What Matters Most
musings on the mundane and magnificent from a Christian perspective
During the height of Covid, I took precautions along with everyone else. I stayed home as much as I could. I wore a mask when I did go out. I had a Purell pump front and center on the kitchen counter. And I watched, and I waited.
I watched my husband and stepson deal with symptoms and testing, initially negative and later positive. I waited for the worst to be over and life to resume some sense of normalcy. And I waited for the day when symptoms would find me.
Although that day was slow in coming, it did eventually come. After months of watching everyone else deal with it, I found myself dealing with it as well.
Since Covid was then still prevalent, I couldn’t get an appointment for a test anywhere locally. Literally everywhere was booked. (Home test kits weren’t readily available yet, at least not that I was aware of.) And since this was my first brush with Covid, I wanted to be sure. If I had it, I wanted to know. I booked the best slot available – one at a CVS 35 minutes away.
So it was that I found myself on a sunny Saturday afternoon a year or two ago driving from south Georgia to a small town in north Florida. Over bridges, over hills, under canopy coverings on beautiful back roads, I drove at a leisurely pace. The scenery that stretched out before me consisted of winding rivers and vast cypress swamps. Scenic views in beautiful weather – even though I didn’t feel all that great physically, it wasn’t a bad way to spend the day. Alone on the road, alone with my thoughts, and with the soothing sound of Pachelbel’s Canon filling my car, time passed quickly and easily.
My map app finally brought me out of the woods and deposited me downtown in a small town, where standing as sentinel atop a hill, was the Wardlaw Smith House. The brown historic marker told me the name of this impressive house and that it was somehow significant. I made a mental note to research it later, but for now, all I had was the name and the sighting – a house with a history. Two stories of white brick with black shutters and imposing columns on a lush lawn.
Large old homes like this are common in small towns. Many seem not to be private residences anymore but business offices or museums. It made me even more curious about this place. I continued to ponder it as I passed it and made my way to my destination.
Wardlaw Smith. What an interesting name. Who was this man? Was he kind to his wife and children, or did he view them as property? Or was he a bachelor? How did he make his fortune? What did he look like? Did he have a handlebar moustache and wear spectacles?
Wardlaw Smith House…
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I blink and suddenly the scene changes. It’s the summer of 1856, and Mr. Wardlaw Smith is dismounting his horse in front of the house. He is dressed in a top hat and black suit – he is in mourning. His father’s recent death has left him the house, the responsibility for his mother and sisters, and the pressures of providing for their future and the future of his own budding family. He looks up as the front door opens and sees his young wife, heavily pregnant and glowing, smiling down at him. And at that welcoming sight, his cares are eased, just for a moment. A breeze tickles the long strands of Spanish moss draping the live oak trees in his yard, and the scent of magnolia follows him up the steps. After a long journey, he is home.
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I blink again, and it’s 1935. Miss Julia Smith, Wardlaw’s great-great granddaughter is descending the grand staircase to meet young Lieutenant Harper. All her hopes hang on this evening. After six weeks of earnest courtship, she is certain this is the night he will propose.
Her father likes the promise of a successful military career, her mother likes that he comes from a respectable family, but Julia just likes the way he makes her laugh. The air is heavy with expectancy.
For his part, Lieutenant Harper also has high hopes for the evening. His star is on the rise thanks to a recent promotion, but he doesn’t want to venture forward without this woman by his side. He doesn’t want to envision a future without her in it. In his pocket, he carries a small but precious burden – a ring that once belonged to his grandmother.
The Christmas tree in the foyer reaches nearly to the top of the staircase. Holly and ivy line the banister, and the family that have gathered in this home are wrapped in the warmth of the season. It’s a contest as to what shines more brightly – the light of the candles in the windows or the light in Miss Julia’s eyes.
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Again, I close my eyes and open them to a new scene. It’s 1969, and the world is in uproar. So much has changed since the first brick was laid in this house. Mr. John Smith is at home in his study, wondering about his sons in Vietnam, worrying about finances, and wondering about the future. He does not want to leave his home, but the repairs needed to maintain the aging house are costing a fortune. He wants his sons to have a house to come home to, but more importantly, he wants his sons to come home.
So many cares, so much change. Just this summer, a man walked on the face of the moon. Things that were never thought possible, never even dreamed of, have happened. Where, he wonders, do we go from here?
On this Saturday in September, his wife is enjoying a late afternoon stroll with friends, leaving him alone in the house, alone with his thoughts.
As his mind wanders, he gets up from his desk and moves to a more comfortable chair near the bookcase. He can’t seem to focus on much of anything. In a daze, his eyes land on a book on the bottom shelf. It’s one of the old family books, a large leather-bound tome that he has never even opened, mixed in among genealogical records and photo albums. He opens it and discovers the words of Mr. Wardlaw Smith, his ancestor.
This is his personal diary, and it records much the same cares and questions he himself is now facing. Questions about money, concerns for family, questions about the future – it’s all recorded in his elegant script. How interesting that though much has changed since these words were written, much is still the same. Family, love, struggles, hope – these remain even though horse-drawn carriages and top hats have faded.
John smiles to himself, knowing that, though some questions remain unanswered, though winter is around the corner, spring will come again, just as it always has, year after year since the days of Wardlaw Smith. Some things are certain.
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Once I returned home from getting my Covid test (which was negative, thankfully), I forgot to Google this house, and I still haven’t done so. I have no idea what its backstory is. I don’t know what its current use is or if it’s still a private home.
All I know is that the Wardlaw Smith house still stands. Through war, through hurricanes, through political and social upheaval, across millennia, this house endures. And from the outside appearance anyway, it appears relatively unchanged from what I imagine it looked like when it was built. What a testimony to the long march of time, to the unfolding of history.
Just as the man this house is named after took his place in history, just as every generation after him has taken their place, so we too must take ours. We too have a place in history – purposes to fulfill, people to love, situations to impact. We have much good to do. And whether history records our names or not, may we do all the good we can.
I hope Mr. Wardlaw Smith, handlebar moustache and all, would be proud that the house that bears his name is still standing.
Have you seen it yet? The new Amazon TV series, The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power is finally here! And while not everyone in the world is a Tolkien fan (for some unknown reason), for those of us who are, this is a big deal. We are seeing depictions of places in Middle-earth that we never thought we’d see on screen.
Which got me thinking – of all the varied geography, of all the distinct realms, anywhere on the map of Middle-earth – which is my favorite? If the impossible was possible and I could live anywhere in Middle-earth, where would it be?
And, like the hobbit Sam, I’m afraid I’m torn in two. There are two places, each quite different from the other, that speak to me, two places I would be equally delighted to dwell in.
The Shire
I can think of nothing better than spending summer in the Shire. That’s probably when it’s at its best. Strawberries and cream. The fragrance of flowers filling the air. And all the rich fields and quiet lanes bathed in clean, warm sunlight. From Michel Delving to the Old Forest, from the North Farthing to Longbottom, I would want to see it all.
When I think of the Shire, I think of Bilbo’s poetic description. I think “of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been; of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that were.” I think of fertile fields lined with well-ordered hedgerows. And I picture a busy night in the Green Dragon, drinks and laughter flowing.
And I think of hobbits: simple folk, simple in the best sense. The kind you want as neighbors. Friendly folk who are quick to jest. Those who remain generous, steady, and content year after year. Because, when you’re surrounded by the beauty of the Shire, how can you not be content? When you know that each summer will be as rich as the last, when each harvest will be as bountiful as before, and winter is just a reminder that spring will come again.
And in the Shire alone, of all the places in Middle-earth, is a glimpse of Lothlorien, my other would-be home. For in the newly-scoured Shire, on the foundation of the old tree in the Party Field, a new tree took root. And not just any tree – a mallorn, with silver bark and golden flowers. An Elven gift for the blessed and beloved Shire.
Lothlorien
I’m not fluent in Elvish, sadly, but I believe the translation of Lothlorien is dream flower. According to Treebeard (and he would know), the old Elvish name for it was Laurelindorenan, or Land of the Valley of Singing Gold. I would love to look out of my window and see dream flowers in a valley of singing gold.
Whatever it’s called, to me, this is the one place in all of Middle-earth most like Aman, the Blessed Realm. Heaven on earth.
Sure, I’d like to see Gondolin, but I’m too claustrophobic to go through the mountain tunnel to get there. And I’d want to walk in the woods of Doriath and feel the power that protects that realm. But I would choose to live in Lothlorien – a land where elves reside and peace reigns. “On the land of Lorien no shadow lay.”
Or as Sam so aptly put it, it’s “like being at home and on a holiday at the same time.”
To look out upon Lorien is like seeing something both new and familiar. When Frodo first opened his eyes there, he saw colors he knew but they were fresh and alive. He was seeing what he had seen his whole life, but he was seeing it anew in the light of Lorien. “A light was upon it for which his language had no name.” I want to make my home in that light.
But not just anywhere in this enchanted land: one place in particular – the hill of Cerin Amroth, a place awash with memory and meaning. For here on a Midsummer’s Eve long ago, an elf maiden and a mortal man stood together, drawn together. And a choice was made, the shadow was rejected, and hope was renewed.
Hope. The land of Lothlorien is full of it. And I would want to bask in its golden glow. To lie down in a bed of elanor and niphredil, to gaze up at the star of Earendil through the mallorn trees, to breathe the mystical air. To do “little but eat and drink and rest, and walk among the trees.” And just like it was for the Company when they went there, that would be enough for me, too.
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I may never be a resident of Middle-earth, but I can be a frequent visitor in the pages of these books I love so much. Works that speak of lost tales and far away places, of deeds of long ago, of a world that doesn’t exist but that you almost wish did.
And now I can go to Middle-earth onscreen also, thanks to Amazon. Will you tune in as well?
If so, I’ll see you there. I’ll meet you in Middle-earth, for a little while.
(All quotations from The Fellowship of the Ring, by J. R. R. Tolkien)
Is it just me? Hopefully, I’m not the only one talking about The Lord of the Rings these days! According to my Facebook feed and Google suggestions, I’m not. Because with Amazon’s new series, The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power, it seems Middle-earth has gone mainstream. And I’m here for it. I’m here to momentarily press pause on my usual topics of choice in order to celebrate the works of my favorite author, J. R. R. Tolkien. (You can read Part 1 here.)
Much has been written about the magnificent mythology that is The Silmarillion, which was published after his death, and The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. I could add many of my own thoughts, but what strikes me most about The Lord of the Rings, perhaps his most well-known book, is easy to miss at first glance. But it’s worth noting.
And it’s spelled out on the final two pages.
Tolkien could’ve ended the book with the hobbits saying goodbye on the shores of the sea, and with the Elves, Gandalf, and Frodo boarding the ship, which went out into the West and carried Frodo to new shores and undying lands. “And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.” (The Return of The King, J. R. R. Tolkien)
The bookends of the story are complete: Frodo’s dream in the house of Tom Bombadil and his entrance into the Blessed Realm – the dream he had at the beginning of the book now fulfilled at the end. So, the story could have ended here, and what an ending that would have been – poignant and pure.
But it didn’t, and this choice of an ending reveals much.
While Frodo and the others set sail, the remaining hobbits watched their departure, staring across the sea into the night. Long they remained there with heavy hearts until at last they turned for home. They took the long road slowly and silently, until Merry and Pippin turned off, singing as they went.
And Sam continued and “came back up the Hill, as day was ending once more. And he went on, and there was yellow light, and fire within; and the evening meal was ready, and he was expected. And Rose drew him in, and set him in his chair, and put little Elanor upon his lap. He drew a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m back,’ he said.” (The Return of the King, J. R. R. Tolkien)
That is where the book ends – at home, with family, in warm firelight, enjoying what was undoubtedly a very good meal (hobbits are notorious foodies).
The whole story ends with Sam simply saying “I’m back.”
I’m back. And he eats dinner, he and Rosie put the kids to bed, and they all get up the next morning – another day in the Shire.
And the story goes on. So we see that it isn’t just about grand adventures, about the high and lofty deeds of the great. It’s about everything that comes after. It’s about the daily adventure of living life with the people you love in the place you call home.
Hence, the story doesn’t end with Frodo going to Valinor – it ends with Sam going to the Shire, going home, to light and love.
It all starts and ends in the Shire, the true bookends of the story. All the adventures they undertook, the battles they fought, the miles they traveled – they did it all to protect the ones back home; they did it so they could have a place to come home to. And they did it together.
Home, family, friendship – love. This is the heartbeat of The Lord of the Rings, the steady, pulsing rhythm that beats loud and clear across the pages.
What a beautiful sound it is.
I’m standing in the back of a cemetery surrounded by a sea of grey stone. I breathe in the English air and simply stand there, content not to be cognizant of the time or the notifications on my phone. Not far from me, suburban traffic whizzes by, but I take no notice. I’m completely engrossed by what’s in front of me: a large headstone adorned with trinkets left by visitors like me.
The names listed tell who is buried here, but it’s two other names that are most striking. “Beren” and “Luthien” are written underneath the names of J. R. R. Tolkien and his wife, Edith. I am deep in Wolvercote Cemetery in Oxford, England, at my favorite author’s grave. And there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be right now.
Since that trip across the pond over a decade ago, my love for Tolkien’s works has not waned. The fictional world he created is easy to get lost in. The beauty of both his prose and poems is enchanting. Each word perfectly crafted, each tale rich and ripe. He writes about beautiful things in the most beautiful way.
I love his writing. And I love the fact that it marks his final resting place. There’s something so powerful in the fact that, of all he wrote over his whole life, it all boils down to two names on a grave: Beren, a mortal man mighty in the lineage of the kings of men, and Luthien, an immortal elf princess and the most beautiful creature ever to walk Middle-earth. The love they shared overthrew a tyrant and was more valuable than the Silmarils – the jewels they recovered from his hand.
As I understand it, the heart of all of Tolkien’s writing is The Silmarillion. He set out to write a grand mythology and dedicate it to England, constantly revising it and adding to it over the course of his life. And the heart of The Silmarillion is the tale of Beren and Luthien. He identified the character of Luthien with his wife Edith, with her dark hair, singing and dancing as they wandered in the woods together. So, at the root of all his writing – all the songs and tales, all the adventures – at the center of it all is love.
And the proof of this is carved in a grey granite slab – a testament for generations to come of love that defied the shadow.
Conquering love, defiant hope, and people and places worth protecting. These themes fill both The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings, the latter being the subject of a new TV series on Amazon. The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power is based on the book and the delightful material in the appendices but takes place in an earlier age in the chronology of Middle-earth. Perhaps the show will be the making of new Tolkien fans, sending them to the book for the first time.
It can be daunting to crack open The Lord of the Rings as a newbie. It’s a wonderful read – but not a short one. So, to sum it up, what is the meaning of this voluminous work? What’s it all about?
In a word – home. To me, that is what the book is all about. Home and the people you love who live there.
And that is a book well worth reading, whether in your favorite armchair or on a plane headed overseas, like me on that trip to England. I love traveling, and I loved that trip years ago. Walking in Tolkien’s footsteps around Oxford was worth the trek, more than worth it. But also – having tea with my mom in Harrod’s, going to the theater, walking in Jane Austen’s footsteps in Bath. And, perhaps most of all, beholding the warm, clean beauty of the English countryside, the real-life Shire.
I love seeing new places, learning new things, and making memories that last long after you’ve unpacked. I think it’s important to have a global perspective. We need to remember that we are not alone in the world, that our problems are not the only problems on the planet, that we have a shared humanity – even with those who don’t look like us or think like us.
Travel, whether to destinations near or far, has much to love about it. But what I love most is coming home. Having a place to come home to – and people who embrace you when you get there. It’s the view that beats any scenic vista: framed photographs on the mantle, pets waiting for you on the couch, and people – your people.
Like the hobbit Bilbo said, the road goes on. See where it leads. Wander through woods and wilderness. Join the company in The Prancing Pony or wherever you find yourself. Talk to those from distant lands and share tales. See the mountains. See the sights. See it all. And then head home – the one corner in all the world you call your own, to the people you’d risk everything for to protect.
Go there and back again.
It all started with a star. I was reading my favorite book by my favorite author, and I got “stuck.”
This often happens when I’m reading the works of the late J. R. R. Tolkien, an inventor of languages, a professor at Oxford University, a family man, a devout Christian, and author, most notably of works set in the fictional world he created called Middle-earth.
A world I was engrossed in when I encountered the star. And then one thing led to another: the name of a constellation in the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring, which led to the original reference in The Silmarillion, which led to the index, which led to looking up more references…
Reading one line in one book led to five books – and many precious minutes spent in Middle-earth.
It’s easy for me to get lost in the world Tolkien created. It’s breathtakingly beautiful – beautiful places and epic events described in the most profound way. It’s not just what he says, but how he says it. It’s writing that makes you want to keep reading.
In other words, you don’t just read Middle-earth, you experience it. For me, there is no other way. Once I dip my toe in the water, I want to wade in and let the tide carry me where it will. I don’t just read Tolkien, I research it. I re-read it. I add to my understanding of this world, layer upon layer. And I study the man behind the words – his background, the places in England he knew and loved, and his own words about his works.
As a result, the amount of books in my home with the name Tolkien on the spine is quite large. And after my birthday a couple of years ago, that number increased by two. My family gave me a first-edition UK edition of The Silmarillion from 1977 and The Worlds of JRR Tolkien, by John Garth. One published the year I was born and one published two years ago. The works of Tolkien span my life.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love reading anything by and about Tolkien, even his lesser-known works that have nothing to do with Middle-Earth. His imaginary world is sometimes as real to me as our own:
I have heard the singing of the Elves as I gaze down into the valley of Imladris. I‘ve sat in the shade of a mallorn tree in Lothlorien. I’ve seen the snow atop the Misty Mountains. I‘ve savored the taste of strawberries and cream in the Shire. I’ve seen the lights in the party tree. I see it all vividly – in my mind’s eye, anyway.
Sadly, I can’t seem to find Gondor on Google maps. I can’t pop down to the local travel agency and book a trip to Hobbiton. The Misty Mountains remain a mystery. But I can visit these places any time I want to simply by opening a book, which is why I have so many of them. Tolkien’s works speak to me in a way no other work of fiction does.
And now, with the upcoming TV series on Amazon, The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power, his works will be made available to a whole new audience. Since I first discovered Middle-earth on screen, not on the page, the idea of new fans discovering this world is immensely exciting. While I’ve been an avid reader my whole life, I somehow missed Tolkien. I don’t even remember hearing about his books in school except for The Hobbit.
My introduction to Tolkien came from the crazy-talented Peter Jackson, a visionary of a filmmaker from New Zealand. His Oscar-winning movies adapted The Lord of the Rings from page to screen and sucked me in. So, after the third movie in the trilogy came out, I turned to the books, to the source of the beautiful epic I had just watched unfold on screen. And then one Tolkien book led to another which led to his authorized biography which led to commentaries about his work…
If you are new to Middle-earth, welcome. Or as Tolkien’s characters say, well met. You may not have understood any of the references in this post, but thanks for reading anyway! If you discover this magical place on screen, like I did, let me encourage you to also consider the books. Seeing Middle-earth on screen is wonderful, but you’re seeing an adaptation of it, one creative team’s interpretation of the source material. And while I’m thankful there are those who chose to tackle this, and as much as I love the movies, the books are better. The book is always better (my mantra in life).
That being said, I hope we like the new Amazon series, which is a prequel to The Lord of the Rings. I hope it’s a faithful adaptation of Tolkien’s work. So far, there have been mixed reviews from the Tolkien fanbase. Some have raised questions as to how far they’ve strayed from the original work in terms of timeline and plot points. We shall see.
But if what you see on Amazon piques your interest, maybe it will lead you to the books. And don’t worry, you don’t have to read them as I do, with highlighters and reference material at the ready. You can read them without stopping to ask questions or look things up and still get the gist.
However, there is a treasure trove of information in the back of the books: appendices, pronunciation guides, charts, and maps. It may be an overwhelming amount of information for a new reader, but it’s meant to be a helpful guide. I think it can only serve to enhance your reading if you let it. But it’s up to you how you choose to read. You can dig as deeply as you want.
And I hope you like what you find.
Ah, summer. Long, leisurely days under blue skies. This is the time we look forward to all year, the season around which the others hinge.
Summer marks a pause, a lightening of schedules, a welcome respite in the middle of a busy year. Summer’s slower pace allows for lengthier conversations, for books to be read that have been shelved too long, for freedom to chase hobbies and fireflies. Who doesn’t love summer?
But I have a confession to make – summer is not my favorite season. That title belongs squarely to spring. Spring – with all its color and promise – has always been my favorite. Everything looks new and feels fresh after the long, cold, quiet winter. Spring brings new life – and hope. It resonates with my soul.
I am not, however, sad to see spring go. I know that summer follows. And summer is not without its own appeal. Summer is multifaceted. As it progresses, it reveals itself in new ways – all of them glorious.
Early summer is all excitement and anticipation. The making of plans, the gearing up for the fun ahead, the enjoyment of newfound free time. Booking travel, shopping for swimsuits and flip flops, grabbing a copy of this year’s best beach read. Settling into the season’s new routine – a wonderfully carefree one.
The middle of summer is busy in the best way. It’s best experienced on the back of a jet ski, under aquamarine water, or walking along a shore littered with shells, feeling the sea wind on your skin, breathing salty air. The heart of summer is filled with beach bags and suntan lines, with road trips and backyard barbeques. It’s for family reunions and catching up with dear friends.
It’s needing a vacation from your vacation because it was so filled with fun that it left you exhausted – in a good way.
Summer means renewal – whether that’s found on a kayak deep in river territory, eyes open, alert to every turtle sunning, every bird singing, every drop of sunlight glistening on the water, or whether that’s found on a chaise lounge, still and silent, eyes closed, drinking in the jasmine-scented air and letting the heat melt away stress. Relaxation takes many forms, and the center of summer sees them all.
Late summer is a warm, contented peace. Late summer is a place you want to linger. It’s a link between the fun and frolicking of the season that’s ending and the hopeful anticipation of the new season on the horizon.
Late summer beckons to you to pause once more, breathe deeply, and enjoy the waning warmth of the season. Fall is ahead and with it new responsibilities and new possibilities, but it is not here yet.
Summer issues a final invitation to rest, one last call to renewal – draining the dregs of summer’s abundance. It’s an embrace of rejuvenation that will carry you into the latter part of the year. Summer’s last days are a gift.
The question of when summer actually ends is answered differently by different people. There is the official end of the season – when the autumn equinox occurs in late September, and the unofficial end of summer – when school starts in August (at least for those of us in the Southeast). Depending on which camp you find yourself in, the last days of summer could be late July/early August or a month later in September.
I fall somewhere in the middle. I don’t need the calendar’s permission to hang my fall wreath, but I just can’t think about pumpkin spice when it’s 90 degrees outside! For my part, I hold on to summer through August. Vacation may be over, but summer isn’t. Not yet. I have one more cobbler to bake, one more beach read to digest, one more day trip to the coast.
Then, around Labor Day, I’ll put up my white shorts and straw hats and take down my boots and scarves. I’ll begin thinking about stews and football and holiday plans. But not yet. It’s still summer, for a little while.
The end of summer isn’t sad. Our hearts are too full now to be sad. We rest in the memories we’ve made and look forward to what’s ahead. The end of summer is a quiet contentment; a raising of the glass to the setting sun, casting its golden glow on the season that’s ending, knowing it’s been a full one, a rich one; and savoring the last sips of summer.
It’s like waking up and realizing you’ve been asleep at the wheel – for miles. You find yourself on a one-way road, a road you’re only now beginning to see clearly. Maybe you missed a turn somewhere. Maybe, if you’d been paying attention, you’d be headed in a different direction, on a different road, in a different car even.
Since you can’t do a U-turn on a one-way road, all you can do now is drive. The only way is forward. The turns not taken are irrelevant now. Now, all that matters is making the rest of the journey count.
So, you blink, rub the sleep from your eyes, and grip the wheel with renewed purpose. Since the past is in your rearview mirror – and you can’t alter it – the right road is now the one you’re on, the one that’s leading you forward. The right destination is waiting for you ahead – so you drive. You learn the lessons you need to learn, you grow, and you keep going. Grief mingles with hope. Regret gives way to resolve. And peace settles in place of despair. And you drive on.
You drive on – through storms, under stars, past detours and distractions, in the gentle waking light of a new day.
And you drive on.
