religion

The Bookworms

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“Think not of the books you’ve bought as a ‘to be read’ pile. Instead, think of your bookcase as a wine cellar. You collect books to be read at the right time, the right place, and the right mood.”

– Luc van Donkersgoed

Years ago, one of my relatives indicated the piles of books in his house and told me “Booksellers love Jews, because Jews buy books. Why? Because we’re always the ones that have to remember.” It could also be that we’re historically not that great at sports and needed something to do on the playground.

Photo by Rafael Cosquiere
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The Sabbath Day

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What smells do you associate with holiness?

If not “holiness,” then let’s call it “sanctity.” “Austerity” could also work, I think. Whatever word you want to use, it’s the idea of being in a very large place where a lot of people do a lot of generally serious things in the name of something arguably intangible, and it has a unique smell. The government buildings I have been in don’t have that kind of smell (“why” is something others can argue), but synagogues, the right kind of churches, and museums definitely do.

Somewhere a while back, I read that the reason people love the smell of “old books” is because lignen- the fibrous matter in plants and trees that paper is made of- has compounds that decompose over time into a yellowish color and is related to vanillin, the compound that (you may have guessed) gives vanilla its smell and flavor. Synagogues and churches inevitably have a LOT of old books in them unless they are brand new. Hymnals, prayer books, and holy texts to service a whole congregation don’t come cheap, and there aren’t “new editions” of ancient vows and praise that require refreshing the stock. The same prayer books (ideally) serve generations. The next time you walk into a place of worship, it might be interesting to wonder who held your hymnal before you. What were they going through? What were they thinking, if anything? What did they pray for if they could? Were they praying for you?

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Let The Rain Fall

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Someone told me long ago
There’s a calm before the storm
I know, it’s been comin’ for some time
When it’s over, so they say
It’ll rain a sunny day
I know, shinin’ down like water
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?
Comin’ down on a sunny day

– Creedence Clearwater Revival, “Have You Ever Seen The Rain”

The back deck of Belmont Station on Stark is almost uncomfortably warm. They have the heaters on, and it’s nearly empty except for a young man flipping through his phone, an older man talking to the Lord, and me. I’d probably be more comfortable without my sweater on, but I don’t want to look after something else or give my neuroses one more thing to check the seat for when I eventually leave.

It’s the light, on-and-off rain that Portland knows so well tapping on the windows and skylights, and I wonder if their sealing heat was part of the calculus that called for the (not cheap to run) electric heaters. Any notion of “spring” out here is only confirmed or denied by plant life and we all know that they just go on instinct. A sweater and a denim cloak in May? That’s about right. “Putting away heavy clothes” is something other places do.

The beers are dark and good, short 4-ounce pours so I can try a few without breaking the bank. Belmont always has an interesting selection, and it’s rare I do the same beer over and over again in a sitting.

Let it pour. The beer, the rain, the words, the times- let it all pour.

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On The Side of the Angels

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It’s a day off, and I’m out walking. An early morning stroll up and down Mount Tabor wasn’t enough when it was nice and cool. Instead, I convinced myself that the best way to get around on an 81 degree day would be to walk down Belmont and Hawthorne, stop for lunch somewhere, and then camp out in a comfortable (ideally air-conditioned) bar to write in while I wait for an appointment.

The Kara-age Don from the new Japanese place was very good- strips of lightly fried but heavily spiced chicken thigh atop a bowl of pillowy and acidic sushi rice was at once refreshing and cripplingly filling, even with an ice-cold Sapporo beer to wash it down. Stepping back out into the sun, my legs felt like sacks of lead. I didn’t want to walk anymore as much as a nap… but that wouldn’t do.

An ice-pop and a shady conversion with an old friend got me more-or-less to my destination- the taproom of a brewery near my appointment with good beer, giant fans (and giant windows. No air-conditioning a space THIS big), and a chilly marble-veneered bar to rest my arms on as I type.

Today is good. I’m walking in the sun, drinking beer, thinking about food, and seeing God. What more could you ask for?

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My Quiet And Crusty Ministry

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Thanksgiving in an American pie shop can best be described as the World Cup and the Super Bowl rolled up together- then stretched out over 21 days. Christmas, remarkably, tends to be less busy, but only slightly. I had to let my writing work slide for a couple weeks there because all my energy was being spent in the shop- physically, mentally, and emotionally.

The experience is always a trying one- I’m not complaining about that. My team and I handled it well, pulling off over 2000 pies in about a week. What it can mean, however, is exhaustion leading to strained nerves and losing sight of why the work we do is important. Not just to the world at large, but to ourselves personally.

You can’t blame a guy for not seeing the glory in the 500th pumpkin pie he’s made in a week, after all.

It’s almost providential then that, just before Thanksgiving, I rediscovered an important insight: “I chose this. I chose baking. I chose love. This is my calling.” Not many of us can say we work at our calling… but how many can also say their day job is their spiritual practice?

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