Only two chapters in, and I was already crying. “You're sentimental,” my self says to me.
“I am not,” I protest. “Not sentimental, just—”
“Well?”
“Just. . .”
“Yes?”
“I'm not, really, I'm not. It's just that it's so beautiful.”
“Ha! I told you you were sentimental.”
I didn't used to cry over books. I tell you the honest truth: I used to laugh at people who cried over stories. “Sentimental,” I said. “I don't cry. I never will.” Wrong. I think I learn to cry a little harder each year. Is that a good thing?
I was reading Katherine Paterson's
Jacob Have I Loved. I knew nothing about it three weeks ago when I pulled it from its place in the school cupboard (we were still in the hotel then) and sat down in the armchair by the window. I was crying almost before I knew it. Not because the book was particularly sad, but because Mrs. Paterson tells Sara Louise Bradshaw's story with an artistry and empathy that captivated me from the first page.
Jacob Have I Loved is the story of Louise or “Wheeze” (as most people call her), a young teen who has spent most of her life in the shadow of her twin sister, Caroline. Caroline is talented and beautiful (of course). And Wheeze, as things usually go in these stories, is not-so-talented, and has a penchant for fishing which leaves the scent of crab hanging around her most days. Wheeze often reflects that the birth of the sisters is emblematic of her entire life: Caroline had to be rushed to the hospital while she, Wheeze, was forgotten—left “washed and dressed and lying in a basket . . . clean and cold and motherless.”
I read Newbery winner books skeptically—and with a good-sized grain of salt beneath my tongue. I know that “their” great YA (Young Adult) fiction is generally a far cry from my idea of good literature for teens. This book, though, caught me off my guard. The lyrical quality, and authenticity, of Mrs. Paterson's prose, the ingenuity of her plot, and her clever cyclical ending were not just treats in their own rights, they were a four course dinner, with dessert. (The dessert was discovering that Mrs. Paterson was a missionary kid and has a master's degree in English Bible; she spent four years in Japan as a Christian Education Assistant. As a budding writer, this information makes me very hopeful. “So Christian authors can win Newbery Medals!” I say.)
One of the first things that drew me into the book was its treatment of the sea. I love the sea. I love reading about the sea. And I love reading about the sea when the author knows what she's talking about. This book is well-researched. Mrs. Paterson has loads of information about the habits of crabs, fishing methods in Chesapeake Bay, storms, and seasons. Read the “Acknowledgments” which the author prints at the very beginning of her book, and you will see that her research was extensive and thorough. She also makes all that information sound good too:
We tongers [Wheeze says] stood perched on the washboards of our tiny boats, and, just as our fathers and grandfathers had before us, used our fir-wood tongs, three or four times taller than our own bodies, to reach down gently to the oyster bed, [and] feel the bottom until we came to a patch of market-sized oysters. . .
Of course, the book isn't all info. Where Mrs. Paterson doesn't tell us about the scientific side of life on Rass Island, she writes astute character sketches, and vignettes of village life. There are stories of songs under the stars, days on the water, the terrible beauty of growing up. I guess I am sentimental after all.
I think, however, that the most powerful element of the story is Louise's search for herself, and for the God she believes has rejected her. As she struggles to step out from beneath Caroline's shadow, and the shadow of her grandmother's perverted version of Christianity, she makes some challenging statements that believers would do well to ponder. Even though I have never had to deal with the specific situations Louise faces, I find it very easy to empathize with her spiritual and emotional journey. I may not have asked the questions she does, or faced her problems, but I have am asking questions, and facing problems of my own.
Finally, as a word of warning:
Jacob Have I Loved is most emphatically a “coming-of-age” novel. It contains what in my household we call “um, er—thematic elements—ahem!” But Mrs. Paterson throws in far less bodily details than, for example, Shadow Spinner, does. If the book had been less tasteful, I might have thrown out the book when, midway into the novel, Louise develops a crush on a man about fifty years her senior.
I suppose I could quibble even more. I could mention Louise's rebellious, bitter attitude throughout much of the book. I could mention the negative portrayal of Rass Island Christianity. I could even, if I looked hard enough, accuse the book of feminism. But I don't think I will. The ending, that gloriously redemptive ending (and I mean “redemptive” in a spiritual sense), made every bit of the novel worth my while. The spiritual weight that gently knots together the last, loose strands of the story made me realize that it was not so anti-Christian as I had thought.
Only a few hours after I finished the last paragraph, I went into the living room to gather my books for a few more hours of studying. My sister was on the couch, finishing up
Jacob Have I Loved.
“I told you you'd like the ending,” I said, noticing her intent expression.
“Yes.” And there was a slight catch in her voice.
“Why, you're crying! Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said, blotting her eyes and sniffing a little, “It's just that it's so wonderful. . .”
