Making Meaning

I'm a huge fan of Anne Lamott's nonfiction books, not so much her fiction. (I know I've told you this before, and it's likely I'll tell you again...and again.) I read two of her novels years ago and recently picked up "Rosie" to give it a try. I liked the story, but I definitely didn't feel the love that I do for her nonfiction. There was a conversation on the last couple pages that I haven't been able to shake though.

"Later, Grace would say, "Oh but you weren't a real alcoholic," and Elizabeth would simply shrug. She and James had been going to Alcoholics Anonymous now for six months, to meetings almost every night, one hard day at a time. When, at the end of the first meeting, everyone had joined hands to say the Lord's Prayer, Elizabeth could not remember all the words. She was still resisting; the meetings were hokey and moving, and although the room reeked of miracles, she couldn't bring herself to fall for God.

"God is just a word," said James. "It means truth, and you know, the truth shall set you free."

"Yeah?"

"To face and tell and love the truth is what they mean by 'God'."

"What they mean," said Rae, "is love. Don't let the word get in your way. It's just a convenience. All that God means is love, God is love and love is God."

"Don't beam at me like that."

"Wull, see," said Rosie. "It's like when you're totally happy, and everything seems so beautiful that you just go "God".

But although Elizabeth couldn't quite surrender, she kept on going to the meetings."

I've read so much of Lamott's work, and she's so transparent about her life. What I liked most about reading "Rosie" was recognizing the places her fictional story was infused with her own experiences. There's no doubt God is important to Anne. I really love that she doesn't box God in with a bunch of hard and fast truths. Rules. She never says, "He's this, but definitely not that." This might be my most favorite thing about her.


I keep getting tiny glimpses of how he's more than I'd once thought. That he lives in poetry and sunsets, and music that makes my heart burst. In a little girl who memorizes books and "reads" them to Daddy before bed. In text messages and hugs & kisses. Tales of Olympic athletes that reach through the t.v., send tears down my cheeks, and make me hope so hard for a total stranger. He's at the dinner table with the three of us and in the car when we hold hands on top of the gearshift. He's even in that simple bean salad that gets more ridiculously delicious each time I pull it from the fridge.