The Tyranny of Books

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.

“You should try this Jamie Langston Turner novel.”

“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.