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The twists are not just in the hair: Review of The Golden Braid by Melanie Dickerson

golden braid

Disney gave us Tangled with its catchy songs and adorable characters, and  now Melanie Dickerson gives us a new twist on Rapunzel in the next book in her fairy tale series.

I grabbed this one on a sick day and found it to be a comforting and inspiring story of love and forgiveness. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book in exchange for my review through Litfuse Publicity Group.)

In The Golden Braid, Rapunzel has lived alone with her mother, Gothel, wandering from village to village, for as long as she can remember. As they’re on their way to Hagenheim, a large city in the region, they are overtaken by two bandits who prey on the women traveling alone. When they are rescued by Sir Gerek, a knight in the service of Duke Wilhelm, Rapunzel finds herself indebted to the man for saving their lives, though her mother has warned her against speaking to men. Gerek later finds himself in Rapunzel’s debt, and the two find their lives intertwined as they reach Hagenheim.

Gerek reluctantly agrees to teach Rapunzel to read, although she keeps it secret from her mother, and as she perpetuates her deception, she begins to wonder if her mother has been truthful with her about trusting people, especially men.

The unfolding of this story kept me turning the pages, and though it has the familiar plot lines of the familiar Rapunzel fairy tale, it has enough twists to make it unique. The developing relationship between Gerek and Rapunzel is fun to watch. Rapunzel is no damsel in distress, although she does need rescuing now and then. But Gerek is trapped, too, in his own way, a captive of unforgiveness.

The way Dickerson connects this story to the others in her fairy tales is brilliant, and maybe I’ve said this before, but I think I’m going to need a map of the lands where these stories are set, as well as a family tree.

Dickerson’s stories are an enjoyable way to relive familiar fairy tales in a new way and prove that you can’t outgrow them.

For more about Dickerson, visit this site.

And to read other reviews I’ve written about Dickerson’s books, click the links below.

 

A birthday and some book recommendations

Today is my grandpa’s 90th birthday.

One of the downsides of living so far from family is all the missed celebrations. I’m a big fan of cake and ice cream and being with my family, so birthdays are always a good reason to get together. (Confession: I’m also terrible about getting cards in the mail for people’s birthdays. I’m really good at buying cards and then forgetting to send them. Or maybe I’m just a year ahead of schedule. Who knows?!)

We’ve learned to make phone calls on birthdays and schedule Skype calls and resort to e-mail and Facebook (and the occasional blog post because words can be a gift.)

I could write a thousand words or more about my grandpa. He’s 90, and I’ve known him for 37 years. That’s a chunk of time I don’t take for granted, although it was only 15 years ago that I really learned about him. On his 75th birthday, my mom and I made him a scrapbook. We were in a scrapbooking phase then. And I saw pictures of my grandfather performing gymnastic feats in college, and he told us story after story about his service in Japan during World War 2.

grandpa ww2

In recent years, World War 2 has been a popular subject. Or maybe I’m just more aware of the stories. I read Unbroken earlier this year and was captivated by the true story of Louis Zamperini. I’ve yet to read more true-life stories from the era, but I’ve read a good deal of fiction books set in this time period.

If you’re interested in that era, in stories based on that generation of people and circumstances, allow me to offer some of the best books I’ve read in that genre. (And please add your own!)

Grandpa’s stories are still some of my favorites. And I’m thrilled that he has a display at a local World War 2 museum near my hometown.

Happy birthday, Grandpa!

And here’s my list (in no particular order):

The Girl from the Train by Irma Joubert. This one begins during World War 2, although most of it takes place in the decade afterward. Still, I appreciate seeing the after-effects of the war.

Maggie Bright by Tracy Groot tells the story of the evacuation of Dunkirk and how civilian ships rose to the occasion and rescued the British army. It is a work of fiction based on a historical event that I knew nothing about. And Tracy Groot is one of my favorite writers. Another excellent World War 2 novel by Groot is Flame of Resistance. maggie bright

Promise to Cherish. What about the Amish during World War 2? It’s a question I never considered until I started reading this series by Elizabeth Byler Younts. This book is the second in the series, but they stand alone and it was by far my favorite of the three. I rarely recommend Amish fiction, but anything by Younts is worth reading.

Remember the Lilies by Liz Tolsma. Tolsma also has a three-book series set during World War 2. This one is different because it is set in the Philippines at an internment camp. Many of the books I’ve read set during World War 2 are also set in Europe. I enjoyed the different setting.

SecretsOfACharmedLifeCOVERSecrets of a Charmed Life by Susan Meissner. Here’s another author whose historical stories are among my favorites. This follows a contemporary storyline along with one set in 1940s London.

The Butterfly and the Violin by Kristy Cambron.  This one, also, follows a dual timeline, and shows the amazing resilience of art and beauty to withstand the worst of circumstances.

Grand Central: Original Stories of Postwar Love and Reunion.  This book of short stories is a slice of life as paths cross in Grand Central Station. I enjoyed some of the stories more than others, but the connectedness of them kept me reading. I enjoy being exposed to authors I haven’t previously read, and a book of short stories is a good way to do that.

All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. A blind girl in occupied Paris and a German boy who becomes one of the Nazi’s best resistance trackers. The two storylines seem hardly to connect until you keep reading. It’s a bleak but beautiful story, one that leaves you feeling both a bit depressed and hopeful.

If I think of others, I’ll add them. What are your recommendations?

Another moving family story: Review of Another Way Home by Deborah Raney

No matter what your family gatherings are like, take a break from all the upcoming holiday planning and preparations with the third book in Deborah Raney’s Chicory Inn series, Another Way Home. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book through Litfuse Publicity Group in exchange for my review.)

another way homeThe Chicory Inn series centers on the Whitman family, parents Grant and Audrey who have turned their empty nest into a bed-and-breakfast, and the ongoing trials and triumphs of their children. Each book focuses on one of their grown children’s family and how as a family they rely on each other and their faith to endure the struggles of life. (Read more about the first two books here and here.)

Another Way Home highlights Danae and Dallas, who have been trying for years to get pregnant and are at the point of considering other options. It is straining their marriage, so Danae begins volunteering at a women’s shelter, infusing new passion into her life. Then Thanksgiving weekend brings Danae and Dallas an opportunity that brings them great joy and also potential heartache. As the family rallies around them, will they find God’s ways to be better than they expected?

Even though I have a family that is nothing like the Whitmans, I find the situations Raney writes about to be realistic and moving.  If you’re concerned that a series featuring a family will be “too perfect” then think again. The Whitman family has issues, and they care about each other. I love the interactions between siblings and couples and  the descriptions of the chaotic family gatherings when grandchildren are running around and playing.

It takes me home to my own family’s gatherings.

And each book’s end makes me look forward to the next in the series.

Each book is capable of being read on its own, but to get the complete family story, start at the beginning.

Learn more about Raney and her books here.

What losing my voice teaches me about finding it

I lost my voice this week. For three agonizing days, my throat has hurt to talk, and while I’m not what you would call “chatty,” I am a communicator, and having a weak voice at best has been frustrating.

My son, God love him, who is almost 6, thinks it’s hilarious to say, “What? I can’t hear you” when I ask him a question. I’m pretty sure he can hear me, and I’m not always patient in my reply.

tea

Photo by David Mao | via unsplash

The first day, I was whispering and then a friend told me that whispering is actually harder on your voice than regular speaking, so I gave up on that and tried to use my voice at whatever level I could. My daughter, who is 7 1/2, took to repeating everything I said so that her brother would attempt to follow directions. I gestured a lot and tried to communicate messages to my husband so he could speak for me. I’m not sure I realized how much I talk to the kids until I couldn’t.

It’s exhausting to have no voice. Everything is harder. I haven’t received many phone calls, which is good, because I would probably let most of them go to voicemail. I’m grateful to still have the ability to text and e-mail and write things on Facebook, so at the end of the day I still feel like I’ve communicated something. But it’s hard for me to resist speaking to my in-real-life people.

There’s a moment each morning when I wonder if my voice has come back. I’m almost reluctant to try it out because of the disappointment I’ll feel if it hasn’t returned. Each day shows some improvement, but I’m not sure when I’ll be fully functional again.

 

To read the rest, head over to Putting on the New, where I blog on the 12th day of each month.

For the addict in all of us: Review of Coming Clean by Seth Haines

Addiction of any kind is not an easy topic for conversation, but Seth Haines draws us into one anyway with courage, vulnerability and grace.

coming cleanComing Clean is a journal of Seth’s first 90 days of sobriety from alcohol. But it’s also an outstretched hand of invitation to learn the way of inner sobriety from whatever dulls the pains of life’s hurts. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from the publisher through the Booklook Bloggers program in exchange for my review.)

I wouldn’t identify myself as an addict, but Seth’s premise is that we’re all drunk on something. We’re all looking for something to numb the pains and realities of life. And after reading through his journey, I’m convinced that I have some work to do in my life. What do I use to numb the pain? What is my escape? And who do I need to forgive?

This is a hard book to read. It’s readable. That’s not what I mean. But it’s challenging and I found myself susceptible to tears for almost no reason after I finished the book. Without forcing it, Seth issues challenges through his own journey for all who want to live a life free and full of love.

I’m not sure I’ve read anything more vulnerable, and I’m not sure five stars is enough.

Having an addiction is one thing. Admitting it is another. Fighting through it yet another. And seeking the source, what’s underneath the addiction, is hard but gratifying work.

You don’t have to be an addict or love one to appreciate this book. But you just might find yourself identifying. Maybe there’s an addict in all of us. Maybe we’re all just covering up the pain.

There are too many coping mechanisms to list. You know this. Right?

The bottle is not the thing. The addiction is not the thing. The pain is the thing.

The jig is up. My cover-up  is threadbare. I can hide no longer. Not even from myself. (p. 71)

Approach with caution. Yet have no fear.

A guide through the messy work of discovering: Review of Out of Sorts by Sarah Bessey

“Sorting” is not a word we the people of the United States use very often and certainly not in the British way. But it’s a perfectly apt description of the process of discovering and re-discovering what I believe and why. And Sarah Bessey guides us through this messy work in her new book Out of Sorts.

It is a record of her own faith journey and a guidebook, in a way, of the path through a process that can be disorienting.

Like all good stories, it begins with a familiar phrase:

beautifully sorted out

And while there’s no tidy ending (because all of our journeys are unique), it’s not a story devoid of “happily ever after.”

The sorting of a person’s beliefs can be a beautiful thing. But it’s not necessarily easy.Out of Sorts cover

Out of Sorts doesn’t offer a how-to approach to finding your once-and-for-all set of beliefs. But it offers encouragement to question, to remember, to grieve losses and hurts, to look back on your life and church experiences and theology and determine what stays and what goes. Bessey’s book is like a friend who sits with us as we sort, but who can’t make the decisions for us. Those are for us alone. She offers her own experiences, her own work of finding a fresh look at Jesus in the Gospels, of discovering ancient practices she’d not been exposed to in her charismatic upbringing.

“Lean into your questions and your doubts until you find that God is out here in the wilderness too. I have good news for you, brokenhearted one: God is here in the wandering.”

It’s the kind of book I want to re-read to soak up the richness. Like a guidebook to a favorite vacation destination, I want to consult it again and again until the landscape is as familiar to me as my own neighborhood.

“You may sit by the trail and cry over the poisonous, lovely things being left behind. You’ll wonder why you’re still holding on this thing or that thing. You’ll find that some things you were ready to toss have become dear, so precious, that you’ll carry them in your lap to keep them safe.”

Encouraging, prophetic and challenging. A must-read if the faith tradition in which you were raised seems in conflict with the faith tradition you have now.

When following Jesus doesn’t mean what I think it means {a synchroblog post}

Follow Jesus, they said. It’ll make your life better, they said.

Okay, maybe nobody said that. Maybe that’s just what I heard.

Except that what I first heard was from Jesus.

“Come,” He said. “Just as you are,” He said.

So I did. I jumped right in and felt the love of a God who required nothing of me.

Except that I soon learned that God did require things. Things like:

Obedience, which I translated into Always Doing the Thing I Didn’t Want To Do.

Holiness, which I translated into Never Doing a Wrong Thing Ever Again.

Trust, which I translated into Never Worrying About Anything in My Life Ever Again (or at least Not Telling Anyone If I Do Worry).

Faith, which I translated into Always Having the Right Answer Even If I’m Not Sure Myself  What the Answer Is (also Never Having Doubts or Questions About What I  Believe).

And then Something happened. A Something so big that it requires a capital letter.

These things that I thought about following Jesus didn’t ensure a good life. In fact, life got the worst it possibly could get and I wondered what I did wrong. I thought I was following Jesus. Wasn’t my faith supposed to be a shield from these kinds of difficulties? Didn’t these sorts of things only happen to people who didn’t have Jesus in their lives?

The big Something was more than five years ago now, but I’m still asking those questions. And the things I thought I knew about following Jesus are less certain now. It’s like I had a jar full of faith trinkets and someone dumped it out and scattered the contents all over the house and now I’m still picking up the pieces and deciding what to put back in the jar. (Or if I even need the jar at all.)

I’m sorting it out, as Sarah Bessey calls it in her new book Out of Sorts (review of the book is in a separate post). I’m wrestling with questions I didn’t think to have all those years ago, and while I sometimes want to discard my early years of following Jesus all together, I know that some of those beliefs and actions are valuable, even if just as reminders of where I was at the time. We don’t have to junk family heirlooms simply because they’re old.

But some of those former ways are damaged and it’s time to toss them.

I wish I could tell you for sure what I believe about following Jesus today. Or what it will look tomorrow or five years from now. It’s ever-changing, and that’s okay, because my life is ever changing. Just because God is not changing doesn’t mean my understanding of Him won’t change.

Out of Sorts theology

Even writing those words feels sinful sometimes. Am I supposed to change what I believe about God and living out my faith?

[bctt tweet=”But what I was supposed to do never saved me and it never will.”]

If I’ve learned anything about following Jesus it’s that it’s all about following Him. Shocking, right? I’m no longer interested in following a set of rules if it means I lose Jesus in the process. I’m no longer certain that there’s only one way to follow Him, only one way to be a Christian. To be honest, there are a whole lot more things I don’t know than I do know. Maybe I’ve lost my religion, a la R.E.M., or maybe not.

What I do know is this: I haven’t lost Jesus.

And I’m still sorting it out.

That used to terrify me, the unraveling of my faith, the questions about what I believe.

Now, though, I welcome it.

The questions don’t scare me anymore. Most of the time, they make my faith stronger.

Following Jesus doesn’t mean what I thought it meant. And that’s more than okay.

To celebrate the launch of her new book, Sarah Bessey is hosting a syncroblog on the topic of “I used to think ____ but now I think____.” Head over to Sarah’s blog to join the conversation.

How has what you believe changed over time?

A surprising novel from start to finish: Review of The Girl from the Train by Irma Joubert

Sometimes I think if I’ve read one World War 2 novel, I’ve read them all. (And I’ve read a lot of World War 2 fiction. I should make a list for you, if that’s a genre you enjoy.)

And sometimes I read a World War 2 novel that surprises me. And while The Girl from the Train by Irma Joubert (not to be confused with the wildly popular mainstream novel The Girl on the Train) starts during World War 2, it reaches years beyond to illustrate the effects of war on a particular girl.

girl from the trainI didn’t know this book or author existed before the book arrived in my mailbox. (I received a free copy of the book from the publisher in exchange for my review.) But this is one of those times that I’m glad to receive a book that wasn’t on my radar. It’s worth taking note of.

The author presents a World War 2 story unlike any I’ve ever read. (And this book has been translated into English and is an international bestseller before it has released in the States.) She takes us on a journey with a young German girl with Jewish blood who escapes a train bound for the concentration camps in Poland. She is found by a Polish resistance member who takes her to his family’s farm to be cared for.

Thus begins the intertwined lives of Gretl and Jakob and the journey that spans almost 15 years and two continents. Gretl is eventually adopted by a family in South Africa where she lives with her secrets as she grows into a woman. Jakob’s opposition to his country’s Communist rule forces him to flee. Through the years they cling to the memory of each other. Until the improbable happens.

That’s all I’ll say so I don’t ruin the surprise.

From the setting to the storyline to the writing, I enjoyed this book as a whole.

You can look for this book at Target this month, and I don’t think you’ll be sorry for letting this story into your life.

GFT quote

Why I (still) choose the church

Our history isn’t long, me and the church, or maybe it is longer than I think, but officially it is only a decade and a half. Long enough anyway to have ups and downs and trials along the way. My relationship with the church is longer than my marriage, and neither are without their problems.

Every now and then our family skips church for a week, which at one time I would have counted among the worst sins, in favor of family time or visiting friends. It’s usually in the midst of a chaotic schedule. It’s a reset of sorts. A short break. We always go back the next week or the next. Sometimes, if we’re traveling, the weeks add up, but we’ve never gone a month’s worth of missing on Sundays. At least not that I can recall.

Some days I want to, though. I’ve toyed with the idea of walking away from church more than once. When I’m hurt or confused or just plain tired, I wonder why on earth I’m still part of this messy relationship. (I should mention here that I am part of the mess. It’s me AND it’s you, church.) Wouldn’t I be more fulfilled by sleeping and resting on Sundays? Wouldn’t it be easier to go out for breakfast as a family instead of wrangling children out the door and into seats and off to classes for a couple of hours? Wouldn’t I feel better if we just spent the day however we wanted it instead of starting our “rest” after noon?

Maybe.

But here’s why I’m still choosing the church, even when I think I want to walk away.

Stefan Kunze | via unsplash

Stefan Kunze | via unsplash

The church is both a place and a people to me. There is the building we enter most Sunday mornings and there are the people inside other buildings who have played significant roles in our lives. There are people here, in our community, and people on the other side of the world. We are a church together and we meet in groups, inside and outside, here and there.

I keep coming back because the church is the first place I learned that love isn’t limited to the people who share your blood.

[bctt tweet=”The church is the first place I learned that love isn’t limited to the people who share your blood.”]

The church–its people–have loved us well through a lot of hard times. They’ve treated us better than we deserve. They still do. Before there was an “us,” there were church ladies praying for our union. They were teaching me how to cook for a crowd and slice fresh bread, how to laugh at life’s absurdities and how to weather its adversities. In the church I learned how to stretch a food budget before I needed to. I learned to make pizza dough from scratch, though I’m still terrible at it. I felt the effects of prayer and generosity and encouragement. Rarely have I walked into a gathering of the church and not felt loved and welcome. Even before I believed, they accepted me. (I know this is not everyone’s experience. Later this week, I’ll tell you about how much my beliefs have changed.)

I choose the church because sometimes I need a reminder that I’m not the only who is having a rough day. Or week. Or year. I need the communion of saints, the shared sufferings, the united declarations of hope and peace. I need a place where I can safely say, “It’s going to be okay, and even if it’s not, God remains.” I need to see in the flesh those who have struggled and survived. I need the hugs. The words of encouragement. The care and concern.

I keep coming back because when I see my daughter’s name on the prayer list, I know that she is not only being prayed for, but she is a valued member of our group. She is not just our daughter but her own unique self. She is missed when she’s absent. And our son, the rambunctious boy who doesn’t know the meaning of quiet, has a village of people who show him love and grace and patience. In the church, our children are not secondary to us. They are with us and among us. They are part of us. I don’t go to church only for my children but I’m grateful that my children get to know what it’s like to gather together weekly with people who aren’t relatives. For now, they enjoy it, and that is a good thing.

I choose the church because I need to know I’m not alone. When I feel rejected, insecure, like I don’t belong anywhere, the church reminds me that we’re all in the same boat. In the church, we belong to each other (that’s a borrowed phrase from Momastery). We belong with each other. The church, at its root, is a group of misfits. Rich and poor, young and old, from around here, not from around here, raised in the faith, new to the faith, married, single, with kids, without kids. Our humanity is our common denominator and our commitment to show up for each other holds us together.

I keep coming back to the church not because it’s perfect but because it isn’t. Sure, church is difficult sometimes. So is family. So is living with myself. But the good outweighs the bad, and the bottom line is that I need the church.

The church is my place to practice grace. And receive it. To love and be loved. To serve and be served. To grow and be challenged to grow and to help others grow.

I still choose church, even when I think I want to leave it.

Margins

I’m never sure what to do with a week like this. You know the kind, the ones where nothing goes according to plan and everything seems chaos and you sigh with relief that this week is O-V-E-R. (Except it really isn’t when your husband works Saturdays. Sigh.)

Next to me is a girl home from school with a fever. She shuffled off the bus last night and said she couldn’t keep warm at school, but she didn’t have a fever when the nurse checked her. She was feverish by the time she got home, so we nursed her a little and sent her off to bed, and my “plans” for today became laced with contingencies.

Of any day this week for her to be home from school, today is a good one. I didn’t have concrete plans and I wasn’t meeting with my first-ever writing client (squee!). That was yesterday. I was dressed and ready to take a jog/walk when we made the call that she wouldn’t be getting on the bus. In the hour she was awake this morning, her fever rose by a degree or more, so I did the grown-up thing and decided she’d stay home.

She’s missing apple day in her class and I’m on the fence about whether I should let her go trick-or-treating tonight if she’s feeling better. And even though her presence in the house today won’t be a bother, part of me is still selfishly annoyed that my day is not my own today.

I’ve gotten a little too used to this kids-being-in-school-all-day thing.

But it doesn’t even have to be a sick kid to throw me off. I’m not the kind of person who leaves space in her days for the unexpected and unplanned. If I have a calendar, I want to fill it, even if that means filling my time with reading or writing, not necessarily appointments and coffee dates. I start the day with an idea of how things are going to go. It’s a control issue, I think, or maybe something deeper. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll talk to my counselor about it.

Today is just one indicator of how chaotic our week felt. On Sunday night we discovered a patch of carpet in the kids’ room that was soaked. All along the wall their room shares with the bathroom. We knew there was a small problem with the shower but further investigation has led to the revelation of a bigger problem. Monday, on my husband’s day off, was spent clearing out the kids’ room, removing all the furniture against that wall and clearing the floor of all the kid crap that accumulates unwanted. It was exhausting, and the work isn’t done yet and our house is extra messy because we have furniture and books in places they don’t normally belong.

We alerted our landlord. We’re still waiting to hear from the plumber. In the meantime, we discovered that we can’t use the shower unless we want to rain water into the basement on top of all the stuff we have stored down there. So, baths it is for the foreseeable future. (And don’t get me started on the mold potential.) Four years ago, in our last rental, we survived three feet of water in our basement but our souls are still recovering from that ordeal.

It is emotionally draining for me when I have to handle the unexpected and I think that’s because I don’t plan for it at all.  My basic assumption is that everything is going to go exactly as I think so there’s no need to allow for other possible outcomes.

Unrealistic, I know.

I don’t know how to plan for what I don’t know is coming except to keep my schedule free in spots and my attitude open. I know I need to slow down and not always be in such a rush. I don’t have to tick off a dozen things on my list just so I feel like I accomplished something today and am a productive member of society.

My value as a person is not in how much I contribute but simply in who I am. [bctt tweet=”My value as a person is not in how much I contribute but simply in who I am.”]

—

In the midst of this week, there has also been beauty. We had a lovely visit with friends we haven’t seen in years on Sunday. Our son lost his first tooth, which was stressful at first because it was so close to falling out but he wouldn’t let my husband pull it. But it was fun to see him embrace the magic of the tooth fairy this morning.

And it’s the peak week for fall colors around here so every tree is bursting bright with oranges, reds and yellows. I feel like the colors are especially vibrant this year, and the beauty makes me pause every time.

On the way to the bus stop yesterday, I caught a glimpse of the moon lingering in the morning sky, perched just above the trees whose leaves are changing. And later I read in a devotional how a busy schedule makes us miss out on important things.

chaos quote

I wondered what I had been missing this week. Or really my whole life.

There are busy seasons, I know, some more than others. But I know that if I don’t leave margins, if my schedule doesn’t include empty days and white space, then life will become overwhelming when an emergency or unplanned event strikes. If the mantra of my life is “I don’t have time for this”–and I’ve said those words more times than I’d care to admit–then I’ve got it wrong.

I want to have time for this. For quiet snuggles on the couch on a sick day. For a long look at the moon or the stars or the autumn leaves. For the chance to help someone in need. For the stopping and the pausing and the lingering.

How do you make room in your life for what’s important? How do you know when your life is too chaotic?