Sunday, October 22, 2000
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Sunday, October 22, 2000 |
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'Rainy Days and Sundays' By MARY JANE HOLT
I thought about apologizing in advance for what I'm about to write today. Then I remembered how easily you and I can toss this paper into the trash, just like we can flip the switch on a radio or television, or turn off our computer, or walk out of a movie theater. I was in my teens when I first heard the phrase, "She's so heavenly minded, that she's no earthly good." I resolved then and there never to be that way. There are things I will and will not do. My decisions, or choices, have to do with the mirror I face every morning. Wrinkles I can take. The grey hair doesn't bother me. The double, and sometimes triple, chin, oh well, that bugs me a little. But regret? Now that's another issue. Signs of regret are what I cannot bear to see on my own face and heart, or on that of another. It is a painful sight and hard to live with. You've seen it. I know you have. If you are old enough to be reading this column, then you are old enough to have known regret, and to have seen the damage it does to the face, or heart, that you look at in the mirror every day. So, what am I getting at? I want to tell you about "Rainy Days and Sundays," a new novel I just read. It is the first by Brewster Milton Robertson. This author is a reviewer for Publisher's Weekly and has taught writing workshops for a number of years. So you would expect something good to come off his fingertips. Right? Maybe, maybe not. I have attempted to read novels and other works by equally or perhaps even better educated and reportedly more gifted writers who bore me. I never can get past the first 30 or so pages of their books. The writer must quickly hook me with a dose of reality, or I move on. "Rainy Days and Sundays" published by Harbor House drew me in with just the title and cover. But how did it hook me? How did the author hold me? This author brings his characters to life so well that you can feel what they feel. Not almost feel, but really feel their desires, pain, shame, fear, passion. Indeed, there is much passion, and a lot of sex (the two are not necessarily one and the same in fact, sadly, they seldom are). And there is much emptiness as well. And some degree of real searching. The reader wonders, at times, if some of these poor souls ever had a clue there could be more. And you grieve when some never get the opportunity to even start asking any of the right questions. At least, I grieved. I've known too many people like the characters in Robertson's book. I have loved them and hated them, cared for and about them, and been irritated as all get out by them. Yet, more often than not, I have sought to understand them. When I graduated from nursing school in 1967, my first job was as assistant supervisor on the psychiatric wing of the hospital in my hometown. Some of the patients (that we were not ordered to drug) stayed awake and often were restless at night. They wanted to talk. I learned to listen, and try to understand. Paul's discussion of the "use of liberty" in the ninth chapter of his first book to the church at Corinth also has been an invaluable guide for me. His words, and the resolution to never be "so heavenly minded that I'm no earthly good," have served me well in my efforts to learn how to listen and understand. So I'm recommending "Rainy Days and Sundays" for any like-minded reader. Please note I'm not recommending it for everyone, because the book is a bit of a mirror in and of itself. Not everyone will like what they see. However, "Rainy Days and Sundays," and other books like it, though they are few and far between, help me to keep my bathroom mirror clean and bright so the reflection I see can be a true one. Then, if I'm lucky, the understanding I gain from books like this, and from other sources that might surprise some of you, help to keep the mirror of my soul reflecting truth as well. If you choose to read "Rainy Days and Sundays," you may wonder where I now stand on the subject of abortion. I haven't moved, though I'm not above moving when the light of truth requires movement. I'm still both pro-life and pro-choice. Perhaps you will understand. Perhaps you will not. It will be enough if you just want to understand. You can write to me directly
at PO Box 246, Gay, GA 30218. I cannot always respond, and since you do
not always sign your name or give me a return address, I do not always
even have the option of responding. But if writing makes you feel better,
please know that I read.
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