has so recently been in seminary and law school.

But I more than kept up. I finished the book yesterday, and the last class isn't until mid-month. What can I say? Once I get started, it's hard to stop. And I have a new birthday book—Brother Cadfael—calling out to me.

Plus, the book is interesting. The earlier chapters are better than the later to my mind, because the closer the author gets to modern times, the more obvious his biases become. I'm wondering if the trend will continue in Volume 2.

Mind you, I don't hold against him the fact that his biases show, even if they are sometimes frustrating. How can someone write on any subject, let alone one as difficult and as sensitive as history, without leaving the imprint of his own life's experiences? Isn't that why particular people write particular books? But the experience illustrates the truth-seeker's variant of caveat emptor: Be leery of trusting single sources.

I'll spare you the collection of quotations this time, but simply share one of my strongest and most lasting impressions.

As most of my readers know, it is my habit to read through the Bible once each year. I like to switch off different versions, and currently I'm using the one called simply, The Message. I don't doubt that many people find this version useful and enlightening, but for me it combines slogging through a swamp with enduring fingernails on a blackboard, so it's taking me a while to make progress. I'm well into my second year, and still in the Old Testament. The constant grind of God sets us on the right path—we mess up badly—God gets mad and threatens to give up on us—bad things happen—God decides he loves us too much to abandon us completely—God sets us back on the right path—we mess up badly—ad infinitum, is getting really old. This theme-and-variations seems a little repetitive in any translation, but it's orders of magnitude worse in The Message.

Enter this book on church history. History in general has been a weakness of mine ever since I learned in school that one could enjoy/be good at science and math or English and history, but not both. (I know. Surely no one actually said that? But that's what I heard.) About the history of the church I know even less, hence my eagerness to take this class. Reading the book made me glad to be experiencing the Old Testament at the same time. Why?

The impression given in most churches seems to me to be that God did a lot of work through history preparing mankind for the Incarnation—the coming of Jesus—and then considered the job done, with nothing left to do till the Second Coming. That's like jumping from the Garden of Eden to the Stable at Bethlehem, without considering all the years of history and preparation in between. What learning something of church history has shown me is how similar the Anno Domini years have been to those Before Christ. It's the same old song in a different key: make a good start, mess up—sometimes disastrously—receive correction, try again, mess up again, etc. Gradually learning, clarifying, and growing in the midst of and in spite of and even because of some really bad stuff going on. Just like Old Testament Israel.

Everything changed with the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus. And yet ... plus ça change ... people are still people. God's process of teaching, refining, clarifying, and polishing goes on. His work in and on and through his Church is just as important as his work with Israel. It is much like his work with individuals: everything indeed changes radically when one becomes a Christian, but God's work in us is far from complete.

Why do we learn so much in church about what God does in our individual lives, and what he did with Israel BC, but so little about his work with the Church AD?

Having recently emerged from a long labor, I am again amazed at how like childbirth is the creative endeavor.

The creative endeavor in question was a new book. Not that kind of book, I hasten to assure my friends and relatives who are published authors. My speciality is Shutterfly photo books—primarily for our grandchildren—with titles like The Art of Frederic Edwin Church, The Cantons of Switzerland, and Grandma and Dad-o Visit the Gambia. But if my artistic efforts are on a small scale, they are nonetheless artistic efforts, and extraordinarily like that highest of creative works of which mankind is capable, the co-creation with God of a unique human being.

As usual, this book began with nothing but a joyful idea and a due date: I had an offer for a "free" (pay only for shipping & tax) Shutterfly book with an expiration date of June 30. At that point I had no idea what the book would be about, just that it would be. The project perked along happily in the back of my mind as I occasionally thought about possibilities and laid the groundwork. Ah, the early days, when the delivery date seems so far away! I had plenty of time, and expected an easy "pregnancy."

As happens all too often, life took some unexpected turns, some good, some bad. Complications developed.

We had planned a major trip in May and June, which always plays havoc with my projects, but in this case there were two time periods in which I thought I could count on quiet time for some intense work. During our New Hampshire visit, all of the family but me were to have gone on a four-day camping trip, leaving me alone in the house to create. Later, during the Connecticut portion of our trip, we were to be there a full week before the main event, and our plans were simple: Porter—talk with his dad, work around the house, and play board games with his sister; Linda—work on this project! Almost two weeks of very little else to do? Surely I could accomplish much!

Yeah, right. First monkey wrench? Not long before the start of the trip, Porter experienced what turned out to be an intense sciatica attack. It was a miracle he was able to lie down flat for the MRI—which showed that his spine is a ticking bomb, ready to cripple him whenever the bulge hits the sciatic nerve. Despite this, we prepared for the trip in between medical necessities, and had some unexpected company (of the best kind!); in the end he was feeling well enough to want to make the trip. I wasn't so sure, but by another miracle he managed to make the long, long drive, only stopping more frequently than usual to rest and stretch. We arrived in New Hampshire only one day later than planned, and the camping trip was the following day! At that point, I felt I needed to be wherever Porter was, especially in a camping situation. We both decided to go, and it was great fun.

But there went the first writing session.

The second one was obliterated through two factors: (1) Porter's 92-year-old father became ill, and (2) we decided to bring two of our grandchildren with us when we left New Hampshire. So that week was spent on other activities—those more important than writing and those more fun. That's "fun" in the general sense—I find the creative process immensely satisfying, and yes, fun (most of the time), but not many agree.

When finally home (though not back to normal), I realized my due date was rapidly approaching and something had to be done about it. We all know that induced labors are more intense and painful than natural labors, and so it was in this case. Soon I was in my least favorite part of the book-creating process: wading through huge piles of data, making painful decision after painful decision necessary to make it all manageable. When the pain was at its worst I was ready to give up due to frustration and exhaustion. Of course, I was then in "transition," the point where laboring women are ready to jump out of windows—or defenestrate their husbands.

On to the blissful agony of the "pushing" stage, where the labor pains finally make obvious progress and the end is in sight. I had created the covers—for some reason, having the covers done makes everything else seem possible. I was on a roll. Only the necessities of life stopped me. I love this stage! The work was still tedious and painful: the process of making a photo page consists mainly in deciding what not to use, reluctantly casting aside photo after photo that just won't fit. To use another analogy, you can't make a sculpture without removing the wood or the stone, and the closer you get to the finished work, the more important and delicate each removal is. But oh the thrill as each page fell into place! Normally I'm good for nothing but sleep after nine o'clock at night. I blew past that mark, unheeding. Rarely do I work as efficiently and as effectively as I did that night, despite the lateness of the hour. Nine, ten, eleven, midnight—the hours passed and the pages slowly and steadily fell into place. It seemed nothing would stop me.

But finally, at 3:30 a.m., something did. My Shutterfly deal expired at midnight Pacific Time, and I still had four pages to go. Often, when I've barely beaten a deadline (never this late before!), once the deadline is actually past, Shutterfly will extend the offer by one more day. Not so this time, when I could have used it. By 3:30 it was clear that there was no point in pushing myself any further. I had another offer almost as good that didn't expire for another week. I went to bed at an hour very near to the time I often arise in the morning. Not since the birth of my firstborn had I worked through that much of the night.

The next day I was glad I had gone to bed, albeit for what turned out to be only a couple of hours' sleep, because there was still most of a day's worth of labor ahead of me. Of course, my sleep-deprived brain wasn't as efficient as it had been the night before! But I made it, and—after much more proofreading and editing than if I had finished the book at 2:55 the previous night—I clicked on the "Order" button and the baby was born!

And here's where the childbirth analogy breaks down. I won't actually have the book in my hands for at least a week, for one thing, and for another: with this particular book the pain is gone and the sleepless nights are done.

I chose the subject of this book for two reasons. One: I think it will bring delight to Porter's father, who could use some sunshine in his life right now. Two: since I could make it with no text, and I had plenty of appropriate photos at hand, I thought I could do the job quickly. I even thought of trying Shutterfly's feature where they take your photos and make them into a nice book for you. But I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I have my standards, and I must tell the story myself. So be it.