Author and Inspired Writer

I want to be buried at Chapters Indigo.

Let my body be incensed with the smell of new books and Starbuck’s coffee. Let family and friends read over my casket from new releases, Heather’s Picks, and mouldy oldies from the discount bin. Folks chatting each other up, drinking coffee and munching goodies, occasionally wandering off to a quiet corner of the store to read for a while before coming back to the festivities – a fitting tribute to someone who loved books and spent so much of her time in this store or on their web site.

If heaven ain’t got a Chapters, I’m staying put!

(I used to think working at a bookstore would be a dream job until someone explained it would entail actually talking to people and making financial transactions. “You mean they don’t pay you for just coming in and reading the books?” I asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice. Another illusion shattered.)

The Chapters delivery guy has been here so often, he’s like family now. He was admiring our new porch step and sidewalk when The Mister quipped, “Had it put in just for you.”

“Dude! That’s so nice of you!”

The Mister froze for a second then muttered, “Uh, yeah, sure, no problem…” then ducked back inside.

It’s been a tradition going back many years that when Christmas is on the horizon, my dear sister Chris will offer me a gift card to the store of my choice. And every year I reply, “A card for Chapters would be nice.” This year she said, “I’m sensing you’d like a gift card for some place literary perhaps?”

She sensed correctly.

Usually, I’ll take said card, put it under the tree, and not touch it until sometime after Christmas. But the temptation was too great this year. Few pleasures rival the delight of sitting at one’s computer, browsing the books, reading the recommendations, the reviews, admiring the cover art, then ordering up a passel of ’em. For me, it’s like eating a delicious meal, lovingly crafted and presented. Yes, that’s it. Books are food for me.

I ordered two books I’ve been itching to get into – Anne Lamott’s latest, Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace; and The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. I glanced through Anne’s book (I’m sure if we met she’d want me to call her by her first name) and bless my soul! it’s printed in gorgeous blue ink! Wonder how much that set the publishers back. And I read the introduction to Paulo’s book (first names here too) and was shaken by his compassionate and honest description of the obstacles we must face and overcome to fulfill our purpose in life. And that’s when I knew I would have to pay for the sin of violating the Spirit of Christmas Present (pun intended).

I can’t read these books now. I have too many others on the go and my life is too busy to give them the attention they deserve. Florence Scovel Shinn says we are “magnetized” to attract our good in life. I believe I’m magnetized to attract books, exactly the books I need to read at exactly the right time. Skimming through them would be like wolfing down a gourmet supper, an insult to the chef. No, these books will need to be read carefully, savoured, and appreciated. And I can’t do that right now.

Someone up there is laughing at me.

So the books will go under the tree and stay there until after the New Year. And though I can’t eat them now, at least the anticipation is sweet.

Every year, The Mister and I watch A Charlie Brown Christmas, and every year he complains about it. In my previous post I described how he went out of his way to silence some wind chimes that were keeping me awake, (and the unexpected consequences that followed), and that is typical of my husband, generous of soul, would do anything for me without complaint, except when it comes to A Charlie Brown Christmas. Then fuggetaboutit!

“Do I have to watch it again this year?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s a Christmas tradition.”

“So is butchering turkeys, but you don’t make me watch that.”

I looked at him squint-eyed.

“Sorry, Pa. I don’t make up the rules.”

He sighed deeply and looked away, then snapped his head back around.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Yes you do.”

“Well OK, but only about this.”

He didn’t say anything for a such a long time I sneaked a look at him. He was staring at me.

“How can you think you’d get away with a lie like that after 25 years of marriage?”

“Quiet. I’m trying to listen.”

In 2004, my mother’s health went into a steep decline. After suffering a stroke, it was clear she could no longer live on her own, and after considerable searching we found what seemed to be the perfect placement for her in a retirement home. It took an enormous effort on the part of my siblings, The Mister, and myself to settle her in there and close her apartment, but we went home hopeful she would eventually come to like her new home.

Three weeks later however, we were going to have to dash back to Sudbury. Mum had suffered a disastrous fall and was back in the hospital with rib fractures and an undiagnosed case of C. deficile, a condition often fatal in seniors. She now needed nursing home care and The Mister and I were in charge of closing up her room at the retirement home, and moving over her things to the new facility.

“I had such hopes,” I said to The Mister the night before we left.

“It’ll be all right,” he replied.

The next morning, I walked into the living room to find he’d turned on the Christmas tree lights, something he never does. (That’s my job.) It looked so beautiful twinkling there in the pre-dawn darkness. I looked to him with a question in my eyes.

“I thought you’d like to see it before we left.”

I swallowed hard and said, “Thanks, babe.”

“Yeah…well…better get going.”

Our work in Sudbury was exhausting and heartbreaking, made even grimmer by the fact that they’d disconnected the cable in Mum’s room at the retirement home (where we were staying), so we didn’t even have TV to distract ourselves with. One evening, I was packing another box of her things when The Mister came into the room and said, “There’s a television in the lounge at the end of the hall. Why don’t we go watch a program or two.”

“Naw,” I said. “I don’t feel like it.”

He came up and put his arms around me. “I have it on good authority,” he whispered, “that A Charlie Brown Christmas starts in five minutes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Four hundred miles from home, in the midst of dark despair, somehow The Mister found a way, no, the perfect way, to lift my spirits and restore my equilibrium. He watched it with me and laughed in all the right places, just like he does every year. And I watched it biting my lip and holding my eyes wide against the tears. A gift I will never forget.

And what about you, gentle readers? What was your most memorable Christmas gift?

I put the tree up yesterday. That’s a little early for me. I like to do it on the Saturday before the First Sunday in Advent, but this weekend is unusually busy for us, so I moved it ahead a day. One must be flexible about these things.

As I was tossing on the last bit of tinsel – (I recycle my tinsel year to year. Haven’t had to buy any in over a decade. Rather proud of that.) – a stiff breeze sounded the little wind chimes we have at the front of the house. I says to The Mister, I says, “Wind chimes are tinkling.”

He looked up from his crossword.

“Too loud for you there, Missus?”

“No no. It’s fine.”

He smiled broadly.

“Cuz if it’s too loud, I can take care of that, you know.”

“Oh I know,” I smiled back. “And that won’t be necessary, thank you.”

Back a few years, I complained to The Mister that I hardly ever heard the small wind chimes, and we should get a larger set so we could enjoy the gentle, melodious tintinnabulation as we drifted off to sleep of a summer’s night. It was all very Zen in my mind. And not long after that, we found a set at a yard sale and wasted no time hanging them outside the bedroom window.

About midnight a breeze came up and blasted through the chimes with a mighty clang. I sat bolt upright in bed.

“Pa!”

“What?”

“I think I’ve been shot!” I said grabbing my chest.

Another clang outside the window. We looked at each other and said, “Oh. The wind chimes.”

I waited a moment. All was quiet. I carefully laid me down to sleep. But before I could get the other eye closed, another crash. “What is going on out there?” I says.

“Pendulum’s too light,” The Mister replied. “I’ll weight it down with something so only the stronger breezes will stir it.”

“That would be lovely,” I says. “But in the meantime, I’m going to sack out in the living room cuz I ain’t gonna get any sleep here tonight.” And off I went, pillow and blanket in tow.

Just as I was snuggling down again, I heard the back door close.

“Well, for heaven’s sake! He’s gone out to take care of the chimes now? What a dear man! Well, the least I can do is turn on the front porch light so he can see what he’s doing.” And, feeling every inch the helpful spouse, I proceeded to do just that, then tucked myself back in.

A few moments later, the back door opened again. And my beloved said, as he walked over to the couch, “Did you just turn on the porch light?”

“Ah, no need to thank me, my good man,” I beamed.

“Yeah. Wasn’t going to. You do know I was out there in my underwear, right?”

“WHAT?!” I jumped up on the back of the couch for a look and sure enough, he was standing there in his skivvies. “No, I didn’t know you were out there in your underwear! Whatever possessed you to do that?”

“Well, I didn’t want to take time to find my pants. And it’s dark out there. And it’s late. And nobody could see anything until YOU turned on the floodlights!”

“Whoa! This is MY fault?! Uh-uh! I was doing you a good turn! I was being helpful! How was I supposed to know you’d taken leave of your senses and…” I couldn’t continue. We were laughing so hard tears were starting to roll down our cheeks. When I could breathe I said, “I’ll bet you set some sort of land speed record running to the back door.”

“Oh, Superman would have been proud,” he said, wiping his eyes.

Thereafter, every mention of wind chimes conjures up the story of that night. And that’s how it is in families. Stories become immortal, to be told and enjoyed over and over. And if the narrative relates a time when perhaps you weren’t exactly dressed for success, or tells of a seemingly good deed gone awry, we should take it in good grace.

One must be flexible about these things.

A few days ago, I learned a friend of mine had been accused of child molestation.

Accused. Not convicted.

Sad that in a legal system that supposedly considers the accused innocent until proven guilty, in cases of pedophilia, the opposite holds true. His full name and hometown was printed in the papers and online, and public outrage has been swift and vicious. I read account after account of the various, and hideously ingenious ways my friend should be tortured, raped, and executed, each more grisly and graphic than the last.

And darkness covered my soul.

This is not the first time a friend of mine has been so accused. It is, in fact, the fifth. Two were Roman Catholic priests, one, the pastor of a church who welcomed us when our own church would not; the other, a dear friend and spiritual director; another was a neighbour and friend of my husband; and the last, a member of a choir I directed. All went to prison. The two priests confessed, our neighbour considered his punishment disproportionate to his offence, and the other maintains his innocence to this day.

And now again.

I cannot and do not excuse anyone, friend or no, of their crimes against the innocent. I have said for a long time that the Roman Catholic Church shames itself by fighting the monetary penalties handed down by the courts. I believe the Church should impoverish itself, turn its pockets inside out to help the victims. At any cost. Whatever it takes. That would be a powerful Christian witness, in my opinion. And I hope someday this will come to pass.

But even if all victims, in the Church and out, are compensated and given the means to start putting their lives back together, what do we do with the offenders? The men who are our friends and neighbours?

They must be held accountable, yes. They must not be allowed to offend again, yes. Society must be assured of protection, yes. But dare I ask, is there no healing for them?

As a survivor of sexual abuse, I understand the raw emotion behind those who wrote about what they would like to see happen to my friend. It’s only natural. And we all have to come to grips with our pain in our own time, in our own way. But I believe such gleeful celebrations of vigilante fantasies actually encourages more violence and does nothing to stem the steadily rising tide of sexual abuse. “Kill the bastards,” might sound like a simple solution, but these men were not born abusers. And until we are willing to learn how they got that way, and how we as a society must change so pedophilia becomes a thing of the past, children will never be safe, and men will never be whole.

So I cannot join in the choruses calling for my friend’s destruction. Instead, I’ll sit and grieve for all the victims, all the abusers, a legal system that can only punish, a church that cannot heal its most wounded members, a society drowning in violence, and another friend sitting in a jail cell.

I’ll grieve, and wonder, and pray healing for us all.