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words that draw me in . . .

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I did this exercise once before and surprised myself as to the first sentences or paragraphs in my books that  initially made me want to read more – and caused me to keep these books on my shelves.

Today, I’m only looking at five books in my library that immediately drew me in.

After he dies, missing Peter for me is like swimming in the cold spot of the lake: everyone else laughing in the warm water under some too-close summer sun.  This is the answer to the question no one asks me.

Rich in folklore and history, the cooking of the American South embodies all the glamour, grit, and heartbreak of Southern culture: the sad cruelty of slavery’s influence; the joie de vivre of wealthy, well-bred, landed aristocracy; the romance of moonlight and magnolia; the sun-washed wholesomeness of family memories; a note or two of twisted Southern Gothic; fierce attachment to the land; and recently, a prideful sense of place, with chefs boldly championing local, artisanal, and heirloom products and vegetables.  {Note:  I was not only drawn to the writing in this cookbook – but to the recipes! and I’ve made some of these delicious dishes . . .}

But we rebel against the impossible.  I sense a wish in some professional religion-mongers to make God possible, to make him comprehensible to the naked intellect, domesticate him so that he’s easy to believe in.  Every century the Church makes a fresh attempt to make Christianity acceptable.  But an acceptable Christianity is not Christian; a comprehensible God is no more than an idol.

I don’t want that kind of God.

What kind of God, then?

The girl was the first to hear the loud pounding on the door.  Her room was closest to the entrance of the apartment.  At first, dazed with sleep, she thought it was her father,coming up from his hiding place in the cellar.  He’d forgotten his keys, and was impatient because nobody had heard his first, timid knock.  But then came the voices, strong and brutal in the silence of the night.  Nothing to do with her father.  “Police!  Open up!  Now!”

My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another.  Like lily pads, round and green, these places summoned and then held me up while I grew.  Each prepared me for the next leaf on which I would land, and in this way I moved across the swamp of doubt and fear.  When I look back at some of those early resting places–the boisterous home of the Catholics, the soft armchair of the Christian Science mom, adoption by ardent Jews–I can see how flimsy and indirect a path they made.  Yet each step brought me closer to the verdant pad of faith on which I somehow stay afloat today.

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About hopeseguin

Who am I? I'm still discovering just who I am, I suppose. A. Powell Davis writes that "Life is just a chance to grow a soul."

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