“All I knew of regular girls came from books. But my fictional friends Heidi, Pollyanna, Betsy, Anne, Sarah—none of them had regular lives either. So perhaps there were no regular girls anywhere.”
In evocative prose, Elizabeth Byler Younts draws us into the world of Brighton and Angel, a pair of Dickensian-type innocents who shine the light of kindness and courage in some very dark places.
Brighton and Angel meet while incarcerated in a mental institution as children, where their formative years are spent. There, they witness firsthand the callous treatment of women exhiled because of schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder, postpartum depression, etc. Some are committed simply because their families wish to be rid of them.
Brighton and Angel find comfort in books, songs, nurturing adults, and each other. Still, I found parts of this story tough to read and, at first, wanted to leave this fictional world behind.
However, the story worked on me and revealed my prejudices. As I allowed myself to be pulled into the book, I saw a reason to value the characters—for these poor women, no matter how far gone they were, recognized and responded to love.
And though many of them were severely limited, they gave back whatever affection and hope they could.
For me, this story became an encouraging reminder that God’s love can penetrate whatever traps us—prison walls, disordered minds, unforgiving hearts—and free us from mistaken prejudices, evildoers, and even ourselves. I won’t soon forget it!
So reader friends, my recommendation is that you spend some time with this unique, weighty story. You can safely dive into this fictional world, because there will be hope and goodness and dreams-come-true for Brighton and Angel—though not exactly in the way you might envision.
Just remember that “the darkest night produces the brightest stars.”
Thank you to NetGalley and Thomas Nelson for giving me the opportunity to read this book.
Quotes I liked . . .
“The sun and I are old friends, and she greets me with a nod as I walk beneath her veil of heat. The walk to my mailbox that’s at the end of a long drive has been part of my daily routine for years. Sometimes I amble down the natural path twice, just for the fresh air, but mostly to remind myself that I can. I don’t take freedom for granted.”
“The fresh, rain-soaked whiffs were suffocated in the stale spaces of this place. It was more than simply moist and dank and smelling like rot, more than the decay of daft dreams, more than misery joining the beating of hearts. It was death itself. The scattered remains of us—the barely living—our eyes, ears, hearts, and souls lying like remnants everywhere. The older nurse squared my shoulders and tried to fix my hospital gown and hair. I knew, however, that I was nowhere pretty enough to be fixed. Weeds bloomed, but that didn’t make them flowers.”
“‘All things bright and beautiful.’ I sang it as loud as I could, and because I only knew the first four lines, I just repeated them over and over. When I got to the last line I stopped and yelled it as loud as I could in the sky. ‘The Lord God made them all.’”
“The one who had taught me to jump rope, to read, and to be very quiet when any visitors were in the ward and I wasn’t to be seen . . . One of the first to rock me to sleep.She’d been one of the many women who had been brought to the hospital because she was too sad to get out of bed and care for her own children. No one had ever come back for her. By the time I was born, she was over fifty and had spent over twenty years in the hospital. She was a fixture on the ward.”
“I knew she was humming for me. It reminded me of a lullaby, and the melody warmed the cold air and my breathing met the slow and even tempo. This mother of mine understood me better than anyone understood her.”
“The flowering weeping willow’s boughs reached for me in the summery breath. It called out to me. Come to me. Let my delicate white tears fall over you. I extended my hand, even though I knew the branches were too far away to let their beauty cry over me.”
“Why anyone would think something akin to a prison sentence would bring back happiness and sanity, I will never understand. It is strange to think that people felt better turning those deemed flawed invisible. That putting them out of sight was what was important. I’m sure there were those who had good intentions and believed the doctors were only trying to help, with a copy of the Hippocratic oath on the wall in every office. No, many families weren’t to blame. Naivety and ignorance aren’t sins, after all. But I’m not sure the hurt they caused is entirely forgivable.”
“My little word is feather light in the air and travels around the graves, greeting them. My throat is filled with knots and tears and a bittersweet joy I can’t explain. For several long minutes we sit there. We don’t speak but let the voices from our past rise up to meet us, to welcome us, and to be grateful that we’d shared so much life and love.”