Last summer, my friend Stephanie emailed me an article entitled "The Tyranny of Books." It was a fun article about a couple wrestling with their book collection. I sure could relate. Just for fun, I decided to make my own rendition of the quandary.
The
living room is a disaster. Books are scattered on the floor, sliding
off the couch, and stacked on the table. Why can't the children put
away books when they are finished with them? Something must be done
about this mess.
I
gather an armload of books to place back on the shelf. The books are
double stacked and squeezed so tightly that it takes two hands to
push the books together to add another volume. No wonder the
children have trouble returning the books to their shelves.
“What
should we get Mom for Mother's Day?” asked my husband in a
conversation with our children that he related to me later.
“Mom
needs more bookshelves,” was our ten-year-olds quick reply.
It
had begun innocently – a few books received as gifts. At each
birthday in my childhood I received a hard-cover Little House book
until the set was complete.
In
my teens I discovered used book sales—a reader's paradise of tables
lined with musty volumes. I dug through boxes and flipped open pages
until a cover peered out with puppy-dog eyes. “Please pick me. Read
me. Love me.” Exchanging a few dollars for a box of books, I walked
away as wealthy as a queen.
I
towed my books into marriage, meeting another book lover at the
altar. For a few years there was enough unread books on our shelves
to keep us both busy reading.
Then
one day a pink-wrapped bundle entered our home. With her came a crib,
stroller, high chair, and a flood of books. Now I stalked the
children's section of the used book sales. I looked for old books in
which girls still wore dresses and wholesome family values reigned.
The children and I curled up on the couch with a stack of books and
read until I was hoarse. I could quote Make
Way for Ducklings in my
sleep and wore out copies for Cars
and Trucks and Things that Go, but
I
loved story time with my children.
As years past, The Story of
Ping and picture books
changed to Treasures of the
Snow and other chapter
books. My children learned that I was a sucker for “just one more
chapter.” We traveled around the world and through history blinking
back tears and sharing laughter.
A few years later it exploded. Our choice to homeschool was the Big Bang which laid
down layers of history, science, and art books. Biographies,
historical fiction, textbooks, and nature guides emerged to trip
anyone who dared walk to the bathroom at night without turning on the
light.
Now
I had help spotting treasures at used book sales and there were more
birthdays where books were the perfect gift. Our living room sprouted
bookshelves until it looked like a library. We added book shelves to
the children's rooms. We hauled our least favorite books to the
attic. And still there wasn't enough space.
I
decided to get tough. Ruthless. A quick count found well over two
thousand books on our shelves. Surely we couldn't be reading all
those books. I would purge out the unneeded volumes and regain
control of our collection.
I
attacked a shelf of older books. A layer of dusk proved their lack of
use. I flipped open the flyleaf and found my name—my maiden name. I
had been married a dozen years; these books belonged to me even
longer and were still unread. This would be easy. Find every unread
book with my maiden name and discard it. If I hadn't read the book in
a dozen years I probably wasn't going to read it ever.
Of course, I wasn't going to burn the books, just add them to our local used book sale and bless some other book lover. Or maybe trade it on Paperback Swap for - um - more books.
Ed
noticed my discard stack and I told him my plan. Ed pulled off the top book, E.M.
Bounds' The Power of Prayer.
“But
this is a good book.” he said. “I might want to read it
sometime.”
This
was not going to be easy.
I
moved on to the classic's shelf. Maybe I'd find some duplicate
volumes. I did. But my daughter likes this Heidi
with great illustrations but this other Heidi
has nice old binding. I often stack it with an old copy of Little
Woman on the fireplace
mantle just for decoration.
How
about the shelf of biographies? I pull out a volume and am swept back
to the time. The selfless missionary life of John Paton on a South
Seas island had stirred me to personal surrender. These books held
the memory of a the stretching of a soul. Discarding them would be
rejecting their message, ignoring my history, and betraying a friend.
And
I thought this would be easy?
During
my book sorting I put books aside to share. Some books were too good
to keep to myself. I pushed them into hands.
“Have
you read this book by Elisabeth Elliot?”
“Do
you like history? Read this one by David McCullough.”
“What
are you reading?” I asked most guests to our home. Maybe they would
give me a new title to add to my to-read list. Or maybe they could
carry away a few of my treasured friends. On loan, of course. Nothing
permanent.
Sharing
books became a new addiction. I began picking up extra books, books I
already owned, just to share. Sharing a well-loved book was as good
as enjoying it myself.
Books are companions. Books inspire. Books give counsel and information. Books can also be a tyrant when out of control. Or should I
say, when in control. Should I admit that when caught in the grips of
a book, I can sometimes forget everything else—even my duties? And
who wants to be enslaved by wood fiber?
Entangled in the tentacles of a
book, I can ignore life. My mom could tell you how hard it was to get
work out of me when I had a new book. And now my daughter is giving
me the same experience from the mother's perspective.
With
self discipline I choose (most days) to get my work done before
sitting down to enjoy another chapter. With maturity I learned how to
enjoy reading before bed with an eye on the clock to slam the book
covers before the hour was too late. At my husband's request I occasionally even
laid down my book while traveling to enjoy the scenery and
conversation. Sometimes it irks me to waste such valuable reading
time but he was right—I couldn't see many mountains if my eyes are
on the page.
Books
can point my thoughts toward God but even a good book can also steal
time away from the truly important. Jesus said that only “one thing is needful”—time spent with Him. (Luke 10:42)
A
wise man said that “of making many books there is no end.”
(Ecclesiastes 12:12) I need to make peace with the fact that I won't
own or read every good book. It was Jesus of whom it was said that if
all His deeds were written down “even the world itself could not
contain the books that should be written.” (John 21:25) But the
Word I have in my hands records enough to keep me busy reading for the
remainder of my days.
Some
day God's record books will be opened and we will be “judged out of
those things which were written in the books, according to their
works” (Revelation 20:12). I'm guessing that includes my choice of
reading material.
I
may somehow, some day find a way to whittle down my book
collection—until then, I will attempt to put His Book on the top of
the stack.
