Dear Jack, Hope.

Today we lost our kitten, Emily Whitefoot Nunnink.

Lily gave her the name Emily and the rest of us tacked on “Whitefoot” to make things more interesting. Pet names should be a little on the weird side.

We only had her for two weeks but she managed to work her way into our hearts in that short amount of time. She was an amazingly playful little ball of fluff. She couldn’t resist attacking anything that moved. To get her to come out from under the couch, all you had to do was make your hand look like a wounded wildebeest (or just jerk it around a bit) and she’d pounce. She was also something of a Spider Man/Cat. This was a regular sight: Emily, spread-eagle, six feet up our screen door, staring at you with a grim I-mean-business expression that only a cat can have. She also liked to be cradled like a baby. I would pick her up and hold her close to my chest–her little pink paws almost up to her chin–and she would purr and close her eyes.

Early this morning Suzanne woke me out of a dead sleep with a voice that nobody wants to hear. It’s that awful something-is-seriously-wrong voice. She had come back from her early morning walk and found Emily in the driveway. “I think she’s dead,” she said and wanted me to go look. Sure enough, as I stumbled out into the driveway in my bathrobe, there was our little kitten. She didn’t look very bad, for a second I could’ve fooled myself into thinking she was asleep, but then I touched her. I’d held Emily countless times–a playful, warm, busy thing–but this thing was cold and stiff. There was no doubt.

(Ironically, as we pieced together the circumstances of the death, it became clear that this was the second of our kittens that my mom has indirectly killed. Another story for another time.)

Jack was the only other family member who was awake to see this scene in our driveway. Honestly, I wish it had been anybody but him. Lily, when she eventually heard the news, had a moment of finger-sucking remorse but quickly got philosophical about the situation and was ready to eat her cereal. Jack, on the other hand, was crushed. Me and Suzanne sat on the couch holding our sobbing boy. This is where things got interesting.

“Pray that God will make her alive again,” he asked me, between sobs.

My first instinct was to blow it off and give some theological explanation on why we just needed to except our kitty’s death. But I couldn’t do that. My entire life, my eternity, is staked on the belief that God raised a man from the dead. If he raised one man, why not a kitten? It certainly wouldn’t be too hard for the one who breathed life into the cosmos to breathe life back into a kitten. But, of course, God wouldn’t raise our kitten from the dead. It was stupid to even ask, right… Right?

But if Jack had the faith to ask, why wouldn’t I?

So we went out onto the porch. I had placed Emily’s body in a paper bag next to the door. I put my arm around Jack and knelt and I put my other shaking hand on the bag (I wasn’t brave enough to reach in and touch the dead cat). I think that might have been the most faithless prayer that ever came before the throne of God. But I had to ask him. I don’t even remember the words but you can picture them. Something along the lines of: “Uh, God, if you could maybe heal Emily and bring her back. We still trust you if you don’t.” Etc. Mostly trying to hedge so I didn’t look like a complete idiot when nothing happened. I sure wasn’t about to shout: “Emily Whitefoot, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, LIVE!” But still, a very small part of me hoped for a miracle: to feel that bag stir and hear a sound of life from inside.

But nothing happened.

“Does it take a long time?” Jack asked, still crying.

That was a bad moment. I hugged Jack and told him that God wasn’t going to bring Emily back and we needed to bury her.

Maybe someone reading this is thinking that the reason Emily didn’t come back was because I didn’t have faith. You’re wrong. I would swear on the Bible that you’re wrong. And what’s more, you’re mean. Sure, I made Doubting Thomas look good on that porch, but don’t tell me Jack’s faith wasn’t up to snuff. He has more faith in his pinkie than any faith healer. If God worked up miracles based off of our faith then Emily and every dead cat within 100 miles would have been raised this morning. Instead, God looked at that little boy’s broken heart, heard his faithful prayer and said, “No”.

Or did he say, “Wait”? Wait, Jack. Just wait.

“Does it take a long time?” Jack asked. Yes, buddy, it does. It takes a very long time. But just wait until you see how this thing ends. Then you’ll get it. You’ll understand why God said no. And it will all be worth it.

We buried Emily under a big oak in our yard. We made a little cross to mark her grave and wrote this on the cross: “Emily Whitefoot, Romans 8:19-22″. Here’s what Romans 8:19-21 says:

The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.

Emily, along with the rest of nature, got a bad deal. Because of our sin, she died and didn’t get much of a life. But in the end Jack (and Emily, I think) will know, “it was worth it”.

Just a little bit down the page, Romans says: “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good…” Even a dead kitten? Yes, “all things.” And the good that comes from the death of that kitten will be all the better because of the sadness.

Jack, this story isn’t over. God is answering your prayer in a better way then you can imagine.

Oddly enough, one year ago today, my Aunt Tracie died. Thinking about her makes all this cat stuff seem silly. How many times did God say “No” to our repeated prayers for her? And why did he do that? Was it just too hard to heal her? Not enough faith on our part? Or is something better in store?

So often in this life, we think we’re attending a funeral. Especially when we’re attending a funeral. We look at the death and sadness around us and think this is what life is all about. Dress up in black, visit the casket, cry, and go home because there’s nothing else to see, no more stories to tell. All the pain and suffering that preceded the casket only adds up to a casket. The end.

But we’re wrong.

Here’s a scene: It’s dark and you can almost taste pain in the air. You hear screaming and straining and blood is on the floor. Someone is writhing in a bed and people are shouting and weeping. If you were thrown into this scene, you might think you were in a torture chamber. But now listen to what they’re shouting: “Here it comes! Just a little more! I can see the head! Almost there! Good job!” You realize those tears are tears of joy. This is no torture chamber, this is a birth! In a moment the scene changes from horror to joy.

This life is no torture chamber, it’s no funeral, although it would be so easy to mistake it so. All this present pain and suffering is building up to a glorious, joyful, eternal birth.

One last picture: Jesus, in the garden. He asks God to take away the pain that lies before him. God says, “No”. Jesus is taken, tortured, crucified, and dies. Stop there.

What a story! It’s almost a nihilist fairy tale, no? A good man, a perfect man, begs God to spare him and God shakes his head. What a fool to hope in God to the end! What a horrible world, where this Galilean is murdered in such a way!

And yet Christians adore that day and remember it with tears of joy. Why? Because the story did not end at the cross and in the tomb. The culmination of the cross overshadowed and made glorious its pain.

I cannot imagine how the death of an angel like Aunt Tracie or even a kitten that will not rise from the dead is somehow laying a foundation of eternal joy; just how the terrified disciples on Good Friday could not comprehend how their master on a cross would become the Good News that would change the world.

But I have so much hope.

If all this pain and death will be transformed by the birth that is coming, then what a birth we should expect! What a day is in store for us!

For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.

Jack, just wait and hope. You won’t be disappointed.

Fiction Snobs in 09. Will the snobbery go on?

I think so. I’m still going to keep reading books.

I have an idea for another book to read together. I’m feeling a bit crazy to suggest it but it’s one of those books that I just want to talk with people about and nobody has read it. So it’s purely selfish. I’ll keep you all posted.

On a music note: what is my favorite new album of 2009 so far?

Welcome to the Welcome Wagon

The Welcome Wagon is a married couple, the Reverend Thomas Vito Aiuto and his wife Monique, who execute a genre of gospel music that is refreshingly plain. Their hymns are modest and melodic takes on a vast history of sacred song traditions, delivered with the simple desire to know their Maker—and to know each other—more intimately. More…

This is an amazing album. Seriously check it out.

Chapter 12: The Return of Ulysses

Finally! Sorry about the ridiculously long delay. Hope everyone hasn’t completely forgotten where we are in this book.

The time has come to say goodbye to our little friends and I think Grahame ends his story pitch-perfectly. The friends have a quick victory and regain Toad Hall, sending the Weasels and Stoats back to the Wild Wood humbled and trounced.

The real theme of this chapter is how Toad is forced to grow up a bit. But this is done perfectly in line with his character. He realizes he can keep people’s attention more if he is quiet and mysterious instead of boastful and loud. (By the way, I’ve discovered this to be true myself.) So his motives are a still a bit selfish but he also is doing it for his friends. That’s really the nice part of this chapter is that Toad finally gives out for his friends who have spent the entire book giving out to him. You can see that Toad finally understands that he has put Badger, Mole, and Rat trough a lot of trouble. Not that he doesn’t lay on the guilt while submitting to their wishes.

`You have conquered, my friends,’ he said in broken accents. `It was, to be sure, but a small thing that I asked– merely leave to blossom and expand for yet one more evening, to let myself go and hear the tumultuous applause that always seems to me–somehow–to bring out my best qualities. However, you are right, I know, and I am wrong. Hence forth I will be a very different Toad. My friends, you shall never have occasion to blush for me again. But, O dear, O dear, this is a hard world!’

And the story ends on the note of friendship winning out even in the most selfish of hearts. It’s not that Toad has suddenly seen the error of his ways (he’s still the same Toad inside) but he’s forcing himself to not shame his friends. A perfect way to close.

So now that we’re done, what did everyone this of this chapter and the entire book? If you didn’t like it (*cough*, *cough*, Sydney) you can post too.

Thanks to everyone who stuck through the entire book. (Did anyone?) I’m going to put together a book party in January and everyone is welcome. Even if you didn’t read the entire book. I’ll be giving out awards and I think we’ll make some traditional English dishes.

Hi everyone, this week’s chapter has been canceled on account of snow and too many websites to build. We’ll pick up next Monday and chat Wind & the Willows over Christmas. Sound good?

Non-writing post

This is a T-Shirt design I did recently. What do you guys think?

Chapter 10: “Like Summer Tempests Came His Tears”

Ah, Toad. What can you say? He is something else.

This is a humbling chapter for Toad and also one that reveals how hard it is to truly humble him.

Notice how he jumps right in to boasting as soon as the Rat hauls him out of the river. (” Such trials, such sufferings, and all so nobly borne!”) He is so excited that he forgets he’s dressed like a washerwoman. He is completely remorseless for all the trouble he caused–in fact it has only bolstered his pride. But Grahme knows just like the rest of us that Toad needs to learn a lesson. Over the next few chapters Toad finally grows up as much as Toad can grow up–and in true Toad form, of course.

This is how Toad acts while Rat lectures him:

So although, while the Rat was talking so seriously, he kept saying to himself mutinously, `But it was fun, though! Awful fun!’ and making strange suppressed noises inside him, k-i-ck-ck-ck, and poop-p-p, and other sounds resembling stifled snorts, or the opening of soda-water bottles…

(This reminds me of how Jack and Lily sometimes act when I’m lecturing them.) He obviously thinks this is just another situation that he will escape. But then Rat lands the crippling blow by revealing that Toad Hall is lost.

Toad leaned his elbows on the table, and his chin on his paws; and a large tear welled up in each of his eyes, overflowed and splashed on the table, plop! plop!

Toad would be completely lost without his friends and, here again, they come to his rescue. They haven’t missed a moment and they have sacrificed and toiled to re-secure Toad’s mansion. They didn’t even give up on him when he was in jail. Of course, Toad completely misses how wonderful they are:

Here the unfeeling Toad broke into a snigger, and then pulled himself together and tried to look particularly solemn.

It seems that only the Badger has the power to bring Toad to (temporary) repentance:

`Toad!’ he said severely. `You bad, troublesome little animal! Aren’t you ashamed of youself? What do you think your father, my old friend, would have said if he had been here tonight, and had known of all your goings on?’

Toad, who was on the sofa by this time, with his legs up, rolled over on his face, shaken by sobs of contrition.

So the chapter finishes the heros back together, preparing to storm the castle. There’s so many gems in this chapter that it would be foolish to try and mention them all. What were some of your favorites parts?

Just FYI, we will have our chapter post Monday again. It’s a doozy. Toad could not be more annoying in a good way.

Violation

This is a short film that I stumbled across today. It moved me. Watch it.

http://www.thedoorpost.com/hope/Volition/

Writing cliche: I must be dreaming

I was reading an excerpt of a book by a nameless author who I’m less-than-enamored with and I came across this sentence:

…I was ninety-nine-percent sure that I was dreaming because…

Cliche alert. Variations of that line are practically everywhere from Billboard 100 songs to dollar-store paperbacks. But is it really true? Have you ever been in a situation and thought, “I must be dreaming”? Personally, I can only think of one when I was 6 years old. Ever since then I’ve been able to tell if I’m awake or sleeping–even in fantastic situations. So is this just a device for shoddy writers or a common reality?

Chapter 10: The Further Adventures of Toad

Well, we’re back after that brief break.

Toad is just an amazing character. The fact that he is still likable after this chapter is a testament to how well Grahame writes him. Just to review:

1. He steals a horse.
2. He lies constantly.
3. He is amazingly conceited.
4. He wrecks the car that he previously stole.

And yet, somehow, he is totally lovable. I don’t exactly know why. I think maybe it’s because he is so heart-on-his sleeve. It’s hard to hate someone who is so comically driven by passion.

In my opinion, this chapter has Toad at his best. There’s something about the washerwoman disguise that emboldens him. His lies become so hilariously elaborate:

`I dare say it is, ma’am!’ responded Toad politely, as he walked along the tow-path abreast of her. `I dare it is a nice morning to them that’s not in sore trouble, like what I am. Here’s my married daughter, she sends off to me post-haste to come to her at once; so off I comes, not knowing what may be happening or going to happen, but fearing the worst, as you will understand, ma’am, if you’re a mother, too. And I’ve left my business to look after itself — I’m in the washing and laundering line, you must know, ma’am — and I’ve left my young children to look after themselves, and a more mischievous and troublesome set of young imps doesn’t exist, ma’am; and I’ve lost all my money, and lost my way, and as for what may be happening to my married daughter, why, I don’t like to think of it, ma’am!’

This one always cracks me up:

`O, I have girls,’ said Toad lightly: `twenty girls or thereabouts, always at work. But you know what girls are, ma’am! Nasty little hussies, that’s what I call ‘em!’

The scene where unfortunate motor car picks up washerwoman Toad is about as funny as literature can get. Even the poor drivers are taken in by Toad’s disguise. (“O dear! this is very sad! Here is a poor old thing — a washerwoman apparently — who has fainted in the road! Perhaps she is overcome by the heat, poor creature; or possibly she has not had any food to-day. Let us lift her into the car and take her to the nearest village, where doubtless she has friends.”) And Toad’s internal dialogue as he gives into temptation…

`It is fate!’ he said to himself. `Why strive? why struggle?’

This and the next chapters are some of my favorites. What did you all think of this chapter?