I've spent a lot of time perusing old scrapbooks and childhood diaries of late. The notion that I am coming into my contemplative years is entirely settling, really. Like a warm hug from someone who loves me.
The Sunroom is a small book, a short read. The main character, a woman named Rebecca, has come back to her hometown; one of the emotional stops on her way is the hospital sunroom. She shares with readers what this room meant to her mother in the 1950s as she was a cancer patient. She shares with readers excerpts from her own diary of the times. She shares her fears, her worries, her experiences. As a little girl--eleven or twelve--she promises God to give up her music, her piano playing, if he will only heal her mother and allow her to come back home healthy. Since music is her life, the promise is severe and life-changing. Her father is slow to notice the change in his daughter, the change in his home. But eventually her secret prayer is unveiled...
I had plenty of expectations for this book. I thought I knew exactly what to expect. I thought I could judge its contents based on its cover, based on its description. I was wrong. This one challenged me. Why was I so quick to assume that this one had to be one of "those books"? You know, one of "those" deliberately sad, mostly bittersweet, good-for-a-cry books. Why did the ending surprise me so much?
I liked this one fine. I didn't love it or hate it.
© Becky Laney of Operation Actually Read Bible
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