A Letter of Grace: Part One

As promised, I've completed a part of a new piece of writing that I said I would post here. I'm going to be posting parts of the letter/story here as a serial of sorts. I've got the two first pages here, and will be posting the rest of the story, two pages at a time. Most of it is sitting here in rough draft - though as you will see this effort isn't exactly in finished form.

Enjoy Part One!

Click to enlarge.

Culture and Grief

I've been grieving for my culture this week for a couple of reasons.

1. I watched a profound film from 1976 called Network. It made me never want to watch television again. It's sad and unnerving to know that a film made 33 years ago speaks so well into today's television-crazed culture.

It's sad when a Jon & Kate plus 8 book is sold in our gospel book stores, and people buy it because they choose into that reality. What good news is this? What truth is this?

2. I saw something on Facebook that I never should have seen, and never ever want to see again. We've all seen dating relationships spark and then fizzle over Facebook, all with the changing of one's relationship status. This week, however, I witnessed the brokenness of a faltering marriage crumble, all in the public forum. My heart broke for both people involved, as it breaks when someone you love suffers. I wanted to delete my account and remove any and all connections with that damned internet-reality because of what it has done to our methods of interaction, communication, and reconciliation. A status update and a comment section have become our marriage counsellors. Mediated communication becomes our main course of communication. I myself have performed the same atrocities of beginning or ending a relationship via an email, rather than person to person.

And yet, despite this chorus of shattering clay pots that I have witnessed, I am meant to be a beacon of restoration, redemption, and renewal for my culture, and so I abide.

Some days are easier than others though.

Typewriting

I've been pounding away on my typewriter over the past couple of days. The back porch seems to be the best place to work thus far - save for the motion-sensor lights that don't sense my movement at the patio table, but I digress.

I'm thinking about posting a letter/story that reminds me of an Augustinian confession. I'm working on the rough draft right now, but once it starts coming together in a polished form I think I'm going to post parts of it on here for everyone's delight and enlightenment on my musings these days.

There's some Augustine. There's some Paul. There's some Dostoevsky.

There's some Toronto. There's some Gros Morne. There's some Napaneee.

There's some mysticism. There's some insight. There's a lot of reflection.

All on typewritten pages!

Keep checking back for more updates.

Finally, a word of congratulations goes out to my friend Andrew, who is a frequent visitor to thedavestonelimited. He became a new father recently! Way to go Andrew, Shary, and newcomer Logan!

Zosima

But the whole scene, which had turned so ugly, was stopped in a most unexpected manner. The elder suddenly rose from his place. Alyosha, who had almost completely lost his head from fear for him and for all of them, had just time enough to support his arm. The elder stepped towards Dmitri Fyodorovich and, having come close to him, knelt before him. Alyosha thought for a moment that he had fallen from weakness, but it was something else. Kneeling in front of Dmitri Fyodorovich, the elder bowed down at his feet with a full, distinct, conscious bow, and even touched the floor with his forehead. Alyosha was so amazed that he failed to support him as he got to his feet. A weak smile barely glimmered on his lips.

"Forgive me! Forgive me, all of you!" he said, bowing on all sides to his guests.

I shared this anecdote from Karamazov with a friend of mine the other day. He felt touched by the story of Zosima, who in the face of utter brokenness, humbled himself beyond reason, and shocked everyone. Zosima's heart broke for the ruin that was both present and laid in waiting for his guests. There are many times when I wish I could imitate his humility.

I seriously cannot explain how profound of an experience reading Dostoevsky has been this summer. So much of what he writes hits me on some deep level, and I feel like I either need to apply it, or it's already happening to me. This has only happened on a surface level with Fitzgerald's writings, and on a life changing level with the gospels. Fyodor falls closer to the latter.