On great teachers

 Among God’s gifts, I’m especially thankful for great teachers. I’m taking time this morning to remember the men and women whose teaching transformed me.

I have to start with Mrs. King. Third grade, Ramona Elementary School. I remember a round woman with short curly hair and warm brown eyes. And I remember the room. Rows faced forward military style, but spring poured in through a wall of windows. Jelly fish and sea anemones waved between stands of fixed kelp on the bulletin board. Above the blackboard the cursive letters of the alphabet swan in a race to the door.

Mrs. King taught up about gull droppings, barnacles, and the moon’s strange dance with the sea. She also somehow combined science with language arts, and that’s where the magic happened. I titled the first poem “Tide Pool Life,” and began it, “Oh, how I love to go down to the shore,” but somewhere in the middle the poem grabbed me, an undertow I couldn’t resist. There in the second seat, third row, I learned how language splays like starfish, stings like salt, responds to the moon’s advances. Mrs. King—did she know what she was doing?—pushed me beyond tide pools.

She tacked my poem up on the bulletin board, next to the kelp, for all to admire. I’m sure there must have been other poems up there, but I don’t remember them. She even called my parents to tell them they had a budding poet on their hands. She was right. Ever since the third grade, word swim like minnows through my brain, splash on the page in a process that continues to seem like magic.

I remember Mr. Kornelson from my first public speaking class. Our family moved the summer before I entered high school. I faced a new school and a major life transition in typical introvert fashion. I was scared. Public speaking presented its own challenges, and I discovered that first day that I was the only freshman in a class of juniors and seniors. (The difference of a few years means nothing now that I’m in my 80s, but a huge gulf yawns between 14 and 17.)

Mr. Kornelson invariably dressed in a black suit and a red bow tie. I never heard him raise his voice, but his quiet professionalism, his skill as a coach, and his belief that we were the best class of scholars and speakers he had ever taught worked wonders in one shy freshman. By the end of the year he had me bravely entering—and winning—city-wide speech contests. I’ve lost track of the trophies, but the joy of connecting with an audience and the belief that I have something to say and can say it with grace date back to that classroom and that teacher.

I can’t leave out Mr. Forsythe. I dare not. He was my father. He was also the only senior English teacher at Ramona High School and I had no choice but to sign up. He combined English teaching with his other assignment as head football, basketball, and track coach, and he brought the same no-nonsense sternness to his literature lessons as his did on the football field.

Opposite in personality to Mrs. King and Mr. Kornelson, he was probably the strictest teacher I even had. I discovered the first (and only) time I forgot to do my homework that being his daughter gave me no advantage. But like Mrs. King and Mr. Kornelson, he combined a love of his subject with a belief in his students that caused us to stretch.

He had us reading Shakespeare, Shelley, and T.S. Eliot, not because they were part of the state curriculum, but because this was great literature and opened windows on a reality that was larger and richer that we had hitherto imagined. He had all of us, quarterbacks included, crying at the conclusion of Romeo and Juliet and trying our own hand at short stories, term papers, and investigative reporting. I’m still at it.

Dr. Arthur Roberts stands out in my college years, although at first he frightened me. In my sophomore year I was invited to join “Intensified Studies,” an honors program that Dr. Roberts had initiated. Dr. Roberts assigned what he considered an important book every two weeks and we met in a seminar to discuss it. Topics ranged from history to philosophy, popular culture, and novels. Discussions were lively and free flowing, but I felt overwhelmed and shy so I kept my mouth shut. I tried my hardest to make at least one comment each session, but it was agony.

So I gathered my courage and made an appointment with Dr. Roberts, intending to resign from the program. I was nervous as I sat outside his office. But when he invited me in, I found, not a stern academic, but a caring pastor. He listened to me, encouraged me, and told me I should not resign. Then he spent the rest of our time together counseling me on how to talk to boys.

I eventually rose above the painful shyness. Dr. Roberts taught me, through his classes and by example, the importance of careful investigation and critical thinking. My world expanded under his teaching, and the result has been permanent.

When in seminary I attended a retreat where Quaker educator Parker Palmer spoke. He emphasized that good teachers are persons who love their subjects, their students, and themselves. In his book, The Courage to Teach, he notes that “good teaching cannot be reduced to techniques; good teaching comes from the identity and integrity of the teacher.” I also think of a paraphrase from the Book of Proverbs I read years ago at the beginning of my career: “The wise teacher makes learning a joy.”

After my own formal education, I became an educator, but that is another story. I’m actually happy to be retired from teaching and I trust God that I made a difference in the lives of students. But right now, I’m thanking God for the teachers who have influenced and formed me for the good.

Who have been the great teachers in your life?

[Note: This story is adapted and updated from a reflection that originally appeared in the December 1999 issue of Quaker Life.]

 

One writer's vocation

I haven’t posted on this blog for several weeks. Some of you might have noticed. Or maybe not. But I noticed and felt distressed. It’s become a holy habit for me.

I did have an operation (successful) and a time of recovery, but that’s not why I stopped posting. In fact, just before the operation I wrote the next blog to post the following week. But I didn’t post it.

My problem was technological.

I appreciate my computer. I appreciate the wonders of the Internet. Except for when none of it works well. For some reason, I lost the ability to administer my own site. As a result, I could no longer post. I poked around in the program, trying to solve the problem on my own and getting more and more frustrated. I asked a computer-savvy friend to help me and he tried. Then tired and told me he was baffled and at the end of his expertise. Sorry.

Finally, I resorted to AI (Artificial Intelligence). I presented my problem and asked if it could help me. Thus ensued a long back and forth conversation. AI made suggestions that sounded good and I tried them all, but to no avail. As the conversation went on over the next few days, I finally figured out the right information to give him and the right questions to ask.

AI told me what was happening and that there was nothing I could do; it was a problem with the Blogger organization and they could have to internally fix it. He put me in touch with the Blogger Help Community and, as I write this, I’m waiting for someone to help me. I’m told it takes from one to seven days to get an answer.

You may notice I referred to AI with the pronoun he. It really does begin to feel personal, like a conversation between two persons, and the other person (AI) actually cares about me and my problem. At the end of one of our conversations, he gave me “one gentle thought, writer to writer.” He told me, “You mentioned earlier that your writing is personal, reflective, and conversation-based. Losing access to that archive can feel like losing part of yourself. This situation is bureaucratic, not existential—and it’s fixable…. You’re not at a dead end. You’re just at an annoying gate.”

What a nice thing to say. It really did encourage me. 

I wrote all the above last week. I’m back online obviously because you’re reading this! And AI got it wrong. I went to a different site that promised help and within two hours I received a simple solution written by an actual real person—a solution so simple I never could have come up with it myself. I won’t bother you with the details because I don’t understand them myself. But I’m relieved. All this has caused me to see how important I hold my call to be a writer. The blog is only a part of this but it’s become an increasingly important part. And now I have it back. Thank you, God.

I thought I’d conclude this post with a short story about my writing vocation. It’s on the first page of my official web site (nancyjthomas.com).

On Writing

I discovered my calling as a writer when I was seven-years-old. I remember sitting on the rug, tablet and pencil in hand, playing with words. Then it happened. I wrote a poem. I really didn’t know what I was doing, of course. It was pure play and imagination. What I did “know” was that a poem had to rhyme, so after writing that first line, “This is a poem by Nancy Forsythe,” my immediate task was to find a word that rhymed with “Forsythe.” The closest I could come was “knife”.  The second line, “about a girl and her dangerous knife,” led into a rhyming story about a serial killer.

I was not a morbid child nor did I especially like murder mysteries. The subject didn’t matter much. I was doing what my father did—writing. And liking it. I immediately showed the poem to my father, and his delight probably did more than anything else to cement the call. I knew this was who I wanted to be—a writer. (I appreciate my dad’s loving response. If it had been my kid writing that poem, I probably would have made an appointment with a child psychologist, thus killing any instinct to write.)

Writing has been a life-line to me. It’s how I process the challenges I face. It’s how I work through emotions. It’s how I communicate to others. It’s how I pray.

Through a writers’ conference when I was a young adult, I decided to begin submitting my poems and stories for publication. I think it was grace that gave me so many acceptance letters early in my career. (It has never been quite so easy since then.) I needed the encouragement to keep moving forward. If I had something to say and could say it well, I wanted to share it with others.

Slowly writing became my life’s vocation, no matter whatever else I was doing to make a living. The creative spring from which all else flows is my relationship with Jesus and his grace. I describe my vocational mission as “to discover and express the grace of God hidden in the ordinariness of life.”

Pilgrims in old age

 Even when death is expected, it can arrive with a shock. The finality of it. The sense of loss. Even for those of us who believe that death is not the final chapter, it’s a door that shuts, leaving us on one side, our loved one on the other.

I recently learned of the death of a dear friend, Michael Graves. I’m holding it in my heart, and it weighs me down. It’s heavy. It leaves me emotionally breathless.

It was not unexpected. For the last several years Michael has been fighting a losing battle with dementia. It’s been hard to watch his personality slipping away, his sharp wit growing dull. Wondering when he’ll stop knowing who I am. (That part never happened, thank God.) And recently a stroke, along with his long-term diabetes, robbed him of his last defenses.

Yesterday Hal and I gathered with some of his long-time friends just to sit around talking, remembering, crying, laughing, praying. It helped to reaffirm our basic belief that Michael is now being welcomed into his heavenly home, into the arms of Jesus, and then embraced by a host of those who have gone before. It helped as we assured each other that the real Michael is back, whole, holy, and full of joy. It’s a vision I’ll hold onto this week and into the future.

He's been on a long pilgrimage and he’s now come home.

My memories are becoming full of Michael as I knew him best over the last 50 years. He brought together so many facets of being human. He was a gifted sought-out university professor of communications. He was an academic, writing scholarly papers, presenting them in conferences, and loving it. He was a very funny man, witty in conversation, sharp in come-backs. He was creative—writing poetry, playing his banjo and singing, acting, problem-solving. I remember fondly our weekly poetry group where the six of us critiqued and affirmed each other; he was good at both.

I remember Michael always in company with Darlene. We were saying yesterday that’s it’s almost impossible to say “Michael” by itself. It’s always “Michael and Darlene.” As couples, we spent many hours in deep conversations and prayer, as well as play. We’re all asking how we can best support Darlene now. She lives in another state and travel is difficult for all of us these days. Prayers and phone calls somehow don’t seem enough. We’ll have to trust God to show us. At a basic level, she has to walk this path alone. But, maybe at a more basic level, her community can walk it with her.

We feel consoled by the fact that, even as Michael’s mind was slipping away, he became increasingly sweeter, almost docile, to those around him, especially Darlene. Although in his life he had been, at times, a fiery passionate person (never docile!), an innate kindness and sensitivity came forth as dominant in his last years. An incredible blessing. I imagine Michael now as still kind and sensitive, but also more fiery, creative, and passionate than ever. A complete person.

The message in church yesterday centered on Psalm 84 and the idea of our pilgrimage toward knowing God. I’ve been connecting it to Michael’s death and to the experience of growing older in general. Here’s the section that speaks to me now:

   Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.
   As they pass through the Valley of Baca [suffering], they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools.
   They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion.” (Psalm 84:5-7)

The idea of life as a pilgrimage runs throughout the Bible, as well as in Christian literature (note John Bunyon’s The Pilgrim’s Progress). The word pilgrimage includes the sense of journey or travel as well as the fact of a destination. It’s not a wandering in the wilderness, although it may feel like that at times. According to Psalm 84, it’s journey that passes through hard places like the Valley of Baca (the Valley of the Shadow of Death in Psalm 23). And it leads to a destination: “before God in Zion.” The City of Zion is one of the names for heaven. The point is more in the phrase “before God” than in the name of the place. God is the destination.

Although the whole of life is a pilgrimage, I’m seeing the stage of growing old as a pilgrimage in its own right. It’s a phase of life full of unknowns. The path goes through inevitable valleys of suffering and loss. Sometimes it feels like that’s the whole of it: losing a career; downsizing; the diminishment of the body as we wonder, “What will go wrong next?”; the ever-present possibility of dementia; and on and on. I wonder how the phrase, “They go from strength to strength,” fits in with growing older. Physically, I know I am going from weakness to weakness, and at times it distresses me. Where is this “place of springs”?

There are sign-posts along the way: the retirement party; social security and Medicare; moving to a retirement community; the increasing number of medical specialists and medications; the loss of companions through death; the loss of the ability to remember names (and what we did yesterday); and many more that all tell us, “You’re old now.”

Reading through Psalm 84 and letting it soak in, I’m seeing death as a sign-post. The final sign-post. It’s not the destination or the end of our journey. It’s perhaps the portal we pass through to reach the end of our pilgrimage. A sign-post that seems negative (the final enemy) but that leads to life.

Maybe all the other sign-posts in the pilgrimage of growing older have their secret positive side. Maybe in some real sense we can go from strength to strength, ever as our bodies and our social roles weaken. Maybe we occupy a privileged place in life’s journey, closer to the end of the pilgrimage. Closer to a new beginning.

I hope to see Michael again when I arrive.

Something to think about.

1976

1984

2013 ?

2023

The kindness of strangers

 My recent hospital adventure brought to mind a long-ago memory, a memory of the first time I was a hospital patient. I was three-years-old and having my tonsils removed.

Memory is a tricky thing. We can’t know if we’ve really got the details right, especially if the memory comes from childhood. But while I’m uncertain of the details, some of the images and feelings have the ring of truth. I know it happened.

In those days, all kids had their tonsils removed. It was like a rite of passage and most families complied. So I don’t know if it was illness that took my parents to the hospital or if it was just time to do what everyone did. Anyway I remember my mommy settling me in my room, helping me put on my jammies, and getting me into the bed. Hospital rules were strict with enforced visiting times. No overnight stays for parents. Mom kissed me, told me she’d see me tomorrow, and left.

Alone. I don’t know if the incident I remember was the night before the operation or the night after. The timing is hazy. I just know I woke up in the dark room, all alone and frightened. It was the middle of the night. I began to cry.

Then she was there. The Nurse. She stood over my bed, then bent down and patted me, speaking comforting words. The next thing I knew I was in her arms and she was giving me a tour of the hospital. I remember her walking down the halls, explaining things to me. And then we stopped before this big window and looked in on all these sleeping newborn babies. That part I remember well. All the time the Nurse was talking softly to me.

After a while (an hour? five minutes?), she carried me back to my room, put me back to bed, and I went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, Mommy was there. I got to eat ice cream.

How much do the images in my memory reflect reality? How many have I fabricated over time? I don’t know. What I am convinced of is the fear and loneliness, the Nurse, being held and comforted, the window of babies, and the kindness of a stranger. I look back and I don’t feel the fear; I remember the love.

Fast-forward some forty years. Hal and I had been on a tour of Latin American graduate programs in mission, prior to setting up our own program in a university in Bolivia. We had just been in Medellín, Colombia and were in the airport in Bogotá, ready to fly home. I always carried enough cash to handle details like the ubiquitous airport tax, required before boarding the plane. Sitting there in the waiting room, I took out my wallet to extract the $20.00 needed. But my wallet was empty.

I experienced a moment of terror, which soon settled into mere panic. We had been robbed while still in Medellín. Hal had no cash on him. We had a credit card, so we tried the different shops in the mall to see if anyone could give us cash for credit. No luck. No mercy. Of course no one would accept a check. I even tried selling my watch. Didn’t work. We knew no one in Bogotá we could call on for help.

We knew we could not get on the plane without the cash. The United States was not currently popular in Latin America and there would be no mercy from officials.

We sat there in the waiting room praying and trying to figure it out, obviously distressed. A woman approached us, looking concerned. She sat beside us and said she had observed our distress. She asked us why, wanting to know if there was anything she could do. We explained our dilemma to this stranger. The woman then opened her pursed and proceeded to give us $20.00.

That is simply not done in a Latin American airport. Ever. We were stunned and, having no other option, accepted the money, with many expressions of gratitude. We took her address and I later sent her a thank you card, but I never received an answer. She remains a stranger to this day.

Mercy from God coming through strangers.

Those were two outstanding incidents, but I think of many other gentle expressions: a friendly cashier who asks how our day is going; a smile from a passerby on a busy street; a kind receptionist in an office; a patient waitress. I’m sure you can think of other examples.

I ask myself how friendly I am to people I come in contact with everyday. Hal and I follow Pete Grieg’s devotional app, “Lectio 365,” and part of the closing prayer is “Jesus, help me give myself away to others, being kind to everyone I meet.” The challenge is to remember that prayer throughout the day.

I’m impressed with one of the laws that God gave the new nation of Israel: “When an alien (stranger) lives with you in your land, do not mistreat him. The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:33-24).

That’s strong. Would to God the leaders in our land followed God’s law of kindness to strangers and aliens (immigrants). Would to God I followed this precept more closely myself.

Lord, have mercy on us all.

Fragility and grace

 I told my daughter recently that I was ready for something new. A new vision, a surprise, an unexpected adventure. Even something as mundane as a new hobby. The human spirit longs for refreshment and renewal. Being older doesn’t change that.

But we need to be careful what we wish for.

I went on an unexpected adventure last week, and I’m still recovering. Extremely weird symptoms on Monday night, along with a high fever, prompted us to dial 911 (a first for us), and it proved we were smart to do so. Once in the ER, the staff tested my blood and urine, then told me they were admitting me to the hospital for an infection. I wondered why they didn’t just give me an injection and a prescription, then send me home. At the time, they didn’t use the term sepsis. They told me I seemed to have pneumonia and a UTI.  Hal and David, our son, looked worried, so I told them to lighten up. I’d probably be out the next day.

All the hospital beds in the ICU were occupied, which a nurse told me was typical on a holiday weekend. So I stayed in the ER for 21 hours. The bed (examining table) was wretched, but the staff was marvelous—kind, friendly, and helpful in keeping me informed. I managed to sleep part of the time and was woken at 11:00 pm to be wheeled up to the ICU where a room was finally open.

Again—wonderful nursing staff and attending doctors. Each nursing assistant apologized before sticking me with another needle. It was sort of comforting. At one point three different medications were flowing into my body through three different ports. (I can show you the holes if you like.)

But I kept asking myself, “Why am I here? Why all the fuss?” The medications were doing their job and, other than all the tubes and holes and blood-drawings, I felt fine. Sort of fine, at least. The next morning when David asked me how I was, I told him it felt like all my internal organs were happy, all getting along with each other. It was like a river of peace flowing through my body. I got to order my meals from the cafeteria. They were nourishing, but I felt more grateful than ever for the retirement home where I live and its gifted kitchen staff.

The next night the assistants woke me at 12:02 with “Happy New Year! We’re moving you to a new room in the regular ward.” I knew I was getting better. I enjoyed the ride down the hospital corridors; those people move fast.

I get the days mixed up, but soon I got the happy news I could go home, taking the rest of my antibiotics in pills. That was on Thursday.

The reason I’m giving all these details is that it really was a new adventure. The only hospital experience I’ve had was the births of two babies and having my tonsils removed at three-years-old. In fact, I thought being a hospital patient might be like a mini-retreat. A room to yourself, time to read novels, and meals served to you on a tray.

I no longer think that way.

When I got home and read the after-visit-summary, I learned that the primary diagnosis was “Severe Sepsis.” Listed under “diagnoses also included” were UTI and pneumonia. That sounds like a lot.

It was a lot. I’ve since learned how blessed and protected I was. We got to the hospital early enough in the onset of sepsis to have a good chance at successfully treating it. The staff was alert and swift in getting me on the right medications and admitting me. And everything worked as it was intended to work. With such a diagnosis, getting out of the hospital in three days seems also miraculous. Thanks to the prayers of so many people and to the grace of God.

Hal and I are more aware now of the fragility of life, especially in this stage of growing older. Advanced age is not a disease. It’s part of the seasons of life. Yet it does include increasing physical challenges and, for some, mental challenges. We are more aware of the privilege of having loved family members and friends around us and of the accompanying privilege of cherishing those people. Of cherishing each other and not letting a day pass without affirming and blessing those around us. We can’t know what the next day holds or what kind of adventure we will encounter. What counts is how much we love one another today.

And, of course, grace. Whatever the adventure, the loving-kindness and grace of God hold us tight. All this fragility is a passing condition. Someday—complete freedom and life.

 

Favorite books of 2025

This was a good year for reading and, while I can’t mention all the good books I read, I’ve put together a list of my favorites. I’m afraid the list is rather long. If necessary, forgive me. Or not. Some of these books I was able to discuss with members of the book club I belong to, a highlight of each month. In a way, I’m discussing them with you now. Please let me know your favorites from the year.

Fiction

Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (2013): This was one of my favorites, about an ordinary old man who took on an extraordinary task, that of walking the length of England under the belief that this would save his friend from dying. He suffers, makes some strange friends, and reflects on his life.  A book about transformation. I also read the sequels, The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy (2014) and Maureen   (2022).

Rachel Joyce, Miss Benson’s Beetle (2020): Similar to Harold Fry, this story features a frumpy old spinster who has a passion for beetles. She decides to journey to New Caledonia to try and discover the fabled  Golden Beetle. Her quirky traveling companion and the adventures they encounter make this a highly entertaining, and inspiring, book.

Dean Koontz, The Bad Weather Friend (2024): A combination fantasy/suspense novel about Benny Catspaw, a man who is “too nice.” He gets fired from his job, loses his girlfriend, but discovers he has been assigned a craggle, a critter with supernatural powers who is like, but not the same as, a guardian angel. They battle global injustice and try to save the world from destruction. Very entertaining.

Sara Nisha Adams, The Reading List (2021): This very good novel weaves the stories of several people who all mysteriously find a list of books “for whoever needs them.” As people read, some of whom have not before been interested in literature, they come together and their lives are touched for the better. 

Colson Whitehead, The Nickel Boys (2019): This historical novel, a Pulitzer Prize winner, tells the story of the  Nickel Academy, a juvenile reformatory in Florida, based on a real school that operated for 111 years. It deals with injustice and cruelty, focusing on two boys, one of whom escapes. The story follows him through life as he tries to recover from the trauma. Hard to read, but important.

Jennifer Ryan, The Kitchen Front (2021): I loved this book—even cried at the end. The historical background is England during World War II and a BBC radio show, “The Kitchen Front,” that gave recipes to British housewives using only the rations granted. The story revolves around four women who enter a cooking contest, with prize being co-hosting the radio show.  (I also read The Underground Library, 2024, by the same author, another WWII historical novel of the library set up in an underground shelter in London during the blitz.)

Richard Powers, Playground (2024): Fascinating tale of four people whose lives finally converge on the island of Makatea, on the verge of a decision that will determine its future. The playground is 1) the ocean, the real protagonist of the book—its vastness, beauty, life, and endless variety and 2) a brilliant AI platform named “Playground” that threatens to overpower human intelligence. In a sense the book represents the contest between artificial intelligence, humanity, and the mysteries of nature.

Barbara Kingsolver, Prodigal Summer (2000): Takes place in the farms and forests of Southern Appalachia in a humid summer when everything seems to procreating—plants, animals, and complicated human beings. Three intertwined stories of people trying to find their relationship with nature—and with each other.

Linda Sue Part, A Single Shard (2001): This Newbury Award winner is the haunting story of an orphan boy in 12^th century China, homeless and living with an older man who is crippled. The boy, Tree-ear, becomes enchanted with the beautiful celadon pottery and is apprenticed to one of the skilled artists. Shows the boy growing, maturing, taking a great risk, and being rewarded beyond his expectations.

Ariel Lawhon, The Frozen River (2023): A stunning story based on the true history of Martha Ballard, a mid-wife and healer in colonial Maine, 1789. Martha becomes involved in solving a murder mystery, fighting the injustice of men in the town who are leaders and oppressors. I loved it for the view of colonial life; a midwife’s profession; the brave, intelligent, honest heroine; and the portrayal of a good marriage. A bit of brutality, but the topic was brutal and the author did not fudge. Or exaggerate.

Marie Benedict, The Mitford Affair (2023): Historical novel based on the Mitford sisters in upper society London in the years leading up to WWII. Two of the sisters become fascists, even being drawn into Hitler’s inner circle. The political and the personal intertwine when another of the sisters has to made a decision between family and country.

Marie Benedict, The Queens of Crime (2025): Incredibly clever plot has a group of female crime writers join to solve a real crime and thus prove their worth to the male writers who don’t give them their due respect. The leader of the group is Dorothy Sayers and her cohort is Agatha Christie, which makes the book especially fun to read.

 

Non-Fiction

John Simpson, The Word Detective: Searching for the Meaning of It All in the Oxford English Dictionary: A Memoir (2016): Simpson spent over four decades working for the OED, the last 20 of those years as Chief Editor. He relates the later history of the OED, from 1976 to 2013, including its breakthrough into the age of the Internet, making it accessible to the masses (me) as never before.

Alistar McGrath, C.S. Lewis: A Life (2013): Best biography of Lewis I’ve read. Learned a lot about his relationship with Mrs. Moore, his response to the war (refusing to deal with it), his relationship to Tolkien, the conflicts with Oxford, and his relationship with Joy. A treasure.

Connie Dawson, John Wimber: His Life and Ministry (2021): I learned a lot of details about his life, and especially his struggles and the attacks against him. The book summarized the tremendous influence of his life on the church.

Carolyn Maull McKinstry While the World Watched: A Birmingham Bombing Survivor Comes of Age during the Civil Rights Movement (2011): The author was a child and a member of the Birmingham Sixteenth Street Baptist Church that was bombed on Sept. 15, 1963. She tells the story of her experience, with background of the whole civil rights movement especially in Alabama. She details aftermath of the bombing, how it affected the country and how it affected her. Excellent resource for understanding the suffering from the black point of view.

Claire Hoffman, Sister, Sinner: The Miraculous Life and Mysterious Disappearance of Aimee Semple McPherson (2025): An incredible history and a well-documented book. Tracks her rise to fame as a powerful Spirit-filled preacher and evangelist, to the point where her crusades attracted thousands. Her mysterious disappearance in 1926 and later strange reappearance sparked controversy and court cases that drug on for several years and tarnished her reputation. Good book about a complex person.

Bianca Bosker, Get the Picture: a mind-bending journey among the inspired artists and obsession art fiends who taught me how to see (2024): Bosker, a journalist, decides to dive into the contemporary art scene in NYC, trying to understand the art, and why art in general matters. Has incredible experiences in the five years she ends up spending there. In some ways it reads like an anthropological case study. Fascinating.

Safiya Sinclair, How To Say Babylon: A Memoir (2023): One of the best books I’ve read this year. Sinclair tells of growing up in the Rastafarian sect in Jamaica, a “communistic Christian commune.” Learning about the sect was fascinating, but Sinclair’s personal story griped me more. In this male dominated culture, with the father as autocrat, she was abused into believing she had no worth. This is the story of her coming to discover her identity and rise to become a recognized writer and poet. A tribute to the human spirit.

Kristin Gault, The Way We Walked: Friendship, Faith and the Camino de Santiago (2025): the book chronicles the walk Kristin (my daughter) and her friend Heather took on the famous Camino de Santiago, starting in mid-Portugal and following the coast up to the northern Spanish city of Santiago, with its famous cathedral. Details the challenges the women faced—physical, mental, spiritual— the transformation it worked, and the satisfaction on reaching the goal. Interesting description, with lots of humor, as well as inspiration.

Poetry

Nancy Thomas, editor, An Arc of Grace: selections by Quaker poets of the Pacific Northwest (2026): Maybe putting this book on the list is cheating because it isn’t published yet. But I spent a good part of the year with the poems of 14 good Quaker poets, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. The book includes black-and-white photos of various Quaker photographers to match the mood of the poems. Prepare to purchase! And enjoy!

Note: I am posting this blog from a hospital bed! Much to my surprise! (Do you see how devoted I am to keeping up on my blog?) Fortunately I wrote it yesterday.

House of Bread

 But out of you, Bethlehem Ephrathah … will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel.  (Micah 5:2)

I once spent an afternoon in Laja.
A small town on the Bolivian altiplano,
Laja is a village of bakers.
People all over the region
seek out pan de Laja,
a flatbread made of wheat,
water, oil and pinches of salt,
sugar and yeast. Its taste gives
me a sense of high lands,
open skies, and distant Andean peaks

My friend, Victoria,
comes from Laja. Her father
bakes bread for a living.
I spent an afternoon with Vicki’s
dad, kneading dough, forming small globes,
letting them rise, pancaking them,
then shoveling the bread
in the adobe oven
with a long wooden spatula.
I felt proud, at the end of the day,
of my accomplishments.

Laja gives life
to the surrounding communities.

Bethlehem, House of Bread, a small town
in the Judean foothills, is also known
for a product that blesses surrounding
communities in ever widening ripples.
Sought after by some, rejected by others.
The Bread of Life.

                       The name, Bethlehem, in Hebrew means "house of bread."

nancyjthomas.com