The second gathering of the Faith + Art Bookclub happened in February near the philosophy section of Morgenstern's Bookstore. About eight or nine of us gathered around a warm oak table with copies of Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking On Water.
“Let’s get things started by sharing the first book we ever read by L’Engle,” I said, “and it’s perfectly okay to say ‘this one!’ but I have to give an outlet for the superfans in the group.” I nodded at Aimee, who’d shared in passing that she’s read everything Madeleine has written. (“Really?!” I asked her. “I’m fairly certain, yes! But there may be something I haven’t heard of yet.” It’s a valid concern. L’Engle wrote over 60 books across genres, including the memoir and children’s literature she’s best known for.)
Around the table we went, recounting middle school summers spent hiding under trees and in upstairs bedrooms devouring the lives of the Murray and O’Keefe families, with their Maine coastlines, rambling old houses, unicorns, and swiftly tilting planets. We talked about her assertion that “if [one] is truly and deeply a Christian, what [one] writes is going to be Christian, whether [one] mentions Jesus or not.”
“This was pivotal for me,” I admitted, “when it came to being willing to allow my faith and my art to come together the way I know God intended them to. The dusty paperbacks lining the bottom shelf of my church library were leagues away from the stories L’Engle told. I didn’t want anything to do with ‘Christian fiction’ for years, until I could see it Madeleine’s way. Until I could comprehend how God’s redemptive beauty shines through no matter what kind of story we tell.”
There was a fair bit of banter about which of L’Engles work was our personal favorite, and I’m afraid it made dull conversation for one of our members, who had only recently encountered L’Engle through our February reading. She was concerned about the blurred lines that seemed to bring me so much freedom.
“Well that’s all well and good that this author can write about magic in a godly way, but what about that JK… that witch and wizard stuff? What about what that writer was trying to do?”
We all sat for a moment, piecing together what she meant, and then it seemed everyone started to speak at once. Aimee said, “I think you mean JK Rowling? The Harry Potter series is a great story. I read it with my children and loved it.”
Around the table they went, in enthusiastic agreement. “It’s a story about sacrifice, really,” someone said. “Sacrificial love.”
My other friend, Amy, looked at the woman and explained, “When the books first came out, there was some concern that it would turn children toward something like witchcraft. We sort of banned them, as a [Christian] community.” She paused, tilting her head and smiling. “But we were wrong.”
I had been watching this unfold, just absolutely baffled, trying to catch up to where the conversation had taken us. As I listened to each of them—these new friends, these members of my church family—express so clearly the merit of a book that had been expressly forbidden to me as a child, I was dazed by an unexpected healing, a balm for a wound so old it had faded into my spirit, become a part of me, something I had long forgotten I carried.
The dear woman who had asked the question must have felt quite cornered. A full generation ahead of the rest of the group (who are all at least a generation ahead of me), she looked to me (the so-called leader) for some kind of solidarity.
“What about you? What do you think of those books?”
I swallowed, coming out of the catharsis. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
There was a bit of nervous movement beside me and everyone was quiet.
“Well, try!” she insisted. “Try to say what you want to say.”
My thoughts swarmed and my palms began to sweat. How do you describe the smell of a burned book? I thought.
A minute passed. There was no way for any of them to realize that I was flooded. Unmoored. Triggered completely. Swimming in recounted spiritual trauma from my past.
“I think that,” I began.
“Yes,” she said.
“I think that if a writer tells you they don’t have the words for something, you just have to leave it at that.” There was a murmur of laughter and the conversation shifted, but the hollow feeling remained in the bones of my arms. The exact location where someone might take hold, to shake the sin and nonsense and fairytales right out of me.
…
I lay awake in the nights after book club is over. I spend the hours between three and four AM replaying in great detail all that was said, how it was said, who said it, and what it might mean about them.
As I turned on my side in the dark, I thanked God for the unexpected healing of hearing someone say they’d been wrong about Harry Potter, that it really was a beautiful story. Perhaps the enemy was not so keen to give up that early wound.
As deep as it was, it never managed to stop me.
This is so powerful, Adrienne. I missed the window on Harry Potter, I was a little too “old” when they came out. And then they just never interested me. But I love your story and what you shared here.
Love these honest thoughts, lady. Keep writing them out. <3