Summary: A “travelogue of the heart” exploring human longings and the heart’s true home.
James K. A. Smith encountered an interesting detour in his doctoral studies in philosophy. Setting out to study Heidegger, he found Heidegger and his contemporaries pointing him back to Saint Augustine and the discovery that the questions and the longings of our time are the very ones Augustine addressed in his time in Confessions, captured most succinctly in his statement “You have made us for yourself and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you.”
He draws on the restlessness of the characters in Kerouac’s On the Road that impelled their travels. He follows Augustine’s route, both in terms of places, and in the longings expressed in Confessions, recounting his own travels on Augustine’s “road trip.” Smith argues that this is an authentic word to our generation, addressing ten longings: freedom, ambition, sex, mothers, friendship, enlightenment, story, justice, fathers, and death. Finally he addresses the possibility of homecoming.
Smith contends that Augustine understood that we “practice our way into freedom” by joining in the practices of Christ’s body in worship and surrender. Augustine admitted that we will do most things with mixed motives but as we are rooted in God’s love ambition is fueled with a different fire. He addresses Augustine’s flawed understanding that only celibacy could remedy promiscuity and yet recognizes that there is a freedom in not being dominated by libido and that marriage may protect us from the excesses and abuses of sexuality while offering us longed-for covenantal relationship.
It seems as each of these longings are explored on Augustine’s journey, there is a kind of transformative turn that Smith observes in Augustine. Enlightenment comes not by scaling intellectual mountains but in humbling oneself. It is in brokenness that we become good fathers.
Many think, as in Kerouac, that “the road is life.” We’ve been told, it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. But deep down we do long to arrive home. But, Smith writes:
“You can’t get there from here. But what if someone came to get you? You can’t get to that last thing, but what if it came to you? And what if that thing turned out to be a someone? And what if that someone not only knows where the end of the road is but promises to accompany you the rest of the way, to never leave you or forsake you until you arrive?”
Smith reminds us that God has come to get each of us through the cross of Jesus who has bridged our unbridgeable void.
Reading Smith makes me want to pull out Confessions again. He reminds me that for all our differences across history, we have restless hearts and deep longings in common, and we are “on the road” because we long for home.
We’ve been in the process of preparing for a remodeling project on the upper floor of our home–replacing our carpet with a wood floor. We are excited about the change but a bit overwhelmed in cleaning out closets and cupboards and shelves–the accumulations of over thirty years in a place.
For me, it also brought back memories of cleaning out my parent’s home–my childhood home–when they moved into a retirement facility back in 2005. It was a home my parents had lovingly looked after for over 60 years. My mom actually signed the papers a year after they were married, while my dad was away in the army during World War II.
The tree on the far left of the picture is a maple we bought and planted in our tree lawn for my mother on Mothers’ Day one year–now grown to the place where it had to be trimmed to avoid overhead powerlines. We all invested in caring for that place.
From the front sidewalk, you could walk to our front porch, up four steps to our front porch. We probably spent thousands of summer evenings cooling off on that porch. We used to have big green awnings to shade the porch from the afternoon sun, a big metal swing and metal porch chairs that still hang in my garage. I remember listening to Herb Score offer play-by-play accounts of Indians games on summer evenings.
The front door, with an aluminum screen door with a “T” in the middle opened into our living room. Just to the right was my mom’s yellow wing chair, now sitting in my family room. She would sit there doing crosswords or reading a book of the month book. We had a matching sofa and chair that was dull magenta to dull pink in color. At the far end of the room were bookshelves that were a treasure trove to this bookish kid. The chair was next to it and next to it our TV. We moved the chair at Christmas to make room for the tree, always decorated by my father–a work of art.
Our dining room was to the left of the front entrance. Eventuallly we had a dining room set from my grandparents, now owned by my son and daughter-in-law. My favorite spot, though was the Magnavox radio that had a short wave receiver. Sometimes, you could hear BBC broadcasts from London. Later on, my favorite spot moved to the other side of the room, where I would sprawl on the floor while talking on the phone to girls I was interested in.
Our kitchen was entered through the other doorway in our dining room, which was by the phone. I still remember meals watching my sister push vegetables around the plate or picking green peppers off pizza, trying to slip them to the dog if she could! For years we had an old GE refigerator that mom had to defrost every month or so, melting big chunks of ice off the freezer part of the fridge. We always had dogs and the dog’s water and food dish was at the base of the stove. We had no dishwasher. Mom usually washed and rinsed the dishes in the single sink and then put them on the drainer for me to dry and put away. Blocked by the table was a door to an above-ground back porch that was kind of a forbidden kingdom–we never went out there–perhaps because it was about 8-10 feet above ground.
Behind where my dad always sat, were steps down to the basement. At the bottom of the steps, my dad had a desk and some shelves. Later on, we inherited a pool table from my sister when she moved out west and it was a favorite place for my dad and son to spend time together playing pool. At the center of the basement was our furnace, an old Janitrol that lasted forever–as long as the house. On the other side was a water heater. But my favorite spot was my dad’s workbench with his tools and baby food jars with all kinds of screws and nails (which we had to dispose of years later!). But it was the place where I’d make rubber band guns and fix my bike. To the left of the workbench was all my dad’s fishing gear. Next to the work bench area to the left was our old coal cellar, which was used for that purpose before we got a gas furnace. It was basically storage for summer furniture and Christmas decorations. The laundry tubs and washing machine were on the far side of the basement–no dryer. My mom had lines strung back and forth in the basement, so on laundry days, you had to dodge the wash. There was a back door that exited onto our back yard. Since the house was built on an incline, it was ground level.
Back up the steps, through the kitchen, dining room, and living room, up one step to our closet (a step my mom slipped on and broke her ankle when my sister was young, and I tripped on, banging into the wall leaving a dent in the plaster until we repaired it). Then you turned left and took the steps upstairs. The bathroom was at the top of the steps (the bathroom for a family of five–I don’t know how we managed–but there was no lingering in the bathroom!). We had an old clawfoot tub that would probably be worth a fortune today where we took our Saturday night baths (and always had to make sure we scrubbed out to not leave a ring!).
At the top of the steps, the two front bedrooms were on the left. The front bedroom to the right was my parents’, and first me, and then my sister, slept there when young. The front bedroom on the left was my brother’s, until he got married, when it became my room. I spent my teen years there, listening to my stereo and seeing how loud I could play it before my parents said, “turn that thing down!” I had a dresser and chest of drawers that are now in my son’s house. There was also a back bedroom, which was my bedroom until my brother married and then my sister’s. I remember building things with my Erector set and experimenting with a little kit on learning about electricity. I remember getting more ambitious and, at one point, blowing every fuse in the house–yes, that was back in the day of fuses. I also remember loving to look out my back window. Looking straight east, I could see the Home Savings building, and then off to the left, the glow of the mills.
The hallway was also a favorite hangout. We had a set of bookshelves with two beer steins on top. In the shelves was a set of Colliers’ encyclopedias with annual yearbooks that I used for many school assignments. Sometimes it was just fun to pull out a volume and page through until I found an interesting article. The encyclopedias are long gone, and out of date, but the bookshelves are behind me, just to my left, as I write.
As we cleaned out the house, there were memories in every room, even as we are coming across memories of past years in our current cleanout project. We had memories in my parents’ house of holiday parties, birthdays and anniversaries and graduations, meeting girlfriends and boyfriends, eventually sons- and daughters-in law. There were warm memories of prayers and talks before bed. And some fights as well. No family is without them. But so many of the memories were just of every day life–nothing special at the time but ultimately, the most special, because all of them woven together represented home.
It was sad to see what happened in the years that followed my parents moving away. From what I can tell, the house was only lived in for a short while. The bushes were not being trimmed (even when my mom’s vision had diminished, she could spot where I had missed trimming even a single stem!). Then the house was vacant. Scrappers stripped off lower courses of siding and who knows what else. And somewhere around 2015 or so, the house was razed by the city, like so many others. Too many homes and not enough jobs or people.
Thomas Wolfe wrote a novel title You Can’t Go Home Again. That is literally true for me. What made me sad when I saw the empty lot that was formerly my home was not the loss of memories. I carry them with me, along with physical objects from that home. That yellow chair of my mother’s? I can still smell her perfume in that chair! That house will be part of my memories as long as I have memories. That sadness was not the loss of memories, but that there were not others who would lovingly care for that place as we did, especially as my parents did through most of their nearly 69 years of marriage. But the memories remain.
To read other posts in the Growing Up in Working Class Youngstown series, just click “On Youngstown.”Enjoy!
The home I grew up in. (Photo taken by Carol E Campbell)
It has been four to five years since I last drove down my home street. At that time, it was clear that a number of houses, including the one I grew up in, were vacant. Siding had been stripped off part of our old house. I had the sinking feeling that I was watching the death of a loved one.
The other day, my sister-in-law wrote to me that the old house was no more, that there was simply a vacant lot where it once stood. Somehow, I knew that was coming. Yet just eleven years ago, in 2006, it was one of the best kept houses on the street. My parents put a lot of love and care into the house they lived in for 65 years in which they raised three children. They finally sold it when health reasons suggested that it was time to move into a retirement community. That it took less than eleven years to destroy that home reflects the tragedy of Youngstown — the depopulation that followed years of corrupt and self-serving political leadership and rapacious industry that took the labor of the city’s workers, took the profits, and left the city desolate. A city of just over 60,000 can’t sustain a housing stock built for 170,000. The truth is empty houses are targets of opportunity, and the natural elements combined with human elements will quickly destroy even the best kept home, once abandoned. At least the city is tearing these homes down.
Yes, I’m angry that this could happen to what was once a perfectly good home. Not that I want to go back — when we’ve moved we’ve given thanks for what the home has meant to us, prayed a blessing over it for those who would follow, and not looked back. We are not going to be knocking on the doors of owners of places we once lived to look around!
But it is sad that the place filled with so many memories is no more. These were some of mine, which I write down against the day I may not remember them or be around to do so!
There was the front porch that was the coolest place on many summer evenings–a place of family conversation, listening to Indians games, cold glasses of lemonade, the old metal porch swing.
The front door with the button lock in the door that would mean you’d need to use a kitchen knife to get the door open. My mom was really good at that.
The living room where we shared so many Christmas mornings around the tree Dad so exquisitely decorated, albeit with lots of cussing and muttering when the lights would tangle or he couldn’t get it to stand straight! My mom always sat in her yellow wing chair, that now sits in our family room, police radio on the table beside her.
The dining room, where we shared so many Thanksgiving dinners. Eventually the buffet and table of my grandparents filled the room. I also used to love to listen to the shortwave receiver that was part of the radio/record player console and hear stations from Europe, Canada, and elsewhere.
The kitchen, with the old stove and the table around which we shared so many meals, so many stories, political discussions, and sometimes arguments. There was usually a dog dish around, and a dog we’d sometimes slip things from the table.
Down the stairs was a basement. I remember the HO slot car layout along one wall that I would spend hours with my friends racing cars. In one corner was my dad’s desk, where he would bring home work, pay bills, and listen to his polkas when they bothered mom. In later years there was a pool table that my son and my father played many games together. We captured a picture of them at it, probably one of the last times they played.
Along another wall was an old workbench and table, and above them a pegboard with tools and shelves with baby food jars filled with nails, screws, nuts, bolt, etc. I used to love to tinker there with scrap pieces of wood, making rubber band guns. The furnace and water heater were in the middle of the basement. The washer on another wall with laundry tubs. They never bought a dryer, hanging clothes on the clothes lines strung back and forth from the basement rafters. In one corner where our front and side walls met was a coal cellar, from the days when the house was heated by a coal furnace. It was where summer stuff was stored in winter, along with Christmas decorations, and other odds and ends, including an old Western Flyer bike we rehabbed for me.
We had three bedrooms upstairs and I slept in one or the other at some time in my life. My parents was on one side of the front, and I had a small bed there in my early years. I moved to the back bedroom to make room for my sister. I used to love looking out the window where I could see downtown. I had a battery powered electricity kit, and later built contraptions with an Erector set. Finally, when my brother married, I moved to the other front bedroom that had more space. This was where I had the stereo I bought where I would listen to WDVE from Pittsburgh and would play rock music as loud as my parents would let me.
There was a light in the hallway we left on at night, under which the dog usually slept. Across from it was a bookcase filled with encyclopedia volumes where I could explore the world for hours on indoor days. That bookshelf, though not the encyclopedias, is just to my left as I write this post.
Outside was the garage, which my dad and his father-in-law put up on supports while they built a foundation, filled it in and raised it 4-5 feet. I can only imagine how hard they worked to do that. What I most remember about that garage was that one or the other of us was always breaking windows, until dad made me replace and repair them myself. Somehow, I didn’t break any more after that.
I feel like I’m just getting started. We were a real family in that house, with all sorts of ups and downs, many good memories, and some not so good, but all part of the fabric of my life. Yes, it saddens me that the structure is not there and that this is a story that has been repeated numerous times in many good places around the city. But that house and all the memories we made in it lives on in my mind, in the stories we tell our families about those days, and in the people each of us are. And perhaps the great, good places so many of our homes and neighborhoods were might offer hope to those homesteading in the city, and trying to rebuild parts of the city. May they make many new and good memories in those places!
I read Gilead and Home several years ago and have Lila on my “want to read” list. So when I heard that Marilynne Robinson was speaking at Northwestern University while I was at a work conference near O’Hare Airport, I jumped on the opportunity to go hear her. She was speaking on “Our Elegant Universe: Is Beauty an Accident?” as part of a program called The Veritas Forum. She gave a prepared talk on the theme and then participated in a question and answer period with an audience of at least 500. I scribbled some notes from the talk and Q and A time. This is not a verbatim rendering, but rather a summary that I hope is faithful to her words and thought. I thought others who love Robinson’s work might enjoy this, and those who have not discovered it might try one of her novels.
In her presentation, she argued that the beauty of the world, the elegance of the universe (of which she sees us a part) is no accident. She thinks that science and theology ought not be at war over these things when in fact both perceive the grandeur of the creation. She contended for a “divine freedom that precedes reality” and that materialist explanations don’t allow for that which is beyond our own experience. She sees in the sheer variety of beauty,rather than being one thing, the grace of God.
Here are some of the questions she discussed following her presentation:
What is a day like in the life of Marilynne Robinson? Has that changed since Gilead?
Not really. I am a solitary creature surrounded by many, many books. My sister visits me a couple hours a week to connect me to the outer world. Otherwise I stay in my house except for walks which I’m told are good for my circulation. Otherwise, I stay in my house. I like my life but many would not find it enviable. I’m a monk, basically.
Was there a “conversion moment” in your life.
I can’t remember any “dawning”. I never thought of myself as other than Christian. I almost went to divinity school except that there weren’t many opportunities for women. I went to graduate school instead. I was always good at writing. My brother encouraged me and Housekeeping was kind of a family artifact. But as for my Christian experience, I would describe it as uniformity with enriching.
Have you ever thought that the Christian subject matter of your novels would limit your audience?
I never considered it. I was never a careerist. I wrote about what interested me. I was surprised by the reception of Gilead. I don’t think about my readership. I’m just glad they are there. Writers should trust their own insights and trust the interests of the public.
When you look at the world, do you ever think evil overcomes beauty? Does this argue against God?
Most people throughout history have lived with great afflictions and yet many have produced works of incredible beauty in the belief that there is something beyond evil and suffering.
Is God beauty?
Beauty is a signature of the divine. But nothing is identical with God — that would be blasphemy.
What challenge would you leave with students?
Two things:
1. Remember who you are, the flower of the universe. You can do all kinds of things and you won’t know until you try!
2. Read the primary sources!
This is a much-edited version of 90 minutes of presentation and dialogue. Besides the fact that she lives surrounded by many books (!), it was a delight to spend an evening considering the beautiful aspect of our pursuit of the good, the true, and the beautiful. Others may see beauty in a world without God but what struck me was the seamless arc between her perception of the beauty that finds its source in God and the beauty manifest in her writing. I for one am glad she simply writes what interests her. I’m thankful that she has given expression to this and trusted to the interests of her audience for in so doing she has given us great works of beauty.
Usually I write one of these Youngstown posts a week. But my post yesterday on “Diaspora’ elicited an amazing number of responses (over 90 at last count!) to my question, “if you’ve left, would you ever think of returning?” One of the things I realized after the post was that I did not answer the question myself. So I thought I would take the time today to say a bit about that and to respond in general to your comments.
A bit of personal biography. I moved from Youngstown after finishing college in 1976 to work with the collegiate ministry organization I still work with–it is a great organization and I count myself blessed to have spent my adult life working with them–maybe that reflects an old Youngstown value as well. So I departed from Youngstown before 1978 and the closure of the mills. Since leaving, I’ve lived in four Ohio towns–Delaware, Toledo, Cleveland, and for the last 24 years, Columbus. So while I left, I never strayed very far! My wife (also from Youngstown) and I were married in June of 1978 and she joined me in Toledo and worked for several years on the city desk of the Toledo Blade.
For most of our married life, until 2012, we had at least one living parent in Youngstown, and so visited regularly. We still have friends in the Youngstown area and connections with several Youngstown area churches that help fund our collegiate ministry work. So, in our case, it seems we will continue to make regular pilgrimages back to the area.
To be honest, we find ourselves with mixed feelings when we visit. We rejoice in the rejuvenated downtown, the continued growth of Youngstown State (of which we are proud alumni!), the renewed attention to protecting the treasure that is Mill Creek Park, the continued excellence of St Elizabeth’s, which nursed my parents through several serious illnesses before they passed. Perhaps the greatest heartbreak is the decline that is evident in some once beautiful neighborhoods, including the one I grew up in. The house I grew up in, last I knew,was vacant and ‘strippers’ had apparently been at work removing siding, and who knows what else. I heard at one point that it might be slated to be demolished. I haven’t gone back and looked.
My home in its better days.
Would we return? I’ve learned never to say “never” to God, so I won’t say that! But like a number who commented, we have put roots down in Columbus, and our son and his wife and work I love are here. I think Youngstown actually taught us to love the place, the people, the institutions of the town you are in, and that is so for us with Columbus. But like many of you who do not plan to return, we always remember, and frequently talk about, and keep in touch with Youngstown. Every town we have lived in has had its problems, including our current home, so it just seems wrong for me to point fingers at others. I would much rather both remember Youngstown’s rich past and its impact on my life as well as celebrate the present victories and future hopes of those who call it home.
I was amazed by how many who responded to the blog had returned to Youngstown and were glad they did. That is so part of the diaspora experience. There were many others who said they would in a heartbeat. While most had wonderful things to say about Youngstown, some had negative experiences or perceptions that they would not want to relive. This is one question where there is no “right” answer, one that each of us must answer in our own ways.
It was fun to see the connections people made with each other on the Facebook comments and heartening to see the care expressed toward several who had experienced loss. I started this series of posts out of a blog post on class and having someone ask me, “what was it like to grow up in working class Youngstown?” What has surprised me is how so many have joined in this conversation, sharing memories, making connections, and offering insights that have helped me understand more about the answer to that question. You’ve reminded me of what I’d forgotten and made me think of that I’d not considered and I’m profoundly grateful. Thank you!
I’ve been thinking of other topics to write about but since this has turned into a conversation, I’d like to hear what you would be interested in seeing in these posts and talking about. And that goes for those not from Youngstown who have found things they identify with as well.
