Abide with Me

I read Olive Kittredge in November and fell in love with Elizabeth Strout’s writing. Kathryn suggested that I read Abide with Me, claiming that it was even more beautiful. The book has been sitting in my stack for a while, and contributed no doubt to my having that hymn in my head in December.

And, wow. The book is, as promised, beautiful. It’s sitting here now on my desk next to me, a used copy with slightly beaten-up pages, and I keep looking at it, wondering at the marvels that can be contained in a slim volume of fiction. In many ways the book reminded me of Gilead. Maybe that comparison is obvious, since both describe in detail the inner lives of religious men, but I think it goes beyond that. Like Marilynne Robinson, Strout’s prose somehow manages to be straight forward and exquisite at the same time. She doesn’t tangle herself in wordy sentences, but her images rise off the page with the power of mirages: I can’t stop thinking about certain lines (“…by summer he seemed like a big tractor being driven by a teenage kid, slipping in and out of gear.”)

Abide with Me draws vivid parallels between the New England seasons of its small town setting and the internal landscapes of its main characters. We go from the splash of late-summer sun on a barn, to the heartbreaking blue of the autumn sky, to the barren, bitter spiderweb of bleak winter branches against a steel gray sky. The book is about nothing so much as it is about the transformative power of grief: the way that loss can change us. The main character, Reverend Tyler Caskey, moves from loss to numbness to powerful redemption. He navigates his relationships with his lost wife, his daughters, his mother, his housekeeper, and, perhaps above all, his committed and challenging congregation.

The book reminded me, actually, of Kelly Diels’ post yesterday about relationships. My favorite lines in her post:

We are all, fundamentally, mysteries to each other. Sometimes we are mysteries to ourselves.
But, I believe, we want to be known. To speak the same language as our loved ones. To be heard. Understood.

This confusion, the deep loneliness bred by the inscrutability of even those closest to us, animates Abide With Me. And when those intimates pass on, leaving us alone with our confusion and loneliness? Then we are left to parse these emotions, often blinding in their mute, dense power, all by ourselves. How to forgive someone when they can’t answer our questions? This is the challenge of Tyler’s life – and, by extension, of all of ours. How can we free someone from the prison of our expectation, of the snap judgments we form about them? Especially someone with as critical and larger-than-life presence as the minister of a congregation? It is not simple, Strout asserts, but it is critical: it is the only way to truly know and be known.

Abide With Me is a melancholy book, shot through with moments of brilliant joy and truth. Strout’s vision of the world is about forgiveness, and about how the inability to give those we love room to be fully themselves hurts us most of all. It is about wounded people struggling to look each other in the eye, and about moving to a new kind of joy once life has handed us great pain and disappointment. A set of lines in the last chapter say it better than I ever could, in Strout’s incomparable language:

Finally, George said, “No one, to my knowledge, has figured out the secret to love. We love imperfectly, Tyler. We all do… I suspect the most we can hope for, and it’s no small hope, is that we never give up, that we never stop giving ourselves permission to try to love and receive love.”


Get Lindsey's thoughts on mindful living and parenting in your inbox

7 Comments

  1. Posted January 5, 2010 at 8:17 am | Permalink

    a book about “wounded people struggling to look each other in the eye” and about moving “to a new kind of joy” . . . this book is now on my shopping list. (and i am a picky fiction reader.)

  2. Posted January 5, 2010 at 9:00 am | Permalink

    I am always grateful for your book recommendations. (As you know, Anne Lamott is a current favorite; Olive Kittredge is already in my carry-on for a trip next week.)

    I also adored Gilead and the exquisite simplicity and power of Marilynne Robinson’s writing. (Have you read Home, her equally worthy follow-up?)

    Abide with Me will have to be the next entry on my wish list.

  3. Posted January 5, 2010 at 9:38 am | Permalink

    Wasn’t it just lovely? I’m so glad you read it! I wish I loved Olive Kittredge as much. I have a thing about not liking “short stories,” as wonderful as Strout’s writing is. They depress me, generally. Divisidero is next in my queue! xoxo

  4. Posted January 5, 2010 at 10:59 am | Permalink

    Sounds like a beautiful book. Your review is amazing. I’m adding it to my Goodreads list!

  5. Posted January 5, 2010 at 11:04 am | Permalink

    Oh, dear, I have not been receiving the updates from your new blog! I have already missed so much.
    Well, I can tell you that I will be picking up this book as soon as I can get my hands on it (i.e. afford it).
    As for the quote, love is such an abstract term. It takes years and years to learn what love really is. I have learned love through bearing children. Something so miraculous, as giving life, inspires a new definition of love. One of sacrifice.

  6. Posted January 7, 2010 at 5:55 am | Permalink

    I will be adding Abide with Me to my list for book purchases, library borrows for next month. I have a growing pile here that I must get through first.

    So many parts of what you said spoke to me, particularly the quote that wholly jeanne started off her comments with. Thank you so much for this review!!

  7. Posted January 7, 2010 at 9:57 am | Permalink

    I loved Olive Kitteredge! I found it deeply sad in so many ways, but it also had moments of real beauty.

One Trackback

  1. By uberVU - social comments on January 5, 2010 at 8:03 pm

    Social comments and analytics for this post…

    This post was mentioned on Twitter by lemead: Abide With Me … letting in love: http://bit.ly/6VcDXe