A New Friend

I am reading a book right now by Wendell Berry. It's called "Jayber Crow," and is the story of a barber (Mr. Crow) living in a coastal community called Port William. I hope Port William is somewhere in the Northwest, like Seattle or Portland, because that's how I picture it. Like many of the books on my shelf, the pages don't contain a whole lot of riveting plotline. I like growing with a character more than I like following a series of events.  When it comes to reading (and probably, life), I am most present with characters when I am privy to their thoughts, rather than partnered in their actions.  For me, good writing lifts people off the page, and I get attached and want to be friends with them.  I know that's kind of weird and impossible, but it's true. When I was in fourth grade, I used to tell my mom these things, and she would listen and nod her head for awhile, but then always ask me if I needed her to write a letter to the teacher to excuse me from reading these books. I'm not sure she got my point,  but I think she was just trying to help.

Anyways, I say all of this because I've decided, with 100 or so pages left in this book, that I'd really like to meet Jayber Crow. I have developed a deep affinity for this introverted, thoughtful barber. He grows up with limited attachments, bouncing from one relative's home to the next, but stands firmly on the vision of "making something of himself." In the first part of the novel, he routinely uses this phrase, enough so I think it soothes him because it is a pretty idea to cling to.  At first, this "making something of himself" means ministry, and the pending "call" or (lack thereof) keeps him awake at night-- wide-eyed, frightened and far too alert. Once he finds Port William and truly lives into the richness of this place and these people, he finally, (finally!) feels at home and quits trying so hard. He breathes.  

Around this home-coming, Jayber also becomes quite content to fade into the background-- a far cry from the lofty ideals he once held for himself. He does, what we might call, basic, if not perfunctory jobs: he is a barber, a grave-digger, and a church custodian.  He cuts hair, buries people, and cleans up after they worship. In these things, he finds peace and rest.  He experiences the things that matter in this world-- love and grief and joy balled up in the same moment. It seems that he lives by a few basic rules, and trusts that the rest might follow; 1) He shows up 2) He pays attention 3) He listens well.  In this, he says: "And yet all the good I know is in this, that a man might so love this world that it would break his heart." 

I read this line and first thought of John 3:16- the sacrificial Godly love that moves me to be who I am.  It's something I think about every day, and try to believe it (some days more than others), act on it (again, some days more than others) and in my own way, share with others. Sometimes I think I'm doing a good job, sometimes I think I'm missing the mark.  The latter more than the former.  But when I read Jayber's humble epiphany on page 254, I really believed him. I really believed that he was so loving and so gracious to the people he serves, to the community he has found himself in and to the seemingly ordinary gifts he has been given. I really believed that giving and grieving, for Jayber, go hand in hand, and it is altogether joyful. 

I think I am scared to death of finding that balance. Jayber doesn't seem to be. 

So, I'd like to meet him.