The Shack

Well, I finished reading William P Young's "The Shack" recently. I heard some raving reviews early on after its appearance, but hadn't felt really pulled to read it. In fact, whenever someone feels strongly about something, I tend to shy away and push my feelings in the other direction. But, around Christmastime, a friend gave me the book to read so we could discuss it. Then, through a series of events involving my weasly sister, I misplaced the book (by misplaced, I mean, my sister added it to her collection) so I didn't get around to it until this month. Then I started reading it. I don't want to be too opinionated and risk pissing someone off or the opposite, but I feel I should share my opinion because... I can. And because I found some aspects of the book quite troubling.

I must say, this is a really well-written book. I liked the words and the way it flowed, and the plot/conversations and things were very convincing. The plot itself is actualy troubling. It revolves around someone who's daughter was the victim of violent crime, and, while it doesn't share any gruesome details, being in the head of a father experiencing a kidnapping and murder is hard. Being the mother of two girls, it was just hard to read and feel like I was relating with the father character.

The book isn't really about that murder, but about how the main character, Mackinzie, deals with it and fights with God over it. Basically, he ends up encountering God at the place where they believed the crime took place. He goes back a few years later and has this experience with God, personified as three distinct personalities, representing the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. So, with that said, you know the plot. From the time he meets up with God to most of the end, the story is mostly conversation, while Mackinzie grapples with these questions about God and life and suffering that I think everyone who's experienced grief asks. The answers you get... well, it's a blend of truth, theology, comfort and heracy.

I really appreciated the fresh perspectives on things. I liked the theme that God is not who we think He is. Because He isn't. He's new and changing, yet old and predictable. He's so many things that we could never, ever explain it all or fit it into our minds even if we could explain it. We've tried and tried, and I believe that this book does a really good job explaining some things that are hard to put into words.

I liked a lot of the answers. Having struggled with questions about why God allows evil and how He works through it, I was glad to relate with Mackinzie. There were so many good answers given. So much theology laced in through the casual conversations and thoughts. It made me wonder at how little of God I know, and how much there is yet to understand. It made me love him more as I thought about what it would be like to meet up with Jesus and walk on the lake with him, or eat supper wtih God Himself. It made me long for closer fellowship with Him.

What I can't get over, and why I can't recommend the book, is the fallacies that are sprinkled in. I guess that's all I have to say about it. Amidst these solid truths, I found things that, no matter how much I tried, I could not reconsile with Scripture. So, if you read it, you have to really pray that God will show you the truth and help you discern. And you have to remember, just because the characters speaking are God, doesn't mean that the book was written by Him. :)

Brokenness

I wrote this after reflecting on my baby brother who died at 6 days old. His birthday was Monday and he would have been 26. Obviously it ended up being more of my personal thoughts. The phrases "you are yourself the answer" and "what other answer would suffice" were taken from C.S. Lewis' Till We have Faces, which has been and will forever be the best book I ever read.

Brokenness

Years go by but once in a while I still find myself asking why
Why, in the midst of so much sorrow, must you allow for more
why, when the joy so simple and pure is lost, does it ruin so many other things
why do you take these little ones home
Why do babies have to die?
and grace rolls down and mercy shows
as your hand guides us and your presence
guides our steps, causing the peace to flow
but even in your goodness, the doubt staggers in
touching and picking and pulling
making me face the questions I wish would die
and causing me to wonder why.
Why would you let it be this way
when the sorrow is almost too much to take
and the pain can never be erased
why do you take these little ones home
why do babies have to go?
and all the answers are trite when told to a burning, broken heart
All but one—you yourself are the Answer
in your love we find hope
in your light we find comfort
in your brokenness
we are healed
In your arms we find peace
and that will be enough for me
for what other answer would suffice?

Papers

I remember starting in second grade, our teachers let us use our free time to "read write or draw". I loved all three activities a lot. But, if I had to choose, I'd usually choose to write. I'd get these notebooks at the student store for 25cents and sometimes these great markers that were like 50 cents. And then, whenever I had a chance, I'd write these little stories. I only have a few of the notebooks, since they were prone to fall apart once the glue wore off. It's funny to see the themes I chose for my free stories. Mostly detective stories and things about the teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles... at least in second grade. Detective stories happened all the way through fifth grade. (I had always planned to be a detective until seventh grade when I found out you had to be pretty physically fit, and then I gave up on the idea).

In Fifth grade, we'd go up to the computer lab and use the "new" Apples to type up our stories and print them out on dot matrix. Ahhh, beautiful. What I wouldn't give to hear that sound. I believe Strongbad refers to it as "pre-ow" Anyway, I digress. So, in fifth grade we typed up stories. I wrote really long stories back then. The two that are left behind are pretty darn involved for a fifth grader's brain. I have one that was 5 pages when I typed it, which was amazing compared to everyone else's who were mostly one or two pages. I remember my teacher saying, "This isn't a story! It's a novel!" It's a stupid story, really, about some kids who discover a whole bunch of nuclear weapons in their neighbor's basement. Headed to Iraq for Sadaam Hussein... lame, I know. I guess I had a lot to learn about terrorists. But the plot was pretty cohesive.
My mom gave me a portfolio with a lot of writing in it from those years. I remembered writing some of it, but a lot of it I'd completely forgotten about. I know I have a lot of free writing from sixth grade that I did during class, but I can't find most of my writing assignments. There was one from ffith grade, though, a midevil tale (oh, I forgot to mention that after the detective stories stopped, I started writing more about kids finding bombs and knights and castles. Much better). It was 14 pages hand-written with illustrations. Lots of details. I think I might actually post that one if I get enough requests, because it's hilarious.
Anyway, reading all of that old crap and remembering how imaginitive I used to be made me wish that I had more time to devote to making up stories. I don't do it as much anymore. Sure, I can spell better now, and I have much better technique but sometimes I almost wish for those days back when the idea tank was overflowing.
Then again, maybe if I started writing detective stories again, the ideas would start to flow again. Maybe I will... but probably not.