God's Forgotten Friends: Two Reviews of Susan Peek

Recently through the Catholic Writers Guild I met the wonderful Mrs. Susan Peek, homeschooling mother and novelist. Like one of my favorite authors, Louis de Wohl (whose books, strangely, I have yet to write about on this blog), her specialty is saint stories. In addition, Mrs. Peek is doing her fellow Catholics a beautiful favor by bringing to light the tales of saints who have fallen into obscurity, through her ongoing series, "God's Forgotten Friends." Geared especially towards teens, they are not only inspiring examples of holiness, but also rollicking adventures! I am happy today to offer my readers reviews of two books in her series: A Soldier Surrenders: The Conversion of St. Camillus de Lellis and Saint Magnus: The Last Viking.

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In this brand-new edition of A Soldier Surrenders (previously published by Ignatius Press), Susan Peek takes us back in time to a lonely Italian road in the winter of 1570. It's here that we meet Camillus de Lellis--a giant of a young man devoted to drinking, gambling, and offering his sword as a mercenary to the highest bidder. This rough exterior conceals a soul of surprising compassion--he feels deep pity especially for the wounded and dying of the battlefield. But, as a "soldier of fortune", he carries his share of bad habits and hard luck. Despite his skill at the cards, his love of the tavern and the gaming table more often leave him penniless than not. And he bears a secret shame--a mysterious, painful wound on his leg which can't seem to be cured by ordinary doctors.  

 

The quest for healing brings Camillus to the San Giacomo Hospital in Rome, where, empty-pocketed as usual, he reluctantly serves as a volunteer caretaker in exchange for receiving treatment of his wound. His hospital experiences increase his desire to aid the sick through personal love for each patient. Nevertheless, his raucous tavern habits and his tainted reputation as a mercenary leave him few friends among the hospital staff, with the exception of one kind-hearted fellow orderly, Curzio Lodi. But even Curzio's patience wears thin when Camillus persists in indulging his passions to drown his personal woes. At a crucial turning point of the story, Curzio berates his friend:

"You think you know so much about courage, Camillus? Well the truth is, courage comes in a lot of different forms, and God is only interested in one of them! You're not a soldier; you're not even a servant! You're nothing but a slave, Camillus! A slave to your own self-will!"

Camillus stubbornly tries to forget his best friend's chiding. Dismissed from the hospital for unruly conduct, he attempts to reenter his former life as a mercenary. But continued ill luck and the still-unhealed ulcer on his leg eventually reduce him to destitution and beggary. Finally, at the lowest point of pain and humiliation, he sees the light. He commits his noblest act as a soldier, gives up his own will, and surrenders to God's.

Having given his personal struggles into Divine hands, Camillus finds renewed direction in life. He returns to San Giacomo, where his vigor and commitment in serving the sick earn him the rank of hospital superindendent. But Camillus realizes his vocation does not end there. To fulfill his lifetime longing to minister to the dying souls of the battlefield, he enters the priesthood and founds the order of the Servants of the Sick. Their symbol: a red cross on a black cassock--the original Red Cross organization.

Mrs. Peek punctuates the spiritual drama of the plot with battles, duels, and lively dialogue. While I was a bit taken aback by the modern idiom of the narrative, her contemporary style offers a lively sketch of the boisterous, hot-tempered, and ultimately God-passionate Camillus de Lellis. He's a man we can all imagine knowing--and loving. Applause and thanks to Susan Peek for rediscovering the life of this "saint for strugglers"!

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It had never occurred to Magnus, second son of Erlend, to arm himself with a weapon before setting off for Vespers...

 

This opening line of Chapter 2 in Mrs. Peek's latest saintly adventure story introduces us to Magnus Erlendson, the teenage prince of an 11th-century Orkney Isles kingdom, who would much rather dedicate his life to God in the monastery than spend it as a sword-toting warrior. Fortunately, Magnus is not in line to the throne--his older brother Aerling and his cousin Hakon are. Unfortunately, that is about to change.

 

When Magnus catches the unscrupulous Hakon committing an atrocious crime, he is swept into a life of turbulence, bloodshed--and holiness. Hakon is banished from the kingdom, swearing vengeance on Magnus. True to his promise, Hakon enlists the help of the king of Norway to overthrow the Orkney Islands. While Hakon snags the throne, Magnus and his brother Aerling become Norse prisoners.

 

After many trials, spiritual and physical, Magnus manages to flee to Scotland, where he lives for ten peaceful years. Despite his cousin's treachery, Magnus defeats his impulse to hate and now only wants to put his past behind him. But duty calls again when Hakon himself enlists the exiled prince's aid to help put down illegitimate rivals to the Orkney throne. Magnus returns, reluctantly, only willing to leave his tranquil exile to restore the peace at home. But Hakon's hate has not faded over the years--and his further treachery will test Magnus' spiritual mettle to the core. The climax of this story is so heart-racing and heart-wrenching that I dare not reveal it--readers will have to experience it for themselves!

 

Packed with desperate battles and action galore, this is no saint story for the faint of heart. However, the spiritual themes are an equally integral part of the tale. Magnus' struggle against hatred and revenge proves to be more dramatic--and more important--than any of his clashes with the blade. The unlovable villain Hakon also turns out to be a surprisingly deep character, when faced with Magnus' choice of love over hate.

 

Mrs. Peek's distinctive contemporary style is noticeable in the book, but doesn't detract in any major way from the historical setting. My only critique would be that some of the minor characters verge on being caricatures, seeming only to further the book's theme of forgiveness. However, the main drama between Magnus and Hakon is well-rounded and fully satisfying.

 

Overall, Saint Magnus: The Last Viking is a rollicking good tale of a truly extraordinary man--a warrior-saint whose innate peace changed the hearts of everyone around him, including his enemies. It's sure to be a favorite among all young adventure-lovers of the Faith!

 

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Visit Susan Peek's webpage to purchase these books, and to see more reviews and upcoming novels! 





45 Years of Thrilling Truth: Rediscovering Apollo 13

 

On this blog about truth, beauty, and literature, most of the adventure stories I write about are fictional. But every once in a while, I encounter those absolutely true adventure stories which are all the more marvelous. The saga of Apollo 13--NASA's "successful failure"--is one of those tales.

 

Tomorrow, April 17, is the 45th anniversary of the splashdown of Apollo 13. Inside that tiny command module which landed safely in the Pacific Ocean were astronauts Jim Lovell, Jack Swigert, and Fred Haise. These three men had just been through a four-day ordeal unlike any other in the annals of survival stories--guiding, with the help of the Mission Control technicians on the ground, a dangerously malfunctioning spacecraft back to earth from 200,000 miles away.

 

For those of you not already familiar with this incredible account of courage, teamwork, and ingenuity, I cannot enough recommend Jim Lovell's own book, Lost Moon: The Perilous Voyage of Apollo 13 (co-authored by Jeffrey Kluger). The popular 1995 movie, directed by Ron Howard and starring Tom Hanks, was based off this book. The movie was actually my first introduction to the story. I watched it over and over as a kid, though I didn't really understand much of it until later. Although naturally a dramatized and somewhat abridged account of the events, the film is thrilling and well done. It's definitely worth a viewing (or a re-viewing, if you've seen it before!). The book is even more exciting. Lost Moon gives the reader a much fuller grasp of the story, including the backgrounds of the main characters, Apollo 13's place in the context of the NASA moon missions, and explanations of the highly-technical spacecraft operations in layman's terms--all woven into a plot so skillful and tight, you'll forget you're reading a non-fiction memoir and think you've plunged into a novel.

 

This past winter, I read the book for the first time, and watched the movie again for the first time in a few years. I was struck very deeply by the romance of the tale--the improbable catastrophe and the even more improbable triumph. And so this high-tech, space-age rescue story came out in my own words as a poem.

 

The references to Ulysses, Ithaca, and other names and places from ancient Homer, are not just my love of the classics randomly making themselves known. The name of Apollo 13's command module was actually Odyssey. (How NASA expected to blast a ship into space named after the most misfortune-ridden quest in literature, and not have a little trouble, is beyond me.)

 

Here, then, is my own retelling of this remarkable tale, in verse. It is dedicated to the three astronauts and Mission Control team of Apollo 13, and all those others who took part in or witnessed the extraordinary events of one April in 1970.

 

 

Crucible of Love: Apollo 13, April 17, 1970

By Mary Jessica Woods

 

Reentry

The placid arc of earth fills up the glass

As Odyssey spins silent homeward-bound—

No great Greek fate-tossed warship, lone-captained,

But a thimble of steel crafted for airless seas,

Guided by three chilled crew with rudders of flame.

Four days the ship has fought, a blasted cripple,

Tracing a giddy whorl through death’s void,

Brilliant with cold stars and a starkling sun;

Four days in the gray tiered fort of Mission Control

A thousand have strained at their screens, marking the numbers,

Nursing the Odyssey’s slowing breath and blood;

Four days. Now, minutes from Ithaca,

All guidance is shed, all tillers are abandoned,

Surrendering to the fierce mother-love of Earth.

 

For the mother cries for the children of her body:

The metal drawn from the hard depths of her womb,

The mortals raised in the bounds of her warm breath—

These she clasps close again with a deadly joy,

An engulfing kiss of fire, a crushing strength;

Her fragile sons, knit of soft flesh and bones,

Plunge, trusting, through her crucible of love.

These men who have survived the span of space,

Now merely seek to endure the Earth’s embrace.

 

Splashdown

“Odyssey, Houston standing by, over.

Odyssey, Houston standing by, over.”

The silence on the surface swallows hearts

Of millions: wives, children, parents, friends;

Technicians, flight controllers dragging smokes;

Navy men glassing the South Pacific surge;

And strangers by the hundreds of thousands,

Willing, praying their mortal brothers home.

The sizzle of the empty radio

Is, for three minutes, the smolder of burning hope;

And for the fourth, the crackling choke of fear;

And by the fifth, the sputter of despair—

Again the hopeless greeting ventures out:

“Odyssey, Houston standing by, over.”

 

Of a sudden the radio gives a gasp—

A raspy, rushing hack of stirring life—

And the Odyssey replies to a heart-stopped world.

A roar goes up, a million pulses freed.

Ulysses once hailed his wife and son; now,

The whole world is Telemachus, Penelope,

To three men strapped exhausted in their ship,

Watching the scarlet ‘chutes, with quiet eyes,

Spin like three jewels against the silken skies.

 ~ Poem Ó Mary Jessica Woods, 2015

 

Photo credit: "Mission Control Celebrates - GPN-2000-001313" by NASA - Great Images in NASA Description. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mission_Control_Celebrates_-_GPN-2000-001313.jpg#/media/File:Mission_Control_Celebrates_-_GPN-2000-001313.jpg



Long Live the Weeds! ~ Hopkins' "Inversnaid"

"Loch Heron", September 2014 - Photo by Mary Woods

I happen to live right on the border of where the sprawling Chicago suburbs begin to peter out into flat Illinois farmland. Consequently, in my town, the orderly ranks of streets and lawns and strip malls are occasionally invaded by wildness. Streams flanked by armies of reeds and young willows. Wedges of forest, stubbornly holding out between baseball diamonds and residential build-ups. Spreading creekside trees, like bulwarks of romance against the mundane tyranny of Suburbia.

Loch Heron. Linden Cove. Smuggler's Nook. The Forest of Silver Hands. You won't find these names on any map of Frankfort, IL, but they are important places, nonetheless, for me. They are my own haunts, my own landmarks. Wonder is the guide which leads me to them. They are beautiful spots, in their unobtrusive way, with endless surprises for those who wait and keep open eyes. Old mussel shells, washed from mud, which gleam royal pearl inside. Muskrats nuzzling through cool water, slick-furred and beady-eyed. Geese taking flight in magnificent, thunder-winged, trumpeting hundreds. These are the poems I read and love from God's "First Book" of nature.

Recently I came across a poem--with human words--expressing much the same sentiments. Not very surprisingly, it's by Gerard Manley Hopkins. This 19th-century English poet and Catholic priest is most famous for his inimitable descriptions of nature in pieces like "Pied Beauty", "God's Grandeur", and "Hurrahing in Harvest". Not just descriptions--raptures. The mere way he uses words usually makes me want to fall flat on my face for sheer joy (in the beauty) and utter despair (because I will never even touch his skill and imagination).

Despite that, I never regret picking up a volume of Hopkins. Some of his works are so richly and convolutedly packed with ideas, like glittering mosaics, that they are hard to comprehend. But many of his poems are simpler in concept and no less lovely in art. One of these small gems is "Inversnaid".

Written in 1881, the poem describes the landscape of Inversnaid, a small settlement in the Scottish Highlands near Loch Lomond. Hopkins' natural descriptive abilities, his skill in playing with alliteration and assonance, and a sprinkling of Scots vocabulary, make for a poem as delicious in the mouth as it is lovely in the mind's eye. I myself am not certain what all the words mean precisely, but I let my ear create images for me--if that makes the least ounce of sense.

Finally, Hopkins ends the poem with a poignant cry for the preservation of wilderness. Let it be left, he says, O let it be left. It is good for the mind and body; it is good for the soul. Let it be left--even small corners of it, for the good of us all.

Inversnaid

By Gerard Manley Hopkins

 

This dárksome búrn, hórseback brówn,

His rollrock highroad roaring down,

In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam

Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

 

A wíndpuff-bónnet of fáwn-fróth

 

Turns and twindles over the broth

 

Of a póol so pítchblack, féll-frówning,

 

It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

 

Degged with dew, dappled with dew

 

Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,

 

Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,

 

And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

 

What would the world be, once bereft

 

Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,

 

O let them be left, wildness and wet,

 

Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.



Bridegroom Song: A Poem for Great and Holy Week

The title of the of icon above is "Christ the Bridegroom". This juxtaposition of concepts, this inherent mystery, strikes me to the heart every Great Fast. This is how Christ comes to His divine wedding with His bride, His people, His Church--God bleeding, tortured, utterly humiliated. Earlier this Lent, my own meditation on this icon called forth this poem into being. May we all be blessed as we enter into His Passion tonight and tomorrow.

A note: The accents indicate an unusually long stress on a word, and should be read as such. The form is meant to be extremely simple and forceful, expressing, I hope, something of undiluted longing and anguish.

Bridegroom Song

By Mary Jessica Woods

  

Sée hów I come to thee—

Wrísts ráw and bound for thee,

Brów blóody-crowned for thee,

Wílt thóu come to me?

Lóok hów I gaze for thee—

Éyes sált-blind for thee,

Weeping God divine for thee,

Wílt thóu come to me?

Féel hów I ache for thee—

Shoulders stiff with blood for thee,

Féet fóuled in mud for thee,

Wílt thóu come to me?

Hear my lóve sóng to thee—

Whíp-wáils high for thee,

Every shaking cry for thee,

Wílt thóu come to me?

Knów, nów, my thirst for thee—

Bríde, my own, I long for thee,

Behold my sorrow strong for thee,

Wílt thóu come to me?

 

~ © Mary Jessica Woods, 2015