The more I think about it, the more apt the metaphor of floating is for my version of “the good life.” James K. A. Smith said, “To be human is to be animated and oriented by some vision of the good life, some picture of what we think counts as ‘flourishing’” (You Are What You Love, 11). Flourishing to me feels a lot like floating—hovering through our days with keen senses but hollow bones, knowing that we are fleeting and yet treasuring the eternal, God-given goods of kindness, beauty, self-sacrifice, artistry, and grace. When we grow selfish, ambitious, and thoughtless, our bones turn to lead, and we sink down to the earth—too weighted and wearied to look up at what really matters. The good life is a floating life. And that is why Allen Levi’s Theo of Golden resonated so deeply with me.

Flourishing to me feels a lot like floating—hovering through our days with keen senses but hollow bones, knowing that we are fleeting and yet treasuring the eternal, God-given goods of kindness, beauty, self-sacrifice, artistry, and grace.

I don’t use the word “masterful” lightly. It’s a word that suggests the depth, intricacy, and craftsmanship woven into a work of art. To create something masterful is either a gift of time or a gift of spirit, or both. It’s rare and precious. But I would refer to Theo of Golden as masterful. The story pulses with power in unexpected ways. And even now, it works on me. Great stories do that. They don’t end on the last page; the last page is just when you forget that the book has taken hours to sink its airy fishhook in your soul. Wherever you go, it will be with you; it will pull you.

Overview

Theo of Golden shows in narrative form what it would be like for a wise and weathered old man to show up in a small rural town and truly see those who dwell there. It’s easy to notice people. We do it all the time. But to see them . . . that is something different. It involves more than just vision. There is also patience, silence, listening, a retraction of judgment, a giving of encouragement, an offering of kindness. To really see another human being is to tend a budding marigold—like the ones sitting on our family room window sill in an egg carton. Their beauty is fragile, hidden, easily overlooked. That’s how it is with people, too. Theo—the highly sensitive, poetically minded man of mystery—treats people in the town of Golden as a gardener treats marigold seedlings.

And the results are captivating. Unfurled insecurity, exposed dreams, performance pressure, dazed joy. Perhaps most of all is the secret potential for saintliness. All the recipients of Theo’s generosity, all those who come to call him a friend, see their own God-given potential to be good, to be creative, to be strong and kind and empathetic.

I will not spoil the story for you because I want you to read it for yourself. But Theo’s journey and life in the town of Golden scatter more seeds than can be counted. As it turns out, Theo scatters plenty of seeds in readers, too. Levi’s novel is itself a work of gardening for those who turn its pages.

Some Words

I am a wordsmith, so I pay close attention to the craft as I read. I notice not only the profound and the praiseworthy but the simple and the plain. Unadorned things can often shimmer with their own brand of beauty. I found much in Levi’s writing to enjoy. Here are some of my favorites:

“I’m very glad I get to be in the world with you” (79).
“It might not make a lot of sense, but for anything to be good, truly good, there must be love in it. I’m not even sure I know fully what that means, but the older I get, the more I believe it. There must be love for the gift itself, love for the subject being depicted or the story being told, and love for the audience. . . . Nothing is what it’s supposed to be if love is not at the core” (129).
“Ellen, the older I get, the more convinced I am that every hurt the world has ever known is somehow the fault of every person who ever lived. Maybe not directly and never entirely, but somehow, I fear, we own all of the world’s hurts together” (161).
“The fish-painter continued working without further comment. The canvas was almost full of color, and the act of benevolent larceny, stealing the sunset, was almost done” (187).
“God gave us faces so we can see each other better. I used to not look at people’s faces so much. But I’m learning. Just like I’m looking at you right now. Mr. Derrick, eighteen months ago, I hated you. But I never one time looked at your face. But I’m looking now” (269).
Death is “an end with a future” (288).
“‘And Minnette, I will continue to believe that even your difficult dad is capable of saintliness.’ Minnette raised her eyebrows and snickered incredulously. ‘Well, if he gets there, it will belong in the miracle column.’ Theo nodded. ‘Indeed, that is the only column there is, my dear, for any of us’” (324).
“Beautiful things sometimes get separated from their rightful place” (329).

The Power of the Book

Why was the book so potent for me, and for many others? At one point in reading, I set it down to go for a run. But as my feet struck the pavement, I could think only of Theo, Theo, Theo. His story was expanding inside me. I’ve spoken to others who have had similar responses.

Here are three observations I’ve made since finishing the book. In retrospect, I believe it’s these things that make the character and story so potent.

The Power of Silence

Theo is fluent in silence. What I mean by that is he knows when to enjoy it, offer it, and absorb it with intentionality. Not everything needs to be spoken. Not every moment needs to be brimful of action. Silence is its own sort of language. Some people can speak it well; others are terrified of it. Throughout the book, I cherished every opportunity for Theo or another character to “speak” silence, to let enjoyment or pensiveness bleed into the moment and change the surrounding atmosphere.

The power of silence is its support of listening and observation. With silence come deeper things—things that would go unnoticed if noise and action kept churning away.

I believe I noticed this in reading because our world and our private lives are needle-pricked with noise. It’s everywhere. But it does not have to be. There is still the choice of quietude. There are still benches waiting for people to sit. Theo of Golden has refreshed my passion for the quiet life. The quiet life is not any less powerful for being quiet. In fact, maybe the opposite is true.

The Power of Generosity

Of course, what many readers love about Theo is his joyful generosity. While his generosity is not, strictly speaking, anonymous all the time, it is certainly soft and settled into personal contexts—never blasted to the masses for attention or applause.

There is something very potent about giving. God, after all, chose to save the world that way. “For God so loved the world that he gave . . .” (John 3:16). And what did he give? His only Son, who is eternal with the Father and the Spirit. In other words, God gave himself. This is a power otherworldly. In our world, power comes by taking; in God’s Kingdom, power goes out by giving. Generosity meets and mends the worst of us.

Generosity meets and mends the worst of us.

We know this, and yet many of us find it hard to practice, don’t we? We think getting will cover our needs, not giving. The story of Theo is a reminder that we are wrong. And God is right. “It is better to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35).

What We Do with Our Days

Lastly, along with the power of silence and the power of generosity, I found myself putting down Theo of Golden with a single wish: I want to float with Theo. What do you want to do with your days? I want to spend my days spending my time on others, who may not even care about spending themselves on me. That is, I believe, a life of love. Love spends all. It doesn’t calculate an ROI or save pennies for retirement. It simply gives. And the rest of life is left in the hands of God.

And that’s okay because, as my wife’s grandmother used to say, “God has big hands.”