The Plot Against America by Philip Roth

After a much-longer delay than I had hoped for I am finally reading Philip Roth's 2004 novel, a fictional memoir of his imagined childhood as Jew during Charles Lindbergh's presidency, covering roughly the years 1940-1942. I am currently about one hundred pages in, and it is a very compelling narrative so far, richly textured with observational detail, making me eager to find out what turn the story will take next.

I have never read anything by Roth before and I have the impression that this work is somewhat atypical of his writing, not just in terms of subject but in style as well. But I would be inclined to try more Roth in the future if this book continues to be as good as its first three chapters have promised.

"Did God Die?"

I will be honest: I did not really think much at all about when the questions about religious beliefs would begin to come out of my son's mouth — I am not, after all, any good at forethought of any kind — but I am fairly certain that had I given this eventuality the planning it indubitably deserves, I would not have expected it to start at age three. But I should have, because that is when it has.

This morning, as Primus and I were eating our early breakfast, giving Mama and Baby a little extra sleepytime, he looks up at me and asks, very intensely, "Did God die?"

Not really expecting that one, I hemmed a bit, then said, "No, I don't think so."

"Jesus is dying on the cross in the office," was his reply, referring to the large crucifix in the other room, a gift from my parents and grandparents on the occasion of my confirmation and high school graduation.

Oh, that. "Well, yes, Jesus died for us, and Jesus is God. So, I suppose..." Seeming answered, he returned to his oatmeal.

So we (my wife and I) need to do some serious deciding about how exactly we want to approach our tentatively-shared faith with our ever-inquisitive offspring. Neither of us want to cram him full of glib rote catechetical formulae; we want to share from our hearts what the core beliefs of our faith mean to us as earnest believers. And to do that, I am going to have to snap out of my spiritual sloth and get my head around my personal faith, because it will prove singularly difficult to confidently share something with Primus that I am not consciously incorporating into my daily life.

Singin' In The Rain

The Lad loves puddles, and rainy days mean fresh, full puddles that must be splashed in. Today was no exception: even though he is still a ways from getting over a ragged-sounding chest cold I bundled him up and headed out. We were about fifty feet from the building when gave a little skip-hop and started singing at the top of his puerile voice:

"I'm SINGing in the rain
just SINGing in the RAIN
what a GLORious feeling
I'm HAppy again"

Then came the amazing part. He brought his battered blue umbrella down and held it out at arm's length as he began a slow twirl, rotating the umbrella rather gracefully as he trailed the edge through the puddles all around his circumference.

Perhaps he will soon take up dancing as well...