Lessons from The Secret Garden

"The Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and placed there the man whom he had formed...to cultivate and care for it" (Genesis 2: 8, 15).

There is something very spiritual about gardening.  Cooperating with creation, one can produce new life: plants of tremendous variety and uses.

From the silent, dark earth comes a tiny sprout.  With the right conditions and care, the plant grows and develops--producing its flowers and fruit.  And then, when the plant has grown and lived its span of life, it withers and dies...shedding its seeds, which will then create new life once again.

How many countless Scripture passages refer to gardening? 

The mustard seed, the sower, the parable of the weeds and the wheat--just a few examples.  Where does Our Lord go when He desires to pray?  A garden (Gethsemane).  When Mary Magdalene is seeking Our Lord's body after finding the tomb empty, she sees Jesus, but does not recognize Him; instead, she believes Him to be the gardener.  

Gardening has been part of my family for a long time.  My great uncles owned a dairy farm, on which they grew many crops.  My father has a greenhouse and sells his produce to local restaurants.  Though quite humble in size, we have our own little garden and tending it is one of my favorite past times.

There is just something about digging in the earth...watching things grow...admiring and appreciating the beauty of creation.  

When you are on your hands and knees, pulling weeds or cultivating the plants, you notice things: the earthworm making its way along, the small bud about to burst open, and the footprint of some little critter that has found its way into your garden.

The feel of damp, cool soil...the smell of basil leaves warm in the sun...the array of colors on the silky petals of petunia plants...gardening touches all of our senses.  It is, in a very real way, part of us: we were, after all, taken from the dust of the earth.

Perhaps it is my love of gardening, or my longing for spring, or simply the need to read something shorter than The Count of Monte Cristo, that my latest read has been The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Mary Lennox is a spoiled, sourpuss ten-year-old who finds herself an orphan when her parents die from cholera.  Mary isn't particularly devastated: she didn't have much a relationship with them, or with anyone really.  She is sent to live with her uncle at Misselthwaite Manor in Yorkshire, England.  

A mysterious, gloomy place, Mary learns about a secret garden, which has been locked up for ten years following her aunt's death.  With the help of a friendly robin, Mary finds the garden.  Together with a boy named Dickon--who has a penchant for gardens and animals--she commits herself to helping the garden come back to life.  Mary also uncovers another secret: she has a cousin, Colin, who also lives at Misselthwaite.  He is bedridden, convinced that he will become a hunchback and die.  

As the book progresses, it is not just the garden that comes alive and transforms; a springtime comes into the heart of the main characters, too.

This is one of my mother's favorite books and she shared with me some the rich symbolism that she found within the story.  So, the beauty of these insights belongs entirely to her; I can take no credit!

The Garden:  The garden represents heaven, a place of exceeding beauty, peace, joy, and eternal healing.  In the garden there is harmony in nature and in creation: the animals interact with the children with no fear and the flower seeds bloom and blossom wherever they are planted.  Dickon and Mary are in this way a kind of Adam and Eve.  Additionally, when Colin first enters the garden, he reacts by proclaiming, "I shall get well!  And I shall live forever and ever and ever!"  Heaven is our eternal healing where there is no pain or suffering, but only perfect love.

Mary:  This isn't a perfect correlation, but it nevertheless does work in many ways.  Mary Lenox is a symbol for Mary, Our Blessed Mother.  Mary is the one who unlocks the garden and, once inside, she brings other people within: Dickon, Ben Weatherstaff (the gardener), Colin, and her uncle.  It is through her hands and intercession, you might say, that healing and new life occur.  Our Lord came to us as a baby in the arms of Mary and, on the cross, He gave her to us.  Now, we can most easily and quickly reach Him through her.  Our Lady draws us closer to God and, thus, guides us into the heavenly garden that is heaven.  

Dickon:  There is not a character in the book who does not think of Dickon without a certain fondness.  There is just something about him that sets him apart.  He seems to be one with nature: he can talk with the animals, who flock around him lovingly.  He also seems to understand the needs and desires of other people with compassion.  He is a great help to Mary as he brings her gardening tools and food when her appetite grows from unaccustomed exercise.  Dickon's symbolism is revealed in an argument between Mary and Colin, when the former defends Dickon by asserting, "He's nicer than any other boy that ever lived!...He's--he's like an angel!"  Dickon's protecting, guiding, supporting presence is akin to the aid that each of us receives from our guardian angel in our journey toward heaven.

Robin:  The first friend Mary makes is the red-breasted robin who sings from one of the tree branches within the secret garden.  "She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling...the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile."  The bird awakens joy within Mary.  It is then the bird that reveals to Mary the place where the key to the secret garden is hidden.  Symbolically, the bird is the Holy Spirit, whose presence within our souls produces joy.  The Spirit sings to us, guiding us to heaven.

The Key:  The secret garden has been locked up for ten years, the key hidden in a hole in the ground.  After Mary discovers the key with the robin's aid, she finds the door that leads into the garden--a door that is extremely hidden beneath vines of ivy, along a long expanse of wall.  The hidden door is reminiscent of Our Lord's words: "For the gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to life, and there are few who find it" (Matthew 7:14).  The key to the garden symbolizes the Church, for it is to Peter that Jesus says, "I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven.  Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven" (Matthew 16:19).

Martha:  Martha is Dickon's older sister.  She works at Misselthwaite as one of the servants, cooking and cleaning.  Might she be symbolic of the Martha, sister of Mary, who appears in the Gospels and who was "distracted with all her preparations?" (Luke 10:38-42)

Magic:  "Mary was a great believer in Magic.  Secretly she quite believed that Dickon worked Magic, of course good Magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend...Magic was working all the afternoon and making Colin look like an entirely different boy."  

Mary and Colin are convinced about the presence of "Magic" within the garden.  Colin, in fact, holds a kind of religious ceremony where he calls upon the Magic to heal him.  "Sometimes since I've been in the garden I've looked up through the trees at the sky and I have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast.  Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing.  Everything is made out of Magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people.  So it must be all around us.  In this garden--in all the places."  

One could very simply replace the word "magic" with "grace."  It is God's grace (His life and love) that is present in every creature, in every place.  As St. Therese of Lisieux aptly said, "Everything is grace."

While in the garden one day, Colin experiences a rapture and exuberantly stands up, proclaiming that he wanted to shout out to "something" to express his gratitude for all that he was experiencing.  Ben Weatherstaff suggests singing the Doxology, but Colin (who has never been to church due to his assumed infirmity) knows nothing about it.  Dickon then sings out, 

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow, praise Him all creatures here below, praise Him above ye Heavenly Host, praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.  Amen."

This is the most powerful aspect of gardening.  God reveals Himself to us through His Word, through the Tradition of the Church, and through His creation.  We can look at the beauty of a rose, at the wonder of a seedling growing, at the immensity of the sky and learn something about God.  

Creation tells us a great deal about the Creator.

Colin knew next to nothing about God; he never stepped foot inside a church.  Yet, he came to know a great deal about creation and, through that, the goodness of the Creator.  He called it "Magic" instead of grace, but he knew and recognized it.

The Secret Garden is called a children's story, but the innocence, simplicity, and joy of the book is a gift to adults as well.  It's a good reminder that the simplest things--such as a growing garden--can teach us a great deal about those things that are most profound.

Daily Bread Addendum

Do you recall that favorite professor of mine, alluded to in yesterday's post?

He wrote a powerful and inspiring response to my reflections about daily Mass, which I would like to share with all of you:

The theologian Nicholas Lash once wrote that the word "and" is often the most important word in Catholic theology. I find him correct on that account. In my favorite modern work on the Eucharist, "The Sacrament of Charity," Pope Benedict XVI explains how the Conciliar emphasis on full and active participation in the Eucharist by the laity "must be understood in more substantial terms." It must be founded "on the basis of a greater awareness of the mystery being celebrated AND its relationship to daily life" [article 52]. 

The first part of that statement reminds me that the Eucharist is first and foremost a "mystery to be celebrated," not primarily a dogma to be understood. It remains a dogma whether or not I understand it or even if I'm inattentive. Some mornings I'm not even sure how I got there. But it's never about me; it is about the mystery, the sacrifice, the meal. Somehow, the body, blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ is made available to me. Do I understand that? I never have; but the rest of my life, with all its beauty, is poor without it. 

The second part of Benedict's teaching is one I often overlook or trivialize: "AND its relationship to daily life." This is why what you and Kathleen [a teacher who brings her second grade class to Mass] have said is awesome in the true meaning of that word. For some reason the Lord wants us to bring OUR daily life to the Eucharist, not just vice-versa. Our daily lives are, in some fundamental way, related to the enactment of the Eucharist. Don't know how. That blows me away. It is Mary with her clanking pail and Peter with his interrupted nap that both perfect perfection. 

I am certainly no authority on how others view their need for forgiveness (my confessor calls me "over scrupulous," so what do I know?), but I see Kathleen's very presence with those 19 children as INTEGRAL to that particular Eucharistic celebration. Mozart shrugged off Protestantism because he thought it was "All in the head." Mystery strikes us everywhere in Catholicism; it assaults our senses in a joyful way. I believe God is delighted by the presence of 19 children simply there at Mass. He made them; I think He likes it when they swing by the house. 

It was Flannery O'Connor who said that Catholics should be taught to distrust their feelings in relation to sacraments. Ex opere operato is not just a dictum that allows us to flatter bad priests, it has another side that we don't often consider: sacraments do not work because of the righteousness of the RECIPIENTS either (CCC, 1128). 

When I walk through that door each morning, I am taking a huge risk. I may find myself looking into the eyes of that extraordinary minister who REALLY believes she is offering me Christ. When I place myself in the mystery simply by putting my shoulder to the door, sometimes unkempt, often half conscious, always kind of suspicious that His grace is sure to catch me off guard again, I am exactly where He wants me. Nobody should ever deprive oneself of that chance. Bring them all, every time. It's His house, not ours. We're just fortunate enough to have been given the gift of knowing we're on the guest list. When we seriously consider it in relationship to our daily lives, we know he wants us to be the ones who give others the chance of learning that staggering fact for themselves.

Daily Bread

Is it even worth it?

I couldn't help but ask myself the question.

It was a Friday morning and I was sitting in my car, exhausted and frustrated after going to the 9:00 Mass with my two little companions.

It had been a gargantuan task to get all three of us ready on time.  Mary had found a toy that kept her quietly playing independently and it was all I could do to get her to leave her bedroom.  (Normally I would rejoice that she was playing, alone and content.)  In the end, I agreed to let her bring her tin pail and shovel to Mass.  Well, that turned out to be the wrong concession to make.  Tin pails make a lot of noise.

We sloshed through the cold and snow, across the parking lot and into church.  

Per usual, we arrived just before the Gospel.  So much for the first reading and Psalm...not that I can really give them my full attention anyway.

The remainder of the Mass was passed by simultaneously nursing Peter and holding Mary on my lap...not always successfully.  And cringing every time I heard Mary's tin pail clanking against the pew in an unacceptably loud manner.

No time for a thanksgiving after receiving Holy Communion, as Peter was absolutely spent and needed to take a nap NOW, indicated of course by loud wailing.  He would have nothing to do with the pacifier, so--beckoning Mary to follow me down the aisle, pail and shovel in hand--we made a hasty exit.  At least Mary and I genuflected on our way out of the pew.  Well, I think we did at least.

And thus I sat in the driver's seat, Mary clanking away with her pail and shovel, Peter crying.  We were going to a friend's house and of course I forgot the directions in my haste to get to Mass on time--an effort, as I explained, that was somewhat futile, since we were late anyway.  

So I started driving, hoping I would remember the way.  And I started praying.  

Lord, I think you really want us to be at Mass.  I'm really trying to make that happen.  But this is just so hard.  Should I really be doing it?  Is it even worth it?

My mind started ticking off all the reasons for not going.  Dragging the children out early in the morning--usually a very cold, sometimes snowy morning.  Asking too much of a toddler to sit through Mass every day.  Interrupting a potential nap for Peter.  Always arriving late.  Not being able to hear the readings.  Distracted so much I can barely pray.  No time to even make a thanksgiving after receiving the Eucharist.  Causing too much noise for other people at Mass.

Maybe, I started to ponder, it's just better to stay home and use my effort and energy to be more charitable and patient.  What good is Mass if it just makes me stressed and feels like a huge hurdle to jump through every day?

And then, in my mind, I felt an answer to my questions.  There were no words spoken, but instead I received an inspiration.

Jesus was happy that we were at Mass that morning.  Mary, Peter, and I being present at that Mass brought God great joy.

God wanted us there--clanking pail and all.  Let the children come to me.  Their noise is a joyful noise to Him.  In fact, in my heart, I could almost see an image of Christ smiling, from the altar, at us.

I realized that Mary and Peter were the only children at that Mass.  They are almost always the only children there.  

Going to Mass isn't about me and how it makes me feel.  Certainly, it is helpful and inspiring to have a peaceful, prayerful, contemplative Mass where you can truly enter into the mystery of the sacrifice.  It's great when you leave the church with warm, fuzzy feelings.  

Yet, I have to remind myself, Mass is primarily about God.  It's not mainly how I feel afterward or how well I can pray.  It's about what I am giving.  I'm giving God my time.  I am giving Him my physical presence.  My attendance at daily Mass is telling God, each day, You matter to me...I want to be with You...I want to worship You.  

In return, God gives me something of unsurpassable value: Himself.

My favorite college professor, a theologian, once related to our class how, if not for the Eucharist, he wouldn't bother going to daily Mass.  He could always read the daily Scripture passages on his own.  But it was the fact of the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist that brought him to Mass, every day. 

Jesus gives me Himself at Mass and the overflowing grace that accompanies that gift is not affected by my trying to nurse Peter or asking Mary for the tenth time to please be more quiet.  

As my job as a mother has become more challenging with two children, one of whom is a full-fledged toddler, I recognize that I need the Eucharist.  Daily.  As much as possible.  

Yes, of course, it's easier just to stay at home and keep the children in pajamas until 10 AM.  But, in truth, my job of parenting these children is harder when I'm spiritually operating on empty.  

A person trying to run a marathon cannot do so if he or she were to eat only once a week.  The individual's body would be too fatigued and exhausted to maintain the needed stamina and physical excursion demanded of such a task.  

Well, raising children with the goal of helping them reach heaven is much harder than any marathon.  I know that, for myself, the Eucharist just once a week doesn't cut it: my soul hungers for more.

As I pondered all of this, I reminded myself that, if God truly wants us to attend daily Mass, He will provide the grace to do so.  Then, suddenly, as though giving me a confirmation, Peter stopped crying and fell asleep.  Mary quietly and contentedly was looking out the car window.  And I found our friend's house without a single wrong turn or misdirection.

After discussing the topic with my very wise husband, I came to see there are ways I can make daily Mass more manageable.  We created a "Mass bag" for Mary with special books she can only look at during Mass (these books being, of course, on topics of the Faith).  Needless to say, the pail and shovel stay at home from now on.  I recognize that we need to get up a little earlier in the morning.  Five minutes can make a big difference!

And I pray.  This morning as I got out of bed, I prayed: "God, I want to make it to Mass.  But You're going to have to help me."

We got there.  Three minutes early.

Of course, there are days when we can't do it.  When we had some -12 degree mornings, I couldn't justify bringing out the children.  The same thing happened when we had colds.  One must use reason.  I also know that if I have another major commitment that morning (such as a doctor's appointment), it might be too much trying to squeeze in Mass as well.  Prudence is required.

No one is ever obligated to attend daily Mass.  Some weeks, we only make it a couple of days and, if we miss Mass, I simply make a spiritual communion instead.  But if we can make it to morning Mass, I try to go because, well, love isn't about obligations.

It has been seven years now since I began attending daily Mass.  When Mary was first born, I was tempted to stop and just go on Sunday when I had Chris there to help me.  With Chris's encouragement, however, I persevered and, in time, it became a great deal easier.  I hope that it will get easier in time with two children as well.

As we go out the door on our way to Mass, I tell Mary, "Hurry up!  We're going to go see Jesus!"  I know, in my heart, as challenging as it may be, this regular time at Mass is shaping and growing her faith, especially her faith in the Real Presence.

Because if Jesus really, truly is present in the Eucharist--body, blood, soul, and divinity--why wouldn't we try to do everything we can to be there to see Him and to receive Him, as often as possible?

Lessons from The Count

If you could magically possess any one of God's characteristics, which would you choose?

There are some heavy contenders: all-powerful, all-knowing, all-good, existing outside of time...

I would probably choose the one quality that is definitional when it comes to God, which is being able to love perfectly.  

But for Edmond Dantes, protagonist of Alexandre Dumas' classic The Count of Monte Cristo, it is God's justice he admires and, in facts, seeks to dispense.

"...I betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen from my tomb, by the grace of God, to punish...He sends me for that purpose, and here I am."

The Count of Monte Cristo was published serially from 1844-1846 and truly reads like the forerunner of today's soap operas.  Dumas weaves an intricate plot with many characters, who share surprising and intricate relationships with one another.  Within the pages of the book you'll find assassinations, extramarital affairs, political schemes, character disguises, suicide attempts, and even some secret treasure.

While taking the prize for being the longest book I have ever read (totaling some 1500 pages), it's simultaneously a fast read.  You can absolutely tell that Dumas wrote in installments: each chapter ends with a cliff-hanger, which makes it pretty much always a challenge to put the book down.

The book grapples mainly with the ideas of revenge, justice, mercy, and forgiveness.

At the exact moment that everything is going exceedingly well in his life, Edmond Dantes finds himself inexplicably thrown into prison.  He later learns that he has been betrayed by three men (one who envies Dantes' professional advancement, one who seeks Dantes' betrothed, and one who goes along with the plan due to his state of intoxication) and unjustly treated by the chief prosecutor, who uses Dantes as a scapegoat to preserve his own career and power.

After 14 longs years in a dark prison cell--kept alive by his friendship with another inmate, who shares with Dantes his vast wisdom & knowledge, including the details of secret treasure buried on the nearby island of Monte Cristo--Dantes is finally able to escape.  By hiding himself in the burial sack meant for another prisoner, Dantes leaves the prison and, as he is assumed for dead, is thrown into the sea.

This harrowing escape is Dantes' "baptism" from an innocent and joyful youth who assumes the best of others to a vindictive, determined man bent on executing God's justice upon his enemies.  This transformation is accompanied by a change of name, as the protagonist takes the new title of the "Count of Monte Cristo."  Monte Cristo is an island off the coast of Italy and the place where Dantes finds his treasure.  The word itself means "Mount of Christ."  Accordingly, ruling from the judgment seat of God, well-supplied by his extensive knowledge & vast wealth, the Count plots his revenge.

The Island of Monte Cristo

It takes ten years for the Count to arrange everything in his plan.  For, you see, it wasn't enough just to bring his enemies before the law.  No: the Count wanted to destroy them and all that they treasured, just as they had done to him.  

Thus, like a chess board, the Count diligently arranges each piece, setting up the pawns just so and, when everything is in place, he lets the game begin.  The Count manipulates events to position his enemies in circumstances of great temptation, which exposes their personal greed, dishonesty, and hypocrisy.  

Throughout, the Count displays almost a supernatural power. He seems able to predict the future.  No expense is beyond his budget.  His contacts are vast and numerous.  He even seems to possess a way to thwart death itself.  In short, he reads like Batman's precursor.

The Count is convinced that this power has been given to him for the good purpose of bringing about God's justice.  But "let any one who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall" (1 Cor. 10:12).  

"See...how God punishes the most thoughtless and unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes to their view.  I, who was looking on, an eager and curious spectator,--I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy,--I, who, like a wicked angel, was laughing at the evil men committed, protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and powerful), I am, in my turn, bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course I was watching, and bitten to the heart!"

What the Count comes to understand is that, while seemingly acting in the name of God, he really acts not as an angel of light, but as an angel of darkness.  Revenge becomes another enemy who threatens to destroy him: void of almost all loving emotion, he has become a driven man, bent on stripping his enemies of everything...even if such an undertaking involves sacrificing the innocent along the way.

That is the key question that drives the plot of the book: will the Count become victim again, this time to his own desire for vengeance?  Or will he realize that there is only one who can truly dispense justice...and when we seek to do so in His place, we can very easily become ourselves enemies of God?

Without providing the answer or explaining what ultimately happens to the Count's enemies, let me say that Dumas leaves his reader with two words: wait and hope.  

In the face of profound injustice, wait.  Wait because there will be retribution.  There will be inevitable, unavoidable punishment.

We have hanging in one of the rooms of our house an image of Michelangelo's Last Judgment.  It's a sobering reminder that Christ the King will "come again to judge the living and the dead" (Nicene Creed).  Some of souls will rise with the angels to the throng of victors surrounding Christ.  Others will be dragged into the fiery depths of hell.

And this is where the hope comes in.  Hope for ultimate justice?  Yes, but something more as well.  Hope for redemption, for conversion, for repentance.  

When one considers the punishment that awaits the soul that refuses to repent--eternal separation from God...from everything that is good and thus condemned to a state void of all love--can anyone in good conscience really wish this upon his enemy?

This is why, in fact, the Church teaches against capital punishment.  Yes, of course offenders must be justly punished and society protected from further evils from such an individual.  

However, as long as there are proper facilities to retain such an individual (which we do have here in our country), capital punishment must not occur, for the specific reason that it deprives a person of the opportunity to repent.  In killing the criminal, we kill the hope that the criminal will experience remorse here on earth and seek pardon from the ultimate Judge.

May you be spared suffering at the hands of an enemy, but if you find yourself in such a situation, may you resist the temptation to seek revenge.  

Forgive us our trespasses, as we have forgiven those who trespass against us.

Lessons from Pride and Prejudice

Why did I marry my husband?

To quickly clarify, I pose the above question not in a spirit of exasperation, questioning the very fact that he and I entered into matrimony in the first place.  Quite the contrary!  Every day provides me additional reasons to confirm and strengthen my conviction that he is exactly the man to whom I want and need to be married.

So, why the inquiry?

I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice, by the renowned Jane Austen.  I hesitate to even venture writing this post because 1) it frankly embarrasses me that it took me until this point to actually read such a world-renowned, classical novel and 2) considering the breadth of analysis, critique, and research compiled on this famous narrative, what I could add seems barely adequate: what in heaven's name can I contribute?

But in any case, here I am and I will go ahead and give my humble perspective!

A plot synopsis seems hardly necessary since the story is so well-known and, should you find yourself ignorant of it, well--I just urge you to find the nearest copy and begin reading!  Thus, I'll jump right into my reflections.

Clearly, marriage is the matter of the hour in Pride and Prejudice.  Who desires marriage?  Who has the best prospects?  What's the most advantageous marriage?  As Austen's famous opening line reads:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

For a single young woman, especially one without a male sibling and whose father's estate would pass to another relative, marriage was the safest and most secure means of ensuring that one's material needs were to be met.  Thus for the Bennett sisters, the possibility of not marrying meant a real possibility of one day living in destitution.  

Ironically, today we face the exact opposite dilemma: many couples find that marrying would actually be financially disadvantageous!  How times have changed!

Then: marriage was the focus, the goal, the most important decision a young woman could make.  Now: what does marriage mean to today's young women?

Today, marriage rates are dropping.  Women--when they do marry--do so at a later age.  Thankfully, today's females don't have to rely on marriage to pull them out of possible impoverishment.  They have education and careers & excel in their fields.  

But I do wonder...as much as young girls are encouraged and driven to build careers and move up professional ladders, is not the desire to marry still lying deep in their hearts?  

I can't, of course, speak on behalf of my female peers, but, from personal experience, I did desire to advance in my education and career & took concrete steps to do so.  Yet, there was an ever-present yearning much more deeply rooted within me.  Ever since I was a little girl, I would dream of my wedding day and entering into a new life with my husband.  It was the very thing I hoped and prayed for the most--degrees and a career couldn't hold a torch to marriage.  

It intrigues me whether this desire to marry is still foremost in the hearts of most of today's young women, even though, societally, it's not as clearly dominant and pervasive a concern as it was in 19th century England.  I'm sure a sociologist would be able to provide the statistics!

In any event, marriage was in the forefront for the characters in Pride and Prejudice.  But what was the motivation?  Economics played a part, of course, but not exclusively.  When Mr. Collins offered Elizabeth his hand and, accordingly, a stable, secure future, Elizabeth adamantly would have nothing to do with it and was unhappy to hear her close friend, Charlotte, agreed to become his wife.

She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen. 

In the myriad of relationships and marriages present in the novel, there are so many motivations at play: shame, passion, reason, pragmatism, love.  And depending on which factor was most dominate, one can safely presume to say which marriage would then enjoy the greatest degree of peacefulness, respect, and charity.

So I return again to my opening question: what was my motivation for marrying my husband?  I was obviously very much in love with him and was attracted to him--motivations of the heart.  

I also reasoned that he was intelligent, with a great education and quite capable--indications he would be a steady breadwinner for our future family.  Economics was definitely at play for me, just it was for the Bennet family.  I was wary of entering into marriage with someone who was burdened with massive debts and who additionally lacked a strong potential career (thus, for me, a scenario like debt from medical school could be rationalized, but debt without a promising career path would be a major obstacle).  

Marriage is about love and passion, yes, but it's also very sensible and pragmatic: it's about creating and raising a family together, which requires certain stability and financial security.

But more than any of these heart or head motivations was a spiritual motivation: the conviction that he, more than anyone else I had ever met, would help me become the person I am meant to be.  Beyond his physical or mental features, I was attracted to his soul and knew that he would be the best person to help me reach my ultimate destination, which is heaven.  I, for my part, wanted to do my very best to help him reach heaven, too.

When doing some research on this novel, I came across various reviews or comments from female readers concerning the book, which went along the lines of, "I wish I could meet my Mr. Darcy!"  Enter in swoons and romantic pining.  

But perhaps this isn't the best interpretation of the character.  While ultimately putting aside his pride and acting chivalrously & selflessly toward Elizabeth, the relationship between these two characters isn't a fairy-tale romance.  Mr. Darcy isn't Prince Charming; Elizabeth isn't a princess.  Love is present, clearly, but it's a love that chisels away at their respective faults--in other words, it's a love that makes them each better people.  It's a love that purifies, corrects, and grows slowly over time.  True love doesn't lead just to sunsets and roses...it leads to virtue.

She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her.  His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes.  It was a union that must have been to the advantage of both--by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance.

As Darcy says to Elizabeth,

As a child, I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper.  I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit...Such I was from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth!  What do I not owe you!  You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous.  By you I was properly humbled.

To care so much about the other person to desire to change and improve...to become more worthy of him or her: that's romantic!  Love, slowly and steadily, spurns the character growth of these two individuals and then--by removing their respective pride and prejudice--forms the foundation of respect and honesty on which they can build their marriage.

I have one final reflection to add concerning Pride and Prejudice, one which fans can become quite impassioned about!  My first introduction to P & P was the 1995 BBC television series, followed by the more recent movie version in 2005.  Only after watching both of those did I read the book.  And I regret that.

One of the most refreshing and powerful aspects of reading a fictional novel is the gift of imagination: to create in your mind the appearance of the characters, the scenery the author describes, the expression and tone of the dialogue.  In reading Pride and Prejudice, I couldn't help but see Keira Knightley's face when I envisioned Elizabeth!  Surely, she has a very pretty face, but it's not exactly as much fun as when you can imagine a character for yourself...

In general, I much prefer reading a book first.  The movie versions of Pride and Prejudice certainly colored the novel for me and understandably removed any element of surprise!

Simultaneously though, I don't recommend not watching the movie versions of Pride and Prejudice.  They're great!  While the BBC version is certainly more faithful to Austen's writing, I must admit that I prefer the 2005 movie adaptation.  The aesthetic dimension of the music (seriously, just listen to the soundtrack...so beautiful!) and the powerful shots of the natural scenery are incredibly moving.  

Since 19th century England is a bit removed from our time, it was indeed helpful and beautiful to actually see what a typical dance at one of the eventful balls would have been like, or to visualize the dresses or elaborate homes of the wealthy.  

But again, take my advice: read the book first!

Lessons from Quo Vadis

"Their glances locked for a while--the one mild and curious, the other venomous and bitter--and no one in that vast gathering of people or within Caesar's brilliant retinue realized that the two most powerful rulers of mankind were looking at each other just then.  Nor did it even occur to anyone that one of them would soon be gone, vanished into darkness like a gory nightmare, while the other, the old man in the worn gray cloak of slaves and wanderers, would seize possession of the city and the world and hold them forever." 

The world's current tragedies, conflicts, and the moral issues that plague our own society are large, sobering, and serious.  While this is indeed the case, it doesn't negate the fact that--as many problems plague our world today--history tells us that we have come a long way.

I think it is absolutely imperative for someone to truly know his or her history because, in learning about our past, we come to understand our present and shape our future.

Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz is a piece of outstanding historical fiction that takes place in Rome during the emperor Nero's reign, from approximately 54-68 AD.  Through incredible, seemingly eye-witness detail, Sienkiewicz's writing reminds one how dark, how truly dark, the world was before the Light came into it.

Living in a Christian civilization, there is so much that I at least take for granted.  Upon entering the world of the Roman empire under Nero's rule, suddenly everything was disturbingly different.  The violence, debauchery, lavishness, irrationality, baseness, and lust that characterize Nero's rule are unmatched to anything we might see here today in our nation.  

"Rome ruled mankind, but it was also its cesspool and its seeping ulcer.  It reeked of death and corpses.  Death's shadow lay over its decomposing life...All that passed for life in this capital of the earth seemed suddenly like some kind of mad processional for capering buffoons, a dance of mindless clowns, and a bloody orgy that had to end by its own excess." 

The darkness dimmed the Roman ideology, too.  The whole mindset and perspective of your average Roman was based on a foundation absolutely different from that of Christianity.  A quote from one of the main characters illustrates the dominate philosophy of pagan Rome:

"Fakery is in fashion.  The world lives by deceit and life is an illusion anyway, so what harm is there in cheating and being cheated?  The soul is also an illusion.  The only thing that counts is to be intelligent enough to distinguish between the illusions of pleasure and pain."

As the reader gradually comes to understand the basic characteristics of ancient Rome, one begins to comprehend what an absolutely foreign, unprecedented, and mind-boggling thing Christianity truly was at that time.

I remember wrestling with a hypothetical situation about a year ago.  I imagined myself before a vicious interrogator, who held our child hostage and threatened to end her life unless I rejected my faith.  What would I do, if I ever found myself in such a situation?    

A Christian woman martyred under Nero

Quo Vadis takes one among the very first Christian believers, Sts. Peter and Paul included.  The immensity of their task, the sheer daunting enormity of winning hearts and souls in such a dark lair of sin and evil is incredible.  And the consequences of their allegiance to Christ were deadly.

As I read, I couldn't help but think to myself: these are my brothers and sisters.  These people believe the same things that I believe today--the same Faith, the same Church.  And look...look at what they did!  And me: what am I doing?  

With astounding detail, Sienkiewicz relates the great burning of Rome, as if he had been standing there amongst the flames and devastation.  With the same vividness, he recounts Nero's ruthless and merciless punishment of the Christians, whom he blames for the destruction of the seat of the empire.

The Torches of Nero

Christians are devoured by wild animals obtained from all corners of the Roman world.  They are crucified.  They are set on flames as human torches, lighting up the streets of Rome.  Mothers and fathers clutch their children to their chests as they face imminent death.

"As if this were a signal, the pack hurled itself into the breech in dozens and tore into the Christians.  The gallery quieted down, stopped howling and watched the scene below with greater attention.  The quavering men's and women's voices still cried out their plaintive 'Pro Christo!  Pro Christo!' amid the snarls and growling, but the arena was now a heaving, tumbling mass of dogs and mutilated prey.  Blood stained the sand in streams.  The dogs fought each other for bits of human offal.  They tore bloody arms and legs out of each other's jaws.  The stench of blood and ordure filled the amphitheater.  The kneeling figures who were left soon vanished under the swarming mass."

I return to my hypothetical.  Would I have the same courage as these?  Would my gaze be on beyond this world?  Would I see, too, that life begins after death...that I don't exist for this world...that this death will bring about victory?  

I knew, years before I met my husband, that I would want our honeymoon to be in Rome.  It was always my dream to visit St. Peter's Basilica.  It worked out quite conveniently that my husband-to-be shared the same dream.  So, the day after our wedding, we took a plane to the eternal city.  

As I read Quo Vadis, I could picture so clearly the setting: the sunset that gilded all the buildings, the intense heat of a summer afternoon, the grandeur of it all.  

One of the greatest highlights of our honeymoon was a special tour we took of St. Peter's, which brought us below ground level to some ancient burial places that had been evacuated.  It was during this evacuation that the bones of St. Peter had been found--buried way below ground, exactly underneath where the main altar was later placed.  As the climax of the tour, we were able to see and pray before his bones.  Christ literally built His Church on the foundation that is the rock of St. Peter.

And it was none other than the blood of the martyrs--the blood that Caesar ordered shed to wipe-out the Christians--that was the seed of the Church.  

From simply a historical perspective, Quo Vadis is an incredible read.  Sienkiewicz meticulously researched the setting of his novel and it shows, from the proper names he uses to describe Roman culture to the geographical position of various places in the city.  To read his novel is truly to enter into the world of ancient Rome.  

On top of this is another motivation to pick up the book: enter into the greatest conversion that changed an empire and a world.  

Maybe, through this novel, you'll experience a deeper conversion yourself!

Lessons from Brideshead

"Do you know last year, when I thought I was going to have a child, I'd decided to have it brought up a Catholic?  I hadn't thought about religion before; I haven't since; but just at that time, when I was waiting for the birth, I thought, 'That's one thing I can give her.  It doesn't seem to have done me much good, but my child shall have it.'  It was odd, wanting to give something one had lost oneself." 

Have you ever reflected back upon your life and, in retrospect, observed that the events and choices you've made--especially the difficult circumstances and the poor choices--weave together to create a path, a journey you never really anticipated, but in the end landed you in a destination so much more wonderful and joyful than what you had originally planned?

That line you marked on your life map, following you through your childhood, adolescence, adulthood and beyond, is the almost always imperceptible line of grace.  

It's the mark of Divine Providence upon the canvas of your life.  

And, with the eyes of faith, it creates the most stunning image...especially considering it has been formed using the poor, broken, and frail tools of fallen humanity.

The classic English novel Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh is a novel that follows the Flyte family during the 1920's and into the time immediately preceding World War II.  It contains many characters, but the main protagonist is none other than Divine Providence and through the drama of their lives, it is grace that ultimately draws the characters.

~~~~~

The novel centers around Charles Ryder, an only child raised by a distant, widowed father.  Charles is a painter and an agnostic.  His life seems to truly begin when he commences his studies at Oxford and meets Sebastian Flyte, who hails from an extremely rich and very (somewhat dysfunctional) Catholic family.  

Through Sebastian and the friendship that they share, Charles first begins to understand love.  

"In the event, that Easter vacation formed a short stretch of level road in the precipitous descent of which Jasper warned me.  Descent or ascent?  It seems to me that I grew younger daily with each adult habit that I acquired.  I had lived a lonely childhood and a boyhood straitened by war and overshadowed by bereavement; to the hard bachelordom of English adolescence, the premature dignity and authority of the school system, I had added a sad and grim strain of my own.  Now, that summer term with Sebastian, it seemed as though I was being given a brief spell of what I had never known, a happy childhood, and though its toys were silk shirts and liquers and cigars and its naughtiness high in the catalogue of grave sins, there was something of nursery freshness about us that fell little short of the joy of innocence...I could tell him [Jasper, Charles's cousin], too, that to know and love one other human being is the root of all wisdom." (p. 45)

Sebastian, quite reluctantly, introduces Charles to the rest of his family: his pious and controlling mother (who is separated from his father), his distant older brother Brideshead, his ravishingly beautiful sister Julia, and Cordelia, the youngest child who is very zealous in her beliefs.

Charles stays at the grandiose Flyte estate, Brideshead, during holidays and breaks and gradually enters into the inner life of the family.  One of Waugh's greatest strengths in his novel, in my humble opinion, is the way in which he presents this family.  His characters are so very real.  Each one is broken, troubled, prodigal in one way or another.  In other words, they are just like all of us. 

And while it is clear that they are Catholic, it is simultaneously apparent that their faith is far from perfect.  In fact, it is--at times--a bit comical.  Consider, for instance, the following passage that begins with a conversation between Cordelia and Charles.

"D'you know, if you weren't an agnostic, I should ask you for five shillings to buy a black god-daughter?" 

"Nothing will surprise me about your religion."

"It's a new thing a missionary priest started last term.  You send five bob to some nuns in Africa and they christen a baby and name her after you.  I've got six black Cordelias already.  Isn't it lovely?"

When Brideshead and Sebastian returned, Cordelia was sent to bed.  Brideshead began again on our discussion.

"Of course, you are right really," he said.  "You take art as an means not as an end.  That is strict theology, but it's unusual to find an agnostic believing it."

"Cordelia has promised to pray for me," I said.

"She made a novena for her pig," said Sebastian.

"You know all this is very puzzling to me," I said.

"I think we're causing scandal," said Brideshead.  

~~~~~

Yes, they are not perfect and their faith is flawed--at times, almost nonexistent.  But grace is working through their lives, as inapparent as it might seem.  In a passage in which she relates a famous quote from G.K. Chesterton, Cordelia remarks to Charles,

"Anyhow, the family hasn't been very constant, have they?  There's him gone and Sebastian gone and Julia gone.  But God won't let them go for long, you know.  I wonder if you remember the story Mummy read us the evening Sebastian first got drunk...Father Brown said something like 'I caught him' (the thief) 'with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread.'" 

~~~~~
And a twitch upon the thread does indeed occur.  For Charles, it happens gradually, through an ascent in love.  Love was first awakened in his heart through a brotherly love for Sebastian.  But then that love gradually gave way to a deeper, stronger love: a romantic love for Julia.  

But these loves, while certainly good, are only reflections of the greatest good, the deepest and most powerful love: the love that is Love Itself.

This is my favorite passage from the novel and in it, Charles first begins to wonder if his feelings for Julia are a means, not an ends--that perhaps they are meant to beckon him onto something greater.

"It's frightening," Julia once said, "to think how completely you have forgotten Sebastian."

"He was the forerunner."

"That's what you said in the storm.  I've thought since: perhaps I am only a forerunner, too."

Perhaps, I thought, while her words still hung in the air between us like a wisp of tobacco smoke--a thought to fade and vanish like smoke without a trace--perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; a hill of many invisible crests; doors that open as in a dream to reveal only a further stretch of carpet and another door; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of a shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.

While the themes of faith and the activity of grace are present throughout the novel, Waugh presents Divine Providence as it typically is in our own lives: working quietly, unassumingly, gradually chiseling away here and there at the hard marble of our sinfulness, slowly and methodically operating through daily events, even through one's transgressions and lapses in judgment.  

In fact, Divine Providence works so imperceptibly in the book that, without the lens of faith, one might miss it altogether...in which case, reading the novel still would be no waste: it's a wonderful step back into a time very unfamiliar to us today, a period of decadence and lavishness that the wealthiest members of society enjoyed to the fullest.  

And that's the brilliancy of it: Waugh writes a book about faith, but unless one is really looking for it, you might not even realize his intention.  

There is no "Saint Paul" moment of conversion.  But the call to conversion is there and it is heard only faintly, as though an echo at first, and gradually the door of the heart is opened to the one who stands patiently knocking.

Waugh is a brilliant, poetic author in his choice of diction and the plot he weaves is engaging, humorous, and so very relatable in many ways.  The ending, by many standards, may not be considered "happily ever after."

But I suppose that all depends on one's understanding of happiness.