The Book Thief

Ian,

It is rumored that this was your favorite book. Indeed, you gifted a copy to Mom for Christmas - I think. I have known this fact for more than six years but could not bring myself to read the book. Honestly, I was afraid. Words, especially narratives, unveil a soul. After you were taken Home - I felt "unveiled" enough.

But I finished the book today - actually, I listened to the audiobook. The narration was vivid and engaging as Death tells this story through minimal prose. The text, yes the text, was very special. I can understand why this was your favorite book.

What draws one to this beautifully tragic story of Liesel Meminger, a young German girl in Nazi Germany? Why does the story linger on your soul as the smell of cigarette smoke or sweet flowers? Why does it leave you thinking and recounting events in your own life? I think it is because everyone experiences loss and everyone wants to live. A good life appears to be successfully lived, and lived deeply, in the midst of both experiences - not in avoidance. Tragedy and death will find us all - in some cases more than once.

Duden Dictionary definition: joy (n): not a good or uplifted feeling based on circumstances, situations, people or "happenings" - differentiating it from happiness - but a feeling that erupts and endures from deep delight in anticipation or acquisition of something or someone of lasting value.

I see so much of you in Rudy Steiner. Rudy is the perfect personification of an adolescent boy full of bluster, dreams, anger, and stretching, yet sensitive, caring and loving towards friends, family and strangers. You were barely out of adolescence when taken from us - imperfect, but beloved. So much you and Rudy shared - both had lives cut short, obvious potential lost, hopes left unfulfilled, love left not fully reciprocated, physical prowess betrayed. How do you watch someone like this be taken away so early?

"Rudy?" "Wake up Rudy!" and now, as the sky went on heating and showering ash, Liesel was holding Rudy Steiner's shirt by the front. "Rudy, please." The tears grappled with her face. Rudy, please, wake up, Goddamn it, wake up, I love you. Come on, Rudy, come on, Jesse Owens, don't you know I love you, wake up, wake up, wake up..." ... But the boy did not wake. In disbelief, Liesel buried her head into Rudy's chest...She did not say goodbye. She was incapable, and after a few more minutes at his side, she was able to tear herself from the ground. It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching and finding.

I remember grief this gripping, this unconsolable, mingling memory with hope, with regret, with loss. This is life. This is pain.

I see in the book of the greatness of parents, of love, of home. The depths of being accepted into a family, to be cherished, to be understood, to be allowed to "become," to have place - this is a home. Parents accept their children into a family - but there must be reciprocation by the children for a real home to be found. This is how you loved Mom, Danny, Caylea, family, friends. You found "home" everywhere you went for your love was offered and accepted. How do you grieve such a loss of such a loving one?

...from the minute I witnessed her face again, I could tell that this was who she loved most. Her expression stroked the man on his face. It followed one of the lines down his cheek...She removed the injured instrument [the accordion] and laid it next to Papa's body. "Here, Papa." ...Keep playing Papa...there was only a body now, on the ground, and Liesel lifted him up and hugged him. She wept over the shoulder of Hans Hubermann. Goodbye, Papa, you saved me. You taught me to read. No one can play like you. I'll never drink champagne. No one can play like you...The book thief wept till she was gently taken away.

So why do I blog?

Much like Death who narrates the book, I feel that I must tell a story. I must tell a story of one who loved me, who inspired me, who left too early. I do not want his story to be forgotten. I tell the stories so our family, his friends, so that I, do not forget. Like the Book Thief, I must write to remember; I must remember to live. I want to give voice to the past and breath out to the future. Hey, no one may ever read this or anything I write - but - it feels good to talk with you, Ian, and know that memories are preserved somewhere outside my brain.

Remembering gives life, but it also kills something in you - deep down. When the cuts go deep, words are powerful things. I understand a bit why Liesel ended her book with:

I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

Thank you Ian for introducing me to such a powerful story, such a self-revealing experience. It is good to grief for what is precious and what is lost. When I die, I want to do so as Papa, sitting up, erect and waiting to meet death with a light soul, emptied of self, given to others. You died this way - you went Home unafraid, complete and ready. Sounds a bit like Paul:

I know who I have believed and am convinced that he is able to guard what I have entrusted to him for that day...I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day - and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for His appearing. 2 Timothy

I miss you Ian more than ever. I long for His appearing. Thank you for sharing with me so much. Thank you for listening.

Love you "e"

Dad