Some people are of the opinion that we are all wounded on one level or another. What makes the difference between us, I suppose, is how much healing has taken place and the circumstances that cause those wounds to reopen. I know this all too well in my life, and I’ve found a kindred spirit in Mary DeMuth. A fellow author, she has turned her sorrows into support; she reaches out not only to those who have survived similar experiences to hers, but, through her wounds, she reaches out to those who may be otherwise wounded.
Her memoir Thin Places exemplifies this well. Oxymoron though it may be to say, her story reads as a hopeful tragedy. One can come to understand how bad things happen to good people to make them stronger. Mary taps her memories with a raw, gritty pen. Yet she deftly strikes a balance between pain and promise, hurt and hope. The reader soon discovers the tragic childhood encounters that have, perhaps, left the deepest scars. Mary’s novels maintain a preoccupation with how children are shaken out of innocence and get dragged or set adrift into an adulthood for which they’re not ready. Thin Places gives the background reality to her fictional stories.
The phrase thin place is translated from the Celtic term caol áit (pronounced ‘kweel atch’), which describes a place where heaven and earth kiss, where the veil is removed or stretched so thin that you see, touch, know God. This could be a physical place, a situation or experience, or just a moment in time. Each vignette-like chapter of Thin Places reveals the truth of a caol áit. Just as Jacob went through a thin place at Jabbok, wrestling and in pain, each thin place in our lives comes with its struggle and hurt. But don’t forget that, though Jacob left that brook with a limp, he also left with a great blessing and a new name; so, he “called the name of the place Peniel: for I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved” (Genesis 32:30). Our anguish accomplishes something greater.
Reading this memoir can be bit of a thin place experience, as you find yourself slowing down to reflect on your own life and do some healing through Mary’s pain. You come to understand yourself and God a little better—a worthy journey. And you realize that even when we mourn our losses and suffer our hurts, we have hope that we will move beyond the agony to a place of acceptance, to a place of appreciation, of freedom.
N.B. Mary’s publisher, Zondervan, sent me a review copy of this book before its February launch.