Love without Inquiry

Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy. That is not our business and, in fact, it is nobody's business. What we are asked to do is to love, and this love itself will render both ourselves and our neighbors worthy if anything can. ~Thomas Merton (1915 - 1968)

I have a stack of yet-to-be-read Thomas Merton books beside my bed, but this quote has me inching my way closer to them. After the collection of to-be-reads on my nightstand. And on my Kindle. And in my purse. And on my shelves. And on the kitchen counter. 

Buying books is a major weakness. They call to me. From thrift stores, used book stores, other people's shelves, they tempt me. I usually find at least one that is going to change my life, and into the shopping cart or under the arm it goes.

Sometimes I know right off the bat I'm not going to read it, that I just like the look or feel or smell of it.

Sometimes I get very excited and read the first three chapters before misplacing it or losing interest or some new read comes along.

And sometimes I get all the way through.

But even if I don't turn one page, I never feel badly about buying a book.

I look at it this way: it's kind of like rescuing an orphaned cat; I know I can give it a good home, adore it, parcel off a comfy place for it to rest, and that will give us both a warm feeling.

Also, I consider books a very inexpensive decorating tool. What looks more interesting than a wall of books, a stack of books, a book in your hand? What empty shabby chic bird cage or glass urn full of white Christmas lights could ooze as much character and potential? Because, while I love antique furniture, and ironstone dishes, and porcelain tubs, and blue glass, and old lamps, and just about anything made of real wood, vintage books are fashioned of stuff that tells their tale, sometimes in more ways than the story itself.

For instance, when my children and nieces and nephews turn six, I try to gift a copy of Now We Are Six by A.A. Milne. When one daughter was turning six, I happened upon two copies, one in a mediocre antique store (you can find bookish surprises everywhere). In the inside cover was lettered the inscription, "Happy Birthday, Jack! Now you are six! With love from Mother and Daddy," dated 1936. So I know now that this book was purchased for Jack on his 6th birthday in 1936. Fun thing is, my nephew's name is Jack, so while he was yet a toddler, I tucked this book onto my writing desk shelf and, miracle of miracles, remembered to pull it out, add my own, "Happy Birthday, Jack!" inscription, and send it to him for his sixth birthday.

What really makes me break out in a sweat, though, is when someone loans me a book. I gave up on borrowing from the library long ago, because I'm pretty bad about returning things (remember that when you consider lending me your last copy of...well, just of anything). I enter into this kind of tug of war with myself. Accept the book and then just give it back a week later, unread? Accept the book and put it on my nightstand where it becomes lost in a pile of hopeful thinking? Accept the book and lose it forever?

If I had learned anything from my nature, I would simply tell the lender kindly, "No, thank you. Being given a book to borrow is kind of like an arranged marriage for me. My heart's simply not in it, and I'm afraid it won't get the attention it deserves. It will all end in tears, to be sure."

That's why I don't post a list of what I'm currently reading. It would be a huge list, and it would rarely change. I have a friend who talked me into joining GoodReads, and I'm ashamed every time I see her name pop into my inbox with a new update. She reads circles around me! Book after book after book, fiction, non-fiction. One or two a week! And as much as I'd like to say that I have a good excuse, I have children and a husband and a busy life, it has always been this way. Always will be. I don't need to know much about a book before I fall head-over-heels, even if it ends up disappointing me, or making me angry, or breaking my heart. 

Perhaps I should work harder on applying my love without inquiry to people as I do to books. It's what I've been commanded to do, right? Even those difficult people who chew me out, make me feel like poo, then drop out of my life or pretend like nothing ever happened? How hard would it be to tuck those relationships under my arm and bring them home, give them a nice, sturdy shelf on which to rest, and revisit them as I'm able, as I'm called to them? Maybe I need to crack some of the older ones, the neglected ones, open, see what kind of history they have, what stories and lessons are there to be shown to me, to marvel at their illustrations and dog-ear their pages with my attention, to make notes in their margins. Not to borrow those friendships to be returned another day, to be penalized for their loss, but to accept them for keeps, to treasure them and look at them as my life's best adornments, digesting every word, even if the endings are not how I would like them to be.

Perhaps then, through my loving and being loved, I would be rendered worthy.

And what a story that would be.