I first met Lucinda Miller Kinsinger when she joined us for a writers' dinner in 2013.
 |
| Lucinda is in the front row, on the right. |
Mostly, though, I was struck by Luci's honesty and courage. If you are Anabaptist, you know instinctively what sort of things you're expected to tell out loud and what you aren't. You know what happens when you say too much.
Doubts about God, shocking family stories, or mistrust of church leadership might be divulged to a close friend or family member, but not usually to others at church, the wider Mennonite culture, or "The World."
Luci chose to include a few such items in her book. They are not salacious or gratuitous, but meaningful parts of her story. I believe Anabaptist literature is made better by it.
I want to be part of a "faith and practice," as we say, that can handle an honest telling of someone's story. If we can't, then I believe the fault lies with the faith and practice, and not with the story or the teller.
Here's Lucinda speaking for herself:
When I was maybe thirteen or fourteen, I began the creation of an obliviously sentimental novel about the dashing and rebellious runaway slave, Onesimus. I never made it past the first few pages—of which all I can remember is the way his mother ran her fingers through his long black hair—and destroyed the evidence several years later.
When I was twenty-four, I wrote a YA novel
about a rebellious young man who rode a motorcycle and hated his Mennonite
upbringing. For this book, I attempted—though did not quite achieve—realism.
The book held promise, but deservedly remains unpublished.
Third time’s the charm, they say. When I was
thirty, I published a memoir called Anything
But Simple: My Life as a Mennonite. Seems I have a thing for rebellious
young men, because in the very first chapter, I featured the rebellious young
man who was my dad and the day I learned of his troubled past. (And who knows?
Maybe that’s where all the rebellious young men stories rooted: in my dad, whom
I admired.)
I WAS ELEVEN years old. Or
maybe I was nine or ten or twelve—I can’t be sure. What I am sure of is sitting
in the auditorium of the Sheldon Mennonite Church on one of our varnished
wooden pews—those pews I loved on sunny Sunday mornings when mellow sunrays
burnished them gold—and listening to words like punches, like Cain’s song that
grabbed your insides and twisted them double, coming from my dad’s lips.
My dad was a poet, you see,
who stood at the pulpit and moved us with his voice, stretched us up to our
tiptoes, down to our tears, who made us cringe sometimes—at least if you were
his daughter and concerned about what people would think— because he was so
very honest. He was smoother than the other preachers—more polished in his
manner and not likely to drop an “ain’t” or an “I seen” into his message—but he
said things the others wouldn’t say.
This Sunday he told us about
his past, and it was a past I had never imagined or guessed. I was not too far
beyond the age of believing things were always as they were. I even thought,
when I was very young, that Dad and Mom had been brother and sister when they
were children and then went ahead and got married. Because who could imagine
them apart?
Dad, I thought, would have
grown up loving Mom. He would have grown up handsome and godly and wise, just
as he was now—smarter than any other person in the world. And now he stood
trim, black suited, dark haired behind the pulpit, his forehead shining like
God himself, and told us that when he was seven he’d told his dad he wanted to
go to hell. Told us that when he was an adolescent he hated his Mennonite
parents and their Mennonite rules and vowed never to be a Mennonite himself...
Anything But Simple is not,
however, about the rebellious young man who was my dad, though the kind, quirky
preacher he became does play a significant part. It’s not really about being
Mennonite, either...or at least not in the cutesy way of Amish fiction or the
encyclopedic way of an informational book.
It’s about being
young, idealistic, and confused. It’s about doubting the big things—I mean the
really big things like the existence of God—and getting tripped up by small
things—I mean the embarrassingly small things like finding a bathroom in time.
It’s about a human who happens to be Mennonite...or should I say a Mennonite
who happens to be human?
It’s about
simplicity, or trying to be. I did a trailer about that once.
Dorcas, who is one
of my role models when it comes to writing, was kind enough to publish this
review on her blog. To thank her for that (and also because the last couple of
authors featured here held giveaways, and I wouldn’t want them to outdo me), I
also...ahem...am offering a giveaway.
Comment below to be included in the drawing. Please leave or link enough contact information so we can find you if you win. The giveaway closes at 9 am on Monday, April 27.
If you don’t happen
to be the winner, the book is available through the publisher, at Barnes and Noble, and on Amazon (where it’s currently discounted).
If you prefer an
autographed copy, you can order directly from me at Lucinda J. Kinsinger, 8018
Garrett Hwy, Oakland, MD 21550 (for cash
or check) or through my PayPal account (be sure to include your
shipping address). I offer it for $12.99 plus FREE shipping.
I blog over at lucindajkinsinger.com
and would love to have new visitors! Please stop by.
--
Giveaway is over. Winner is Anna L. Martin. Congratulations, Anna! Thanks to all who participated!
--
Giveaway is over. Winner is Anna L. Martin. Congratulations, Anna! Thanks to all who participated!
