Life Lessons from Literature

If you looked inside my copy, you'd notice that the
word "green" was highlighted every time it occurred.

How many of you had to read The Great Gatsby in high school? I remember reading it in Mrs. Grisanzio's English II Honors class. I don't recall enjoying the book, but I do recall being enchanted by the way she picked it apart, pulled out the symbolism, held up the artistry of the language for us to admire. She was one of my favorite teachers. She really took delight in the way the words were so carefully crafted, in the wealth of great literature, and most importantly, in sharing that beauty and discovery with us. I didn't like the story, but I loved her class.

I pulled Gatsby off the shelf this afternoon because the final sentence was echoing in my head. I can still remember the day Mrs. G. read the last page out loud to us in her dramatic style, pausing to point out the various themes. Upon opening my copy, I discovered that the entire page is covered in yellow highlighter and scrawled notes. Because she loved it, I came to love it, too.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the story, the title character is a young man from humble beginnings who fell in love with a girl only to lose her when she married a man from a wealthy family. He seeks his own fortune and is successful, obsessed with the idea of winning her back, even moving to New York and buying a house across the Long Island Sound from hers, where he can see the green light at the end of her dock from his backyard. Of course, all of this happens before the book starts. Fitzgerald's narrative is a chronicle of the vanity of wealth, the selfishness of man, and the futility of unrequited love.  But back to the final page:

"...there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors' eyes--a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
     And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it.  He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
     Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter--tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And one fine morning--
     So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

The chasing of dreams, the quest for fulfillment, whatever you want to call it, it's a common literary theme. Indeed, our country is founded on the notion that the pursuit of happiness is an inalienable right. But the more I read, the more depressed I became. In college seminars I would read such classics as Voltaire's Candide, Flaubert's Madame Bovary, Nietsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra, and Dostoyevsky's Notes From the Underground. I started to notice some common themes: People are seeking meaning in their lives. The sad part is that nobody finds it. Wealth, learning, love, power, talent, religious rituals, social standing, all are explored and found to be lacking. Indeed, the closest we get is to quietly mind our own business (actually, that doesn't sound too bad, being an introvert!).

Here's the thing: We all have an dream. It may not be defined enough to nail down in a "purpose statement," but deep down, we all have some ideal that we want to be like, what circumstances we hope for, and we are sure that if we achieve that, we will be happy. The tragic part is that it's all a great deception:
     We can never fully achieve our ideals. We are ambitious creatures, and our standards are set high. Too high. Even if we do make it for a fleeting moment, it cannot be sustained for long. True perfection is unattainable, and the law of entropy will only continue to tear down that which we attempt to build. Everything fails. If we attempt to base our happiness on circumstances, things, or people--even ourselves--we will be disappointed. It is this futile battle against the crushing weight of reality that Fitzgerald is describing in his closing remarks. The happiness that "year by year recedes before us" as we "beat on, boats against the current."

So what brought this to mind today? The realization that I was fighting a losing battle, the feeling that nothing I did was as good as I wanted it to be. The circumstance in question was my ability to make it to church on time. Every week I carefully plan in advance, making sure clothes are laid out, the diaper bag is packed, everything is set and ready to go the night before so that Sunday morning all I have to do is feed my family and head out. But I haven't been on time since my daughter was born.

This week I worked especially hard. I was up until 1am Saturday night making sure that everything was clean and ready, we woke up right on time Sunday morning, and that's when things started to go wrong. Our delightful day started with 30 minutes of inconsolable screaming for no apparent reason (this is actually pretty typical for my dramatic daughter, maybe I should just add a half-hour of tantrum buffer time to all my activities...). This threw things off, but we still manage to get out the door only 10 minutes late. We make it to church, and I'm feeling disappointed that we are late yet again, but taking consolation in the fact that we have only missed the opening announcements.

Then we hit the elevator traffic jam. The nursery and "stroller parking" are on the second floor, but one of the two (painfully slow) elevators was out of order, and there was a line. Another ten minutes later, we are finally up and "parked." I usually bring my daughter into the sanctuary for the first half of service since she likes "participating" in the singing, then put her in the nursery for the sermon, since she doesn't realize that singing time is over. So here we are, now 20 minutes late, and I carry my toddler up the flight of stairs to the balcony. She wants to play on the stairs rather than find a seat. Cue another meltdown. Now I'm late and holding a screaming child IN THE SANCTUARY, DURING SERVICE!
So off we head to the nursery, baby screeching like a banshee the whole way. I finally get her settled, telling the wide-eyed nursery ladies to please come get me if she gives them any grief. I find a seat and look at the order of service. It lists some of my favorite songs. I have missed them all.

After church, there were a few people that I was hoping to talk to, but I had to pick up the Small One from the nursery first. After a prolonged bathroom break (yay, potty training!), I somehow manage to bump into every single friend I have at church--except the one I'm looking for. It's a delightful problem to have so many friends, but by the time I'm ready to find my target, they're on their way home. I say "maybe next week," but who am I kidding? This is the way Sundays have been for 15 months now, how is next week going to be any different? And so I beat on, a boat against the current...

Feeling discouraged on my walk home, I reflect on these things and am reminded of another line from a great book: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

When we think we have what it takes, when we believe that we can achieve our own perfection, when we rely on temporal things for our happiness, we lie to ourselves. When these delusions begin to fall apart, when people start to let us down, when things don't go according to plan, when the world we have built for ourselves comes crashing down, we realize how weak we are. Ultimately, we are all failures, some of us just don't realize it yet.

But that's okay.

It's okay because there is more to the story than failure. In fact, failure is the best thing that can happen, because it opens our eyes to the truth. After all, the first step to recovery is to admit that you have a problem. And that's what Paul was saying in his letter to the Corinthians. It is when we feel that acute need that His help is the most meaningful (note I said "feel,"not "have." The need is ever-present, but rarely felt). He may be the only thing holding us together day to day (Colossians 1:17), but we won't fully appreciate the way He sustains us until we realize just how much we need sustaining.
"Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

The truth is that we are meant to strive for a higher standard, to seek after something greater than ourselves. The problem is that we can't reach it on our own. The good news is that there is a solution.

"I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus' name...
When every earthly prop gives way,
He then is all my hope and stay."
(Edward Mote, "The Solid Rock")

"Nothing good have I to bring...
Only to the cross I cling."
(Rober Lowry, Nothing but the Blood)