Books.

Last Friday my favorite book was released to the world in motion picture form. I haven't seen it yet, because I'm dirt poor, but I can guarantee the book is better. It's my favorite book. I have to think that. Right?

If you're wondering, I'm talking about The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. I first read The Book Thief six years ago, around this same time of year, and there's no way to explain the impact it had on me. I can tell you that this was during the worst year of my life, that my depression had never been so constant, and that this book--while it made me cry in the throes of every emotion humanly possible--somehow helped me stumble through a very long winter. Its words held such power that after I'd read it once, I listened to it on CD in the car. And during my freshman year of college when I had an immensely painful break-up, I read the book once more, pouring myself into its pages to find some sort of escape. The story is just that compelling. (Since then I've read the book 2 more times, once alone while working at a summer camp and once aloud with my husband.)

I'm not saying it's the Bible. I love the Bible, which has also been a solid foundation of encouragement and wisdom for me. And while I am very thankful for the Bible, and the meaning it holds for me personally, today I want to talk about something less specific. Today, I am thankful for books.

Honestly, I could be even less specific, and say I'm thankful for stories, because my true love for books started when I was very small. My dad used to make up stories for me and my brothers. He would talk about princesses and dragons and talking eagles, anything that would make our faces light up with excitement. The love for stories easily transformed to a love for books when I learned to read. From a young age books were my most adored and beloved possessions, because they allowed me to experience the world without leaving the safety of home.

There's a chance many of you readers, whoever you are, also have a deep affection for books. You probably know that books don't just let you experience other places, but also other times. A book can show you World War II, or a jungle in Africa. A book can also let you experience other feelings, like righteous anger at a villain, or let you experience other realities, such as a first-person narrative about living in slavery.

And I haven't even covered non-fiction yet. (Although, to be fair, I don't want to make this a long blog post, so I'm not actually going to cover anything other than fiction.)

I am thankful for the books that have allowed me to travel to such places and times, to experience worlds of feeling and foreign realities. I am thankful for the sanctuary they offer and the freedom they allow.

{In hopes of being transparent and not too conceited, I'll explain all the other books in the photo. The yellow book on the bottom is my Lit book from high school, which was given to me at the end of senior year since they were buying new text books. It holds many critical notes and annotations alongside some favorite short stories and poems. Jane Eyre is just above The Book Thief, which I hadn't read until about a year ago. I fell in love with it and still haven't figured out why. Above is a book of T. S. Eliot poems, a gift from my husband. Then there's The Twits, a funny book by Roald Dahl that I've loved since I was just a little girl, mostly because Mr. Twit saved food in his beard and that's hilarious. A Separate Peace was an integral part of my high school years, and taught me a lot about my own writing in regards to character motivations. The Bell Jar was read in the same year I first read The Book Thief, and was useful in forming more of my identity as a writer.}