One book I return to again and again is The Whimsical Christian by Dorothy Sayers. The title is a play on words, whimsical meaning quaint or fanciful, but also is a reminder of Sayers’ detective series featuring the English Lord Peter Wimsey, set between World Wars I and II.

Sayers was a writer of both fiction and Christian essays. Her private life included a fling with a man who refused to marry her after she became pregnant. Her spiritual life seemed to deepen after the birth of her child, though she never publically acknowledged him.

Like some of the characters in her books, Sayers was flawed. She found meaning in her writing.

She first introduced me to the sin of acedia. It’s a sin which tempts me, but I didn’t know its name. She called it despair as well as acedia and explained it in terms I could understand.

“It is the sin that believes in nothing, cares for nothing, seeks to know nothing, interferes with nothing, enjoys nothing, loves nothing, hates nothing, finds purpose in nothing, lives for nothing, and remains alive only because there is nothing it would die for.”

It seems to tempt those of us afflicted with melancholia. I have found that the only antidote is prayer, followed by going on to the next task at hand. Never just sit down and give in to it.

Daring to pray, daring to go on doing “whatever our hand finds to do” is, it seems to me, an act of faith that says life is indeed a gift, worth living.