A bookstory

Many things in this world tell tales. You know the old phrase, “if these walls could talk....” In my house, that which tells the most stories is my library. Today, I began to pick up a few books and put my name into them. This has been floating around in my head for some time now—am I really so bold as to put my name into those sacred covers? Or, how can I actually claim ownership of this book? Shouldn't it belong to anyone who wants to glean from its wisdom? Heck, how can I claim ownership over anything?? All these questions remain, but I decided that it was time my books had my mark in them, if for no other reason than that someday, when I've gone on or had a conversion experience and sold everything that I own, another eager reader will be able to inscribe her name into the book just below mine, as I did with a few of my books this morning.

But I digress. In the process of writing my name into said books, memories flooded back into me. The books became, for me, a journal of sorts, a recollection of events and places both exotic and mundane, but all extraordinary to my young mind. My books, then, tell a bit of my history. Some tell of grueling, but worthwhile research projects (Peace is Our Calling, by an Erie Benedictine sister), or of classes that have thrown my mind wholly out of proportion (Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation, Consuming Religion, Recovering the Scandal of the Cross). Others tell of books that I've discussed with friends (The Hauerwas Reader). Many simply tell of marvelous literary journeys (The Once and Future King), or of characters and times that have wrenched my heart and made me fall in love with humanity again (A Tale of Two Cities, Crossing to Safety). One book in particular is memorable to me as the book a friend and I both cried over (Hannah Coulter).

Many of my treasures have come from used book sales. One came from a library sale in Indiana on a trip visiting friends (The Franciscan Calling), and just about all the rest of my used copies have come from my favorite library, Murray. Some of them are simply treasures of Christian classics that merit space on any bookshelf (Confessions), and others are small, beaten, but beautiful volumes that have pushed saints and sinners alike for centuries (Imitation of Christ). One that I have yet to get through, but that tells the story of a tradition I now call a home, always elicits a smile and feelings of gratitude for what that tradition has taught me and continues to teach (Becoming Anabaptist). A favorite author's book reminds me of the time I was just quicker than another friend at grabbing it off the sale shelf (The Prophetic Imagination, Brueggemann). One book is another friend's favorite, a classic that I just couldn't pass up (Markings).

Some of my books, however, look to the future. I can't wait to delve into the many pages of Russian literature on my shelf (I don't actually have many books, but, by virtue of being Russian, they're long ones). A few books on my shelf have been read before, but I know I have so much more to learn from them (Mere Discipleship, Siddhartha). There is also one Book that has been calling me back for some time, inviting me to read Her and discover just how much subversion the Divine wanted humanity to see.

As I inscribed my name into my books this morning, I was awed, amused, overwhelmed, overjoyed, and overcome by a whole host of other emotions. I only put my name into a few, by comparison to the number on my bookshelf (which actually, by comparison to my roommate's, is quite modest). But I felt I'd stamped on enough holy ground for the day when I looked over at the few books sitting on my dresser, the ones that I cherish (or just use) enough to set apart from the rest.

My eyes fell on a book that has taught me more than most any other, a book that constantly calls me to love my community and embody a slower way of life, a life that leaves room for living the questions we all must ask. I must say that I approached with some trepidation, not feeling honorable enough to put my name into so great of a book, yet also remembering that the same book mocks such unreachable honor and calls us all to mark our places in life.

And so, with such constant paradoxes besieging me, I most fittingly put my name into Jayber Crow, just beneath a note I had written to myself four years ago before I'd ever started reading Berry. It said, simply, “watch for the understated.” It's fitting wisdom for reading Berry, but I daresay I'd do well to mind it more frequently in much of life.