This is one of those books that starts off slow, beginning with Christie Purifoy's family buying an old brick farmhouse. It's a house with stories whispering out of all the hallways and staircases, begging the new inhabitants to imagine who has lived there before. It's a house with scratched glass windowpanes, and the scratches made rainbows when the moonlight touches them.
It's a house to make a home in, a place where the Purifoy's could look to the future.
Christie spins all the threads of her story together around this place, which is named Maplehurst after the trees that rise all around it. So this book has roots, yes. But it does have wings too, because Christie's reflections fly far beyond the scope of relocation and house restoration.
If God comes to us at all, then he must meet us where our feet are, on a particular piece of ground. That may be our own lovingly chosen yard, or it may be a strange street corner, but it's a particular place none the less. And because we're there and He's there, then it's worth looking hard and seeing as much as we can. That's what Christie does. She reaches out to life with a reverent hand and she recognizes that the part she plays is a contribution to the greater artwork. That's a message that every one of us needs to absorb into our skin. This matters, your work matters, it does add up. Let the circumstances be good, bad or indifferent, God hasn't run short of grace or glory.
And, mercy, can Christie write. I had to slow down and read passages again just to appreciate the way she phrased them.
I thank Revell Publishers for providing me with this review copy.