Books · Beauty · Theology #4

Of raised beds, woodcuts, and YA novels

Spring at the Window, by Tetyana Yablonska

My friends,

Gerard Manley Hopkins said that ‘weather is news from God’ and while it is a very British thing of him to say, I have always entirely agreed. Now that I live in England, I find myself opening most conversations with remarks about the roils of clouds or roam of the wind. I wonder if there is a penchant here, influenced by the mischievous movement of the weather, to better recognise the way the soul’s climate is often mirrored in these ever-changing skies, our interior horizons as changeful as those out the window. Maybe we’re all commenting upon the shifts and gradations of light within our own spirits as well as those in the clouds…

Whatever the reason, I’m happy to report that this is a cool day of diffused wind, with the tang of yesterday’s rain (and the mud spots of yesterday’s puddles) still lingering. We’ve needed the rain after almost six weeks of unbroken sunshine with not a drop in sight. For awhile we all revelled in early summer and unseasonable warmth, but… the meadows and hedges and yes, one’s skin and soul began to yearn for a day of brooding wet.

Which is a fairly accurate summation of my last six weeks as well. We’ve travelled back to the States and over to the Netherlands, played, holidayed, climbed in the mountains, gone to family weddings, and wrestled with the dreaded spectre of jet lag. It’s been glorious. Joyous. Exhausting. And now, I’m heartily ready to be enclosed for awhile within the happy cloisters, the broodier days of home.

You’ll find me now making stacks of books for summer reading, arranging the building of a raised bed for a sunny corner of the garden (I’m giddily excited about this) combing through the elderflower blossoms to see if they’re ready to be made into cordial (maybe this year we’ll remember to actually drink it), praising my children’s many outdoor forts, and… collecting ideas for a new book. I know. I was so sure I’d take a break, but a book has come and battens on my mind. I am taut with creativity. I’ll tell you more soon.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the hiddenness of these ‘small’ days. These daily things, hidden and faithful, can feel of no moment when I look at the ache and turmoil of the world. There’s a lot of trouble these days, isn’t there? Everywhere I look, every conversation I enter at home and abroad, eventually gets round to all the wars or the rise of AI (sorry, not a fan) or the anguish of children hungry or species dying out (we’re actually noticing the lack of bugs in our garden). There’s reason to be alarmed. And of course, we each bear the burden of identifying what we, in our finitude, are called to do for the healing of the world. I think this is an integral part of following Christ, asking, to which ache shall I apply myself? Because some of us will be called to feed the hungry children, or stand in the gap between war and peace, or to fight for what is thoughtlessly wasted.

But alongside this appropriate question of vocation, I think it is vital for us to realise how defiantly medicinal a personal life that values the small and hidden, the rooted and faithful can be to the brokenness of the world. Even if I identify the cause or hurt I am specifically called to heal, it’s a single realm, and I’m still a single, finite creature, inescapably embedded in my own place, my own relationships, my own corner of the earth. The way I tend and cultivate those things which belong intimately to me in my ordinary sphere - home, body, friend, child, spouse, garden, table - is, perhaps, my most robust means of ‘living opposite to war’ (as Wendell Berry put it in Hannah Coulter). The powers of fear and death and hatred range the horizons of the world, and against them we set… our vocational work, yes, but also the planting of gardens, the innocence of childhood, the feeding of strangers and friends, the crafting of refuge. And the power of these small things is far more potent than we often imagine.

Books

When a book gets recommended to you by a goodly number of readers you respect, you really have to chase a copy down. So I did, with this little book, The Labors of Hercules Beal. I will admit, I was a little skeptical. It’s YAish in genre, and while sometimes I adore a good YA novel, I’m also a little difficult to please in that department. But this book, it was so funny, and gentle, and poignant, able to portray the real processes and pitfalls of deep grief while allowing the medicinal power of real kindness. It’s about Hercules Beal, a boy being raised by his brother Achilles after the tragic death of their parents. As a class assignment, Hercules is told to study the ancient story of the great labors of his famed namesake, and figure out how identify and complete a similar set of labors in his own life. By working through these challenges, adapting them to the contours of his own life, Hercules wrestles through his grief, his need, and discovers the power of the love that still surrounds him. Gosh, it’s a beautiful little book.

Beauty

For awhile now, I’ve loved the art of Claire Leighton, an artist known for her wood engravings depicting (most famously) rural life and the changing of the seasons. Two of her prints, including the one above, became a symbol and image for me of my vocation a few years back (more about that another time), and I have them side by side above my desk. I love the stark simplicity, the elegance, the dignity she reveals in her subjects by the moments in which she depicts them. I had some book credit recently, and used it to buy a book of her artwork, Claire Leighton’s Rural Life. I’ve been savouring each page, and as with many of my favourite artists, I find that her depiction of everyday work helps me to witness my own life through her eyes and find my ordinary days more crammed with beauty.

Theology

I’m beginning a new project, which means I’m culling a number of theological books for research. I’m not yet immersed in any, and haven’t found a great deal of time amidst my travel for theological reading of any kind. But in the past months, most days I have managed to read through the lovely ‘Stations of the Resurrection’ in my little Saint Augustine Prayer Book. I’ve found them to be brief, luminous, formative devotions, enough to get me thinking and reading if I have more time, but also sufficient to shape my day when five minutes alone are at my service. I’ve only just finished them (which should tell you how haphazard my quiet times are these days) and moved on recently to the next section of ‘topical devotions’, this one titled ‘Devotions to the Holy Spirit’. I’ve been saying this prayer daily and it grows in power for me (on p. 315):

O Divine Love, sacred bond uniting the Father and the Son, Almighty Spirit, faithful comforter of the afflicted: penetrate teh depth of m heart and fill it with the brightness of thy light.
Send upon this desert, which is my soul, the sparkling dew of thy grace, and make fruitful that which has long been barren.
Let the fiery darts of they love reach the sanctuary of my soul and, entering therein, set it on fire with so bright a flame that all my weakness, neglect, and languour may be consumed in the passion of thy gentle embrace.

And now, my friends, I wish you the quiet flourishing I see in the meadows and trees in late spring. The drama of early blossom, the passion of the daffodils has faded. Now, the earth gains green in a slow, steady, joyous growth. Light burgeons, a little more each day. May you raise your face to the brightness in the early summer skies, as you watch within for the sunrise of God’s love.

More soon,

Sarah

P.S. A rather big and happy announcement about our family on Instagram. Hint: Samuel’s summer has been made.

P.P.S. This post contains affiliate links… all pennies donated toward the family library!