To say that I am a reluctant traveler is something of an understatement. Not only do I prefer to be at home, I also prefer not to drive, although I am very happy to ride along and let someone else do the critical-thinking and the problem-solving necessary to operating a heavy piece of machinery.
Early in our marriage, my husband and I embarked on a road trip to visit my sister, who attended college seven hours north of our own college town. About halfway between Idaho State University and Carroll College, Jim decided he was rather tired of driving and would very much appreciate a break.
I understood his fatigue and that he deserved a break—I really did—unfortunately, he was driving his pickup truck, which was a manual transmission and had no power steering. He was convinced that he could teach me to drive the stick shift on the fly. I doubtfully slid behind the wheel, drove a handful of yards down the interstate…and panicked.
Exhausted and irritated that I could not master the concept of shifting gears, we pulled into Dillon, Montana in search of a gas station and a chance to stretch our legs. As luck would have it, I spotted a used bookstore called A Novel Place. A Novel Place! I was compelled to check it out. Luckily, my sainted and selfless husband conceded it was as good a place as any to walk around and regroup.
I have always been one of those people who is very happy to look around a bookstore and leave without making a purchase—I have plenty of books lining my walls and floors and any flat surface, after all. I like to breathe in the scent of the new paper and ink, and to see the book spines lined up and organized, and I had no intention of coming away with yet another book.
However.
A copy of A Wrinkle in Time caught my attention: I had read it a couple of times as a kid, understanding that it was important, but upon rereading never really grasping the story as well as I always expected to.
“Oh!” I exclaimed to Jim, “Have you ever read this?”
He shrugged and shook his head. He did not enjoy reading the way I did, and was rather uninterested in novels. He was, however, amused by my obsession with words and love of all things literary.
“Can I read it to you? Like in the car? There’s a lot of physics and math in it I don’t understand. Maybe you could explain it to me?”
Agreeable to try something that would help keep him awake—did I that mention the radio didn’t work?!—and we hopped back into the pickup. I read aloud the rest of the way, stopping to discuss tessellating and tesseracting, Camazotz and Aunt Beast: we were both completely captivated.
Thus began a habit of reading aloud to each other—until Jim discovered Audible a few years ago, and began consuming books at a dizzying pace. He loves listening to a novel aloud, first to enjoy the story, but second—and perhaps of equal importance—to fall asleep.
The key for his book consumption?
Replay.
He will listen to the same chapter of Dostoyevsky five or more times, partly to make sure he really understood who said what, and partly because he may have fallen asleep upon first reading—ahem, listening—and needs to go back.
This reading and rereading of a written work is actually pivotal to understanding.
Since high school, I have read Pride and Prejudice at least a dozen times in paper, and maybe another eight times via audiobook. Every. Single. Time, I giggle at a clever passage I hadn’t noticed before, or connect the dots about a family relationship I hadn’t previously caught. There are also so many truths that reveal themselves with each rereading, whether it is a commentary about basic human nature or cultural detail that previously went unnoticed.
The Church, in Her Wisdom, agrees: we see the evidence for the importance of rereading written stories and histories at Mass. Every three years, we cover the entire Bible—Old Testament and New Testament—just by listening to the Sunday lectionary readings.
This makes for a lifetime of rereading, relistening, and reunderstanding Biblical truths and historical events.
Sunday, November 27 is the first day of Advent and the beginning of the new liturgical year. It just so happens that the lectionary cycle is starting over, with Cycle A, bringing with it the yearly retelling of the Nativity, this year from Matthew’s perspective.
I am already thinking of the weary—and likely reluctant—traveler in the expectant Mary, riding a donkey toward Bethlehem, toward Motherhood, toward Africa, toward a life she couldn’t possibly have foreseen or expected; and thinking of a selfless Joseph, walking in faith and relying on guidance from a God he trusted. I am already interested in what Matthew’s perspective will illuminate for me.
What will you see in the retelling of the Nativity this year?
Comments