You Are Made Out of Love

Put it in your skull closet

I’m allllllmost finished writing my book, which explains my absence here (and, oh, everywhere). My fifth grader has been doing a lot of writing projects at school lately, and yesterday we were chatting over a muffin.

“I’ve been having trouble trouble writing the last chapter of my book,” I said. “Do you have any advice for me?”

I thought he’d maybe give me some pre-writing tips or even just a pep talk (he excels at these), but instead, he asked a question.

“Well, what is the chapter about?”

I thought for a minute about how to compress Iris Murdoch and moral psychology and attention and the concept of unselfing. I said, “It’s about how we can love each other better.”

And he said, “Well, did you put in that we are put on this earth to love? Put that in if you haven’t yet.”

And I just sat there completely stunned at Grateful Bread Bakery, tears filling my eyes. The kids are all right.

***

The day before that, I’d said to my first grader, “You are very sweet, and I love you. Did you know that? Put it in your skull closet.”

And he said, “Yeah, I know, I’m made out of love, and I already know everything that’s in your heart because your heart made me.” Tears, again.

I wish I could take credit for the incredible phrase “skull closet,” but it’s from Barbara Kingsolver’s stunning novel Demon Copperhead, which I read last year. When I put my younger son to bed each night, I touch my fingers to the back of his neck and give him dreams—I make up stories about him waking up in a world made of marshmallows and not being able to decide if he wants to eat everything or use it as a trampoline, about the Millennium Falcon picking him up and taking him to a storm trooper dance party, about him throwing a sprinkler splash bash with four hundred puppies. All of it goes in his skull closet. And peacefully he sleeps.

***

It’s been rather a hectic December and January, between writing and tending to family life, but for the past week, I haven’t been able to think about much but the fires in Los Angeles. Like you, I’m sure, I watched with horror as they spread, as the winds picked up and blew ferocious flames all over the county.

We used to live in Pasadena when we were first married, for five years. Our older son was born there. We were terrified for our friends and colleagues. My best friends’ house is okay. Ten blocks north of them, almost everything is gone. Grief is a constant companion. I’ve donated and shared and refreshed the news ten thousand times. And I’ve tried to wait for the words.

Here’s a prayer I wrote for the people who are holding everyone together—first responders, therapists, parents, neighbors, volunteers.

A Prayer for the Ones Holding Everyone Together

I don’t know your name,
But I heard your cry—
Collective grief has no borders,
No language barrier.
I know that your empathy
Flows deep
Like an underground river,
And I know that it’s been tapped
So many times.

When your arms grow weary
From holding everyone together,
I pray you find rest—
A place to lay your head,
Cool water to refresh you—
Because I know that tomorrow
You will rise and begin again.
As long as there is hurting,
You will be holding.

Sometimes it seems to me
That humanity is still deciding
What it is going to be.
But when I look upon you
I know for sure
That we are something good.
Amen.

What are words? Everything and nothing. But if I could put one thing into everyone’s skull closet, it would be this: “You are made out of love. And it is love that will see us through.”

---

A Few Hopeful Things

—Huge congratulations to my friends who have released books this month! If you, like me, are obsessed with the Camino, you are going to want to make your way over to Christine Marie Eberle’s new memoir, Finding God Along the Way. It’s about the Ignatian Camino (high up on my pilgrimage list!), and it’s both insightful and funny, with a good dose of Ignatian spirituality and encouragement for those of us who can’t quite get over to Spain just yet and instead find ourselves on pilgrimage in our everyday lives.

—My friend Liz Charlotte Grant’s book Knock at the Sky is for all of you who are interested in a fresh, creative, curious approach to the stories of Genesis. If you find yourself in new territory with Scripture after deconstructing or just broadening your perspective, this is the thoughtful guide you are looking for. The art is stunning, too! Liz’s book is with Eerdmans, my publisher, and I’m honored to be her publishing buddy (Liz, can I call you my publishing buddy?!)

—I am feeling VERY BEHIND on all the things, but as soon as I send my book in to my editor (and blare “The Manuscript” because of course), I am going to get all caught up on my friend Liz Cooledge Jenkins’ Substack. I am excited to read her best books of 2024 posts in particular!

—Greg Boyle (aka Dad because he is a spiritual father to so many of us) has a new book out called Cherished Belonging. I bought a copy with my Christmas money, sat down on the couch to crack it open, and promptly teared up. (Are you sensing a theme?) I’ve read his other books probably at least three times each, and they are amazing and required reading for all humans, but this book in particular really challenges our thinking about our most intractable problems and leads us, gently but firmly, into more loving and inclusive territory. It’s radical, just like the gospel (if you have time to chisel off two thousand years’ worth of empire, colonialism, and cultural hegemony in order to access it—looking at you, America). Darn if he doesn’t do it every time, restoring me to belief in a more compassionate version of myself and of all of us, a version I didn’t have the courage to imagine could exist. Homeboy Industries for the eternal win. Those folks are my heroes, forever and ever, amen.

—I haven’t had enough spare brain cells to consider what awaits us after Monday in more than a cursory manner (I am filled with dread nonetheless), but I was cheered by this article featuring Catholic organizers’ take on the next four years of justice work. ¡Adelante!

Saying every good word to you, putting them straight in your skull closet,
Cameron