I'm in the midst of Marianne Robinson's excellent new novel, Home, which develops the Boughton family storyline from her former novel, Gilead. Robinson has the knack of rendering little scenes so unexpectedly poignant that tears frequently take me by surprise. An EKG of my heart would probably reveal frequent surges during my reading, as my spirit reacts to the truth of the language.
The story has me thinking, with mingled fondness and regret, of my past. Like Gilead, Hudsonville offered an insidiously tame backdrop for the forging of my character, ripe for the fostering of hypocrisy. My Christian upbringing resembled Glory's: allegorical; Right and Wrong so concrete that I barely recognized them when they encountered me on the street. As a result, I grew up divorcing my attitude from my actions, and seeing no harm in it. I used Submission as a barrier to relationships--my posture always giving ground while my inner self remained intact and inflexible. It's incredible how successfully a facade of mildness can safeguard an arrogant spirit from detection...even self-detection! They call that passive-aggression, and I still battle it daily. Hypocrisy and passive aggression. Mix in a cloud of self-deception, and my idyllic childhood unfolds. And none to blame but Human Nature.
It has me wondering what new realizations will emerge as these days fade into perspective. It has me clinging to Grace. It has me saying, with a weary Jack Boughton at his kitchen table, "I am so tired of myself."
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