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Book Club

Heaven and Earth Grocery Store

For August we read James McBride’s The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store. I have to admit that it took me a few chapters to get into. The story starts with heavy topics (murder, poverty, anti-semitism, racism) and there are a lot of characters, storylines, histories, and relationships to absorb. I initially found myself intrigued, but also unsure as to who everyone was and how they were connected. But once I settled into Chicken Hill, I became increasingly invested in the people who lived there.

What I ultimately loved about the book was how human its characters were. They were incredibly likable even when they were frustrating. Good people harbored prejudice. Courageous people had times of cowardice. Throughout the book people make selfish decisions while still loving selflessly. McBride doesn’t give us a collection of heroes and villains so much as a community of complicated people trying to navigate difficult circumstances.

For me, the character who ultimately became the connective tissue of the entire story was Chona. While the story initially seems to belong to Moshe, but even his story begins with how he meets Chona. From there, Chona’s history and relationships connect seemingly disparate parts of the novel.

Her parents’ grocery store and synagogue establish her roots in the community. Her relationship with Nate and his wife connects the Jewish and Black communities. Her love and care for Dodo becomes one of the moral centers of the story. Even Doc Roberts’ feelings for Chona create another unexpected bridge between characters who otherwise might never have been connected. Through Chona, we get introduced to a much larger story about Chicken Hill and the relationships that bind this community together.

One of the things our group discussed at length was the tension between human inconsistency and moral courage. The characters in this novel aren’t consistently good or bad. They carry prejudices and make mistakes. Some fail to act when we wish they would. Others rise to moments of extraordinary sacrifice.

That complexity made the characters feel more realistic to me. I found myself forgiving people I might not have forgiven in a more straightforward novel because McBride makes their weaknesses feel like part of their humanity.

The story involving Dodo brings this tension to the forefront. His vulnerability forces the people around him to decide how much they are willing to risk to protect someone who has very little power of his own. Ultimately, Nate’s family and others in the community are willing to sacrifice enormously to save him.

For me, that became one of the most moving parts of the book. The community’s actions give Dodo a future when the institutions around him have essentially decided that his life doesn’t matter enough.

There was also a lot of discussion about the recurring themes of sexual assault, which were difficult for some of us to read. At the same time, I found the emotional resolution powerful. The community’s willingness to sacrifice for Dodo becomes a pivot point; trauma is transformed into connection and creates an opportunity for life to move forward.

We also talked about the symbolism of the Heaven & Earth Grocery Store itself. The grocery store is much more than a business. It becomes a meeting place and a piece of real estate at the center of multiple communities and multiple eras. It’s where people cross paths, where relationships form, and where different worlds come together.

The title itself seemed to capture one of the book’s central ideas: heaven and earth aren’t necessarily separate places. Meaning, belonging, and even something approaching heaven can be created through the relationships we build here on earth.

That connected to a conversation about Jewish theology. Rather than focusing primarily on an elaborate concept of the afterlife, Jewish tradition places significant emphasis on repairing the world and investing in the community. In that sense, the people of Chicken Hill create something meaningful not by escaping their circumstances but by taking care of one another within them despite systems and a society which is deeply unfair.

This led to one of the more interesting disagreements of our discussion: how much should a story and our current society emphasize the individual versus the collective?

One perspective was that the novel places so much emphasis on collective responsibility, shared history, and group identity that it can sometimes feel as though individual agency gets lost. From this perspective, a compelling story is one in which an individual character has clear personal stakes and makes a meaningful sacrifice. I would argue even by this read, Chona absolutely is an interesting character with a meaningful arc, as are Dodo and Nate.

Others saw the community-centered nature of the novel as precisely what made it powerful. The characters’ lives are interconnected, and their willingness to sacrifice for one another is an important point of the story.

I found myself somewhere in the middle. What I appreciated about Heaven & Earth Grocery Store was that it didn’t suggest that community eliminates individual responsibility. Instead, it showed how our choices affect people far beyond ourselves—and how sometimes the most meaningful individual act is choosing to take responsibility for someone else.

As often happens with our book club, the conversation eventually moved from literature into current events. The depiction of government roundups, fear, prejudice, and people being treated as though they were guilty simply because of who they were felt particularly resonant. We discussed parallels to contemporary immigration enforcement and debates over detention, probable cause, constitutional protections, and due process.

The conversation became spirited, particularly around the practical challenges of border security and the dangers posed by cartels and organized crime. But there was ultimately some common ground: whatever challenges a government is trying to solve, constitutional rights and due process still matter.

That felt like an important connection to the novel. One of the book’s most powerful themes is what happens when institutions decide that certain people are less deserving of protection than others.

The discussion also touched on how trauma gets passed from one generation to another. One of the attendees initially confused some elements of the book with Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, particularly the history of Japanese American internment, but the comparison opened up a broader conversation about how historical trauma lives in families and communities.

That led to a recommendation of Art Spiegelman’s Maus, which explores the Holocaust through a graphic novel format and examines not only the horrors experienced by survivors but also the psychological impact of that trauma on their children.

For me, this connected back to my own initial hesitation about The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store. As the grandchild of Holocaust survivors, some of the book’s themes of prejudice, persecution, and collective trauma felt heavy at first. But once I pushed through those first few chapters, I found myself much more interested in the characters and relationships than in the historical parallels themselves.

As is often the case with our book club, the conversation wasn’t entirely about the book. One of our members shared reflections on reaching 50 years of marriage, and we talked about how relationships and teams can be strengthened by weathering difficult experiences together. His observation that surviving profound hardship together can sometimes deepen rather than destroy a relationship was particularly poignant.

That idea actually felt quite connected to the novel. Heaven & Earth Grocery Store is ultimately about people who survive difficult circumstances together. The relationships aren’t perfect. The people aren’t perfect. But there is something powerful about the way a community can become stronger when its members decide that someone else’s survival matters to them.

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Book Club

Book of Joy

For July, we decided to read a book that was recommended by folks in our book club at least 3 years ago, but which the group finally had the appetite to tackle. The Book of Joy is not a typical book. It is a transcript of a series of conversations between two iconic figures centered on one concept: how can we find joy in a world that inevitably includes suffering? While some books teach you something new, others remind you of something you already knew but maybe had lost sight of along the way. The Book of Joy falls squarely into the second category.

The book is a dialogue between the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu during the Dalai Lama’s 80th birthday celebration. Their answer to finding joy isn’t that we avoid hardship, but that joy is cultivated through how we respond to it. The book discusses eight “pillars of joy”: perspective, humility, humor, acceptance, forgiveness, gratitude, compassion, and generosity. These are presented not as lofty ideals but as daily practices.

As with many of our best book club discussions, we spent less time debating whether we liked the book and more time wrestling with where its ideas felt complete, and where we might have hoped for more.

One of the richest conversations centered around whether the book focuses too heavily on the individual while overlooking structural realities. One member, drawing on a background in philosophy and Sanskrit, appreciated the emphasis on compassion and compared the book with the Sanskrit word for joy, ananda, which expresses an ever-flowing, unbounded joy, but he questioned whether the book asked too much of individuals without acknowledging the realities of poverty, injustice, and inequality. Could changing your mindset really be enough when life itself is fundamentally unfair?

I found myself viewing the book differently. Rather than trying to solve society’s problems, I saw it as focusing on the one thing each of us can actually control: our own response. We can’t eliminate every injustice, but we can choose how we show up for ourselves and for others. That doesn’t replace systemic change, but perhaps it creates the kind of people capable of making it.

Another member observed that the ideas initially felt almost too simplistic. Gratitude. Compassion. Forgiveness. Of course these are good things. But then after a brief jaunt into Reddit she came to the conclusion: if they’re so obvious, why do people find tolerance, compassion, and understanding so hard to practice? She were struck by how often people failed to extend even basic empathy to one another. Maybe these timeless lessons continue to be repeated because humanity continues to need the reminder. Simplicity, it turns out, isn’t the same thing as ease.

One of my favorite moments came from hearing how one member had internalized the book’s lessons over multiple readings. He shared that he even returns to portions of it during meditation and described weaving its message of compassion into a speech at his son’s wedding, using mathematical equations to illustrate how sharing another person’s burdens can make them lighter. It was a wonderful reminder that the most meaningful books don’t simply inform us; they quietly shape how we live.

We also spent time discussing one of the book’s more uncomfortable stories involving a child refugee. Several of us reacted strongly to what initially felt like a harsh response from the Dalai Lama. Yet after talking it through, we came to appreciate the distinction he was making. He wasn’t dismissing grief. Rather, he was describing the extraordinary discipline of self-mastery—the ability to acknowledge suffering without allowing it to become the defining feature of one’s identity. Whether or not we fully agreed with that perspective, it sparked reflection.

Our discussion also wandered into questions that extended well beyond the book. We reflected on how previous generations often ask younger ones to solve problems they inherited, whether climate change, technology, or now artificial intelligence. We talked about whether affluent societies have lost some of the community and connectedness that often flourish in places with fewer material resources. And we wondered whether many of the practices that once came through religious communities now need to be cultivated more intentionally elsewhere.

The book itself was repetitive at times (spending multiple days talking about the same topic, I’m sure I too would be repetitive), but perhaps repetition was part of the point. The hardest lessons aren’t the ones we’ve never heard before. They’re the ones we know, agree with, and still struggle to practice consistently.

One idea stayed with me long after I finished reading: joy isn’t something we arrive at once life finally becomes easy. It is something we practice in the midst of life’s inevitable uncertainty. Instead of asking, “How do I avoid suffering?” the book invites us to ask, “Who do I want to become when suffering arrives?”

As always, the best part of book club wasn’t reaching consensus. It was hearing thoughtful people bring different life experiences to the same pages and discovering that the conversation often teaches me more than the book itself.