My book club recently celebrated its one-year anniversary with a fun twist. Instead of having a book for February that we all read, we had a “book report” meeting. Everyone read a book of their choosing and then chatted about it with the rest of the group.

We were also encouraged to bring a little snack to share, with bonus points if it was somehow related to the book we were sharing. How we shared was entirely up to each person. The organizer encouraged us to “Feel free to keep it simple/casual and just tell us the synopsis of the book and what you thought of your book . . . or go all in and set up a poster board/wear a costume . . . anything goes!”

I chose Earth’s the Right Place for Love by Elizabeth Berg, which I loved, but I decided to do my “report” on her collected works—so less a report and more a complete fan-girl happy blurt. 

I went to my local library, the wonderful Terrace Public Library, and literally signed out every book they had of hers (less the ones that were already in the clutches of other patrons). Then, when it was my turn to share at book club, I set the books out and gave rave reviews of each of her present titles, plus a good few that weren’t there. One of the ones that was missing was A Year of Pleasures—and I was deeply sad about that because, as I explained to the group, it was the first novel I read by her, the one that kicked off a lifelong love for all of her books. 

There is something about her characters and storylines that resonates with me in such a deep way that it almost feels holy. A regular theme of hers is the power of seemingly little or simple things and friendships to heal grief and bring meaning to life, etc. (I guess it makes sense that her exploration of such ideas clicks with me, as that’s something I like to explore in my stories too.) Her novels are easy to read, often great fun, and simultaneously beautifully written and profoundly insightful. I never fail to find her work infinitely comforting and encouraging. 

Once, going through something complicated with my daughter, I was driving mindlessly, filled with confusion and sorrow, and a thought hit me: I need to read an Elizabeth Berg book. I went directly to the library and found, miracle of miracles, two books by her that I hadn’t yet read. One was Tapestry of Fortunes. It was precisely the balm and wisdom I needed.

Anyway, the book club meeting wrapped up (I felt I had successfully pulled at least a few readers into Elizabeth’s circle. Goal accomplished!), but I was still sad that A Year of Pleasures hadn’t been available for me to rave about in person. Since it was so heavy on my mind, I decided I needed it in my personal library, and I ordered a copy. 

I rarely reread books because of the truth in the old (modern?) adage, “Too many books, too little time,” but there are a handful of special ones I revisit. I was nervous about rereading A Year of Pleasures, however, because I’ve also had it happen where I’ve picked up a book I remembered deeply loving only to find my tastes had changed or something about failed to re-light the original passion.

Just a few pages in, though, I let out a happy exhale of relief, and a warm, peaceful, ahhhh–feeling came over me. I was going to love the reread just as much, if not more, than my original read. And then I came across words on page 51 that made me stop reading. I could only stare at the page as recognition hit. “I would try to find joy despite the necessary work of grieving, and I knew full well that work was exactly the right word to describe it.”

When my thirty-plus year marriage ended, forever changing my family and altering my view of who I was, what my life was, and what I thought I had, I went through a grief so deep I couldn’t imagine ever wading through it. (And I’m sure all too many of you can relate—have experienced some seemingly insurmountable grief or pain. I’m sorry. It’s very hard.)    Somehow, though, by Grace, God, the Universe . . . I intuited that the only way I’d survive and thrive in this new, unwelcome change was by practicing gratitude (something I’ve written about already) and by seeking out the little, wonderful things in life that just made me . . . happy. Gave me pleasure. I knew, especially at first, that it would take a lot of effort to find these bits of gratitude-inducing joy because the losses and changes I was experiencing threw a dark blanket over everything, but I was determined to not let my loss keep me from seeing or appreciating everything I was still blessed with. (So easy to say, so hard to do at times.) So, for months, I strove intentionally, every day, to do something, however small, just because it made me feel good, struck me as pretty, tasted or smelled delicious. 

I resumed reading, continuing to be held rapt by the storyline—and with increasing awareness and something like awe, as every few pages or so, there was another paragraph or one-liner that resonated with me clearly and specifically as something I had done intentionally to help me through that it was like I’d somehow scribed her book in my psyche and was using her words as instructions. 

I even started to practice yoga and found much comfort and help in it, especially in the various breathing exercises—something I didn’t remember her character having done! 

Elizabeth Berg didn’t set out to create a guide for people going through tough times when she started A Year of Pleasures (or I don’t think that she did). She was just intent on telling a riveting, moving story of a recently widowed woman trying to make her way through grief and build a new life. And the novel really is “just” a wonderfully warm, joyful, tender, touching story—and yet it became something much more to me, obviously. Unbeknownst even to me, it was also a map. One that etched itself on my heart and became a guide when I needed it most. And that is the deep, mysterious, magical power of stories. They become part of us, a wisdom, a solace, a balm . . . possibly just for the time we sink into their pages, but quite possibly in ways far deeper than that. 

As a reader, I’m so grateful to not just Elizabeth Berg but to all the other countless authors and poets whose characters, observations about life, insights, or even just beautiful, moving sentences have guided me in my life, shown me where to go next, given clues on how to pick my way through the valley of shadows, maneuver around obstacles, and revealed that there are places and countries—galaxies, even!—literally and metaphorically that in some seasons in life are nearly impossible to see on our own. 

As a writer, I can’t honestly say I’ve ever set out to write a map, and yet, while my plots are all different, each of my characters is ultimately going through something hard and wondering if they’ll make it through. It’s only in writing this now that I realize I write for many of the same reasons that I read. 

How about you, dear reader? Do you relate to that—the idea of stories being maps that help us maneuver our lives? Are there specific titles or authors who have helped you during hard times?