Comfort and Confrontation for us Les Miserables Snobs

This is not the review I've been unable to write yet. It is simply thoughts from a selfish person. 

My initial reaction to news of the movie was horror and panic. None of the actors were right and I was sure none of them could possibly sing and everything would be ruined and destroyed. But as I continued to see more and more information on the movie, I started to become fearfully hopeful, or at least less fatally pessimistic.

It was the same for many hardcore Les Miserables fans--the movie was terrifying. So many things could go wrong. Some things would obviously have to be sacrificed and new things would be added. Also, it would be in the hands of the common man to critique, under-appreciate, misunderstand, or, worst of all, paste on fashion journals and Claire's jewelry. It was something we cherished and hoarded, something we wanted to share with a select few and could only be adored after careful study and loving care.

Eventually it was brought to my attention my attitude reeked and, after almost a week of butterflies and in trembling, almost hysteric anticipation, I went to the theater Christmas evening. I couldn't process it to begin with. I couldn't talk about what had just happened and I certainly couldn't discuss anything else. I went home and sat in the middle of my floor and stared at the wall. 

I'm still mostly speechless and haven't been able to formulate a true review even with many attempts. If it wasn't for my family, I might still be leaning my head against a theater chair and rocking back and forth with occasional groans and gasps. 

Les Miserables will be treated lightly by many, laughed at by others, and offensive to some, but I think most will emerge from the dark movie theater into the world, shaken up and a little uncomfortable, with a new sense of awe and wonder. Such is my case. 

The story is sure to be talked about, discussed, seen, appreciated, and yes, under-appreciated too. But the important thing is it's getting shared and spoken and screamed and played out in front of people's eyes and in people's souls. Perhaps our hesitation or inability to discuss or share it with one another is because it's akin to becoming stripped of everything we have and shown the true story of our own selves--hopeless, angry, alone, sinful, black. This is who we were, with rotten teeth or a pressed inspector uniform, and then something bigger--mercy, love, grace, light--the painful, tireless, devastating love of God. Yes. It means misery and death, but it also assures us that even the darkest night--the sin of our own souls--will end, crucified to a cross, and the Sun will rise. 

December 15, 2012

What do we do in times like these?
What did we do yesterday and the day before?
We sat and talked of hope and lived in comfort,
Waiting for the Christ Child to be born.

Today tragedy woke us in gunfire.
We stare broken and confused,
And tomorrow, again, children will be swallowed in death,
Waiting for the Christ Child to be born.

We sit behind closed doors and chafe,
Or walk along the street and feebly cry hope.
We ask each other how all this could happen,
Waiting for the Christ Child to be born.

What do we do in times like these?
Nothing. Just like yesterday when we were free.
Hope has turned to talk and flight.
When will our Christ Child come?

Open our doors and hearts,
Bring us to our knees and tears.
Send us out to a foreign world,
Fill us with warrior love.

Comfort, comfort your people, Lord,
But only with the comfort that fights.
Give us hope reborn that lives
Declaring the Christ Child is born.

Give us faith that carries sickness, loneliness, and death.
Make us hear the singing host
And ring the bell of peace.
Joy will conquer every ill.

Our Christ Child is among us still.

Underlining - Word Love

The next chapter was my mountainous internal struggle with underlining. I am a purist and I also believe authors are frequently treated like dirt. Reading the end of the book is judging without a hearing. Singing music while you read is yelling while someone is trying to talk to you. And underlining is making something stand out the writer chose not to put in all caps, bold, or italic. Marring the pages with your own notes is distracting and doesn't allow you to hear the author's whole thought. You know, these sorts of convictions. So my reading system for several years was reading a book straight through then going back a second time to write out quotes and notes. If a book was worth reading once, it was worth reading twice.

My first leap of conscious occurred in desperation. I'm a painfully slow reader and had about seven books lined up for notes and several shelves full of books that hadn't been cracked yet. I started a book I needed to complete, start to finish, in a week. I should have, but I didn't have any respect for the particular author and so I closed my eyes and made the first incision. I began to underline with a big, bold pen. I realized it made me pay attention to word arrangement and train of thought in new ways. Taking notes became entirely different somehow and suddenly I was aware of the author's word choice and order, both in areas that were aggravating and thrilling.

There are still some books that should be committed to memory and untouched, others where post-it tabs are vital, but many books are best served and used with respectful, careful underlining. Sometimes I even write questions and notes in the margins.

I wonder how much more I would have learned if I'd given in sooner... Most of the time being a purest and perfectionist is an excuse not to learn or use something for its proper purpose.

Poetry - Word Love

I started a post a long time ago about words and how much I'd been learning about our mutual feelings for one another. Now I feel like the relationship has become far more serious. In fact, I think it will be a love affair that will take a lifetime, and even at the end (or will it be the beginning?), we might not really know each other.

I used to think I loved writing and books. It was true, but in a quest to make myself fall in love with poetry, I realized I'd really enjoyed the stories and ideas. I hadn't actually been listening all that closely. Poetry was a discipline at first, but soon it became a rampant obsession. Perhaps the quickest way to become intimate with words is through analyzing, editing, and writing poetry. And so I took the leap. :-)

John Donne shoulders great responsibility for my quick spiral in the last four years...but he led to other discoveries. I'm not sure how interesting or helpful it will be, but for the next bit I hope to post some of what people have been patiently teaching me about words. Please feel free to contribute and comment on things you've learned or wisdom that comes to mind. 

Stories are Soul Food

This N.D. Wilson post has been around a few times, but I recently re-read it and have been thinking on it since.

Saturday night meditation...

Take me and remake me

do something new

in this darkness.

Give me love that is daring,

willing to be scorched

and open to nails.

Make my roots deep and grounded,

unsatisfied with this,

always thirsting for you.

Teach me to long for something bigger,

give me desire that will hurt,

a passion that will burn hot.

Thrust me in the refiner's fire,

only watch and shape me gently,

always beside me and with me.

Use me in this scene you are always weaving,

feed my lines and my cues patiently,

show me a glimpse of the story.

Just don't leave me to flat comfort or happiness,

never let me outlive my love for you,

forever fill me up and pour me out.

New York

I've visited Pennsylvania many times and she is the very best in October (or so my mildly limited experience tells me). Oregon fall is beautiful because there are deciduous trees and evergreens setting each other off in amazing ways. Also, there is Portland. But Pennsylvania is stunning because it almost entirely sheds summer onto old, expectant graveyards, brick buildings, and long driveways. Yeah, we'll have to talk more about Pennsylvania another day...

This year, I met New York City. And then I came back for a visit and to see just how she looked in the fall.

I know it's horribly mainstream to fall in love with New York... But I could be happy in Brooklyn forever. (Of course, I could be happy almost anywhere I've visited, country or city  :-P, however, Brooklyn does thrill my soul. ;-)

Snapshots-

-The death march of the abundant suitcases and treasure hunt for the subway elevator.

-People--in your way, under your feet, over your head, in your face.

-Phantom of the Opera. Hated the movie. Loved the musical. Once in the second row and once along the wall of the balcony. 

-Times Square at midnight. (And over a dozen other times.)

-Reading about someone walking down King's Highway in my Potok's words while the Subway pulled away from the King's Highway station.

-Reading John together in Trinity Church cemetery and Central Park.

-Seeing friends before and after their wedding. God did something mysterious and is doing something awesome with that grounded romance. J+J, you guys are real and beautiful!

-Worshiping and fellowshipping with newly met brothers and sisters and in a dozen different accents.

-Listening to a concert in a crowded park feeling very pale and uncharaismatic. 

-Watching Aisha spazz in the Lindt store. 

-The Cyclone. Both times with people who said they would never ride a rollercoaster. 

-Listening to Dylan's Tempest in the airplane, the train, the subway.

-Sushi in Little Italy. Yes, we went to Little Italy twice and ordered sushi. But don't worry, we experienced the Italy-ness as well. The best pizza I have ever tasted was down the street. I thought I was ordering a slice and they brought me a whole pie. I'm told their desserts were good too. Also, much energy and arm waving from Italian waiters. 

-Visiting Redeemer Church.

-Seeing Suzy go nuts with her camera all over the city. 

-Tasted gelato for the first time ever. Two scoops of it made out of fresh milk, chopped mint leaves, squeezed lime, and white rum. First ice creamy substance since October 2010. Not that I'd remember...

-Nearly getting run over by individuals jogging with strollers across the Brooklyn bridge...

-Lingering over Memling, Caravaggio, and hundreds of other gifted, amazing paintings. Like this one. Or this one. And so many others. Makes you think about things differently. Makes you see how important art is.

There were a thousand other things too, of course. My idea of seeing the world is going somewhere and really living there for awhile. Holding still and absorbing it. Writing in it. Reading in it. Talking in it. Listening to the violinists under the bridges and standing in the dirty ocean.
But since my Mumsie is an expert planner and efficient world traveler, this last time in New York we saw so much! It was pretty amazing. And I am thankful. :-)

We were there just a few days before Hurricane Sandy. Please keep all the people who's lives have been so changed in your prayers. It's going to be a mess for a long time, and there will be scars left over.

Please pray for King's Chapel, Pastor Troy, and all the saints there who are laboring to help those effected by the storm. They have been and will be continuing to proclaim the Gospel in a tough missionary field.

Thanks for reading,
Bethany

Pictures from my amazing sister. She'll be posting much more about NYC sometime, I'm sure.