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When Mackenzie Allen Phillips's youngest daughter Missy is abducted during a family vacation, he remains hopeful that she'll return home. But then, he discovers evidence that she may have been brutally murdered in an abandoned shack deep in the Oregon wilderness.
Four years later, in this midst of his great sadness, Mack receives a suspicious note that's supposedly from God, inviting him back to that shack for a weekend. Against his better judgment, he arrives on a wintry afternoon and walks back into his darkest nightmare. What he finds there will change his life forever.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherWindblown Media
- Publication dateJune 20, 2008
- File size6749 KB
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Riveting, with twists that defy your expectations while teaching powerful, theological lessons without patronizing. I was crying by page 100. You cannot read it without your heart becoming involved.
-- "Gayle E. Erwin, author of The Jesus Style"What's most amazing about the whole story is that a fifty-seven-year-old Canadian who was coming out of bankruptcy and working three jobs, including as a janitor, and had never published anything wrote a book that changed how millions of people relate to God.
-- "Oregonian (Portland, OR)" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Shack
By William P. YoungHachette Book Group
Copyright © 2007 William P. YoungAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9647-2923-0
Chapter One
A Confluence of PathsTwo roads diverged in the middle of my life, I heard a wise man say I took the road less traveled by And that's made the difference every night and every day -Larry Norman (with apologies to Robert Frost)
March unleashed a torrent of rainfall after an abnormally dry winter. A cold front out of Canada then descended and was held in place by a swirling wind that roared down the Gorge from eastern Oregon. Although spring was surely just around the corner, the god of winter was not about to relinquish its hard-won dominion without a tussle. There was a blanket of new snow in the Cascades, and rain was now freezing on impact with the frigid ground outside the house; enough reason for Mack to snuggle up with a book and a hot cider and wrap up in the warmth of a crackling fire.
But instead, he spent the better part of the morning telecommuting into his downtown desktop. Sitting comfortably in his home office wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt, he made his sales calls, mostly to the East Coast. He paused frequently, listening to the sound of crystalline rain tinging off his window and watching the slow but steady accumulation of frozen ice thickening on everything outside. He was becoming inexorably trapped as an ice-prisoner in his own home-much to his delight.
There is something joyful about storms that interrupt routine. Snow or freezing rain suddenly releases you from expectations, performance demands, and the tyranny of appointments and schedules. And unlike illness, it is largely a corporate rather than individual experience. One can almost hear a unified sigh rise from the nearby city and surrounding countryside where Nature has intervened to give respite to the weary humans slogging it out within her purview. All those affected this way are united by a mutual excuse, and the heart is suddenly and unexpectedly a little giddy. There will be no apologies needed for not showing up to some commitment or other. Everyone understands and shares in this singular justification, and the sudden alleviation of the pressure to produce makes the heart merry.
Of course, it is also true that storms interrupt business and, while a few companies make a bit extra, some companies lose money-meaning there are those who find no joy when everything shuts down temporarily. But they can't blame anyone for their loss of production, or for not being able to make it to the office. Even if it's hardly more than a day or two, somehow each person feels like the master of his or her own world, simply because those little droplets of water freeze as they hit the ground.
Even commonplace activities become extraordinary. Routine choices become adventures and are often experienced with a sense of heightened clarity. Late in the afternoon, Mack bundled up and headed outdoors to struggle the hundred or so yards down the long driveway to the mailbox. The ice had magically turned this simple everyday task into a foray against the elements: the raising of his fist in opposition to the brute power of nature and, in an act of defiance, laughing in its face. The fact that no one would notice or care mattered little to him-just the thought made him smile inside.
The icy rain pellets stung his cheeks and hands as he carefully worked his way up and down the slight undulations of the driveway; he looked, he supposed, like a drunken sailor gingerly heading toward the next watering hole. When you face the force of an ice storm, you don't exactly walk boldly forward in a show of unbridled confidence. Bluster will get you battered. Mack had to get up off his knees twice before he was finally hugging the mailbox like some long-lost friend.
He paused to take in the beauty of a world engulfed in crystal. Everything reflected light and contributed to the heightened brilliance of the late afternoon. The trees in the neighbor's field had all donned translucent mantles and each now stood unique but unified in their presentation. It was a glorious world and for a brief moment its blazing splendor almost lifted, even if only for a few seconds, The Great Sadness from Mack's shoulders.
It took almost a minute to knock off the ice that had already sealed shut the door of the mailbox. The reward for his efforts was a single envelope with only his first name typewritten on the outside; no stamp, no postmark, and no return address. Curious, he tore the end off the envelope, which was no easy task with fingers beginning to stiffen from the cold. Turning his back to the breath-snatching wind, he finally coaxed the single small rectangle of unfolded paper out of its nest. The typewritten message simply said:
Mackenzie, It's been a while. I've missed you. I'll be at the shack next weekend if you want to get together. -Papa
Mack stiffened as a wave of nausea rolled over him and then just as quickly mutated into anger. He purposely thought about the shack as little as possible and even when he did his thoughts were neither kind nor good. If this was someone's idea of a bad joke they had truly outdone themselves. And to sign it "Papa" just made it all the more horrifying.
"Idiot," he grunted, thinking about Tony the mailman; an overly friendly Italian with a big heart but little tact. Why would he even deliver such a ridiculous envelope? It wasn't even stamped. Mack angrily stuffed the envelope and note into his coat pocket and turned to start the slide back in the general direction of the house. Buffeting gusts of wind, which had initially slowed him, now shortened the time it took to traverse the mini glacier that was thickening beneath his feet.
He was doing just fine, thank you, until he reached that place in the driveway that sloped a little downward and to the left. Without any effort or intention he began to build up speed, sliding on shoes with soles that had about as much traction as a duck landing on a frozen pond. Arms flailing wildly in hopes of somehow maintaining the potential for balance, Mack found himself careening directly toward the only tree of any substantial size bordering the driveway-the one whose lower limbs he had hacked off only a few short months before. Now it stood eager to embrace him, half naked and seemingly anxious for a little retribution. In a fraction of a thought he chose the chicken's way out and tried to plop himself down by allowing his feet to slip out from under him-which is what they had naturally wanted to do anyway. Better to have a sore butt than pick slivers out of his face.
But the adrenaline rush caused him to over compensate, and in slow motion Mack watched his feet rise up in front of him as if jerked up by some jungle trap. He hit hard, back of the head first, and skidded to a heap at the base of the shimmering tree, which seemed to stand over him with a smug look mixed with disgust and not a little disappointment.
The world went momentarily black, or so it seemed. He lay there dazed and staring up into the sky, squinting as the icy precipitation rapidly cooled his flushed face. For a fleeting pause, everything felt oddly warm and peaceful, his ire momentarily knocked out by the impact. "Now, who's the idiot?" he muttered to himself, hoping that no one had been watching.
Cold was creeping quickly through his coat and sweater and Mack knew the ice rain that was both melting and freezing beneath him would soon become a major discomfort. Groaning and feeling like a much older man, he rolled onto his hands and knees. It was then that he saw the bright red skid mark tracing his journey from point of impact to final destination. As if birthed by the sudden awareness of his injury, a dull pounding began crawling up the back of his head. Instinctively, he reached for the source of the drum beat and brought his hand away bloody.
With rough ice and sharp gravel gouging his hands and knees, Mack half crawled and half slid until he eventually made it to a level part of the driveway. With not a little effort he was finally able to stand and gingerly inch his way toward the house, humbled by the powers of ice and gravity.
Once inside, Mack methodically shed the layers of outerwear as best he could, his half-frozen fingers responding with about as much dexterity as oversized clubs at the ends of his arms. He decided to leave the drizzly bloodstained mess right where he doffed it in the entryway and retreated painfully to the bathroom to examine his wounds. There was no question that the icy driveway had won. The gash on the back of his head was oozing around a few small pebbles still embedded in his scalp. As he had feared, a significant lump had already formed, emerging like a humpbacked whale breaching the wild waves of his thinning hair.
Mack found it a difficult chore to patch himself up by trying to see the back of his head using a small hand-held mirror that reflected a reverse image off the bathroom mirror. A short frustration later he gave up, unable to get his hands to go in the right directions and unsure which of the two mirrors was lying to him. By gingerly probing around the soggy gash he succeeded in picking out the biggest pieces of debris, until it hurt too much to continue. Grabbing some first-aid ointment and plugging the wound as best he could, he then tied a washcloth to the back of his head with some gauze he found in a bathroom drawer. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he thought he looked a little like some rough sailor out of Moby Dick. It made him laugh, then wince.
He would have to wait until Nan made it home before he would get any real medical attention; one of the many benefits of being married to a registered nurse. Anyway, he knew that the worse it looked the more sympathy he would get. There is often some compensation in every trial, if one looked hard enough. He swallowed a couple over-the-counter painkillers to dull the throbbing and limped toward the front entry.
Not for an instant had Mack forgotten about the note. Rummaging through the pile of wet and bloody clothing he finally found it in his coat pocket, glanced at it and then headed back into his office. He located the post office number and dialed it. As expected, Annie, the matronly postmaster and keeper of everyone's secrets, answered the phone. "Hi, is Tony in by chance?"
"Hey, Mack, is that you? Recognized your voice." Of course she did. "Sorry, but Tony ain't back yet. In fact I just talked to him on the radio and he's only made it halfway up Wildcat, not even to your place yet. Do ya need me to have him call ya, or would ya just like to leave a message?"
"Oh, hi. Is that you, Annie?" He couldn't resist, even though her Midwestern accent left no doubt. "Sorry, I was busy for a second there. Didn't hear a word you said."
She laughed. "Now Mack, I know you heard every word. Don't you be goin' and tryin' to kid a kidder. I wasn't born yesterday, ya know. Whaddya want me to tell him if he makes it back alive?"
"Actually, you already answered my question."
There was a pause at the other end. "Actually, I don't remember you askin' a question. What's wrong with you, Mack? Still smoking too much dope or do you just do that on Sunday mornings to make it through the church service?" At this she started to laugh, as if caught off guard by the brilliance of her own sense of humor.
"Now Annie, you know I don't smoke dope-never did, and don't ever want to." Of course Annie knew no such thing, but Mack was taking no chances on how she might remember the conversation in a day or two. Wouldn't be the first time that her sense of humor morphed into a good story that soon became "fact." He could see his name being added to the church prayer chain. "It's okay, I'll just catch Tony some other time, no big deal."
"Okay then, just stay indoors where it's safe. Don't ya know, an old guy like you coulda lost his sense of balance over the years. Wouldn't wanna see ya slip and hurt your pride. Way things are shapin' up, Tony might not make it up to your place at all. We can do snow, sleet, and darkness of night pretty well, but this frozen rain stuff. It's a challenge to be sure."
"Thanks, Annie. I'll try and remember your advice. Talk to you later. Bye now." His head was pounding more than ever; little trip hammers beating to the rhythm of his heart. "That's odd," he thought, "who would dare put something like that in our mailbox?" The painkillers had not yet fully kicked in, but were present enough to dull the edge of worry that he was starting to feel, and he was suddenly very tired. Laying his head down on the desk, he thought he had just dropped off to sleep when the phone startled him awake.
"Uh ... hello?"
"Hi, love. You sound like you've been asleep." It was Nan, sounding unusually cheery, even though he felt he could hear the underlying sadness that lurked just beneath the surface of every conversation. She loved this kind of weather as much as he usually did. He switched on the desk lamp and glanced at the clock, surprised that he had been out for a couple hours.
"Uh, sorry. I guess I dozed off for a bit."
"Well, you sound a little groggy. Is everything all right?"
"Yup." Even though it was almost dark outside, Mack could see that the storm had not let up. It had even deposited low, and he knew some would eventually break from the weight, especially if the wind kicked up. "I had a little tussle with the driveway when I got the mail, but other than that, everything is fine. Where are you?"
"I'm still at Arlene's, and I think me and the kids'll spend the night here. It's always good for Kate to be around the family ... seems to restore a little balance." Arlene was Nan's sister who lived across the river in Washington. "Anyway, it's really too slick to go out. Hopefully it'll break up by morning. I wish I had made it home before it got so bad, but oh well." She paused. "How's it up at the house?"
"Well, it's absolutely stunningly beautiful, and a whole lot safer to look at than walk in, trust me. I, for sure, don't want you to try and get up here in this mess. Nothing's moving. I don't even think Tony was able to bring us the mail."
"I thought you already got the mail?" she queried.
"Nope, I didn't actually get the mail. I thought Tony had already come and I went out to get it. There," he hesitated, looking down at the note that lay on the desk where he had placed it, "wasn't any mail yet. I called Annie and she said Tony probably wouldn't be able to make it up the hill, and I'm not going out there again to see if he did.
"Anyway," he quickly changed the subject to avoid more questions, "how is Kate doing over there?"
There was a pause and then a long sigh. When Nan spoke her voice was hushed to a whisper and he could tell she was covering her mouth on the other end. "Mack, I wish I knew. She is just like talking to a rock, and no matter what I do I can't get through. When we're around family she seems to come out of her shell some, but then she disappears again. I just don't know what to do. I've been praying and praying that Papa would help us find a way to reach her, but ..." she paused again, "it feels like he isn't listening."
There it was. Papa was Nan's favorite name for God and it expressed her delight in the intimate friendship she had with him.
"Honey, I'm sure God knows what he's doing. It will all work out." The words brought him no comfort but he hoped they might ease the worry he could hear in her voice.
"I know," she sighed. "I just wish he'd hurry up."
"Me too," was all Mack could think to say. "Well, you and the kids stay put and stay safe, and tell Arlene and Jimmy hi, and thank them for me. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow."
"Okay, love. I should go and help the others. Everyone's busy looking for candles in case the power goes out. You should probably do the same. There's some above the sink in the basement, and there's leftover stuffed bread dough in the fridge that you can heat up. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, my pride is hurt more than anything."
"Well take it easy, and hopefully we'll see you in the morning."
"All right honey. Be safe and call me if you need anything. Bye."
It was kind of a dumb thing to say, he thought as he hung up the phone. Kind of a manly dumb thing, as if he could help if they needed anything.
Mack sat and stared at the note. It was confusing and painful trying to sort out the swirling cacophony of disturbing emotions and dark images clouding his mind-a million thoughts traveling a million miles an hour. Finally, he gave up, folded the note, slid it into a small tin box he kept on the desk, and switched off the light.
Mack managed to find something to heat up in the microwave, then he grabbed a couple of blankets and pillows and headed for the living room. A quick glance at the clock told him that Bill Moyer's show had just started; a favorite program that he tried never to miss. Moyer was one of a handful of people whom Mack would love to meet; a brilliant and outspoken man, able to express intense compassion for both people and truth with unusual clarity. One of the stories tonight had something to do with oilman Boone Pickens, who was now starting to drill for water, of all things.
Almost without thinking, and without taking his eyes off the television, Mack reached over to the end table, picked up a photo frame holding a picture of a little girl, and clutched it to his chest. With the other hand he pulled the blankets up under his chin and hunkered deeper into the sofa.
Soon the sounds of gentle snoring filled the air as the media tube turned its attention to a piece on a high school senior in Zimbabwe, who had been beaten for speaking out against his government. But Mack had already left the room to wrestle with his dreams; maybe tonight there would be no nightmares, only visions, perhaps, of ice and trees and gravity.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Shackby William P. Young Copyright © 2007 by William P. Young. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
About the Author
Product details
- ASIN : B001B8Z2S0
- Publisher : Windblown Media (June 20, 2008)
- Publication date : June 20, 2008
- Language : English
- File size : 6749 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 294 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #31,802 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
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About the author

William P. Young (Paul) was born a Canadian and along with three younger siblings was raised among a stone-age tribe by his missionary parents in the highlands of what was New Guinea (West Papua). The family returned to Canada where his father pastored a number of churches for various denominations. By the time he entered Canadian Bible College, Paul had attended a dozen schools. He completed his undergraduate degree in religion at Warner Pacific College in Portland, Oregon.
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The story of Mackenzie "Mack" Allen Phillips is presented as if ghost-written by his friend Willie; I think those who criticize the book on literary grounds are failing to allow for this nuance. The story has been accurately described many times in other reviews so I'll avoid repetition. For a father to lose a beloved child is hard enough; for this to happen in the way described in the book - her abduction by a mass murderer while the father was only feet away - would be as difficult an event to bear as almost any I could conceive. However strong someone's faith in God, these circumstances would surely test that faith to the full as is portrayed in Mack's "Great Sadness" and tension within his family. As a suicide counselor I heard countless people ask "Where was God?" in response to changes in their lives less profound than the fictional Mack's so I can relate to the issue on a personal level.
For those who slam the book as anti-Christian I have this to say. It is a work of fiction; I thought of the events described at the shack as an elaborate dream that Mack experienced not as "real" even in the context of the story. But what is special about this dream (or real events if that is how others read the story) is that the experiencing of it brings about real and necessary changes in his life and those of his family. His faith in God is restored along with his engagement in the world and his ability to forgive; in fact his life is transformed by the experience for the better. I cannot see anything about this that could be described as anti-Christian; it is exactly what Christ asked of us.
This is a short novel; I read it in under three hours. In no sense could it be expected to serve as an apologetic in the style of a CS Lewis, a Keller or a Copan. But it would be a mistake to dismiss the theology in the book, which at times is quite profound. Here's an example from p.127: "broken humans center their lives around things that seem good to them but will neither fill them nor free them. They are addicted to power, or to the illusion of security that power offers. When a disaster happens, those same people will turn against the false powers they trusted." Another is found on p.137: "Then is it's you who determines good and evil. You become the judge. And to make things more confusing, that which you determine to be good will change over time and circumstance. And then, beyond that and even worse, there are billions of you, each determining what is good and what is evil. So when your good and evil clash with your neighbor's, fights and arguments ensue and even wars break out ... And if there is no reality of good that is absolute, then you have lost any basis for judging. It is just language, and one might as well exchange the word good for evil." These extracts capture very well the reasons why we must not act as judges - which is one of Christ's strongest messages to us.
Those who claim the book brings God down to our level or puts him in a box are missing the point of the narrative: I suggest they re-read it bearing in mind the points I have made above. All we know of God is that we know almost nothing - except that he is all good, all loving and merciful. So the fact that Young's allegory (actually that of the character in his story) for God may differ from someone else's is not valid ground for criticism; rather it should cause one reflection upon exactly why we feel that we have God figured out better than another person. The God described by Mack with Willie's help is clearly capable of appearing in whatever form suits his purpose; those who insist that God appear as portrayed in the Old Testament are actually more guilty of the "God in a box" error than Young. If it had achieved no more than warming the heart of a veteran (thank you Timekeeper Dave for opening your heart to us) this would be a worthwhile contribution to literature. That it has brought the faith debate down from the ether and into everyday conversation makes it especially valuable and I recommend it to anyone with an open mind.
Furthermore, as a pastor and Seminary instructor, I can say that this author has a wonderful gift for presenting very difficult theological concepts in a carefully accessible manner. His presentation of the what it means to be in union with Christ, the manner in which God's love transforms an individual (regeneration) and that which theologians call "the covenant of redemption", the purpose and economy of the Triune God in accomplishing the Divine purpose in history, is quite impressive.
These things make this book very powerful and, with adequate precautions, very useful for lay instruction and illustration.
Then there is the dangerous side. First, and perhaps most important, is the significant imbalance of the portrait of God painted in it. Though never quite expressed, the book pretty much affirms universal salvation. Surprisingly, it is man who is in the judgment seat in this portrayal, God having already judged all men as guilty but also having forgiven them and reconciled them to Himself. The scriptural bounds on this position are not adequately expressed at all. In this book God is overly sentimental and simplified. There is no hint of God as He is presented in (say) the book of Judges. The God of the universe, Jesus His Son and the Holy Spirit are not very far removed from Seinfield and Friends in their mannerisms and interaction. Certainly some of this is acknowledged as God's condescension to man in appearing to him in such a way as to minister to him, but it is very over done.
Further there is the unscriptural and, in my opinion, quite wrong, portrayal of the Trinity. Though he strives to avoid this, the author skirts the edge of idolatry. There is a reason why God commanded that we are to make no graven images of His person. It is because all such images will not only fall short of accuracy but will in fact lead us astray. The portrayal of God the Father in the images in this book are serious departures from this general rule and are quite prone to distortion. I do not believe that we are free to play with the metaphors God uses to describe Himself nor that we are free to downplay some of His attributes in preference to others. There is more than a little of this in this book.
Though the author strives for balance yet he falls short of presenting Jesus as pre-eminent in the life of man. Jesus is not central in his presentation though it is often stated that He is central in God's understanding. God the Father and the Holy Spirit are more so. Here again the metaphors work against the author. Both God the Father and the Holy Spirit are portrayed as warm, empathetic women who are naturally more easily empathetic. Jesus comes across as wonderful but a bit bumbling in his humanity and thus loved and loving but a bit less wonderful. This is a serious problem to me.
Lastly, evil in this book is entirely a result of man's choosing autonomy for himself and all misery in this world flows from that. Certainly, this is true in one sense but not in every sense. The person of Satan is entirely absent from this portrayal. So is any hint that God regards any one person, no matter what their spiritual state, any differently than others. Evil is presented as negation, the absence of good, rather than a positive force. There is truth in this but not the whole truth.
Lastly, this author falls seriously short in his understanding of the Church and the place of organized Christianity in the Kingdom of God. This regrettable tendency is rampant in our culture and is conducive to a very stilted Christianity, far short of that picture painted for us in Scriptures. God in this book comes perilously close to endorsing all religious feelings and sentiments, whether Christian or not, as pathways to Himself. I cannot comprehend how the author could allow this.
All in all, again, this book has much to commend it. The commendable things are self-evident in the reading and I have not commented on them as much because of that. The things which detract from the book are not so evident and hence, in my estimation, much more dangerous because of it. It must be read with caution.
Top reviews from other countries


When Mack gets a note from papa to go to the shack where his daughter went missing, he doesn’t believe it is from God. Despite his anxiety he still goes and meets the trinity. We know Jesus was male and Jewish, because he lived, but to define God as one particular race or gender is to put him in a box of our own making. This will undoubtedly be a challenge to Christians, but not such a problem to unbelievers. There is also a strong relationship between the trinity which is demonstrated when they sit down to eat with Mack. As Mack point out they do not need to eat, but they do it for the joy of being with him. This is one of the main themes of the book, love, joy and relationship.
His time spent at the shack will challenge his view of the trinity and change his view of hardship, injustice and forgiveness. ‘Responsibilities and expectations are the basis of guilt and shame and judgement, and they provide the essential framework that promotes performance as the basis of identity and value.’ Mack asks the father if he is ever disappointed to which he replies never, as he already knows what is going to happen so has no unrealistic expectations. Papa’s continuing mantra throughout the book is that he is ‘especially fond of him.’ This causes Mack to ask the question was there anyone he wasn’t especially fond of, to which papa replies no he can’t think of anyone.
Jesus is male and Jewish and can be portrayed as nothing else, as he is a historical figure. That he works with wood is again no real revelation as we know from history that he was a carpenter. The theological basis in the middle of the book is very profound in places, but such explanation does slow the pace. Mack asks Jesus ‘Does that mean all roads will lead to you?’ to which Jesus replies, ‘not at all. Most roads don’t lead anywhere.’ This is one example of the humour found throughout the book, despite the tragic circumstances of Mack’s life.
The Holy Spirit is both caretaker and gardener. Creating beautiful blooms, but also clearing the land where necessary. Mack comments on the garden being a bit of a mess, overgrown and the spirit says that is because it is his life. The three take him on a journey to show him the world as they see it. By touching Mack’s eyes the spirit reveals the world in a different light giving him the opportunity and capacity to be reconciled to his estranged father. This is perhaps the weakest bit of the book, because there is a sense of by just meeting his father he is able to forgive him. Up to this point the book has asked a lot of hard questions around justice and fairness and perhaps the ground has already been prepared for this reconciliation.
The ending is both satisfying and challenging. It is hard to read this book without a sense of awe, wonder and a box of tissues. The film interpretation is equally as good, if not quite as deep as the book.


This is an outstanding book I would recommend to all. Mack's journey was not an easy one, before he knew Jesus and afterwards, but when he accepted Jesus life was more fulfilling, more loving, more complete, it was a life we should all seek, without Jesus we cannot truly experience life God has planned for us.
Many readers will be surprised by this book, others will find answers to question, as you read the book you will understand more clearly about God's love for mankind, a love so great God that He allowed His one and only Son, Jesus Christ, to be crucified for our sins, so that we can come to Papa and enjoy time with God himself, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, each in a truly unique way.
Why do terrible things happen in this life, read The Shack you are sure to find out more than you may expect.
