Fiction

I finished the Rivers book--not last night (like I wanted to), but just a few hours ago. It was very good: two stories weaved into one book about anger, bitterness, and forgiveness. It was not my favorite of hers, but still enchanting. "The Scarlet Thread," it is called.

Sometimes I can't decide if it is a blessing or a curse to get pulled into books the way I do. My Mom and sister used to complain that I never listened to them while I had a book in my hand--and it's completely true. We could be in the car and they would be talking to me, but I would have no idea because I was with Nancy Drew, wandering down a dark staircase, eager to find out what lay just beyond the flashlight beam. I was in another world, and not even the sound of my name could pull me out.

Today I'm not much better. And when it comes to well written fiction, I can boarder on obsessed until I'm finished reading. I guess that is one of the reasons I wish I could write fiction. It is an experience unlike any other to become part of a story that is not your own. You learn from the character's mistakes, and you grow with them. Their pain is yours, though it can be quite a journey.

In real life, each individual has their own story to tell, and it is constantly changing. My story 6 months ago would have been much different than my story today. We learn and grow. We develop new perspectives and ideas. Though growth is good, it can be alarming at how quickly things change. In one second someone's world can fall apart. Life is so fragile.

Only my God never changes. Certainly, the way I see Him and the amount I know Him have changed, but God never does. He is immutable. And I am so glad.