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Changes at Emerging Women
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Monday, September 28, 2009
"Walking With God"
My apologies for having neglected this blog for so long. In addition to other responsibilities, significant chunks of time have been poured into developing and drafting a number of my own book projects and manuscripts. Since book reviews require a good deal of time and energy - well... you know. Something had to give: this blog. I now have a moment to catch my breath.
In do so doing, I'm savoring another re-read of John Eldredge's masterful work, Walking With God. (Thomas Nelson, 2008.) Sub-title tag: "Talk to him. Hear from him. Really." This is one of the most extraordinary, practical, piercing and insightful books I've ever read. This is my third time thru WWG. I find something new on each re-read.
Treat yourself to a great read!
In do so doing, I'm savoring another re-read of John Eldredge's masterful work, Walking With God. (Thomas Nelson, 2008.) Sub-title tag: "Talk to him. Hear from him. Really." This is one of the most extraordinary, practical, piercing and insightful books I've ever read. This is my third time thru WWG. I find something new on each re-read.
Treat yourself to a great read!
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Movie Review: Marley and Me
I haven’t set foot inside a commercial movie theater since 1993. No, I’m not kidding. Ticket prices, higher priorities, other interests and an utter lack of interest in most of the junk Hollywood cranks out these days disguised as “movies” have kept me away from theaters for years. So you know something unusual – maybe even remarkable – drew me into the theater today to see the comedy/drama Marley and Me.
Truth is, I wasn’t planning on seeing Marley and Me at all. But my husband and older sons were on an all-day youth group outing, leaving me home with our youngest son. Josiah wasn’t exactly jumping for joy about being left behind. After fixing Josiah his favorite lunch and dessert, I called the local cinema center on a lark, got the usual unintelligible recording, but deciphered just enough of it to catch something about a family and a yellow Labrador retriever. I’ve been a sucker for yellow Labs ever since Old Yeller. In fact, our good dog and loyal canine, Eve, is a yellow Lab. Marley and Me was a no-brainer.
I bought two matinee tickets for Josiah and me and walked into a theater that was two-thirds full, oppressively stuffy, and had the soles of my shoes sticking to the floor. I almost turned around and walked out. Only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want to disappoint Josiah. I’m glad I stayed. Marley and Me was a pleasant surprise.
This charming, rambunctious, family-oriented movie is about a “clearance puppy,” aka; “the world’s worst dog,” and the havoc and happiness he wreaks within the Grogan household. Based on the best selling book from ex-Philadelphia Inquirer columnist John Grogan, Marley and Me has Owen Wilson playing Grogan with deadpan good humor and Jennifer Aniston as his wife, Jen.
The movie opens just after the Grogan’s wedding in southern Michigan which is accompanied by a blizzard. The couple moves to “some place warmer” – Florida – where both husband and wife land jobs as reporters. Josh reports largely uninspiring stories reports for the Sun-Sentinel until his hard-boiled editor (Alan Arkin) asks him to take on a twice-a-week column. Self-described as “full of surprises,” Josh reluctantly accepts and soon finds his niche writing columns about “regular, every day stuff:” his wife, their growing family, and the uproarious antics of the rascally, rambunctious Marley (named for the singer Bob).
One thing I especially appreciated about this movie is that it portrays the stresses and strains, exhaustions and joys of family life realistically, without stereotypes of clichés. Jen eventually gives up her career to stay home full-time with the Grogan’s sons, who are later joined by “whups,” their third child, a daughter. The family gets a minivan, moves into a larger home in Boca and eventually settles to Pennsylvania where Grogan writes for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Dissatisfied with hard news reporting, Grogan eventually finds his way back to what he loves most and does best – writing a column about “regular, every day stuff.”
Meanwhile, Grogan’s “regular, every day” family life - complete with dirty diapers, messy houses, thunder storms, unfinished homework, soccer games and snowball fights - is subtly contrasted to the ostensibly more glitzy, glamorous life of Sebastian Tunney, a hot bachelor reporter. A choice scene occurs toward the end of the movie in which Grogan runs in to Tunney - on assignment for yet another plum story - and passing through Philadelphia. Tunney inquires about the family and Grogan proudly pulls out a snapshot of Jen and the kids and of course, the four-legged rascal, Marley. They exchange a few pleasantries before Grogan mentions that he has to get going because his son has a soccer game. The two friends shake hands and promise to “get together some time.” Tunney flashes his trademark toothy grin and roams down the sidewalk, hitting on yet another young woman while Grogan, clearly the richer and more fulfilled of the two, heads back to his wife and kids and that crazy, loveable yellow Lab that has a few surprises himself.
I forgot all about the over-warm theater, the stale air and sticky cement floor about halfway through this movie. It was delightful. I walked out of the theater hugging my son and hurrying home to hug my good dog and the rest of my family.
To be sure, Marley and Me isn’t Gone With the Wind, but it doesn’t pretend to be. It’s a gem of a little “sleeper” and has a gentle, unpretentious quality to it that all dog lovers – and everyone else – can enjoy. Go see it. And be sure to bring Kleenex.
Caution: Marley and Me is rated PG. A few brief scenes and lines may be inappropriate for very young viewers.
Truth is, I wasn’t planning on seeing Marley and Me at all. But my husband and older sons were on an all-day youth group outing, leaving me home with our youngest son. Josiah wasn’t exactly jumping for joy about being left behind. After fixing Josiah his favorite lunch and dessert, I called the local cinema center on a lark, got the usual unintelligible recording, but deciphered just enough of it to catch something about a family and a yellow Labrador retriever. I’ve been a sucker for yellow Labs ever since Old Yeller. In fact, our good dog and loyal canine, Eve, is a yellow Lab. Marley and Me was a no-brainer.
I bought two matinee tickets for Josiah and me and walked into a theater that was two-thirds full, oppressively stuffy, and had the soles of my shoes sticking to the floor. I almost turned around and walked out. Only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want to disappoint Josiah. I’m glad I stayed. Marley and Me was a pleasant surprise.
This charming, rambunctious, family-oriented movie is about a “clearance puppy,” aka; “the world’s worst dog,” and the havoc and happiness he wreaks within the Grogan household. Based on the best selling book from ex-Philadelphia Inquirer columnist John Grogan, Marley and Me has Owen Wilson playing Grogan with deadpan good humor and Jennifer Aniston as his wife, Jen.
The movie opens just after the Grogan’s wedding in southern Michigan which is accompanied by a blizzard. The couple moves to “some place warmer” – Florida – where both husband and wife land jobs as reporters. Josh reports largely uninspiring stories reports for the Sun-Sentinel until his hard-boiled editor (Alan Arkin) asks him to take on a twice-a-week column. Self-described as “full of surprises,” Josh reluctantly accepts and soon finds his niche writing columns about “regular, every day stuff:” his wife, their growing family, and the uproarious antics of the rascally, rambunctious Marley (named for the singer Bob).
One thing I especially appreciated about this movie is that it portrays the stresses and strains, exhaustions and joys of family life realistically, without stereotypes of clichés. Jen eventually gives up her career to stay home full-time with the Grogan’s sons, who are later joined by “whups,” their third child, a daughter. The family gets a minivan, moves into a larger home in Boca and eventually settles to Pennsylvania where Grogan writes for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Dissatisfied with hard news reporting, Grogan eventually finds his way back to what he loves most and does best – writing a column about “regular, every day stuff.”
Meanwhile, Grogan’s “regular, every day” family life - complete with dirty diapers, messy houses, thunder storms, unfinished homework, soccer games and snowball fights - is subtly contrasted to the ostensibly more glitzy, glamorous life of Sebastian Tunney, a hot bachelor reporter. A choice scene occurs toward the end of the movie in which Grogan runs in to Tunney - on assignment for yet another plum story - and passing through Philadelphia. Tunney inquires about the family and Grogan proudly pulls out a snapshot of Jen and the kids and of course, the four-legged rascal, Marley. They exchange a few pleasantries before Grogan mentions that he has to get going because his son has a soccer game. The two friends shake hands and promise to “get together some time.” Tunney flashes his trademark toothy grin and roams down the sidewalk, hitting on yet another young woman while Grogan, clearly the richer and more fulfilled of the two, heads back to his wife and kids and that crazy, loveable yellow Lab that has a few surprises himself.
I forgot all about the over-warm theater, the stale air and sticky cement floor about halfway through this movie. It was delightful. I walked out of the theater hugging my son and hurrying home to hug my good dog and the rest of my family.
To be sure, Marley and Me isn’t Gone With the Wind, but it doesn’t pretend to be. It’s a gem of a little “sleeper” and has a gentle, unpretentious quality to it that all dog lovers – and everyone else – can enjoy. Go see it. And be sure to bring Kleenex.
Caution: Marley and Me is rated PG. A few brief scenes and lines may be inappropriate for very young viewers.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Shack
The Shack
By William P. Young
The Shack is one of the most extraordinary books I've ever read. Creative, intriguing, gutsy and a thoroughly engaging read, this remarkable novel addresses the age-old question of why/how a loving God can allow suffering and evil to exist in this world.
Overwhelmed by "The Great Sadness" that threatens to engulf him with tsunami severity, Mackenzie "Mack" Allen Phillips receives a cryptic note in his mailbox one winter afternoon. There’s no return address. No postal mark. No signature. The typed note is signed "Papa" - the word his wife, Nan, uses for God. Unbelievably, the sender asks Mack to meet him at the shack - the site of an immense tragedy about four years prior.
Against his better judgment, Mack gingerly, reluctantly finds himself on the road to the wilderness area where his young daughter, Missy, was abducted during a family camping trip and subsequently murdered. What and Who he finds at the shack travels with Mack through his blistering rage, sorrow, confusion, disillusionment, and accusation as well as infinite amazement, forgiveness, grace, and finally, immeasurable joy and wonder - without the clichés and canned answers on either side of the equation.
Set in the Pacific Northwest, this intense, beautifully written story is “ghostwritten" by the author as “told by” Mack, whose unspeakable personal loss leads him on a Bunyanesque journey into eternity - and some startling surprises.
Refreshingly, The Shack isn't about churchianity, sitting in a pew on Sundays, skimming through a Scripture reading so you can mark it off your daily to do list, or textbook academia that’s as dry as the Atacama. It centers on relationships that are as bold and dazzling and mysterious as a brand new harvest moon. The imaginative portrayal of the Trinitarian God is especially delicious and exhilarating in this regard, and within biblical bounds.
Note: The Shack</ is a novel, as in fiction. It neither purports nor pretends to be a theological treatise. So if you’re of the grim, puritanical and myopic American Gothic persuasion, never mind. Dollars to donuts you won’t get it.
That said, I’d like to add that of the nearly 200 books I've read thus far this year, The Shack is among my top three titles. I read the whole thing (250+ pages) cover-to-cover in just over 24 hours. It's THAT good. As in, brilliant. If you don’t read anything else this year and you’re looking for something fresh, authentic and amazing, don’t miss The Shack.
By William P. Young
The Shack is one of the most extraordinary books I've ever read. Creative, intriguing, gutsy and a thoroughly engaging read, this remarkable novel addresses the age-old question of why/how a loving God can allow suffering and evil to exist in this world.
Overwhelmed by "The Great Sadness" that threatens to engulf him with tsunami severity, Mackenzie "Mack" Allen Phillips receives a cryptic note in his mailbox one winter afternoon. There’s no return address. No postal mark. No signature. The typed note is signed "Papa" - the word his wife, Nan, uses for God. Unbelievably, the sender asks Mack to meet him at the shack - the site of an immense tragedy about four years prior.
Against his better judgment, Mack gingerly, reluctantly finds himself on the road to the wilderness area where his young daughter, Missy, was abducted during a family camping trip and subsequently murdered. What and Who he finds at the shack travels with Mack through his blistering rage, sorrow, confusion, disillusionment, and accusation as well as infinite amazement, forgiveness, grace, and finally, immeasurable joy and wonder - without the clichés and canned answers on either side of the equation.
Set in the Pacific Northwest, this intense, beautifully written story is “ghostwritten" by the author as “told by” Mack, whose unspeakable personal loss leads him on a Bunyanesque journey into eternity - and some startling surprises.
Refreshingly, The Shack isn't about churchianity, sitting in a pew on Sundays, skimming through a Scripture reading so you can mark it off your daily to do list, or textbook academia that’s as dry as the Atacama. It centers on relationships that are as bold and dazzling and mysterious as a brand new harvest moon. The imaginative portrayal of the Trinitarian God is especially delicious and exhilarating in this regard, and within biblical bounds.
Note: The Shack</ is a novel, as in fiction. It neither purports nor pretends to be a theological treatise. So if you’re of the grim, puritanical and myopic American Gothic persuasion, never mind. Dollars to donuts you won’t get it.
That said, I’d like to add that of the nearly 200 books I've read thus far this year, The Shack is among my top three titles. I read the whole thing (250+ pages) cover-to-cover in just over 24 hours. It's THAT good. As in, brilliant. If you don’t read anything else this year and you’re looking for something fresh, authentic and amazing, don’t miss The Shack.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Grace
Grace
By Richard Paul Evans
Simon & Schuster, 2008
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5003-7
I finished reading Richard Paul Evans’ newest release, Grace, last week. I held off on writing a review because I wanted to ruminate on the novel awhile, let it roll around in my head and “marinate.” You can’t rush a review of Grace. It’s not that kind of book. Here’s why:
When I read the Author’s Note regarding the 1874 child abuse case of Mary Ellen Wilson, I almost put Grace back on the library shelf. I can’t get near that topic without one of two reactions: dissolving into a soggy heap of tears, or wanting to personally thrash the stuffing out of the perpetrators. As the mother of four boys and the Children’s Ministries Co-Director for our church, child abuse enrages me beyond words. It also rips my heart out. Frankly, I wasn’t up for either emotion the day Grace came into the library (It took awhile. I was #23 in the “On Hold” queue). Tempted to put it back, I refrained from doing so for just one reason: I own every title Evans has ever written. I’m never been disappointed. So, on the strength of Evans’ prior work, I decided to trust him with this new book. So I stuffed Grace into my bag en route to the YMCA with my youngest. Poolside while Josiah splashed down the water slide, I gingerly withdrew Grace and started reading.
Grace opens with a recap of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Match Girl and some grandfatherly reflections from protagonist Eric Welch on Christmas Day 2006 (p.5). Told in the first person, the story unfolds in flashback fashion during Eric’s teen years and moves from October 1962 to early January 1963. Eric’s father, a construction worker, is unable to work due to Guillain Barre Syndrome. The family of four, which includes Eric’s ten year-old brother and best friend, Joel, is forced to move from southern California to a rundown, low-rent part of Utah. (I have a good friend with GBS. I’ve never seen this debilitating disease in another novel.) We struggle with Eric through the first four chapters as he endures the slings and arrows of being “the new kid” in middle school and all the attendant traumas and woes that unhappy scenario typically includes. In Eric’s case it’s exacerbated by being poor and from out-of-state to boot.
We meet fifteen year-old Grace in Chapter Five. She’s foraging for food in a dumpster behind “McBurger Queen,” Eric’s part-time (scum bag) employer. On page 34 we find out that Grace is a runaway: “I’m not going home.” But she has no where to go. Besides, there’s something about Grace (and grace) that’s …unexplained. Mysterious. Something that causes us as well as Eric to pause…
Unwilling to leave Grace roaming the streets alone on a cold October night, Eric brings her to the “clubhouse” he and Joel built behind the family’s sprawling, dilapidated home. The next 240 pages detail the tender uncertainties of First Love, selflessness and sacrifice, courage in the face of overwhelming odds, the Cuban Missile Crisis, family and emotional struggles, and Eric’s rage at the people who “coulda, shoulda, woulda” protected young Grace from her predacious stepfather – but didn’t. The willful ignorance of neighbors, school officials and law enforcement receive a withering indictment that’s all the more effective for its understated subtlety: “I sat alone staring at the back of a pew while people who didn’t really know anything about Grace talked about her as if they suddenly cared.” (p. 292). Evans gently but unequivocally shows how any willful blindness or ignorance makes us all complicit when it comes to crimes against children:
If the story stopped here, it would have been poignant, but Evans doesn’t let it go. Not quite. He doesn’t leave us outraged, wrung-out, hopeless and helpless. Instead, he subtly intertwines themes of God’s grace, redemption and restoration throughout this carefully crafted story of a teen runaway (see the bottom of page 296). This reaches its zenith in an Epilogue that is both hopeful and heart-wrenching. It is in these final, gripping pages that we see how tragedy transforms a painfully shy, self-conscious fourteen year-old boy “with acne and a bad hair cut” into a tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners prosecutor whose life is forever and irrevocably changed by those late autumn and winter months of 1962 and a girl named Grace:
I was personally relieved that Evans avoids any graphic details regarding Grace’s family history, relationships or the experiences that led to her running away from home. Consummate storyteller that he is, Evans drops subtle clues and hints throughout the story and allows us to fill in the blanks without assaulting us with additional traumatic narrative.
In terms of format and style, Grace features Evans’ usual short chapters and his trademark “diary entries” that preface each chapter. The style is vintage Evans, luminous and evocative, introducing us to three-dimensional characters whom we come to know, love, and miss as plot, climax, and conclusion unfold with great sensitivity and sagacity. The book closes with A Letter from Richard Paul Evans detailing practical help readers can provide via The Christmas Box Initiative and Operation Kids. Web sites and a toll-free phone number are included.
All in all, Grace is a fast – but not a light - read. I finished the book in an afternoon. I rate it four out of five stars. Although I love Evans' stories, Grace fell just a little short for me, maybe because it seemed emotionally manipulative, a tad pedantic and somewhat predictable at times. (This opinion may be due to the combined effects of sauna-like humidity, enough chlorine to choke a whale and countless interruptions from an errant beach ball – all part of trying to read beside an indoor pool.) While it isn’t as strong as either The Gift or Finding Noel, Grace is still a worthwhile read. In fact, I wanted to stand up at cheer by the final page. I plan on a re-read – just as soon as I restock my Kleenex stash.
By Richard Paul Evans
Simon & Schuster, 2008
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5003-7
I finished reading Richard Paul Evans’ newest release, Grace, last week. I held off on writing a review because I wanted to ruminate on the novel awhile, let it roll around in my head and “marinate.” You can’t rush a review of Grace. It’s not that kind of book. Here’s why:
When I read the Author’s Note regarding the 1874 child abuse case of Mary Ellen Wilson, I almost put Grace back on the library shelf. I can’t get near that topic without one of two reactions: dissolving into a soggy heap of tears, or wanting to personally thrash the stuffing out of the perpetrators. As the mother of four boys and the Children’s Ministries Co-Director for our church, child abuse enrages me beyond words. It also rips my heart out. Frankly, I wasn’t up for either emotion the day Grace came into the library (It took awhile. I was #23 in the “On Hold” queue). Tempted to put it back, I refrained from doing so for just one reason: I own every title Evans has ever written. I’m never been disappointed. So, on the strength of Evans’ prior work, I decided to trust him with this new book. So I stuffed Grace into my bag en route to the YMCA with my youngest. Poolside while Josiah splashed down the water slide, I gingerly withdrew Grace and started reading.
Grace opens with a recap of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Match Girl and some grandfatherly reflections from protagonist Eric Welch on Christmas Day 2006 (p.5). Told in the first person, the story unfolds in flashback fashion during Eric’s teen years and moves from October 1962 to early January 1963. Eric’s father, a construction worker, is unable to work due to Guillain Barre Syndrome. The family of four, which includes Eric’s ten year-old brother and best friend, Joel, is forced to move from southern California to a rundown, low-rent part of Utah. (I have a good friend with GBS. I’ve never seen this debilitating disease in another novel.) We struggle with Eric through the first four chapters as he endures the slings and arrows of being “the new kid” in middle school and all the attendant traumas and woes that unhappy scenario typically includes. In Eric’s case it’s exacerbated by being poor and from out-of-state to boot.
We meet fifteen year-old Grace in Chapter Five. She’s foraging for food in a dumpster behind “McBurger Queen,” Eric’s part-time (scum bag) employer. On page 34 we find out that Grace is a runaway: “I’m not going home.” But she has no where to go. Besides, there’s something about Grace (and grace) that’s …unexplained. Mysterious. Something that causes us as well as Eric to pause…
Unwilling to leave Grace roaming the streets alone on a cold October night, Eric brings her to the “clubhouse” he and Joel built behind the family’s sprawling, dilapidated home. The next 240 pages detail the tender uncertainties of First Love, selflessness and sacrifice, courage in the face of overwhelming odds, the Cuban Missile Crisis, family and emotional struggles, and Eric’s rage at the people who “coulda, shoulda, woulda” protected young Grace from her predacious stepfather – but didn’t. The willful ignorance of neighbors, school officials and law enforcement receive a withering indictment that’s all the more effective for its understated subtlety: “I sat alone staring at the back of a pew while people who didn’t really know anything about Grace talked about her as if they suddenly cared.” (p. 292). Evans gently but unequivocally shows how any willful blindness or ignorance makes us all complicit when it comes to crimes against children:
“You killed her. You and Dad and Joel and her pathetic, worthless mother and those stupid, idiotic policemen who just couldn’t wait to be heroes. … You all killed Grace…’ (p. 295)
If the story stopped here, it would have been poignant, but Evans doesn’t let it go. Not quite. He doesn’t leave us outraged, wrung-out, hopeless and helpless. Instead, he subtly intertwines themes of God’s grace, redemption and restoration throughout this carefully crafted story of a teen runaway (see the bottom of page 296). This reaches its zenith in an Epilogue that is both hopeful and heart-wrenching. It is in these final, gripping pages that we see how tragedy transforms a painfully shy, self-conscious fourteen year-old boy “with acne and a bad hair cut” into a tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners prosecutor whose life is forever and irrevocably changed by those late autumn and winter months of 1962 and a girl named Grace:
“I have spent my life hunting down and prosecuting people like Grace’s stepfather. I carry Grace’s locket into every trial. I’ve earned a reputation as a fierce courtroom combatant who takes every case personally. What Grace saw in the candle was true of me as well. I am feared. … Today I continue my crusade. I have testified about child abuse before state lawmakers more times than I can remember. I’ve lived to see child advocacy become a public concern. I am grateful that the world finally has the courage to open its eyes. My wife asks me when we can retire, but I tell her I’ll die in the saddle. With my last breath I’ll continue to fight for these children. I cannot save them all, but I can save some of them, and that’s worth doing. There are other Graces out there.” (p. 305, 306).
I was personally relieved that Evans avoids any graphic details regarding Grace’s family history, relationships or the experiences that led to her running away from home. Consummate storyteller that he is, Evans drops subtle clues and hints throughout the story and allows us to fill in the blanks without assaulting us with additional traumatic narrative.
In terms of format and style, Grace features Evans’ usual short chapters and his trademark “diary entries” that preface each chapter. The style is vintage Evans, luminous and evocative, introducing us to three-dimensional characters whom we come to know, love, and miss as plot, climax, and conclusion unfold with great sensitivity and sagacity. The book closes with A Letter from Richard Paul Evans detailing practical help readers can provide via The Christmas Box Initiative and Operation Kids. Web sites and a toll-free phone number are included.
All in all, Grace is a fast – but not a light - read. I finished the book in an afternoon. I rate it four out of five stars. Although I love Evans' stories, Grace fell just a little short for me, maybe because it seemed emotionally manipulative, a tad pedantic and somewhat predictable at times. (This opinion may be due to the combined effects of sauna-like humidity, enough chlorine to choke a whale and countless interruptions from an errant beach ball – all part of trying to read beside an indoor pool.) While it isn’t as strong as either The Gift or Finding Noel, Grace is still a worthwhile read. In fact, I wanted to stand up at cheer by the final page. I plan on a re-read – just as soon as I restock my Kleenex stash.
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