you know they’re making advent calendars for everything now? halloween, thanksgiving, st. patrick’s day. i had an imagination this morning: an elf with a smock covered in pockets, in every pocket a tiny novel. thickly bound inch by inch wonders of words. each day you could reach your chubby little hand in a pocket and pull out an entire world.

in honor of november, consider this blog a smocked-elf pockets-filled-with-novels advent calendar, as i write about a book a day that has been a friend or playmate or confidante in dark corners, a book that makes me thankful.

first up, jane eyre by charlotte bronte. oh those crazy brontes. a few years ago i visited the bronte home in haworth, situated practically on top of a cemetery and occupied by a few hundred rooks. it’s something of a mystery to me now how i felt so absolutely connected to jane as a teenager. but the fact remains that i developed a kinship with jane and her red room during those lonely junior high days. i loved mr. rochester, felt homely and displaced right along with jane. and i was swept along on shreds of hope for the way jane kept on despite the fact that the man she loved was blind (both inside and out) and happened to have an insane wife trapped in the upstairs attic.

i love jane for her plain name. for her simple looks. for her gentle goodness. for her belief in humanity. for her tenderness to those who hurt her. and for her sassy stick-to-it-ness.