"Diary of an Old Soul" by George MacDonald. A Review

 

I was visiting my over-80 mother yesterday and she was showing me pictures of my childhood. Inside the packet of pictures there was a booklet for Mother's Day I had put together in 1971. Once we opened the cover, inside were two poems I had written as a 10-year-old. Five lines of youthful  and heartfelt rhyming. Poetry has been around in my heart since early on, though not a quality I've ever developed. Most of my poetic efforts trend to be at the level of "Roses are red, violets are blue, etc." So, when I opened the newly published and annotated version of George MacDonald's "Diary of an Old Soul" I trembled a bit, knowing I was entering the presence of an accomplished poet. This 296-page handy-sized hardback has been republished in the way MacDonald intended, with the poems on one leaf and a blank page on the next, to jot down reflections. Timothy Larsen, the McManis Professor of Christian Thought at Wheaton College, has done a nice job introducing the history of the book and supplying a minimum of unobtrusive clarifying footnotes.

The poems are broken down into ever day of each of the twelve months. One poem after the other is 7 lines long, and have loose connections with the previous and following installments. I was able to easily sit down and read a whole month within 15 minutes, which probably would have disgusted MacDonald. But it helped give me a sense of how the poems were connected, and when their directions changed.

There were many places where MacDonald tugged at my heart, with feeling and frustration. For example, for April 9, "Here is my heart, O Christ, thou know'st I love thee. But wretched is the thing I call my love. O Love divine, rise up in me and move me - I follow surely when thou first dost move" (94).  Or for April 19, "Help me this day to be thy humble sheep. Eating thy grass, and following, thou before; From wolfish lies my life, O Shepherd, keep" (101).

These mini-sonnets weave through fields and tree, wind and snow, life and death. Some push toward adoration of who God is and how he has engaged with MacDonald. Others trudge through the slough of despond. A few cry out for assurance of grace and salvation. The author's heart, nonetheless, is plainly seen throughout, longing for the fullness of God and his fellowship. Thus, there are times of anguish wrapped up in the arms of faith, such as on October 14 (page 229):

"My God, it troubles me I am not better.

More help, I pray, still more. Thy perfect debtor

I shall be when thy perfect child I am grown.

My Father, help me - am I not thine own?

Lo, other lords have had dominion o'er me,

But now thy will alone I set before me:

Thy own heart's life - Lord, thou wilt not abhor me!"

Here are the words of a man longing for more of God, sure of his promises while able to be honest of his own lack.

And there are seasons when one walks with MacDonald through the slough of despond. As one who knows those dark nights of the soul, his words drew me in and pointed me right. It's the lines for December 6 (page 269) where MacDonald scratches out:

"I lay last night and knew not why I was sad.

"'Tis well with God," I said, "and he is the truth;

Let that content me." - 'Tis not strength, nor youth,

Nor bouyant health, nor a heart merry-mad,

That makes the fact of things wherein men live:

He is the life, and doth my life outgive;

In him there is no gloom, but all is solemn-glad."

And "solemn-glad," as the writer of Ecclesiastes notes (7:2), is better than having "a heart merry-mad."

Though I rarely ever read poetry, fearful it will show how puerile my own attempts have been. Yet, I loved every session I spent reading through MacDonald's "Diary of an Old Soul." Yes, I highly recommend the work, and think any follower of Jesus would gain much from it, as well as anyone who simply likes poetry.

My thanks to IVP Academic for sending me the book at my request. They made no demands on me and offered me no bribes. I used the volume they sent for this evaluation, and freely give this review.