I read a lot. I always have. But I'm not an especially fast reader. I prefer to take my time, rereading passages so I become immersed in the descriptions, finding myself in the world between the words. My sister on the other hand has always devoured books. She swallows them in long sessions of rapid page turning. As a little girl I was sometimes envious of this. She is my little sister, yet she would get ahead of me, reading things I hadn't yet gotten to and sometimes waiting for me to finish a book she wanted to consume. Yet I learned to become happy with my pace. Some books are easy to fly through, but others I think should be savored. I prefer the savoring.

When I was little my Mom would read aloud to my siblings and I. I grew up hearing and reading such fare as The Little House books, The Chronicles Of Narnia, The Borrowers, The Betsy-Tacy Books, and loving authors such as Lloyd Alexander, Frances Hodgson Burnett, J.R.R. Tolkien, Patricia McLauchlan and many others. Often though my Mom would read to us books that went along with what we were studying in school. We didn't just read fiction; I thrilled at hearing Endurance, the story of Shackleton and his crew's incredible voyage and survival in the atlantic, Carry On Mr. Bowditch, and others which, when I see them on the shelves, are like dear friends; much loved, and with much more love to give when I sit down to reread them as I surely plan to do.

On time I was told that I was like the Meg Ryan character in the movie "You've Got Mail". I was told that I tended to dress somewhat like her, say things like her, and read like her. I laughed at this, then realized, and said out loud, "Actually, I have read The Shoe Books." If you know the movie you will understand. I am also happy to say that Skating Shoes is now back in print.

Reading is a love of mine. Some of my favorite conversations center around books. Writing is inexplicably linked to my being (see? I say and write strange things like that, but I mean it and can't help it); I'll be going along, doing normal everything things, and in my head I'm writing an account of what is going on, narrating it as if I were trying to make it come alive on a page, making it interesting for some unknown reader. I love descriptions and am probably too flowery at times. I tend to be poetic, but I think it comes with the territory of having a name like Sonnet, so what can I say? I was born to be this way.

I so hope that my future husband shares this love with me. More than someone who can perhaps appreciate books and writing, I quietly long for someone who also writes, who also savors books, and with whom I can share the narratives playing inside my head, and be given something similar in return.


I'm not sure how this scribbling on books and writing came around to end with thoughts on my as-yet-unknown future husband. I guess it all plays into the narrative in my head, and how one thing connects to another in subtle and curious ways. If it's only interesting for me to read, I'm fine with that. Writing is an outlet as much as it is an expression. What about for you?

The memorable moment came when I was sitting on a scratchy bale of hale, surrounded mostly by strangers. I had been stomach-growling hungry since about 6:00 pm, and it was now close to 9:00. I was cold; my canvas coat was not enough warmth in the winter night, and I had forgotten both hat and gloves, though my brother had kindly lent me a pair of his biking gloves. I and about twenty other people had climbed up onto a long trailer bed and seated ourselves close together on hay bales. My brother sat across from me. My friend Ben drove the truck. Erin and Sydney (I just met her that afternoon on the drive up) were somewhere in the mix. A guy whose jet black hair and subtle use of eye-liner unfortunately reminded me of Adam Lambert struck up a brief conversation with me. Then the trailer began to move, making a loud scraping/clanking sound from a chain dragging on asphalt. We began to sing Christmas carols, our voices rising above that of the annoying chain. I found that Sydney and I have voices that match well together.

We drove to a pre-decided street, then clambered out of the trailer. We got together in groups of six or so and went door to door, knocking, singing, talking to people, giving out Christmas gifts and praying with them. At first we had only a vague idea of what we were doing, then we fell into something of a routine. Sometimes we would knock and sing and no one would come to the door. But mostly the doors were opened, and we would inquire as to the number and ages of kids in the home, if any, and while half our group would stay and talk, half would run back down the dark street to the trailer, where we would pull out gifts and candy or even a bicycle or two.

Handing the kids their gifts was wonderful, but I think that talking to people was my favorite. We spoke with a man who was just getting home and wanted to sing along with us. We spoke with a older black gentleman whose kids were all grown but who was pleased to hear a song and asked to pray for us before we went on our way. We spoke to a Hispanic mom who said her baby wouldn't have had any Christmas this year if it weren't for us. We went to house after house and street after street until nearly all our toys and candy were gone. It was then when we were driving back, almost three hours later, that the moment came. I was sitting on the rough hay, my right side pressed against a girl I didn't know, some guy sitting on the floor leaning against my left leg. It should have been uncomfortable. But for some reason, it wasn't. In fact, I felt incredibly alive. Although I knew that when we got back there would be warm food waiting for us, I didn't care about that as much as I cared about staying in that moment. The cold and hunger had subsided and was only a faint whisper in the back of my mind. I was pressed between strangers, my throat was slightly raw from so much singing in the cold air, but it didn't matter. I felt strangely, indescribably alive.


Recently I went to hear a lecture by Rob Bell entitled "Drops Like Stars". In it, Bell speaks on how pain is necessary in life. Every great turning point and awakening moment in life involves some kind of pain. Every instance of hurt and failure leads to something beautiful in the end. It makes me wonder if that is one reason why - in what was admittedly something of an uncomfortable situation in various ways - I felt like that moment, that night, was part of something so much bigger. It wasn't just a time of doing something good; going to help a minstry for a couple of days and bestowing carols and presents on a few down-on-their-luck strangers. It wasn't just "an experience". It was something that I don't think I can describe because I don't fully understand. All I know is that that is what I want; a life that goes outside of myself, outside of my comfort zone, outside of what I can see. Searching for a greater good. A beauty from bits and pieces. Those are the moments I've always felt the most alive. Shouldn't that be what living is all about?