I just emerged from the bathtub. I take baths when I am emotionally burdened and need some time to organize my thoughts. I usually feel some level of refreshed upon exiting the tub. Oh, my reason for entrance on this occasion, you ask? I felt emotionally alone.
I have recently picked up a new book in which to dive into during my moments of solitude. My current book, The Shack, was recommended to me by my father. Under the pretenses that my father described the book to me, and some feedback from close friends who have heard the author speak, I was under the self formed idea that The Shack was a piece of nonfiction. In fact, the writing is crafted so precisely that I only had one minute question to the validity of the piece of nonfiction as far in as page 56.
What initially drew me so far into the book was the raw emotion. Without spoiling the book for you, the story details the incidences surrounding a father following the disappearance of his youngest daughter, Missy. Having lost a younger brother and seeing the pain and challenges a loss of that magnitude has on a family, I identified very closely with the father, Mack, as William Paul Young so vividly depicts each thought and emotion that he experiences directly following Missy’s disappearance. There is one scene on the morning of the disappearance where Mack burns two fingers while trying to prepare a lavish campground breakfast for his three youngest children. The morning that my brother died, before I became aware of the accident, I was working in a restaurant and while carrying a bowl of soup out to a table, I tripped and spilled the soup, burning my finger in the process. I couldn’t believe that I was learning of someone’s story who experienced the same emotions, dealt with the same loss, even suffered from the same odd nuances of the day that I did. I envisioned myself, following the completion of the book, writing this man and sitting down over coffee pouring out and finding comfort in the similarities of each other’s triumphs over past struggles.
It was at that moment, overwhelmed by the companionship I had already established via readership and unacquainted stranger, I paused in my rash journey through the first 56 pages. I laid the book to rest on my leg, page kept while the cover of the book faced up. I was glancing over the reviews incorporated on the back cover and was a bit amused that country singing sensation, Wynonna Judd left a review. Then I jumped to the top comment on the back cover which was written by Michael W. Smith. The comment read something I’m sure featured nothing but praise and adoration over Young’s amazing ability at his craft, but I do not remember exactly what it said. All my eyes allowed me to focus on was the word “fiction”. I was startled to imagine I was so naïve to simply believe, without actually knowing, that this was a piece of nonfiction. I frantically flipped to the front hoping to find something to falsify Smith’s statement. Then I saw the words plain and clear: “A Novel ...”
I couldn’t believe what I read. Was I so foolish enough to believe that someone else in this world actually experienced the loss that I felt? I felt entirely alone. Yes, I cried. Yes, I drew a bath and spent an inordinately unneeded amount of time lying there wondering how I could have actually believed someone, somewhere felt what I felt.
Then I felt even more foolish as my mind went to my creator. I was lying in the bath tub, sobbing over a novel, sulking over the fact that I felt no one had ever felt the loss I felt, and my mind went to Jesus and my salvation. My heavenly father did not lose a bother in a tragic accident, He did not have a daughter unknowingly abducted, He knowingly sent his ONLY, PERFECT son to die for MY sins, my glaring, blatant imperfections. His selfless loss is by far greater than any I will ever know. I am not alone.
