J. R. Mabry, Ash Wednesday (Apocryphile Press, 2022)

When I asked to review this book through Speakeasy, I was a bit uncertain. The reference to the Christian liturgical day inaugurating the Lenten season caught my attention, and the description intrigued me enough to read. While this is a book with Christian themes -- and some spiritually provocative nuances which offer depth -- make no mistake, this is not a "Christian book." It is a multi-layered venture with elements of science fiction (where are those personalized, death-describing cubes in the field coming from?), forays into the world of the occult (what is the difference between those call themselves "Satanists" and those who are "Thelemites"?), buttressed by the presence of Pastor Peg, a mainline clergy person who is strikingly human while being deeply rooted in faith, and her relationships with an estranged daughter, a retired priest and members of her community.

Mabry's style is direct, punctuated with sophisticated characters and deft conversational interludes. The author spares no words or phrases to capture the essence of unique personalities, and readers easily offended by clergy using foul language or expressing cynicism need to be prepared. The beauty of Mabry's work is that in addition to portraying the grittiness of authentically lived life, there are numerous strands of redemption and grace woven throughout. These threads are not glaringly obvious, smarmy enticements intended to compel. Rather, in the midst of trauma and uncertainty, the book's characters are as intriguingly complicated as the people in all of our lives.

I was uncertain when I picked up the book to read and, frankly, continued to be disarmed through the book's conclusion. It is not quite like anything I have read for a long while, and that's a good thing for ardent readers who tire of familiar tropes and brain-numbing authorial pedantry. Ash Wednesday is an innervating read with apocalyptic dimensions that could change the way you think about the human condition, with all of its pain, evil and trauma, as well as the opportunity for transformation in the midst of it all.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.

Barbara Kingsolver, Demon Copperhead (Harper 2022).

Barbara Kingsolver has done it again! A first-class author who has spun many a tale over the years offers an impressive comprehension of complicated characters living through generational traumas of many kinds. In particular, she captures the reality of "Demon Copperhead," tracing his years through early years of trauma with his birth mother, the compounding trauma of less-than-adequate foster homes, and the eventual grittiness of establishing young adulthood in an environment rife with unemployment and opioid abuse. Especially powerful is her ability to capture the verbal cadence and age-appropriate reflections of a child who becomes a man in the rough terrains of Appalachia. Kingsolver captures the thinking process of "Demon" to provide the reader with moments of humor and heartbreak. In the shadow of Dopesick and all we have learned over the past decade about ways that Appalachia was targeted by greedy pharmaceutical firms to make astronomical profits while enslaving an already-challenged population, Kingsolver provides the faces and stories of the (fictional) characters on the receiving end. At times her narrative is appropriately dark, and the reader feels the frustration and hopelessness experienced by real people affected in real ways by the opioid pandemic which continues to sweep through this geographical region. Brilliantly, however, she is able to weave her tale with moments of optimism and hope, revealing the true character and resilient nature of those who call Appalachia home. Indeed, she understands this part of the world where she herself resides, and invites the reader to consider the multi-layered complexity of those affected by early childhood trauma, and how, even in the midst of such pain, hope is yet possible.