Random Thoughts on Birds and Truth

One crisp pre-winter morning while driving my kids to school, I did something I never do—I looked up. My mouth fell open as I discovered the pale blue sky alive with movement, thin lines and curves undulating through the air like ripples of sand created by desert winds. A great flock of birds, the likes to which I’d never seen, flew high above a barren field. I called to my children to look at the pretty birds.

“Where, Mommy? I don’t see any birds.”

I looked back up, confused at how they were missing a sky overflowing with winged creatures.

“Ooo, look, the letter “V,” my daughter called out.

Indeed, the birds were jockeying for position to form a bunch of V’s, intent on their quest for a warmer climate. But they appeared as nothing more than lines sketched by the edge of an artist’s charcoal stick, each bird’s individuality and identity completely lost from our earthbound perspective.

As we travelled, the flock descended, low enough that the shape of each bird could be distinguished. Side by side we rode, one with the avian crowd. My daughter called out again, “Yellow birds! Mommy, look at all the pretty yellow birds!” Now the birds were not, in fact, yellow. They must have been a shade of gray or white. You see, the sun was still rising, low in the sky, casting forth its golden light, bathing each bird in an aura of yellow. I opened my mouth to correct my daughter, to explain the wonders of light reflection and refraction, but how does one explain physics to a kindergartner? (Especially when physics has never been a strength of mine). This observation skipped my ever wandering brain onto the subject of truth. Truth: the birds’ feathers were not yellow, regardless of how they appeared.

My brain then briefly slipped on the slope of moral relativism. Funny how nature doesn’t seem to struggle with truth the way people do. Those birds were the color that they were. Period. It didn’t matter if I called them gray or white or fuchsia. It didn’t matter if I spray-painted them silver. My perspective, whether near or far, was irrelevant. My opinion did not change truth.

 Next, I think of myself. One of the blessings that seems to have come with my age is my level of self-awareness. I pretty much know who I am and who I’m not. Others may have their opinions about me, opinions they have formed from the brief moments they have seen me with their eyes, of the brief bits of conversation or text messages we’ve exchanged. But those opinions, whether complimentary or disparaging, do not change the truth of who I am.

So then I start thinking about God, about how we mortals, drunk on our own acumen, think we can tell God who He is. We piece together all of the happy, rosy bits of various religions and philosophies, creating our own belief system, fashioning it in such as was as to legitimize us doing and saying whatever the heck we darn well feel like.

But the truth is those birds were not yellow. Truth is your opinion of me will not change who I am (though I confess, it may make me cry). Truth is God is who He is, regardless of our own vain fabrications.

“Slow down, Mommy! We’re losing them.”

I snapped out of my philosophical reverie. Good thing, too. My brain was starting to cramp. I looked back out my window and indeed, the birds were slipping behind us. And then my brain shifted to parenthood— the sports, meal preparation, laundry, homework, dishes, repeated lines of “how many times have I told you not to.” We parents grumble and moan and groan about the day to day, lost in the blindness of the mundane, forgetting this truth: We’re losing them. In the scheme of our entire lives, the time we have with our little ones at home, needing us, wanting our undivided attention, is so very small. In a blink they become teenagers and the center of their universes shifts from us to their peers and we will in turn beg for their undivided attention.

We cannot fight the clock. Time continues whether we want it to or not. Another truth which cares not of our opinion of it. While we cannot slow the clock, we can slow ourselves, cross a few things off our list that really weren’t that important to begin with. Right now I have three children who still like to curl up in my lap, who love when I read to them, who beg me to pick them up and spin them as fast as I can. My one son just walked into the kitchen and, while I’m in the middle of making dinner, he asked me to pick him up. He’s getting so big, it makes my back hurt. But you better believe I pick him up. Every single time. Without fail, he puts his head on my shoulder and coos, “Mama,” softly, for my ears only. Worth the slightly overcooked dinner in the pan and the price of a chiropractor visit any day. And yeah, that’s truth. J

          --Suzi Ryan

Every Body Matters, by Gary Thomas (A Book Review)

Gary Thomas, in Every Body Matters, dares to blaze a trail on a subject many Christian authors and church leaders won’t even dip their toes into: sloth and gluttony. While the Bible touches on both vices, the overall number of reference verses is surprisingly few. Mr. Thomas extrapolates from these specific and similar verses, along with a number of writings of various religious leaders across the centuries. The repeated point he makes throughout the book is that, as Christians, we are to be “…instruments for special purposes, made holy, useful to the Master and prepared to do any good work.” (2 Timothy 2:21)  My summation of his basic point is this: If you spend your evenings sitting on the couch scarfing Oreos, if you have to sit down to catch your breath after climbing one flight of stairs (and you have no physical infirmity as cause), well, your body is probably not ready for “any good work” God may ask of you. The author is very careful to point out that God loves us just the way we are. God’s love for us is not what he calls into question. He surmises that as we discipline our bodies, our spiritual fitness is apt to increase as well.

So, it’s finally here, the day I swore would never come. I’m reviewing an adult, non-fiction book. In general, the only non-fiction I read are the books written by my co-blogger, Suzy Ismail. I write and read almost exclusively young adult fiction. Give me angst, exquisitely written kisses, and tons of dialogue, otherwise my eyes completely glaze over. Just saying aloud the phrase “non-fiction” sends me into fits of shuddering.

Why this book then? Perhaps because I have my Bachelor’s in Nutrition, perhaps because of the leading of the Holy Spirit, perhaps because I’m fat. Yup, I said the “F” word—get over it. God did not call us to live under the bondage of offense. That’s how the world lives, stalking around, looking for reasons to be offended. There is freedom in knowing who we are in Him. Whoops, slipped onto my soapbox. Apologies.

But even though I have a degree in Nutrition, even though my maternal grandmother died of heart disease, even though my father suffered two heart attacks and underwent a heart transplant, my BMI is entirely too high. How can that be? I have all this knowledge. Clearly, knowing and doing are two entirely different animals. I suspect a few of you might know what I’m talking about.

I’ve found that I’m much more motivated when the spiritual is brought in. The only times in my entire life I’ve been able to go without sweets were the times I fasted them as an offering for a specific prayer request. This book had a number of “ouch” moments for me. The one that stands out the most is when the author relates a scene from his past where he was at his book signing and no one showed up. The very thought of this makes the writer in me want to curl into fetal position and whimper. The author, disheartened, drowned his sorrows in a sundae. Not that the sundae was a sin. But he was using it to comfort himself instead of turning to the Prince of Peace, the one who could actually DO something about his circumstance.

So, if you are having trouble with motivation to eat healthy and exercise and if knowledge doesn’t seem to be enough, this book might be just what you need. I’m not certain I’ll ever be in a size 8 again. I’m not sure I’ll successfully trudge through the rugged terrains of “obese” and “overweight” or make it to the land of “normal weight.” But I’m down two pounds since reading the book and I was able to do something for the first time in my entire existence—I walked past the Entenmann’s holiday cupcakes without breaking my stride. But I’m at the stage of my life where I truly want to be ready—physically and spiritually—to do any good work that God throws my way. And this book gave me a start. There’s much to be said for beginnings. J

          --Suzi Ryan

*Zondervan provided me with this book free of charge for the purpose of review. The opinions expressed are my own. No other compensations have been received.

Failure to Connect

I am sitting at my daughter’s basketball practice, laptop open, desperately trying to get a Wi-Fi connection.  All my feeble attempts at hacking through an unsecured network fail miserably.  I feel hopeless as I stare at the “No connection” message flashing on the screen.

And then it dawns on me.  Is Wi-Fi really what I need to feel connected? Why am I so desperate to get online?  Is it to login to my online classes and tend to students’ “I need this question answered RIGHT NOW!” demands? Or to keep my Facebook window open so as not to miss an all-important status update? Or is it to check in with my three email accounts just in case I’m desperately needed by someone?

A small, sarcastic laugh escapes my lips as my bench neighbor looks at me oddly and then slides away a few inches.  Now, I am shaking with internal laughter.  My daughter turns from her dribbling practice, smiles, and waves.  And it hits me.  For the past several months, I’ve been going through the motions of living while truly being trapped in the online world.

I had become so conditioned to only feel connected with others by constantly being online that it was a sudden wake-up call to realize that there is life outside the cyber window.  My laughter dies down almost as quickly as it began.  I’m laughing at myself and my own imagined self-importance. The false feeling of constant connection in the online world pales in comparison to looking around and watching my daughter proudly shoot from the free-throw line.  Hearing the whoosh of the ball as it slides seamlessly through the net makes my heart flutter more than any “you’ve got mail” message ever could.  Checking Yahoo News and joining online protests, petitions, and causes can’t hold a candle to seeing my daughter’s teammates clap each other on the back and high-five one another with giddy excitement.  Being online can’t compare to seeing, hearing, sensing, touching, and tasting in REAL life. 

Just as this revelation dawns on me, I hear a little “ding” on my phone letting me know I’ve got an email message waiting.  I resist the urge to grab it and check.  My fingers are itching.  One… Two… Three…I delay a few seconds longer and then can’t hold myself back.  I grab the phone and open the message…another petition lamenting Lowes’ discriminatory stance against the “All-American Muslim” show on TLC. 

I can’t help but feel the giggle gurgling inside me again.  Here I am, poised to respond with a raving rant of self-righteous indignation when I realize that since basketball season began, I have never once stopped to introduce myself to the other parents.  I have never taken the time to make an effort to get to know them.  Why? Not because I am an unfriendly person, but because I have been too consumed with always being “connected” online.  Even the connection I used to feel in writing seems to have faded in favor of the all-consuming cyber interactions.

Embarrassed and a bit sheepish, I put down the phone, close the laptop and turn to my bench neighbor.  “Hi, I’m Suzy.”  A raised eyebrow, a slight pause, and an imperceptible bob of the head… and before I know it, Ann is reaching out to shake my hand and eagerly discuss how well the girls are doing this season.

Basketball practice is wrapping up and Ann is packing her things… I can’t help but sneak back into my laptop.  Yes, I’m addicted.  But, with my fingers flying over the keys, I’m desperately seeking another connection.  Not an online one this time, but a connection through writing. 

And I find it.  The knowledge that someone, somewhere may find this post, read it, and nod in understanding...that’s some powerful connection.

Connecting to the world without Wi-Fi… what a concept!

          --Suzy Ismail

Blood Red Road, by Moira Young (A Book Review)

Summary:  Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome for a new generation, only with a chick as the one kicking post-apocalyptic tail feathers.

The only world Saba knows is Silverlake, a dried up land where life is hard and food is scarce.  Strange, cloaked riders on horseback appear on the heels of a wicked dust storm, capturing her twin brother Lugh and stealing him away.  Saba, knowing almost nothing but stories of the world beyond her home, vows to get him back.  Her journey lands her into a world of violence and corruption.  She teams up with renegade Jack and a girl gang of insurrectionists called the Free Hawks.  Together they endeavor to rescue Lugh and depose a corrupt king. 

Sound the trumpets!  Fire the canons!  Cue the choir of angels!  It’s finally happened.  You have no idea how much I’ve longed for this day.  I’d almost given up.  But Ms. Moira Young has done the impossible for me—she created a female protagonist that I loved from the first page.  Saba.  This is not a story about a girl, quaking in her espadrilles, who sits back and watches the boy save her repeatedly while she nibbles on her cotton candy pink glitter nail polished fingertips.  Yessssssss!!  J

I loved this book, I loved this book, I loved this book.  Whew!  I feel so much better to have that off my chest.  Blood Red Road is now located in the very short stack of books I will read again one day.  I lost track of how many times I moaned and laughed out loud. I truly can’t remember having this much fun reading any book.  Ever.

All that gushing aside, there are a couple of things I should prepare you for.  This book is written without the use of quotations.  Glancing at other reviews, it seems to have taken some people a number of pages to adjust to this.  I confess, for me, it was easy and refreshing.  If you find yourself initially frustrated, I urge you to push forward. You’ll catch on.  This is a post-apocalyptic/dystopic world where no one goes to school.  They have their own verbiage, slight variations to English slang.  Perhaps a sample from the book to demonstrate?  Here goes:

He throws his head back an curses unner his breath. Stands up. Whatever I say now, he says, you ain’t gonna believe me. 

Alright, so one of the reasons I loved this book so much is that I am a Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome fan  (This admission will unfortunately clue you in to my age).  I have a sneaking suspicion that Ms. Young is as well.  I’d go so far as to suppose she has an old Beyond Thunderdome movie poster hanging up somewhere with a lipstick kiss on a youthful Mel Gibson’s cheek.  J  This story also involves a bit of cage fighting and I confess, any time I read a fight scene, a crazed crowd cheered from the recesses of my brain, “Two men en-tah, one man leaves.”

This is the point in my review where I offer up some tidbit of criticism, as no author is perfect and the art of writing is a continual refining process…nope, I got nothing.  This is  story with action, adventure, romance, drama, tension, tears,  plot and characters I can’t get enough of.  Fans of The Hunger Games will find plenty to get excited about here. 

Here’s the part of my review where I was going to implore Hollywood to add this to the list of YA fiction it scoops up for the big screen.  But then a little birdie whispered in my ear that my wish is already coming true.  Who you ask?  Why, Ridley Scott.  Oooo…I’m all aquiver.  Check it out:

http://pages.simonandschuster.com/bloodredroad

Parental note:  Some cussing.

As I end this book review, cue the guitar and keyboard.  Sing it, Tina Turner.  “We don’t need another heeeeero,  We don’t need to know the waaaay home.  All we want is—” Ms. Moira Young to write quickly.  I’m ready for the next book.  Like, now. 

            --Suzi Ryan

Popular by Alissa Grosso (A Book Review)

Hamilton Best is beautiful and perfect, the queen bee of Fidelity High, attended to by her worker bees, The Clique.  Her posted guest lists to her fabulous parties leave students either jubilantly bouncing off the lockered hallways or weeping and gnashing their teeth in the lav.  You know you’ve arrived when Hamilton takes notice of you.  But all is not well amongst the clique—Olivia, Nordica, Zelda, and Shelly.  Each has her own agenda and Hamilton is not on it.  But Hamilton has a secret, one only known by her boyfriend, Alex.  And it might just have the power to undo them all. 

Popular is told in first person through six people’s alternating points of view: Hamilton, Olivia, Nordica, Zelda, Shelly, and Alex.  I picked up this book at a conference and didn’t have the slightest clue what to expect.  All I could tell was that it wasn’t my typical read (not a bad thing, per se).  This is probably the most POV’s in one story that I’ve ever read and I confess, a couple of times I scratched my head and wondered if there was a point.  There is.  Go with it. 

What Ms. Grasso effectively manages to do is create a sense of impending portent.  I knew “something” was going to happen. That mood is what kept me turning the pages.  I guessed that it would be big and bad…though it ended up not being any of my initial imaginings. That’s a good thing.  Would it be bragging if I say I figured it out ahead of time, but barely?  (I am SO biting back a 1999 movie quote right now, it’s almost painful. But it could be a spoiler if you’re familiar with the movie…so I shall refrain.  But feel free to contact me if you’re curious)  ;)

A note of critical analysis, as always.  This story is told through a lot of first person internal narration. We’re camped inside the characters’ heads much of the time, not necessarily a bad thing but I thought that the “voice” of each of the characters seemed to be a bit mature, considering none of these kids seemed quite qualified to be pre-ordering a maroon Harvard hoodie.   

My favorite part of the book: It ended differently than it began (in a good way).  I love when music does that.  I love when life does that. A literary Sour Patch Kid. This was where the surprise factor came in for me. That’s the part I didn’t see coming.  But it ended the way I want all my books to end.  Me with a content smile on my face. 

Parental concerns:  Cussing.  A couple of non-descript kisses.  That’s all folks.  J

          --Suzi Ryan

Finding the Right Words, Reflections on the heartbreak of 9/11

It’s after midnight on September 11th.  In just a few hours, the clocks will strike 8:46 a.m. marking a decade’s passing of the unimaginable.  For the last month, I have been thinking of this very night… wondering what I would be doing, how I would be remembering, and maybe more importantly, what I would be writing.

A blog post, an article, or even a journal entry seemed in order.  Over the past few weeks, I struggled to find words that would articulate what I had to say.  Strange as it may seem, the usual rambling writer in me stayed stubbornly silent.  My poised fingers refused to cooperate in creating a stellar account worthy of commemorating the lives lost and the radical changes that our nation underwent that day.

Now, in the eleventh hour, as I sit staring at my blank laptop screen lamenting the lack of words for such a critical occasion, it suddenly dawns on me as to why I cannot write.  For the past few months… no, for the past few years… I have written about 9/11 and its aftermath out of a sense of obligation. Whether writing about the tragedy, or about being Muslim in America post 9/11, or about the painful loss of lives, my writing often felt like a duty, both required and expected.  I developed a weighted sense of responsibility that urged me to write statements staunchly opposing terrorism, denouncing the hijackers, and lamenting the slaughter mainly from the point of view of a Muslim Arab-American.

In all these writings, though, I always felt like there was a missing element.  Something in my words just didn’t feel right.  I couldn’t bring myself to write about my own experiences or my own reflections of 9/11.  I never wrote about how years before that fateful day, I travelled daily through the World Trade Center on the Path train during my commute to my first internship in the city. I never mentioned how giddy I felt gawking at the majesty of the buildings the first time I laid eyes on them.  I never shared the sense of pride I had of working in a city that I had fallen in love with.

 I couldn’t bring myself to write about the sickness in my stomach as I watched the towers collapse on the news while holding my newborn safely at home several miles away from the scene.  I never shared the inexplicable worry that shot through me as I wondered if the friendly pizza man in the WTC Sbarro’s ever got out okay.  I never wrote about my own sense of sadness after learning that friends I’d worked with had lost lives that day.

And then it clicked.  I couldn’t write about 9/11 today because for so long I had set up a clear distinction… a barrier between emotion and obligation.  My writing on the topic embodied this separation.  As explanation usurped emotion, I never articulated my own feelings of humanity or my shared sense of loss.  I bought into the mediated distinction of the Muslim “other” and neglected to focus on the communal sentiment of a human being sharing the desolation of unbelievable tragedy.  In trying so hard to avoid being viewed as an outsider, my defensive mode of writing did just the opposite. 

As the clock creeps closer and closer towards marking the ten years that passed since the tragedy of 9/11, I can finally write.  I can let go of the need to find the “perfect” words because there are no words that can erase such deep wounds.  I can focus less on what to write and more on what to do. 

My nation is in mourning today for the loss of lives here and abroad after the senseless heartbreak of 9/11.  As an American… no, as a human… I know what I should do today.  Writing empty words in an attempt to honor the memories of so many is not enough.  Breaking down self-imposed barriers through actions is a much more potent reminder of the beauty of our country, our communities, and the people we lost.  Strengthening the bonds of humanity by helping others today shows respect and compassion borne of the deep sympathy that was shared on the day that changed our world ten years ago.  For me, the best form of commemoration on 9/11 is a day spent helping others-- hand-in-hand, un-alienated from my country, my people, and my world. 

How will you remember?

May the lives we lost on 9/11 serve as a memory to strengthen our human bonds.  May the souls all rest in peace.  And may the families and friends of loved ones find comfort and consolation in the hearts of their communities.

          --Post by Suzy Ismail

Forever, by Maggie Stiefvater (A book review)

Forever is the third and final installment of The Wolves of Mercy Falls.  This is where I normally do a brief synopsis of the book but I can’t effectively do that without giving away the ending of the second book, Linger.  And since I want people to read this series spoiler free, let me just sum up:  These books are about people who change into wolves  and then back again, all outside of the individual’s will, which lead to some interesting and heart breaking scenes.  In Ms. Stiefvater’s mythos, lycanthropy is a disease that can be transmitted via bites, but one that just might have a cure.  This book is told through alternating POV’s of Sam, Grace, Cole and Isabel. Okay, so glad to get that out of the way….

Now, I’m about to do something I’ve yet to do so far in my reviews:  GUSH.  I.  Loved. This.  Book.  This series contains the hands-down swooniest, sigh-worthy couple in YA paranormal: Sam and Grace.  Sam—A guy who sings, plays guitar, writes his own music AND works in a book store…be still my beating heart.  And I’m known to be harsh on my female protagonists, but I am quite fond of Grace, with her ‘what you see is what you get’ sensibility. Plus, she loves coffee.  A girl after my own heart.  And Cole? Former front man of a world famous band, one who is quite accustomed to abusing his body, running down demons from his past and needing to prove himself.  Ah, my other weakness—a redemption story.  Lastly, ice princess Isabel with the chip on her shoulder larger than the National Debt.  I confess, I didn’t care for her much in Shiver and Linger, but she finally grew on me in this book.  Hats off to Ms. Stiefvater for effective character development. 

But what do I love the most? Maggie’s writing.  One of my top two favorite YA authors (Cassandra Clare is the other, in case you were curious), Maggie writes effortless, flawless lyrical prose like few I’ve read. Most people who attempt lyrical only achieve one thing:  trite, over-worked,  hyperbolic drivel plagued by a surplus of metaphors and similes.  Contrastingly, Maggie’s writing is well-balanced, thoughtful, beautiful and so swooooooony.  I can’t even begin to tell you how many sighs I uttered over the two days it took me to polish off this novel.  And, deep dark confession—I cried my eyes out.  Some who know me might ask: ‘what else is new?’  Okay, yeah, I’ve been known to cry over as little as a Pampers commercial, but I’m quite jaded when it comes to books.  It takes much to draw literary-induced tears from me.  But I had the whole delightful rabbit hole experience with this book.  One where I tagged off parental responsibility to my hubby, grabbed a box of tissues, dashed into my bedroom before my kids could see my girlie tears, and locked myself in until the very end. 

Here’s where I normally offer one piece of criticism.  I’d like to call this section “discussion” instead.  I glanced at a few of the Amazon reviews and was flabbergasted that anyone could possibly give this book three stars.  I understand what the critiquers were saying.  I’m also pretty sure these people have not read much of Ms. Stievfater. Whether her earlier works with fairies or her short stories, this author does not sit you down with a bib, cut up your food, feed you by hand, and then wipe your slobbery mouth for you.  She likes to leave a bit open, trusting her reader’s imagination to fill in the gaps.  I respect her for this. That being said…I admit, I would have liked my steak cut up a bit more for me concerning the relationship between Cole and Isabel.  After two books of deliciously written tension involving the two, I was still left a tad bit hungry in the end.  Note to Maggie:  I’m still longing for the red coffee pot.  You did such a great job of putting that symbol in all three books, I very much would have liked to have seen its inclusion in the ending. 

Of all of the YA books stretched to more than a mere trilogy, (ones with not nearly enough plot to support the act), this is the first series I would have liked to have seen just one more book.  Alas, the good ones seem to go too soon.  Sam and Grace, I shall sincerely miss you (and Grace, in my happily ever after imagination, I shall buy you your shiny new red coffee pot as a wedding present, for many happy years of caffeinated bliss).  J

Parental concerns and spoilers:  There is mild foul language.  This is one of those series where the characters are engaging in sexual activity.  I personally did not find it gratuitous, fitting well inside the YA norm of giving the reader just enough to make sure you know where it’s going and then letting the camera fade to black.  If at all concerned, I advise you to read first.   

Favorite Forever quotes:

“I didn’t want to talk.  I wanted to curl up against him and fall asleep.  More than anything, I wanted to be able to see him again, to see in his eyes that what we had had been real and that he wasn’t a stranger.  I didn’t want a big gesture, an elaborate conversation—I just wanted to know that something was still the same when everything else had changed.”

“There is no better taste than this: someone else’s laughter in your mouth.”  (I can NOT even begin to tell you how much I love this line).

“Then I began to play.  Variations on a G major chord, the most wonderful chord known to mankind, infinitely happy.  I could live inside a G major chord, with Grace, if she was willing.  Everything uncomplicated and good about me could be summed up in that chord.”

“The thing I was beginning to figure out about Sam and Grace, the thing about Sam not being able to function without her, was that that sort of love only worked when you were sure both people would always be around for each other.  If one half  of the equation left, or died, or was slightly less perfect in their love, it became the most tragic, pathetic story invented, laughable in its absurdity. Without Grace, Sam was a joke without a punch line.”

          --Reviewed by Suzi Ryan