Endings: The Falls Church

     As a graduating senior, many chapters in my life are closing: my four years at Woodson High School, living with my family, attending Cornerstone. So in a way, saying goodbye to The Falls Church feels natural: the church that has been home as long as the house on Colt Lane.      The church holds countless memories for me; they collect like dust in the corners and on the mantles, residues of me proclaiming: I was here, I was here, I was here.
     Here I am in kindergarten, sitting in a plastic chair, a two year old on my lap, listening to my parents teach Sunday School. Here I am in first grade, cross-legged on the floor of the Fellowship Hall, giggling as I watch the daily puppet show of the summer day camp. Here I am in fourth grade, carrying my lunch box to the bins marked with each squad number, ready to start another day at Summer's Best Two Weeks Camp. Here I am in fifth grade, crouched in the library book return cart, suppressing giggles as I wait to startle passerby. Here I am in sixth grade, sitting on the hard floor of Southgate with only two other friends in Crossroads. Here I am in seventh grade, washing cars enthusiastically in the upper parking lot, singing and dancing to the music blasting over the speakers. Here I am in eighth grade, crouched around the tiny small group table made for the 4 year old classroom, talking with my small group leader and the three or four other girls.  Here I am in ninth grade, sitting in the back row of the sanctuary with my friends, taking notes and passing notes. Here I am in tenth grade, rushing into the sanctuary to the cue of harp music as the angel Gabriel, late for my scene. Here I am the Labor Day before my junior year began, speaking to the church about God's call on my life before a very difficult year began.
     Now, here I am my senior year, walking out of the brick building for the last time, turning back to look at the rounded, arching bricks just faintly lit by a tiny orange glow from the inside, barely penetrating into the blue darkness. The dusk falls on the church like a curtain, the quiet evening surrounds it, as I and other stragglers walk away from a service for the last time. Just hours ago, the church was brightly lit, filled to the brim with people rejoicing, singing, and looking forward to what God has for us next. Now, in the still night, the building stands still, resolute, unchanged, and yet no longer mine. I am sad, yes, a little. But I'm not leaving the church behind; I'm leaving the building.
     I played on the playground, both as a child and as a Sunday School assistant; I hid behind the potted plants in the very front of the sanctuary; I ate pizza in the modular, took pictures on the front lawn, had picnics in the shady area between the sanctuary and Nicholson, put on a Cornerstone Prom and transformed Nicholson Hall, stood in the darkness after Cornerstone with many friends, talking and laughing, cleaned Southgate during Fusion, had small group in the elevator, Prayer Chapel, library, and Treetop Room. I have lived in this building. And now, like so many other areas in my life, I am leaving this building for a period of uncertainty and change. But it's the natural way of life; we grow most in times of discomfort. And so I look forward to the growth to come, to the witness of The Falls Church Anglican, to relying wholly on God and not on familiarity for my spiritual growth. The time to come will be difficult, but it's an exciting beginning.

Game of Thrones

I don't normally read really intense fantasy series; I'm pretty mainstream: Eragon is about as deep into fantasy as I get. So when my freshman year English teacher (and good friend) approached me with Game of Thrones, by George R.R. Martin, and said: "You have to read this," I was skeptical. I'd heard about it, but it seemed really confusing and intense, something only people with a lot of time to obsess over something got into, and altogether odd. But in a lull between books, I found myself picking up The Game of Thrones.

As always, boy was I wrong about this series. All I can say without spoiling the plot is that the book revolves around a fantasy world, and the fight for the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms between several great houses and families: key players include the Starks and the Lannisters. The story is told through alternating viewpoints of several different characters. And that is literally all I can say, because once the reader has figured that out for themselves, everything changes, alliances shift constantly, people die, kings die, and families are separated in a whirlwind of plots.

But the brilliant thing is, though daunted originally by the sheer number of characters, I am now fluent in Game of Thrones-lingo. I know who each person is, who each house is loyal to, where a certain character is at a given time. I actually care about every single character and every single plotline, which is saying something when there are around 7 at any given time! Martin excels at keeping every plot balanced and switches back and forth deftly, like an organ player on the pedals to create a hymn. And even more intricate than the plot are the characters themselves.

The characters are what truly make Game of Thrones. I have been completely immersed in Martin's fantasy world as I haven't been since Harry Potter, and I think it's due in large part to the reality of the characters. Though the cast is larger than in Harry Potter, every character is superbly drawn and characterized easily. Most importantly, there is no "good" or "evil" character (entirely). There are characters (Jaime Lannister!) who are thought to be evil from one perspective and then from another are shown in a more positive light. Essentially every character makes life-threatening, stupid mistakes and has a moment of good shine through. It's what makes the characters realistic- there aren't any archetypes. Martin pretty swiftly eliminated my idea of archetypes in the first book, and since then has kept me on my toes, guessing who will die (too many! and the wrong ones!) and who will make it. But what makes me most certain of the reality of the characters is how I can discuss them with my friends who are reading this book like our other friends. I can deplore so-and-so's action and cheer on another person; I can be frustrated with so-and-so for doing something stupid and mourning another's death. I can slip easily into Martin's world because I know the people so well, and I care about what happens to them, unfortunately for me in some cases.

Though it is an easier read (though not short! around 900 pages!!), deep undercurrents run through the story about the nature of good and evil, and if a man can be successful by following the rules. Morals, some characters believe, will only get you killed- it is the evil who violate contracts who live and gain power. Martin doesn't have a definite answer on this yet, as the series hasn't ended, but I'd be intrigued to know what he thinks. The issue is questioned almost with every character's move, but never fully concluded. It leaves food for thought, though: which characters do I hate? Which do I root for? Will anyone I root for be successful if they also have morals and follow the rules?

I'd like to think that you can be successful by following the rules, though I have a feeling that this isn't possible in Martin's world. However, Martin's world is defined by an important assumption: that "success" means winning the throne, winning battles, winning power. In reality, material success isn't the only attainable success- there is the success of helping another, of raising your children right, of doing justice for others. The series isn't finished yet (and I haven't finished reading it), but I can only hope that Martin acknowledges the existence of a different type of success; that power bought at any price is not the only thing worth attaining.

Inheritance

Finishing Inheritance felt like finishing a marathon: I have been reading the Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini since elementary school. I actually went to the midnight release of one of the books: Eldest? Brisingr? I can't remember. Although actually, that's my problem with all of the books: I can't remember what happens in each of them, because the events and battles are so similar, they all blur together into one long, repetitive story. My friends and I used to joke that the series would never end, or by the time it did, we would have long lost interest. Yet, here I am, finishing the final book two weeks after it came out. I just had to. I had to finish out what I had started years ago. And I'm glad I did. To me, Inheritance rises above the previous volumes and their predictable plots to create what I now consider to be the best book of the series- until the last 100 pages.

Paolini originally intended the series to be a trilogy, but before Brisingr, the third book was released, he announced his intention to make it into a "cycle" of four books. He explained that he simply couldn't fit everything he needed to into a final third book. And thank goodness he didn't- Inheritance runs at 880 pages, Brisingr at 748. Too much.

But where the other books (especially Eldest) lagged, Inheritance keeps the plot snappy, with plenty of battles and interesting discoveries. It's due in part to the fact that the series is finishing, so things need to be revealed and wrapped up within the whole book. It's a welcome change from the dragging pace of the last books, and it definitely helped me to finish within a week of beginning.

Inheritance concludes the tale of Eragon and his dragon, Saphira, as they battle the evil emperor Gallbatorix with the rebel forces of the Varden, dwarves, and elves. Plenty happens in this book, and I can't really summarize without either giving things away or explaining the contents of the entire series to those who haven't read them. But suffice it to say the plot is everything a final book should be: epic and final.

I won't discuss specific plot points, though there were several sweet ones I would love to linger on. Instead, the thing that intrigued me most about this book was the ending. Gallbatorix is killed and the final battle ends with 100 pages left in the book; an unusual leftover amount. In the last 100 pages, Paolini attempts to show the "after" of the "happily ever after," something often left unexplained in many other fantasy novels. And he does a mixed job of it. Some of it feels unnecessary and boring, information the reader doesn't want to know. Other bits of it are interesting. But most striking is that these last 100 pages show that the focus of the novel was not on killing Gallbatorix, but rather on Eragon and Saphira. The decision they make in the last 100 pages about what to do with the rest of their lives as Rider and dragon is probably the best one, but I felt saddened and unsatisfied. It's not the ending everyone hoped for. It's not happy, it's not tragic, it's simply a different direction. I don't think the majority of the fan base is satisfied with the ending. Still, I give Paolini credit for attempting to be original in his conclusion of a series that has often been criticized as a knock-off Lord of the Rings.

I can remember feeling as though I had wasted my time at the end of Eldest, the second book in the series. But I'm glad that I stuck with these characters and the land of Alegaesia to the end, completing the cycle. It was an arduous journey, but in the end, a fun one.

Lola and the Boy Next Door

Ever since the surprise smash hit of Anna and the French Kiss, fans have eagerly been anticipating Stephanie Perkins' companion novel, Lola and the Boy Next Door. I know I have. Anna redefined the genre of chick-lit, leaving readers in love with the main characters and wanting more about them, reveling in the charm of exploring France while falling in love and meeting fabulous new friends. However, Lola falls flat of the sparkle of Anna.

It's not for lack of trying. In fact, Perkins seems to be trying too hard to make Lola unusual, unique, and standout. Lola comes from a family with two gay dads, dresses eccentrically in costume every day, has a druggie/alcoholic birth mom who lives on the street and drops by from time to time, and has a boyfriend, Max, who is 22, while Lola is only 17. As individual plots, these are intriguing. But thrown together, it overwhelms the characters. Could Lola possibly have any more unique things about her? It doesn't feel realistic, which is why Cricket and Lola's relationship is almost less adorable- because Lola isn't a character that many people relate to easily.

Although Anna and the French Kiss had a slightly flimsy premise, Perkins grounded the narrative through relationships: Anna and Etienne's friendship, Anna's growing friendships with her roommate and other groups of friends, Etienne and his parents. But Lola is isolated: her parents, her birthmom, her Nancy Drew-like best friend, even Max are all simple props in the narrative of Lola. Cricket Bell, the "Boy Next Door," cares for Lola, but I never really felt like I knew his character. Even now, thinking about how to describe him, I can't. There isn't anything really distinctive about him: he invents little gadgets and systems, and he has a twin sister Calliope. That's about it. Though technically, the book is about Lola and Cricket as they grow closer and eventually date, it in actuality showcases Lola more than anything. We know how Lola feels about Cricket, we know that Cricket feels the same way- so why is Lola still dating Max, and why doesn't Cricket say something? It's all very dramatic and doesn't need to be. Max is so clearly not the right guy for Lola- he's so much older, much sketchier, much more rebellious, not going anywhere. Lola's infatuation and naive belief that are meant to be together is so frustrating. Actually, Lola as a character is frustratingly less mature and more dramatic, which made it hard for me to like her.

Sadly, the characters from Anna and the French Kiss are the best part about Lola. Anna and Etienne work at the same movie theatre as Lola does, and Anna watches out for Lola through some of her more destructive decisions. The two of them ground Lola in her more dramatic moments. Reading that part felt like bumping into an old friend and instantly falling back into the grooves of your friendship. Familiar and relieving, Anna and Etienne's sweet relationship reassures the reader that their favorite characters are doing fine.

I know I sound very down on the book, and I sort of am. But that's only because I had such wonderful high expectations for the sequel to Anna and the French Kiss. Of course, I didn't think it would be equal to Anna, but I was expecting something slightly better. Held to the regular standards of chick lit, this was pretty good.

Perkins has a third planned- Isla and the Happily Ever After. Let's hope it fixes the slump.

In Loving Memories

Looking back, I can’t believe he let me do it. There we were, hundreds of feet in the air, and me, a little 5 year old, at the controls of his new airplane. I must have looked goofy, the big radio-headphones hanging over my ears and too big for my tiny face. I don’t remember how long the flight lasted or when it was decided that I should pilot the airplane. But I remember the steering wheel, just like my own Playskool car wheel, and gripping it without a sense of the powerful machine I was flying. And there, in the front seat, was my Grandpa laughing at his granddaughter the pilot, roaring as we climbed higher and higher.

Radio control finally brought us down. Grandpa loved to tell the story: “Uh, sir, do you know how fast you’re climbing right now?” He chucked over that line. And from that day on, he always joked about the day I flew a plane, all by myself.

The sky was gray and the wind was chilly, but we dragged out the old lawn chairs and table and sat around it. Mom, with her usual pep and camp-counselor creativity, had gone to Wal-Mart and bought a set of paints and paintbrushes and paper. “Judi, I don’t like to paint. I don’t want to,” Grandpa grumbled, and Grandma tutted, but in the end all five of us were sitting in the garage with cups of water and paints. I focused on the field of yellow flowers next door. Mom painted a sunset. Grandma painted from a picture taken in Belize of azure water and a single post with a sea-gull crowning it. And Grandpa? He painted a smiley face.

“Anna, look,” he said, grinning in anticipation of her amusement. She cackled with laughter.

“You can’t just paint that! Come on, Grandpa!”

“What?” He pretended to be shocked. “More? Oh, all right.”

There was silence a little bit longer as we painted. Then he said, “Absy, look.”

He turned his paper around to reveal the same large face with a tear running down its cheek and black lines running vertically across him. “He’s sad, because he’s in jail.”

I laughed at him, then pointed out the blank spaces on the paper. “What are you going to put there?”

He sighed in mock frustration, and again we painted, uninterrupted for a few minutes. The next interruption was the final one: “Look, everyone.” He had painted V’s for birds, added a third-grader sun, and was done. Grandpa was no artist, but he certainly was a comedian!

The Oregon coast was cloudy and cold, but the ocean made it beautiful. It was early in the morning, the sand was pasty from a previous rain, and we were all walking on the beach.

“Can we swim?” I asked eagerly, but Aunt Barb shook her head.

“Oh, no, honey, it’s way too cold to swim,” she said. So I had to be content with strolling along and looking at all the objects washed ashore from the turbulent tides. Grandpa appeared from the key-shaped hole in the cliff that led to Aunt Barb’s house, camera in hand. Grandma followed right behind him.

I wandered towards the shore where the waves rushed in, wishing it wasn’t so cold in July. Lost in thought and jet-lag, I wasn’t paying attention when a particularly big wave hurtled towards me. When the cold seawater rushed over my feet, I shrieked and jumped back in surprise. Upset, I heard a loud guffaw from behind me, and turned to find Grandpa, camera in hand, cracking up at the pose he had just caught me in. He beckoned me over to show the picture. “I call it, ‘Girl Surprised by Wave!’” he laughed. “You knew it was coming, and you didn’t tell me!” I accused him, laughing, and he laughed all the harder.

I settled into the unfamiliar drivers’ seat of Grandpa’s Cadillac, feeling extremely nervous. I had never driven before. Cars were dangerous. I had no idea how to drive! Grandpa slid into the passenger seat next to me, and looked at me solemnly. “Now, we’re going to go very slow here,” he said. “Speed kills. Speed is what causes accidents. Speed is dangerous. So we will not go fast. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, thinking, 10 miles per hour, that sounds right. Perfect speed. I moved to turn the key in the ignition.

“Go slow,” he repeated one last time, and then I started the car.

I inched the car out of the driveway, barely hitting above 5 miles an hour. As I turned and rolled out on to the road, I was driving 10 mph. “Well, faster than that!” Grandpa said, so I increased it to 15.

“Come on, Abs, faster!” he urged me, and I hit 20, gripping the steering wheel and feeling unnerved by my dangerous speed. We came to the crest of a hill and the car rolled downward, the needle approaching 35 before I could brake desperately. In my innocent, not-driver mind, this was like going 100 mph. When I had gotten the speed down to a manageable 15 again, Grandpa again urged me, "Faster, Abby, faster!"

"What happened to 'slow,' Grandpa?!" I finally exclaimed.

A few minutes later, we were driving along slowly when he asked me to turn left. Carefully, I turned right. "Your other left," he told me, chuckling, and I frowned.

"I don't really know my left from my right."

With a mischievous look, he held up his hands, left and right, in front of him, pointer fingers up and thumbs out to form an L. "Now, look," he said, pointing to his right hand. "The hand that makes an L has the thumb pointing that way" he traced it and pointed to the right, "so that way is left. See?" He took one look at my bewildered face and burst into laughter. "Gotcha!"

He was a good teacher, and he pushed me out of my comfort zone. He jumped at the chance to teach me, taking me driving almost every time I came to visit. He constantly was worried for my safety.

The phone would ring, and it would be Grandpa. I would sit down or settle in on my bed in anticipation of a lengthy conversation. He would tell me of his childhood, growing up in the Depression and the war, and of walking to school every day in bare feet. He would talk about schoolwork, and how important it was. He would ask about piano, about my grades, about my teachers and classes and writing and books. What I did was important to him- he encouraged me to do my best and celebrated all my achievements. Anything he thought would help me, he would give. And his encouragement and love throughout the years spurred me to do my best. It made me feel valued and loved. It was so important in my growth as a person. I miss him more than I can express, the Grandpa who loved me so much and so kindly, and the Grandpa I loved.

Summer Summary

I never got around to blogging about these, but here are the other books I read this summer with a "Mini Blog" about them:

What Happened To Goodbye, by Sarah Dessen

This is a really cute summer-y book (as all of Sarah Dessen's novels are) and an enjoyable, quick read. If you're looking for a chick flick in book form, this is a great option!

Innocent Traitor, by Alison Weir

I'm really interested in the Tudor family of England, and this is a novel about Lady Jane Grey, who was Queen of England for nine days at the age of 16. It's an incredibly well written book, bringing to life all the historical characters; it's well researched, and a fascinating story. As always with the Tudors, it feels like someone couldn't have made up a better story! Weir writes from multiple characters' points of view, which is extremely helpful in understanding the intricate power plays and motives at work behind putting the unwilling Lady Jane on the throne.

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind, by William Kamkwamba and Bryan Mealer

My whole high school had to read this book over the summer, which I think is really fun, especially since the books we've had to read have been really good so far. This book, chosen by our Science Department, is the true story of a boy, William Kamkwamba, growing up in Malawi who learns how to build a windmill to give electricity to his home, all without instruction and without having gone to high school. Not only is William's drive and invention an inspiring story, but the background he gives on what it's like to grow up in rural Malawi among poverty and famine.

Hannah Coulter, by Wendell Berry

Now this book, I could write a whole long blog post about, but it's one of those books that I feel like there's so much meaning to it, I could reread it every year and understand it better each time. It is told from the perspective of Hannah Coulter, an elderly woman looking back on her life and telling the story of her first husband, Virgil, killed in World War II, and her second husband, Nathan, and the life they built together. It's a sweet story that feels very real, not over dramatized (though the events could certainly be told dramatically). The most important difference between this book and so many other books about romantic relationships is that Hannah emphasizes the importance of people in love being rooted in their community: that their relationship is not only about the other person, but their families and people they have grown up with; they don't cut themselves off from everyone else. A beautiful book.

Wicked

I saw Wicked the musical for my birthday. For years, my friends have raved about this musical. I’ve heard “Defying Gravity” many, many times, heard of how great the music was and been warned of the twist at the end, alluded to slyly but always kept a secret for me; so I couldn’t wait to see it for myself.

It was incredible. Just incredible. Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West, was a powerful singer who blew me away. She stood out from all the rest with her incredible voice- almost better than Idina Menzel, the originator of the role (saying that is practically Broadway heresay!). The story itself was equally as good. It’s so cool to look at a favorite childhood story from a completely different angle, and to actually like the scary green witch from my worst childhood nightmares. Wicked tells of Elphaba’s whole life, from being born green in Munchkinland, to her days at Shiz Academy, where she rooms with Glinda (then Galinda) the Good Witch, to her eventual spiral into becoming the Wicked Witch of the West. I was completely fascinated by the friendship between Elphaba and Glinda, and I loved how cleverly everything was explained from the original Wizard of Oz, how favorite characters were woven into the story. I emerged from the theatre glowing with excitement, promptly borrowed the soundtrack from my friend, and stowed the book in my bag for beach reading: Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire.

I was expecting similar magical storytelling, interaction of the characters, and an even better and in depth look into Glinda and Elphaba's unlikely friendship. I wanted more behind-the-scenes secrets of the land of Oz. Instead, I got copious political commentary, ungraceful storytelling, and jaded characters, none of whom were likeable. The plot of Maguire's book barely resembles that of the musical, and to be honest, the musical plot is much easier to follow, relates more to The Wizard of Oz, and is more absolute. It was frustrating to know that there was such a wonderful potential for a story that was utterly ruined by the author's overriding political agenda and crude writing.

Wicked begins with an unnecessarily long section characterizing Elphaba's mother as a selfish, shallow girl and her father as a self-righteous and prejudiced missionary to the Munchkinlanders. Elphaba's birth seems a side-note to the vigorous ridicule of her father's religious beliefs and narrow-mindedness. After this painful section ends, we find Elphaba at Shiz Academy, meeting Galinda, who is shallow and preoccupied with her social status. Through a series of muddled events, Elphaba becomes involved in an experiment with her goat-teacher, Doctor Dillamond, that is never fully explained and yet referred to throughout the novel, while Galinda continues with her socialite lifestyle. Boq, a young Munchkinlander, falls in love with Galinda and enlists Elphaba's help in getting to know her, which eventually leads to Galinda and Elphaba's "friendship," though it never appears genuine. It is around this time that Nessarose, Elphaba's disabled younger sister, attends Shiz as well. Nessarose, like her father, is equally ridiculed as clinging blindly to her faith in a negative way. She's cranky and self-righteous. The adventures of Elphaba, Galinda, Boq, Fiyero (a handsome boy from the Vinkus lands), Nessarose, and others are documented, again at great length and without any seeming point except, at times, to be crude. Through even more complicated events, Elphaba meets the Wizard and then goes into reclusion for twenty years, supposedly involved in secret resistance.

Thus far, the musical and book match up enough, though the play thankfully simplifies things (for example, Elphaba's parents have only a couple measures in the opening). But after this, Elphaba has an affair with Fiyero, who suddenly crops up, and he is killed through her resistance work. She embarks on a long journey to visit Fiyero's family in the Vinkus, now with a child in tow. There she stays (mostly) until her death. Again, there are hundreds of pages wasted on uninteresting background, plots that seem to go nowhere, and that don't relate to the Wizard of Oz at all. At this point I was skimming through, wanting to get to the end. Which, thankfully, was what I had been looking for in the book: a neat tie-in to the original story, involving Dorothy and Toto. But certainly, slogging through the whole book was NOT worth that little tiny bit at the end.

The book was hindered by the author's political ideals, and relentless ridiculing of the Christian religion, thinly veiled as a different religion in the book. When a child's story so beloved as this one is simply used as the wheels for an author's opinions on the real world today, he is better off in journalism. Let us have our fairy-tales unsullied by an obnoxious narrator.