I just finished "The Last Bookshop of London" by Madeline Martin. It was horrifying, strengthening, healing, and a guide to seeing life struggles from more than my own wounded heart. With every WWII book I have read (50+ of them???), I see and feel courage unfold. I see people find strength in the midst of trauma. I encounter characters who willingly take on the unknown to save others, people who don't cave to someone else's beliefs. And as WWII intensifies, women were at the heart of the support operations, essential to victory.
Reading about strong women has guided me to find the 'me' in the 'we'; often forcing my focus on my individual hurt to reach towards community. As we all know, or should know, life is not all about us, but meant to be lived in community. Russ and I always had that, but through his illness journey our world shrank to become about us and making it through each day with the help of our care team. Reading about how people during WWII responded to the terror wrought upon them has given me strength. I stand a little bit taller, feel a little bit less alone, and accept the challenge of finding hope, because I sat with a book, to find life among its pages. It has been the a path to finding strength to triumph my darkness.
As the last paragraph of "The Last Bookshop In London" reminds me:
"For in a world such as theirs, with people of spirit and love, and with so many different tales of strength and victory to inspire, there would always be hope."
I am so grateful I have found a path back to reading.