Skip to main content

Book of the Week


I am very good at having favorites. Every week during storytime, I tell the kids: 'this is one of my favorites!' and then inwardly roll my eyes. They are all 'my favorites'. But there are a few that really are. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, for example. Or Lewis's Till We Have Faces. I could read these books twenty times over and still feel that they are new to me. Among my true favorites, there are few picture books. Not because I am a snob about chapters, but it's difficult for me to put picture books in the same category as chapter books to begin with - and then to compare them? It just seems awkward.
But let me tell you about The Rough-Faced Girl. If I can. The little blurb on the inside flap calls it a Cinderella story, and I suppose it is that. More than suppose - there's a girl who sits by the cinders, who is mocked by her two proud sisters, who is chosen by the 'prince' instead of them, who is rescued from penury and obscurity by his love. So it's a Cinderella story. It's also a reminder that the Cinderella story is universal precisely because it is the human story. When reading The Rough-Faced Girl, you know yourself to be the mocked and scarred daughter, lost among the ashes. And you know yourself to be the proud sisters, arrogantly assuming the love of the Invisible Being without ever having seen his face - never having sought it! But you know, and you hope. And hope is not an inclination or even a determination, but a faith. And so, again, you are the rough-faced girl.
Reading The Rough-Faced Girl is rather like reading the verses from the book of Hebrews that tell you to approach the throne of grace with confidence. Confidently vulnerable, having seen his face.
I was surprised, picking it up just now, to see that David Shannon did the illustrations. I just read How I Became a Pirate an hour ago for storytime (I love saying 'scurvy dog'), and I cannot imagine less-related images than Braid Beard's motley crew and the powerful illustrations of this Algonquin legend. Kudos, Mr. Shannon. Three cheers and a bottle of brandy. Anyway, read the book. And buy it. And give it to everyone for Christmas.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

window in the sub

Dear Nathaniel, I am microwaving pie that Mom bought up in Oak Glen this week on her way home from the orthodontist. As I put it in the microwave, I was full of sadness that I was not in Oak Glen with her. Why did I not go? I was working. I want to see the trees turn. I want to wander slowly through autumnal gift shops. Under the water, you cannot sense the approach of the seasons. Even here it is difficult because, after all, it's California. But I can still sense it. After three seasons in Illinois and one in Scotland, it must be with me for good. Or at least for a while. Because I am all abuzz with eagerness for fall and winter, for turkeys and dried leaves and Santa. I should start cooking again this fall. Fall foods are my favorite. Baked squash dripping with melted butter and brown sugar, pumpkin soup... this year, if I have enough money, I will put together a holiday dinner for my friends. And we will drink Scandinavian mulled wine, which is the most wonderful thing I have e...

Again in Gilead

I just finished reading this for the second time last week, thanks to the forever book group of Grace. It was equally as lovely the second time around, and while reading it, I wrote down a dozen more quotes from the incomparable Ames, who is both too beautiful a man to be real and too beautiful a man not to be real. (I'm grateful and amazed to know a few like him.) "It has been my experience that guilt can burst through the smallest breach and cover the landscape, and abide in it in pools and danknesses, just as native as water." (p.82) I have found this to be remarkably true. I see it in myself, and in many others as well. "I believe there are visions that come to us only in memory, in retrospect." (p.91) This seems to be about the only way I experience visions, but because memory is a rickety thing, I tend not to trust them much. Which makes me a poor prophet. "I know, too, that my own experience of the church has been, in many senses, shelte...

At the close of nine years

I'm moving to Texas in less than two months. I've lived in Long Beach now for nine years. Already I have stacks of books covering my dining room table that I'll be reading for my PhD program in the fall. I've quietly begun the tedious work of sorting and cleaning everything in my little apartment. I'm scheduling all of my last days with friends, moving through my calendar in reverse order from when I expect to slip into my car and drive away. This is the longest I've lived in one place, so I've never really experienced a leaving quite like this before. I remember the day I left Wheaton, closing the bedroom door on my best friend, walking down to Chaeli's car so she could drive me to the airport. (The greatest grace of Texas is that she will be there. Some friends we never lose completely.) I remember leaving California for Scotland—walking away from my mother in the Palm Springs airport. We leave people who have changed us, and we leave places that ha...