Fiction has a unique way of illuminating truth for me, of turning on portions of the brain that otherwise sit idle, helping provide shape and substance for intangible ideas and emotions. This is a part of the reason I like to write, I suppose, and it certainly is a prime reason why I like to read. Stories are entertaining, of course, but every now and then I run across one that turns out to be more than that– something special. Out of the blue, I’ll be blindsided by a book that speaks to me in a unique way. Sometimes it’s a matter of chance (or Providence, depending on your perspective), as I stumble across the right book at the exact right time that provides the exact spur or encouragement I need for my current life situation. Every once in a while, though, I’ll read something that is broader in its scope– a book that feels like the author had a direct insight into my own life experiences, my own secret fears and hopes and longings and doubts– a book written uniquely with Josh Strnad in mind as a target audience. Jayber Crow, by Wendell Berry, which I just finished this morning, was such a bo0k.
As I sit here, still attempting to process the book and compose a coherent review, I’m not able to easily sum up what specifically this book meant to me. Certainly I related to the protagonist’s balance between faith and questioning, and especially his musings on issues such as the meaning of God’s “calling” t0 service (as well as his original inclinations toward and later disinterest in professional ministry). I identified with the small-town community the story centers around, and even the descriptions of the simple pleasures and small heartaches related to the main character’s bachelorhood. I loved the sense of time and place that the novel conveyed, the way it reveled in the richness and beauty of the world without shying away from its uglyness and sorrow, the way it showed the value of all people, the mild, blue-collar humor and the quiet, steady prose that flows easily and smoothly like the kentucky river or fine whisky from a bootlegger’s still. This is a book with a sort of music to it.
This description is, of course, inadequate, as any description can be. Since different books speak to different people in different ways, I can’t guarentee the same experience for you– but if you’re intrigued, you could do worse than pick up a copy. If you’re anything like me, it may just resonate with you as well.