Rejoice With Me!

Please share my joy! I simply must share it with someone. Usually "joy comes in the morning" and not at 9 minutes to 11pm. But tonight it appeared rather belated. Never mind. It is here!

I managed to view my class schedule a moment ago and peek at what those wonderful registrars decided to do with my life for the next few months. I feel like I ought to send them a thank-you note (never mind that I have over 40 graduation thank-you's still waiting to be sent) : they scheduled me for exactly what I asked them!

So, come the twenty-eighth of August, in the Year of Our Lord two thousand and eight, at exactly (more or less, depending on the professors) 9:30 in the morning (am I correct in pronouncing that realm of time "ante matins"?) I will be sitting in a "health and fitness and other general goodies" class (in other words: a required class for nursing and freshmen that looks helpful and interesting and is officially labeled as a Kinesiology class).

Actually, to be honest, I'm having a hard time at the moment pinning down what day classes actually begin. The hope calendar decrees that classes shall begin the 26th of August; however, that day appears to be a Sunday. I do not think that the Calvinist school on which only two homosapiens were seen the Sunday Dad and I swung by will hold or begin any classes that day. So I can only assume that classes begin the Monday thereafter. But it also appears that I have no classes scheduled on Monday. That could change as Choir and Hebrew have yet to assign times. But discounting this fact, I will begin the 28th with a Kinesiology class, and have nothing else that whole, entire, glorious, brain-nurturing day.

Then begins the grind of study; but I plan to enjoy every turn of the gears. Hebrew, Kinesiology, the obligatory First Year Seminar, Spanish, Biology, Choir practices, getting to know my room-mate (who I think I will get along with quite well) and whatever other mischief I can get myself into.

But I'll be back every weekend - as long as someone picks me up. Yeah, the two Toyotas haven't been merged yet....and the vehicle permit is, um, very, very inexpensive.

So, rejoice with me! Life hasn't been, isn't, and won't be all roses and cotton candy. But here's a little of the sweets I'm currently eating. The sour and bitter aren't quite as much fun to share, though, dear reader, you have tasted quite a few of those dishes with me. Thanks for sampling!

Simmering Brain Juices: Or being a collection of thoughts on listening, loitering, contraception and love

Because it is after 11:30pm and therefore the literary brain juices are starting to simmer....


So I read both more and less than I let on. Like a few of my acquaintances, I enjoy merely listening to thought provoking conversation without anyone knowing that I am around, if that can be managed. (If the reader must know, Pastor Questioning can also serve this function when concerns do not weigh down my spirit.) It may seem weird for the loud, always-talking truthquestioner to confess a desire to listen - but it is so. I've always had this love of listening, but it is not a love of listening for the sake of listening. No, I love listening for the sake of learning, for the sake of feeding the voracious mind that sometimes manages to stay between my ears instead of flying away up in the clouds.

Some (glances pointedly at Nick Ig) may have discovered that I enjoy food immensely and make it my business not to miss a meal - or a dessert. Yet, even that delight of my body in it's sustenance pales in comparison with the craving of my mind for the delight of words of insight and profundity. At FOR YOU, I was shocked to find that I could devote my entire meal time to reveling in giving attention to the words of pastors without even missing the food. Indeed I did not even want the food! Even now on the occasions where a conversation plumbing such depths continues nearby, I find myself spellbound, tied to my seat, listening. It is with the utmost reluctance that I allow myself to be called away from the savory feast; but I must remind myself that it is not my Lord who speaks and Martha is sorely pressed for assistance.

All this to say that I purposely loiter (when I have spare time and energy, or must satisfy the listening/thinking craving) around people and blogs which tend to stimulate hard, demanding thought-labor on my part. But I seldom make my presence known. What would be the point? If I comment, the philosophers might feel it an annoyance and take their precious words elsewhere. Besides that, the moment I open my mouth, I expose my utter ignorance. In addition, I find few that truly understand or share my enjoyment in the twists and turns of hearty conversation about ideas and realities. For those who do not understand, my behavior could perhaps be quite puzzling and I might find non-existant motives impugned to myself to explain my loitering and commenting habits. For this reason I evesdrop on conversations and spy out other blogs as inconspicuously as I can. When I do comment, unless it is a person I am totally comfortable with, the comment is more with an aim to benefit the other person rather than express my own thoughts. There are exceptions.

(I guess, were I to be perfectly honest, I am often afraid of what other people might think of me and even more of what they might say. I know this is not right, but it is a very, very real fear. Would that my sinful heart could trust a little more.)

But sometimes, I find that I must think about some of the things which I read and hear. And in order to work through a rather large "think", I find it helpful to write. So I will write....

....about love.

Understand that I am taking you along on a developing "think". Who knows whether the ending conclusion I make after this post is completed will be drastically different - yes! maybe even contradict what I will here write. But the the "think" must be thought.

week-long intermission. Now I am back.

Almost two weeks ago, a certain post on the Four and Twenty Blackbirds caught my attention, abruptly, and for some unknown reason reminding me of a puzzling think which had begun about the time I first began to frequent the Emmausite youth blogs. Accordingly, I returned to the source of the source just in time for my train of thought to run itself off the tracks. But Pastor Stuckwisch's recent post recalled my previous ruminations.

So, the question is: Is there such a thing as "love at first sight" in the true Christian sense of the word "love"?

My first tendency would be to sarcastically say, "No. Of course such a concept is silly sentimentality." But is it?
Of course, I would not deny "infatuation at first sight". Some people are simply attractive and draw our attention and admiration. But is that true "love" which gives itself to it's neighbor, as Christ does to his church, not seeking to be served but to serve? I think not?

But wait! Is it impossible that a person could truly seek to serve their neighbor as Christ does from the moment they first meet? I think it would be foolish to pronounce this impossible. In fact, it just occured to me that perhaps we are all called to "love at first sight", yes, even before first sight, for our neighbors. Sometimes this means that we deny ourselves from satisfying the desires of what the world calls "love" in order to serve in true love.

So, I would not scorn the concept of "love at first sight" properly understood and defined. But I think there is another facet as well. Love is not just a warm, fuzzy, genial feeling of happy-go-lucky-ness with the world and all who are in it. Love has an object and acts for that object.

In some cases, the object is a brother or sister in Christ, other times, it is a sibling, a parent, a spouse. In each of these cases, the actions motivated by love find different forms of service. Obviously, I do not serve my brother as I do my mother. The form of service love takes in acting is determined both by the respective vocations of the two individuals and their respective personal needs.

But how can you fill a need when you do not understand that a need is present? This is where communication and understanding plays a big role in love. You must understand a person in order to recognize in what areas the love Christ gives to you can serve them.

But here's the problem. You don't understand or truly "know" a person the moment you set eyes upon him/her. Learning to understand better, though worthwhile, is difficult, and slow. Add "infatuation at first sight" to the mix and "getting to know" a person becomes even more difficult.

So I guess the point I'm trying to get at is that Love finds its place in service and service is limited until a person becomes better known. If one were to presumptuously assert that he/she "loves" a person (particularly in the romantic context) before he/she knows the other well, it might easily be said that the one making the assertion "loves" a person who does not exist - loves the person created out of his/her own mind.

Anyway...I'm not real certain about the last paragraph, but I'm toying with it.

Another blogpost caught my attention tonight, bringing back to my mind a rather sad comment I heard while eavesdropping:

A good friend was talking to a group of ladies and happened to mention several families at Emmaus who are blessed with five or more children.

The immediate response was: "Oh my ..." followed by silence. Then a Lutheran lady spoke up. "Don't they know about birth control at that church?"

Unfortunately, this is not shocking, though disheartening. One would wish that all Lutherans, yes! all Christians were duly catechized on life and reproductive issues. I wish I were so catechized. But at least I know that children are God's good gift and not to be spurned, avoided, or thrown away but received with thanks.

But I've stayed up an hour later than I promised myself I would. And the brain juices have kinda gelled up into a sticky mess. So I bid my dear reader, "Good Night."

A Conversation: Sorry

This isn't one of my most interesting posts (at least, it's not of the caliber of the posts I really keep this blog for) but I had to record a certain conversation which may shed light on the characteristic character of a couple characters.Understand that this is a shortened paraphrase of what took place, but Snap can testify to its overall veracity. I wish I could remember it as it happened, it would be more interesting that way, but I can't.

tq: Oh! Ow. My foot really hurts!

snap: I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to crush your foot with the seat.

tq: I know that, and I already told you that I forgive you.

A few minutes later, tq moves her foot to the brake and groans again.

snap: I'm soo sorry, TQ!

tq: It's ok. I told you I forgive you. Stop saying you are sorry.

snap: I'm sorry.

tq: No, no, no. Don't be sorry for being sorry. I just want to groan without you saying you are sorry again.

snap: Sorry.

tq: Stop saying sorry! I forgave you and I'm really, truly not mad at you. But if you keep saying sorry I'm might get upset.

snap: Sorry.

tq: When you say, "sorry," I feel guilty for making you sorry and then I feel sorry. Please, please, stop saying you are sorry.

snap: Sorry!

tq: {laughs}.................................

Snuffling up Shampoo.

Someone please explain to me how it is possible to accidentally sniff a quantity of shampoo into one's nose thereby burning the nostrils and pharynx and such areas of the airway.

Something remotely obscure and meant to befuddle your mind while my mind is otherwise occupied.

If you can read this, you are too far away.

Pray, interpret.

Must there be an interpretation?

What if there is no interpretation?

And no, I am not depressed. I am simply relatively elated and exhausted. Which means that I should not be typing. And which further means that I should not publish this post which I will proceed to do anyway.

I suppose that to make this post worthwhile I ought to document some of the circumstances which have precipitated the lack of anything of substance being published to this blog for the past few weeks. I am playing cook/nurse/chambermaid/servant/secretary/glass-breaker/lemonade spiller/ clothes washer/annoyer/abandoning-er/and whatever else is needed. I can't say that I've done a very good job. (Come one, I've only broken one glass. You'd think I could drop at least five!)

The Only Fabulous Harrison Person is at home, more or less both in my charge and acting as commanding officer. So far she has not had much to do. The first few days, people dropped by, but today she has seen no other face than mine (and of course, the talking heads squished flat on the talking screen).

The tasks to which I am put are not difficult, but they are consistent and regular, though not constant. This leaves me considerable time for day-dreaming and for late night, email loitering.
Today, I put the house in order, helped Karen wash her hair, did general cleanup, let in the Physical Therapist and the Nurse, made lunch, then bid OFHP farewell for the afternoon. I ran into town, bought rabbit feed, had keys made, (ran another secret errand for which I may later be loudly berated: Let the reader understand), arrived at home, and was immediately set to emptying my room into the living room. So now, all my earthly possessions - every single last one of them - are sitting in disorderly heaps and more orderly box stacks in the middle of family living quarters. I shed a few tears while packing things away. Jaff, my Giraffe has seen better days as has my Lady Bunny.

It almost seems as if I am putting to rest a section of my life. As if a volume has been completed and a sequel may shortly be written. What strikes me as so strange is the fact that many of the "laws" if you will, which governed the previous book, and if not the laws, then definitely the "rules of thumb", are no longer binding. My former thoughts, and dreams, and plans now seem either fulfilled or ... gone! And look where I will, I cannot find them again.

Another way in which I seem to be between sections of my life struck me tonight. All the specific plans and dreams I have ever made have dealt with the portion of my life between Kindergarten and the beginning of college. College was a goal - an endpoint. But now I find myself standing on the brink gazing at a horizon I cannot understand, thinking many thoughts which utterly amaze and abash me, trying to get my balance before I plunge into the storm looming ever nearer.

I am not at all what I thought I would be at this age and stage in life. I had dismissed many of the feelings of literary characters as sentimental extravagance meant to delight the imagination of the writer and reader, rather than actual emotions and thoughts when I was younger. Now, I begin to question my youthful preconceptions.

When I was a child, I thought like a child. I created schemas for interacting with peers and adults. I manufactured frameworks for understanding not only how adults would behave, but why they behaved in certain ways. In my mind, I thought I understood how my parents and others felt, thought and acted in response to various circumstances. According to what I thought I understood, I determined to act. In other words, I decided beforehand, what I would think, how I would feel, and how I would act, when I became the age I am now.

What do you know? It isn't working. Should I be surprised? No.

But since a book has closed tightly shut and no more can be written therein, and I find that I still have enough loose leaves left between that volume and the one to come, I ought to find out the rules and laws which govern the pages I am about to turn. There is just enough room left in the torn out pages to take notes. I am eager to learn. I hope to find time to feel out the lay of the land with my parents, pastors, friends before the next scene opens.

But some things do not change. They continue from one book to the next, from one age to another, and from the beginning to the end. Christ is He who was, and is, and is to come. He sharpened the pen, prepared the ink, brought the paper. He wrote the first word on the first page. He dedicated it to his Father and wrote His own Name across the cover. He bound the pages together. He wrote the chapters; and even when I tried to tear the pen away from Him and spilt the ink across the page, he turned the smudges into designs I could never have imagined. Many times I wept over the pages, for to me it seemed that what He had written stripped me of my heart's greatest desires. But then He turned the page and the story continued, and my heart was healed. Often I thought I understood where the tale was headed, so I planned the next chapter. But when He finally penned that portion, it was nothing like what I had thought or imagined. Were my imaginations then for nought? I do not think so, but that is not the topic at hand. Now at last, it seems He has finished the manuscript, and lo! I find it was only a prologue - a precursor to another volume. I am confused, and impatient. Do you call that a story? Where is the ending? What did that girl whose life you have written do? Wait! Perhaps this is the story of the Writer not of the Page that was written upon...

And there is another parchment being unrolled - the same as the previous, and yet different. I am not to be the writer of this book just as I was not the writer of the last. Too often I think of the previous scroll as merely a good example so that now I can take control and pen a good tale myself. That is a dangerous lie! For if I could spill so much ink on the pages when I had less guile, what grevious damage I should do now were I to hold the pen solely in my own faltering grasp! These coming pages differ from the previous ones only in story written upon them: the Writer and the Page remain the same.

The afterword of the first volume and the introduction to the second are being written. The content of those pages I cannot tell.

But I do not need to know! There is comfort here. The Author of my life knows what He will write. His name is on the book and that is enough. Nothing will end the story until He lays down His pen. His work is faultless. What have I to fear? Even the moments which seem so useless - the paragraphs which seems so nonsensical - are His gift, His pen flourishes.
Why should I be discouraged that I have done so little to make Another's story grand and glorious? What cause have I to despair over my lack of works, when no works of my own are needed?

My life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is my life appears, I also will appear with him in glory!

So ends a period of my life and begins another. But Christ continues. My baptism marked me at the beginning and will still mark me at the end. My sustenance is still the same Body and Blood of my Lord. My clothing is still the righteousness of Christ: His forgiveness. My life is still only in Jesus' Word. What else do I need to know?

I am naive and know not what to expect. But that is okay. I'm content to walk next to my Daddy with my hand in His. He knows the way even though I don't. He won't hurt me. He loves me. I am content.

OFHP Speaks!

A message ….

… from the Karen!

After numberless adventures, perils, mishaps, and jolly encounters with jolliful troubadours, the Overly Famous Harrison Person has landed herself in a Long Term Care Center just down the road. Here she will park for the time being. Which, being much nearer to Happy Sprouts Farm, means that we can visit her more often.

She has commissioned me to inform the general public (especially those who become easily “worked up”) that as she has her “best life now” without internet, telephone, or television remote, she will devote her time to “becoming a better her”.

And a random note: Daddy determined that the difference between Snap and Truthquestioner is that Truthquestioner has a moustache and Snap has a beard....

La Vendee: Part I

“There is no more Vendée. It died with its wives and its children by our free sabres. I have just buried it in the woods and the swamps of Savenay. According to the orders that you gave me, I crushed the children under the feet of the horses, massacred the women who, at least for these, will not give birth to any more brigands. I do not have a prisoner to reproach me. I have exterminated all. The roads are sown with corpses. At Savenay, brigands are arriving all the time claiming to surrender, and we are shooting them non-stop... Mercy is not a revolutionary sentiment."

So wrote Francois Joseph Westerman, Brigadier General of the Revolutionary Government of France to the Paris “Committee of Public Safety”.
What crime had these “brigands” commited? For what were they crushed, massacred, and exterminated?

Would you like to know? As far as I can tell, these peasants died for their pastors. Yes, it is shocking. Shocking, because I cannot think of another instance where an entire province submitted to massacre for the sake of the men who administer Word and Sacrament. It is likely true that more factors played a part of the La Vendean uprising than "The Civil Constitution of the Clergy" – for instance, the levy of men imposed on all French provinces. But the demands on their priests pushed the peasants over the edge; they would not surrender either their physical or spiritual fathers to the bloody “mercy” of a revolutionary government which did not posses that sentiment.

So the peasantry did something unprecedented in the history of revolts, uprisings and revolutions (at least unprecedented as far as my meagre knowledge is concerned). They appealed to the aristocracy, their lords, for help. The entire province banded together to resist Parisian violence.

But the revolt was doomed before it had begun. Consider the odds: the whole of France versus La Vendee. The proponents of “Liberte, Egalite, and Fraternite” wiped out all dissidents and rinsed the rag afterward. Even the soil was scorched. General Westerman speaks for himself; I need not add to his eloquence.

I have a dream: To research the full history of La Vendee – to understand what happened and why Vendee fought to the death for their clergy and lords. The few facts I know are mind-boggling, (mostly a result of reading G. A. Henty and Wikipedia) but they remain obscure. Not a single history book will inform you that in the days when all France threw off both rule and religion, a province of Frenchmen fought back – and peasant Frenchman at that! This is a dream that will likely never materialize, but once my curiosity is roused, who knows what will happen... (I guess the biggest barrier would be learning French to read source materials) .

Currently, I am looking for the memoirs of the Marquise de la Rochejacquelein, the wife of the Marquis Henri de la Rochejacquelein - a young Vendean noble (the youngest commander in the Royal Catholic Army, as the Vendean insurrectionists styled themselves). [The image below is Henri de La Rochejacquelein at the Battle of Cholet in 1793 by Paul-Emile Boutigny, (19th C.), Musée d'art et d'histoire de Cholet, Cholet, France.]


So far I have found only one copy and that at a Catholic University. Ah, well, I’ll keep looking. And will try Interlibrary loan.

Here is the insignia of the Vendean insurgents. Note that the French words mean, “God is King”.

All links and images are from Wikipedia. (Yeah, I realize that that's a real historical source..)

Be Merciful to Me, a Fool!

I cannot blog tonight. At least I cannot blog anything worth reading. I haven’t written anything worthwhile since before AMEN. Several pieces have been in the works, stewing on the back burner, so to speak, since the conference, but I think I shall abandon them. At least for tonight.

Part of the problems is that my thoughts refuse to be gathered together meaningfully. My heart rebels against my mind. My flesh struggles with both. So how could my mind actually put into words what my heart screams? And if this feat were possible, how then could my fingers write those words which my mind painfully manages?

So, tonight I submit to you a poem. Nay! Do not pass over the humble poetry as if it were unimportant to the message of this post. I do not always present you, dear reader, with idle, fanciful poems, nor do I supply you with the work of far better writers simply to amuse you or show you what type of writing I respect and appreciate. On the contrary, often – and tonight is one such moment – I shyly speak to you through the lips of another. The poet wrought the verses, but the plea might as well be mine.

The Fool's Prayer
Edward R. Sills

The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“ ‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept –
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say –
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders – oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

Certain theological aspects of this poem are obviously skewed, but overall, I cry out with the jester. Men hurt and are hurt, sometimes purposefully, often not. But only with the Lord is there mercy. Though I can plead with the “King’s fool”, I all too often find myself in the role of the king – making sport of the sacred and being humbled and called to repentance by what I thought profane.
But Thou, O Lord, be merciful to me, a fool!

Borsch

I had the best borsch I have ever tasted tonight.

If you ask what borsch is, I will copy Anan and tell you to “Wikipedia it”. If you ask Mom what borsch is, she will skin you.

And if you like borsch, I might consider never speaking to you again.

And all you young men out there, if your wife ever serves borsch, eat it, and smile. Remember cultural experiences can't be bad for you.

And if I am not seen again on the face of this earth, you'll know that someone who loves borsch read this post.

Cows!

We have a very, very stupid cow. This morning as I was milking, Anna discovered that some time in the night, BW had forced his head into the dog-house and couldn't get it out.

We pulled and pushed - but to no avail. We took the top off the dog house and tried to turn his head every which way - but it was too big to fit through the hole. I don't know how he managed to get it in in the first place.

After a half hour of frustration, we found a saw and began cutting the poor beef's head out of the box. (We sawed the dog house, not the cow.)

It was quite pitiful: BW's head was drenched with sweat and he mooed quite mornfully.

At last we freed him and he renewed his pursuit of grass as if nothing had ever happened. Uggh!

Advice to those who happen to weed gardens

A word of warning, admonition, and encouragement to those who labor in the dust, in the heat, in the sweat, in the manure, among the herbaceous dreams

with the sun burning your ears, singeing your arms,
with the bugs buzzing and biting your back,
with weeds that twine themselves around plants and force you to become murderer as well as executioner,
with the knowledge that no matter how much you accomplish today, there will be more weeds on the morrow.

To you I speak; I mention no more hardships, for those to whom I speak know full well what dangers lurk in the vegetable patch.

Yet, Ye Stalwart Soldiers,

Beware of one thing more:

Wear a looooong shirt.

For in order to execute weeds, one must reach the weeds. And as the weeds reside on the ground, one's hands must be lowered to the ground. And to lower one's hands to the dirt, one must bend one's back. And the back that is bent is a good deal longer than a back that is not bent. Therefore, the same shirt that was more than sufficient before one's back was bent becomes a little less than adaquate to shield the skin. And the mercilous sun bends it's flaming rays upon that poor patch of skin till it is red roasted. And after that, every waistband of skirt, shorts, or pants rubs upon that poor, helpless, cruelly toasted strip even more so that at the end of the day it is raw and something other than pleasant.

So all ye who labor in the sweat and mire of endless weeding:

Make sure that your back doesn't get roasted, broasted, toasted, etc by your enemy - the Sun.

And that was ridiculous, but it doesn't matter. I can be ridiculous if I want to be.

Adventure into Domesticity

My first attempt at Strawberry Preserves.

At least it tastes decent. For the first batch, I followed the recipe exactly; it turned out too sweet (but still quite edible!) The second batch, I halved the sugar and it is still quite sweet.

The strawberries all floated to the top of the jars and their syrup stayed on the bottom. I don’t think that is the way it is supposed to work. Ah, well. Such is jam. Maybe, if I’m brave enough, I’ll give friends some of my concoction. Or maybe it would be better for them if I didn’t!

A final defiance in the face of the terror of uncertainty.

After two nights of waterworks suddenly failing about 9pm and two nights of long distraught conversations with my parents (I was distraught, not them) I finished off my predicament by staying up until midnight writing this. But our ISP wouldn't publish so it had to wait till now.

‘Thirdly, the pain itself made Puddleglum’s head for a moment perfectly clear and he knew exactly what he really thought. There is nothing like a good shock of pain for dissolving certain kinds of magic.
“One word, Ma’am,” he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. “One word. All you’ve been saying is quite right, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won’t deny any of what you said. But there’s one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.”’

Satan, I defy thee! Death, I now decry thee! Fear, I bid thee cease! World, thou shalt not harm me nor thy threats alarm me while I sing of peace! God’s great pow’r guards every hour; Earth and all its depths adore Him – silent bow before Him.

Get thee hence!

I bind unto myself today the power of God to hold and lead, His hand to watch, His might to stay, His ear to hearken to my need, The wisdom of my God to teach, His hand to guide, His shield to ward, The Word of God to give me speech, His heavenly hosts to be my guard.
Against the demon snares of sin, the vice that gives temptation force, the natural lusts that war within, The hostile foes that mar my course; Or few or many, far or nigh, In every place and in all hours, Against their fierce hostility, I bind to me those holy pow’rs!
I bind unto myself the Name, the strong Name of the Trinity, by invocation of the same, the Three in One and One in Three, of whom all nature has creation, Eternal Father, Spirit, Word. Praise to the Lord of my salvation; Salvation is of Christ the Lord!

In Thine arms I rest me; foes who would molest me cannot reach me here. Though the earth be shaking, every heart be quaking, Jesus calms my fear. Light-nings flash and thunders crash; Yet, though sin and hell assail me, Jesus will not fail me.

Inspector Javert: Some thoughts on the Law (when I should be sleeping)

“Why did you let me go?”

“I had no choice.”

“Choice?”

“Once many years ago, a good man, bought my soul, removed from it all evil thoughts and gave it to God.”

“There is no God. There is only the Law. Guilt and innocence do not exist outside of the Law.”

“If that is what you believe, then you must kill me. Kill me now.”

“Turn around.”

Jean Valjean turns his face to the wall as Javert aims his pistol with all the steely resolve and cold calculation of the precise, unyielding Law.
*********************************************

Inspector Javert strikes close to home. In a certain sense, I love and hate Javert intensely. I love (neither in the sense that one “loves” a peanut butter and jelly sandwich nor in the sense that one “loves” a fiancé or a husband) him for I pity him and truly, he is a part of me which I cannot rid myself of. I loathe and hate him because he is a part of me – the aspect of my mind which gives me no rest, which accuses, which kills. I used to call him my conscience. Now I don’t know what to call him but “the Law”.

He keeps me from murdering my neighbor, from lying about my brother, from yielding to every desire of my body, and from open theft. Yet he does not stop there. He dredges up the deep dirt – the filth of my heart which horrifies me - and when it fails to trouble me, accuses of a callous conscience.

I also used to think of the Javert in me as a “decent sense of justice”. But really he is only my own self-righteous pride which makes me demand my own condemnation. Inwardly (I have never been able to observe myself from any other angle – more ‘s the pity) I also would stiffly march up to my superior, keeping the proper distance in speech and action, informing him that I have failed in my duty and insulted him and therefore he must condemn and drive me from my post.

If one would know the true trouble of my heart it is a constant awareness of the presence of Inspector Javert.

When my heart weeps for his bottled up pain, it weeps for itself. Even in the movie it is evident: watch him – Javert holds every muscle under strict control, does not speak unnecessarily, does not reveal any emotion. It is evident that he is in control and that Javert will not allow himself to make a mistake. His soul is proud. At the same time it is crying in agony – it is writhing in torment. But fool that he is, he does not allow himself to notice his own piercing pain. He controls it like every other part of him.

Perhaps it is the Law that makes us humans fearful of losing control.

So what does the Law do when it encounters Grace. What does Javert do when he is forced to face the victim he has pursued so long and finds in the ex-convict the forgiveness, grace, and love his heart yearns for but which his soul spurns.

He breaks asunder. He truly does. You cannot see it on the outside. But he loses control. He fears this love more than anything else.

In the end, Grace tears from Javert his control of himself and forces him to show mercy. But Javert will not show mercy to himself. His pride will not receive mercy. If the God who does not exist and the men he did not create refuse to deal out “lawful” retribution to Javert both for his violation of the Law and his failure to break the Law by showing mercy, Javert will deal that punishment himself.

Quite a fearsome end.

There is no freedom to be found in the Law - None whatsoever. It is tense, it is burdensome, it weighs upon the soul of man. It hunts – through the years, through the offices of the prosperous, the cubicles of the dying, through the impetuous carnage of rebellious youth, the sludge of the sewer. The only place Javert does not dare to step foot is the quiet of the Convent.

The law kills. It is fell – deadly. It gloats and mocks. Pity is a thing unknown to the Law. “Their hearts are unfeeling like fat.”

Victor Hugo is quite correct in his analysis of the effect of the Law on poor miserable sinners. We cannot by our own reason or strength believe or receive forgiveness of sin. It simply isn’t in the power of Inspector Javert or any of us.

Thank God that he forgives us anyway. Thank God that “the Holy Spirit calls us by the Gospel, enlightens us with his gifts, sanctifies and keeps us in the true faith.” Without Him, our lives would end precisely like Inspector Javert’s – in hopeless despair and unbelief.

The sweetness of the Gospel hurts only in that it gently pries the immaculate, ice-like, tenacious fingers of Javert from strangling my heart. Javert fights back:

“There is no [gracious] God. There is only the Law. Guilt and innocence do not exist outside of the Law.”

But Christ answers him.

“In the stead and by the command of my Lord Jesus Christ, I forgive you all your sins, in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
“Take drink. This is the true blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, shed for you for the forgiveness of all your sins.”
This child of mine is innocent. She bears my mark now - on her forehead and on her heart.

The Law killed Jesus in my place. Why do I keep forgetting that? I am NOT GUILTY. I am free from bondage to fear.

Javert lives in self-righteous fear. Valjean lives in perfect peace and freedom even while he is being pursued and hunted. Valjean knows love and forgiveness and acts in love and forgiveness. That love drives out his fear. Valjean is more free at the moment he turns himself in to the tribunal to save an innocent man than he was in all his years as monsieur le mayor. The love shown to him is strong enough to cause him to break his own “sacred promise” – the vow to kill Javert.

I have not been tense; I have been afraid.

Afraid of what? Of Inspector Javert. Of the Law. Of condemnation.

But there is nothing to fear. “For there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” None. Javert can hunt me down from the corners of the earth but he will not find a single accusation that will stick. For Christ bears my brand of “convict”- my identifying mark from the prison of Toulon. And just as Valjean acquitted the innocent wheelwright by displaying his own brand to the tribunal at Arras, so Jesus declares me innocent by bearing my brand of sin before the unbending prosecutor of the Law.

By the grace of God, I have my own “Monsignor Bienvenu” to whom I can flee when Javert chases me. In fact I have two! And I know that they will shelter me – not by their own power, nor will they try to “purchase my soul” with their own silver – by the proclamation of the One who has purchased my soul with His blood. They will feed me not on their own hard-earned sustenance, but with the meal of Him who gives Himself as the food for all His guests – be they ever so uncomely, unwashed, unshaven, and rude.

In the Gospel there is perfect peace, perfect rest without fear, perfect freedom. It was this Gospel proclamation which caused Higher Things to have such a tremendous impact on me.
In the words of Gollum (who I don’t normally quote) Javert was told to “Go away, and never come back!” Back he certainly came and hid himself for sometime – I couldn’t figure out what he was and how he managed to dampen my spirits. But thanks be to God that Christ stills the clamoring of the Law and brings perfect peace through the Gospel.

More thoughts on “Les Miserables” to come. But it’s way past bedtime now. I'll be dead on my feet tomorrow. Uggh!

Proverbs 10:19

When words are many, transgression is not lacking,
but whoever restrains his lips is prudent.

Carpal Tunnel?

I honestly am having a hard time believing it. Of all the weird medical conditions I’ve worried about contracting, it seems incredulous to likely be afflicted with carpal tunnel at the age of seventeen. It’s not right!

I wake up in the middle of the night to dead hands; hands which sense nothing but a vague tingling and do not move well. They have completely “fallen asleep” and I can feel the lack of blood flow. I must gingerly clench and unclench my hands while vigorously whacking them onto my knees for a few minutes before I can feel blood flow returning and sensation becomes normal. Ugh. My hands even lose feeling while I'm driving down the highway!

At first I thought this was normal – just a quirk of my personal physiology. Then I asked Mom and she comfortingly said, “You’ve probably just got a bit of Carpal Tunnel.” Great!
I suppose it is because I use my hands so much. When I’m not writing, I’m milking. When I’m not milking, writing, or folding paper critters I’m either reading or asleep or eating. Maybe I should give my hands a rest. But I don’t want to. I need my hands to live my life.


Hmm. Sounds like I’m scared of losing control. Maybe I am.

But I shouldn’t be. The fact of the matter is that I was never in control to start with. I may be worrying about a condition that I don’t even have. On the other hand, the carpal tunnel may be very real and I may never get rid of it. If that’s God’s will, who am I to complain? My life is just as safe and secure as it was before my hands started bugging me at night; my life is hidden with Christ in God. Really, nothing has changed.

Hmm. really selfcentered post stop needs to be ended stop ending now stop

Marmion and Douglas

Here’s another of my favorites. Dramatic recitations are awesome! Anna and I have made quite a practice of quoting this one to each other. As far as I can tell, this is only an excerpt from a larger work by name of “Marmion”, though I have been unable thus far to lay hands on such a masterpiece. This one makes my Scottish adrenaline laden blood run fast. I do hope that William Wallace really was one of our ancestors!

Marmion and Douglas
Sir Walter Scott

The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: --
“Though something I might plain,” he said
“Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king’s behest,
While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And noble Earl, receive my hand.” –

But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: --
“My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my sovereign’s will
To each one whom he lists, howe’er
Unmeet to be the owner’s peer.
My castles are my king’s alone
From turret to foundation stone, --
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.” –

Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And –“ This to me!” he said, --
“An’t were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared
To cleave the Douglas’ head!
And first I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He who does England’s message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And , Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in they pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, they vassals near,
( Nay , never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou’rt defied!
And if thou said’st I am not peer to any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!”—
On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage
O’er came the ashen hue of age;
Fierce he broke forth, -- “And dar’st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, groom,-- what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.”—

Lord Marmion turned, -- well was his need! –
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake’s level brim;
And when Lord Marmion reached his band
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.


Wow! I can just feel the deep defiance! What unplumbed depths of fiery heart which beats in the proud Douglas and what tension between the Scot and English lord! I can’t help but get really riled up and excited whenever I read this poem (Snap or Anna can tell you about that); my heart starts beating faster and I simply must raise and lower my voice at the appropriate places – I feel the urge to shout, “Lord Angus, Thou hast lied!” and “And dar’st thou then, to beard the lion in his den, the Douglas in his hall…no, by St. Bride of Bothwell, NO!” You have to put emphasis on those words or else you just don’t get the meaning. When the poem shifts to Douglas at the second stanza, you must fold your arms across your chest stubbornly. And at the end of the poem, you simply must shake your “clench-ed hand” at invisible towers. Oo! This is just TOO exciting! I want to run around quoting this poem.

"Cuddle Doon"

"Cuddle Doon"

Alexander Anderson


This is such a sweet poem! It reminds me so much of my own younger days of bedtime…and of putting the young Stuckwisch boys to bed while babysitting. I’d love to memorize this one, but I’d slaughter it: I really have no idea of the correct pronunciation for some of those words, even if I do have Scottish blood in my ancestry. No, I didn’t misspell anything.
I especially appreciate the last verse.


The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ muckle fash an’ din.
“Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues;
Your faither’s comin’ in.”
They never heed a word I speak.
I try to gie a froon;
But aye I hap them up, an’ cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”

Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid –
He aye sleeps next the wa’ –
Bangs up an’ cries, “I want a piece” –
The rascal starts them a’.
I rin an’ fetch them pieces, drinks –
They stop awee the soun’ –
Then draw the blankets up, an’ cry,
“Noo, weanies, cuddle doon!”

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries oot, frae ‘neath the claes,
“Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at ance:
He’s kittlin’ wi’ his taes.”
The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks;
He’d bother half the toon.
But aye I hap them up, an’ cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”

At length they hear their father’s fit;
An’ as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa’,
While Tam pretends to snore.
“Hae a’ the weans been gude?” he asks,
As he pits aff his shoon.
“The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
An’ lang since cuddled doon.”

An’ just afore we bed oorsels,
We look at oor wee lambs.
Tam has his airm roun’ we Rab’s neck,
An’ Rab his airm roun’ Tam’s.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An’ as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me;
But soon the big warl’s cark an’ care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet come what will to ilka ane,
May he who rules aboon
Aye whisper, though their pows be bald,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”

Ketchuping! or some such thing.

I WILL hopefully write something about graduation and open houses and other such events. Hopefully is the key word in that sentence.

I just had the greatest conversation with Snap de Gopher, which, by the way, is the reason that I am up this late.

Dr. John Eck is a juvenile crow. We "found" him when he was an "abandoned" nestling last week and fed him until he was old enough to fly about three days ago. He's been in the trees around our house since then. Today, the good Doctor grew brave enough to venture from the security of his perch down to the porch and eat out of my hand (and Snap's).

And by the way, we have an inner tube that can hold two cows....Ask Snap for details :D

Until whenever we meet again,

Hobbit who needs hair on her feetses to be a real hobbit.

Dr. Eck Returns!

I can't believe it! Oh Joy Inexpressible!

Dr. John Eck came back! If you don't know who Dr. Eck is, read Snap's blog; I'm sure she must have mentioned him/her by now.

And Dr. Eck ate out of my hand (and Snap's) too!

And we aren't violating federal law either because Dr. Eck isn't in captivity! He came back on his own.

Back to work.