Years later, I don’t know exactly when, I began to listen to my heart and discovered the oddest desire:
I wanted to go home.
I longed to return to the uncommon music of common speech in our foothills and mountains, to hear “ain’t” for aren’t, and “tote” for carry.
I wanted to eat a smashed-flat pimiento cheese sandwich from a drugstore soda fountain grill, and hear a church bell toll the hour. Most of all, I wanted to be where people stopped to pass the time of day, and really seemed to care about each other.
But living in cities can exact a high price.
It can make us skeptical that such places—and such people—still exist.
I wondered if there were any towns left where children go safely to drugstores and libraries, watched by caring eyes.
I wondered if there were still magical places where we really know our neighbors, and where a few happy dogs roam Main Street.
The answer, I found, is yes.
I know, because I live in a town like this.
Better still, I’ve visited such places all over America, as I tour for my Mitford books.
I’ve found Mitford in Milford (Michigan), in Manteo (North Carolina), in Montrose (California), and even in certain neighborhoods of Manhattan. There are Mitfords everywhere!
All of which goes to prove one thing:
Mitford isn’t about place. It’s about community. And community happens wherever “two or more are gathered together.”
* * *
“Mitford is about connecting with each other. This takes time we don’t really have, but must be willing to make.”
* * *
Mitford (or Milford or Montrose) is wherever people still care for each other, and are willing to go out of their way to demonstrate it.
In my novels, Esther Bolick helps make Mitford real every time she bakes her legendary Orange Marmalade Cake and carries it to some deserving (or undeserving) soul.
To be on the receiving end of Esther’s cake makes you feel cared about and loved. To be on the giving end of Esther’s cake makes her feel she’s loved back.
It’s so simple, really, this thing of sharing and giving and, ultimately, connecting.
Besides, life is short, and why wait for surgery to open our hearts?
It’s also simple enough to give away a hug once in a while, for Pete’s sake.
In A Light in the Window, Father Tim phoned Miss Sadie and found his elderly parishioner sounding a bit weary.
“It seems to me you could use a hug,” he said.
“A hug?”
“Have you had one since Sunday?”
“Not that I can think of, but the man doing the plasterwork shook my hand.”
“I’ll be right up,” he said.
“Mush and double mush!” Dooley might say about the suspect business of hugging.
That Dooley. Not only has he changed Father Tim’s life, he’s changed mine.
For example, I might once have said, “What a perfectly glorious sunset, it’s like watercolors run wild in the heavens!” Now, I might simply say, with feeling, “Man!” Dooley Barlowe is possibly the first character in fiction to rob its author of civilized speech.
Which reminds me. Many of the people in Mitford are easily delighted—by sunsets, cakes, or hugs. In fact, a sunset once emptied Lord’s Chapel of its cleanup crew in These High, Green Hills. They dropped their mops and brooms and hurried up Old Church Lane to see banners of crimson unfurling above blue mountains, which caused them to gasp with wonder.
I, too, am easily delighted.
In fact, my sister-in-law says I can make more out of nothing than anyone she knows, meaning, perhaps, the way I can be perfectly enthralled by a pattern of light upon a pond, or a ladybug crawling in the grass.
Something out of nothing! Isn’t that the very crux of the creative process? Isn’t that, in the end, one of the great keys to living?
I love the way Uncle Billy takes a long-term, difficult marriage to the fierce Miss Rose, and molds it into a good life, no matter what.
One of the ways he takes the edge off hard times is by telling jokes.
Now, Uncle Billy is careful about his jokes; he doesn’t tell just any old joke that comes along. For example, he’s known for having a new joke every spring, which he carefully sifts from those heard at the Grill, or found in the pages of the venerable Farmer’s Almanac.
To prepare, he tells it over and over to himself, so he fully understands the meaning and doesn’t, as I recently did before six hundred people, forget the part that makes the punch line work.
Thus, just as I’ve learned a new vocabulary from Dooley, I’ve learned joke-telling from Uncle Billy. Shy all my life about telling jokes, I’ve started telling his to anyone who’ll listen, and I can now recommend this as the most delicious therapy!
I do hope you’ll try it yourself, though we can’t be certain whether you’ll attract new friends or, possibly, lose one or two!
Speaking of friends, I knew very few people when I moved to the village of Blowing Rock, which sits atop the mountain above Lenoir.
The first thing I did was look for a church, for I’m convinced that one mustn’t wait for people to reach out—we must reach in.
I became a lay reader, I volunteered to help in the kitchen, I worked hard on special fund-raisers.
Joining “a family of faith” in a church or synagogue can give us just that: a family. And the best way to get started being family is to jump in with both feet.
Next week, I’ll be reading my children’s book Miss Fannie’s Hat to the children at our volunteer library.
“Goodness!” said a friend. “I don’t see how you have time to read a book to children!”
If I can’t find such precious time, then I’d better stop writing Mitford books. After all, if Mitford isn’t real in my own life, how can I make it real for my readers?
Bottom line, this is what I believe:
If Mitford is to become real, we must become real.
And being real has everything to do with being whole.
Being whole, I’ve learned, greatly depends upon acknowledging the spiritual part of our natures. We can ignore this crucial part of our being until it withers and dies, or we can nurture it until it flourishes and shines.
I keep a quote book, as does Father Tim. In it, I’ve recorded something the brilliant young French mathematician Blaise Pascal said:
“There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of every person, and it can never be filled by any created thing. It can only be filled by God….”
Father Tim knows God loves us and that we really matter to Him.
However, Buck Leeper, Pauline Barlowe, and the man in the attic couldn’t possibly believe that God loves us even when we aren’t lovable. Then, one day, on faith alone, they began to believe, to allow their God vacuum to be filled, and their hearts and lives were transformed.
You’ll notice that Father Tim is a “praying priest.” Because he believes God is real and living, he prays often. That’s how he connects with Him—about the big things, about the very smallest things. And he doesn’t always pray from the prayer book, he prays straight from the heart.
In my first novel, At Home in Mitford, he utters daily a prayer taught him by his grandmother:
“Lord, make me a blessing to someone today.”
Frail and human though he is, I believe this prayer may be part of what helps Father Tim stay open to everyone he meets—from the down-and-out, toothless Harley Welch to an often ill-tempered secretary, not to mention a man who owns but one pair of britches and lives in the woods.
Another way of becoming whole is through forgiveness.
In These High, Green Hills, Father Tim and Cynthia were desperately lost in a wild cave.
As you may know, I’m not one for making fancy literary metaphors. Yet, as I wrote these scenes, it became clear to me and to my main character that this impenetrably dark labyrinth illustrated Father Tim’s terrible
helplessness in the relationship with his long-deceased father.
At the age of sixty-four, the village priest who had helped so many find the grace to forgive was finally able to forgive his embittered, controlling father—who had damaged his view of a divine Father.
After Father Tim and Cynthia’s rescue, she marveled at finding something lighter, something freer in her husband.
In Father Tim’s act of forgiveness, his heart was melted; an old wall had crumbled.
Faith, prayer, and forgiveness, then, can free us to do something that is characteristic of Mitford:
We become able, at last, to care more deeply about each other.
There’s one last thing I’d like to say about Esther Bolick, who shows her care for others by baking cakes.
For the first year or two, Esther was asked to bake fourteen two-layers for the annual Bane and Blessing sale at Mitford’s Lord’s Chapel.
Then, in ensuing years, she was expected to bake fourteen two-layers.
Have you ever baked fourteen two-layer cakes? I haven’t and I hope I never do! But Esther, you see, was willing to stand on her feet over a hot oven for the many hours it takes to accomplish such a task.
That is how Esther loves. That is how Esther gives. What would Mitford be without Esther Bolick?
As most of you already know, Mitford doesn’t come cheap. It doesn’t come easy. And it doesn’t come free.
Because Mitford is about doing and giving and feeling and trying, and stretching ourselves to be all God made us to be.
One of the quotes in my ever-expanding quote book is from the great John Wesley (1703–1791), who said:
“Do all the good you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as you ever can.”
Wherever even part of this challenging philosophy is lived out, I faithfully promise you this:
Mitford will be real.
Tending to the Needs: Blessings at Mealtime
In A New Song, Father Tim does what retired clergy do—he goes to supply a pulpit as an interim priest.
After a long night of being hopelessly lost, caught in a storm, occupying the wrong beach house, and generally suffering the indignities of moving to a strange place, he and Cynthia sit down to breakfast with Marion and Sam Fieldwalker.
These dear, long-time parishioners of St. John’s in the Grove have just introduced the Kavanaghs to the charming small house where they’ll live for a year near the ocean. And as if this sparkling cottage weren’t enough, Marion has prepared a celebratory breakfast.
He’d faced it time and again in his years as a priest—how do you pour out a heart full of thanksgiving in a way that even dimly expresses your joy?
He reached for the hands of the Fieldwalkers and bowed his head.
“‘Father, you’re so good,’” he begins. And he begins aright. When we pray, let us first acknowledge the One Who gives us life and breath.
“‘So good to bring us out of the storm into the light of this blessed new day, and into the company of these new friends.’” If you or someone else at the table has recently received a blessing—and who hasn’t, if you think about it—why not thank Him for it, right up front?
“‘Touch, Lord, the hands and heart and spirit of Marion, who prepared this food for us when she might have done something more important.’”
What a blessing it confers on the cook to be remembered!
Father Tim moves along quickly, now, as the fragrance rises off the platter of crisply fried perch and the pot of strong coffee, hard by a bowl of sliced cantaloupe and a pan of homemade biscuits, already buttered.
“‘Lord, we could be here all morning only thanking You, but we intend to press forward and enjoy the pleasures of this glorious feast which You have, by Your grace, put before us.’”
By Your grace, says Father Tim. That is precisely how food shows up on our table, no matter how hard we’ve worked for it, shopped for it, or sacrificed for it.
“‘We thank You…for Your goodness and mercy, and for tending to the needs of those less fortunate, in Jesus’ name.’”
This prayer spanned roughly thirty-five seconds. Yet it accomplished so much, and took so little time from the twenty-four hours He gives us daily.
While our priest specifically thanked God for tending to the needs of those less fortunate, the prayer also tended to other important needs.
For example, giving thanks makes us feel good. It helps keep us in balance. It connects us to God, no matter how simple the thanks may be.
And, I notice that when thanks are given, some new feeling, quite subtle but real, infuses us all, making the meal more special and our time together more precious.
Amen.
SHE HAD PUT the glass plates on a green wicker table, with a sprinkle of white lace cloth. There were old-fashioned roses in a vase, and a tall pitcher of sweetened tea. They sat down to lunch, and Miss Sadie held her hands out to the rector.
“At Fernbank,” she said, “we always hold hands when we say the blessing.”
He prayed with a contented heart. “Accept, O Lord, our thanks and praise for all that You’ve done for us. We thank You for the blessing of family and friends, and for the loving care which surrounds us on every side. Above all, we give You thanks for the great mercies and promises given to us in Christ Jesus our Lord, in whose name we pray.”
At Home in Mitford, Ch. 5
THERE WAS A quickening in the air of the mayor’s office. Ray was setting out his home-cooked supper on the vast desktop, overlooked by pictures of their twenty-three grandchildren at the far end.
“Mayor,” said Leonard Bostick, “it’s a cryin’ shame you cain’t cook as good as Ray.”
“I’ve got better things to do,” she snapped. “I did the cookin’ for forty years. Now it’s his turn.”
“Whooee!” said Paul Hartley. “Baby backs! Get over here, Father, and give us a blessin’.”
“Come on!” shouted the mayor to the group lingering in the hall. “It’s blessin’ time!”
Esther Cunningham held out her hands, and the group eagerly formed a circle.
“Our Lord,” said the rector, “we’re grateful for the gift of friends and neighbors and those willing to lend their hand to the welfare of this place. We thank You for the peace of this village and for Your grace to do the work that lies ahead. We thank You, too, for this food and ask a special blessing on the one who prepared it. In Jesus’ name.”
“Amen!” said the assembly.
A Light in the Window, Ch. 1
ESTHER BOLICK RANG the bell for silence in the parish hall.
“I’m glad,” said Stuart Cullen, “that Lord’s Chapel hasn’t grown too big for us to hold hands around the table.”
The excited throng formed a circle, as someone fetched Rebecca Jane Owen from under a folding chair and rescued five-year-old Amy Larkin from the hot pursuit of a mechanical toy run amok from the nursery.
“Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for all Thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
A Light in the Window, Ch. 20
MISS SADIE WAS wearing a blue dress with an ecru lace collar and one of her mother’s hand-painted brooches. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her looking finer. Her wrist appeared almost normal, and the car key was hanging on a hook in the kitchen, untouched in recent months, thanks be to God!
They sat down to green beans and corn bread, with glasses of cold milk all around, and held hands as he asked the blessing.
“Lord, we thank You for the richness of this life and our friendship, and for this hot, golden-crusted corn bread. Please bless the hands that prepared it, and make us ever mindful of the needs of others.”
These High, Green Hills, Ch. 13
“LOW-FAT MEAT LOAF, hot from the oven!” he announced, setting the sizzling platter on the table.
Louella wrinkled her nose. “Low-fat? Pass it on by, honey, you can skip this chile!
”
“Don’t skip this ’un,” said Harley.
“He was only kidding,” Cynthia declared. “In truth, it contains everything our doctors ever warned us about.”
He saw the light in Pauline’s face, the softness of expression as she looked upon her scrubbed and freckled children. Thanks be to God! Three out of five…
He sat down, feeling expansive, and shook out one of the linen napkins left behind, he was amused to recall, by an old bishop who once lived here.
He waited until all hands were clasped, linking them together in a circle.
“Our God and our Father, we thank You!” he began.
“Thank you, Jesus!” boomed Louella in happy accord.
“We thank You with full hearts for this family gathered here tonight, and ask Your mercy and blessings upon all those who hunger, not only for sustenance, but for the joy, the peace, and the one true salvation which You, through Your Son, freely offer….”
They had just said “Amen!” when the doorbell rang.
Out to Canaan, Ch. 11
IF LAST NIGHT had been a nightmare, this was a dream come true. The sun streamed through a sparkling bay window and splashed across the broad window seat. Bare hardwood floors shone under a fresh coat of wax.
“You see just there?” Marion pointed out the window. “That patch of blue between the dunes? That’s the ocean!” She proclaimed this as if the ocean belonged to her personally, and she was thrilled to share it.
“Come and have your breakfast,” said Sam, holding the chair for Cynthia.
“Dearest, do you think it possible that yesterday in that brutal storm we somehow died, and are now in heaven?”
“Not only possible, but very likely!”
He’d faced it time and again in his years as a priest—how do you pour out a heart full of thanksgiving in a way that even dimly expresses your joy?
He reached for the hands of the Fieldwalkers and bowed his head.
“Father, You’re so good. So good to bring us out of the storm into the light of this blessed new day, and into the company of these new friends.