Though we're strangers, still I love you
I love you more than your mask
And you know you have to trust this to be true
And I know that's much to ask
But lay down your fears
Come and join this feast
He has called us here
You and me
Chorus:
And may peace rain down from Heaven
Like little pieces of the sky
Little keepers of the promise
Falling on these souls this drought has dried
In His Blood and in His Body
In this Bread and in this Wine
Peace to you
Peace of Christ to you
And though I love you, still we're strangers
Prisoners in these lonely hearts
And though our blindness separates us
Still His light shines in the dark
And His outstretched arms
Are still strong enough to reach
Behind these prison bars
To set us free
-Rich Mullins
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Knowing / Being Known
The path, too, to the "God-given reality" of my fellow-man or woman with whom I have to live leads through Christ, or it is a blind alley. We are separated from one another by an unbridgeable gulf of otherness and strangeness which resists all our attempts to overcome it by means of natural association or emotional or spiritual union. There is no way from one person to another. However loving and sympathetic we try to be, however sound our psychology, however frank and open our behaviour, we cannot penetrate the incognito of the other man, for there are no direct relationships, not even between soul and soul. Christ stands between us, and we can only get into touch with our neighbours through him. That is why intercession is the most promising way to reach our neighbours, and corporate prayer, offered in the name of Christ, the purest form of fellowship.
-Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 98.
-Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 98.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Pigeons
It is neither just nor accurate to connect the word alas with pigeons. Pigeons are definitely not alas. They have nothing to do with alas and they have nothing to do with hooray (not even when you tie red, white, and blue ribbons on them and let them loose at band concerts); they have nothing to do with mercy me or isn't that fine, either. White rabbits, yes, and Scotch terriers, and bluejays, and even hippopotamuses, but not pigeons. I happen to have have studied pigeons very closely and carefully, and I have studied the effect, or rather the lack of effect, of pigeons very carefully. A number of pigeons alight from time to time on the sill of my hotel window when I am eating breakfast and staring out the window. They never alas me, they never make me feel alas; they never make me feel anything.
-James Thurber, The Thurber Carnival, 116.
-James Thurber, The Thurber Carnival, 116.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Highs
1. Skiing! In the snow!
2. Singing on the lift
3. Haunted garages and motorcycle love interests
4. Pink and blue licorice
5. Playing football in the freezing rain in my pajamas
2. Singing on the lift
3. Haunted garages and motorcycle love interests
4. Pink and blue licorice
5. Playing football in the freezing rain in my pajamas
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Other People
"My theory is—we don't really go that far into other people, even when we think we do. We hardly ever go in and bring them out. We just stand at the jaws of the cave, and strike a match, and quickly ask if anybody's there."
-Martin Amis, Money (hat tip Our Girl in Chicago)
-Martin Amis, Money (hat tip Our Girl in Chicago)
Alone
He said, "Kelly I don't think
I've ever wanted as much
To be free as I've longed to be known.
And of the things that I hate
When I look at my life
The worst is my being alone."
-Don Chaffer, "The Worst is My Being Alone"
I've ever wanted as much
To be free as I've longed to be known.
And of the things that I hate
When I look at my life
The worst is my being alone."
-Don Chaffer, "The Worst is My Being Alone"
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Lamed Vavnik
For the sake of ten righteous people, God does not destroy the world. These are the Lamed Vavnik. They live scattered in any nation under heaven, are member of any class, of any profession which may be imagined; and they are invisible to the world. Lo, not even they know the significance of their lives. Such ignorance is their righteousness. They merely live, so they suppose, as other people live. But Heaven knows the difference.
And this is the mercy of God: that when one of the Lamed Vavnik dies, God raises up another.
-Walt Wangerin, Ragman, and Other Cries of Faith, 89.
And this is the mercy of God: that when one of the Lamed Vavnik dies, God raises up another.
-Walt Wangerin, Ragman, and Other Cries of Faith, 89.
Make a Joyful Noise
Now shall my inward joys arise,
And burst into a song;
Almighty love inspires my heart,
And pleasure tunes my tongue.
-Isaac Watts
And burst into a song;
Almighty love inspires my heart,
And pleasure tunes my tongue.
-Isaac Watts
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Slugs
Swallow a Slug
By its tail or its snout
Feel it slide down
Feel it climb out
Tie one on a leash
Take it for a walk
Take your Slug to school today
Teach it how to talk
Slugs are small and portable
Just stuff 'em up your nose
They'll fit beneath your armpits
Or right between your toes
-David Greenberg, Slugs
By its tail or its snout
Feel it slide down
Feel it climb out
Tie one on a leash
Take it for a walk
Take your Slug to school today
Teach it how to talk
Slugs are small and portable
Just stuff 'em up your nose
They'll fit beneath your armpits
Or right between your toes
-David Greenberg, Slugs
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Hand-to-Hand Conflict
...Luther had to leave the cloister and go back to the world, not because the world in itself was good and holy, but because even the cloister was only a part of the world.
Luther's return from the cloister to the world was the worst blow the world had suffered since the days of early Christianity. The renunciation he made when he became a monk was child's play compared with that which he had to make when he returned to the world. Now came the frontal assault. The only way to follow Jesus was by living in the world. Hitherto the Christian life had been the achievement of a few choice spirits under the exceptionally favourable conditions of monasticism; now it is a duty laid on every Christian living in the world. the commandment of Jesus must be accorded perfect obedience in one's daily vocation of life. The conflict between the life of the Christian and the life of the world was thus thrown into the sharpest possible relief. It was a hand-to-hand conflict between the Christian and the world.
-Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 48.
Luther's return from the cloister to the world was the worst blow the world had suffered since the days of early Christianity. The renunciation he made when he became a monk was child's play compared with that which he had to make when he returned to the world. Now came the frontal assault. The only way to follow Jesus was by living in the world. Hitherto the Christian life had been the achievement of a few choice spirits under the exceptionally favourable conditions of monasticism; now it is a duty laid on every Christian living in the world. the commandment of Jesus must be accorded perfect obedience in one's daily vocation of life. The conflict between the life of the Christian and the life of the world was thus thrown into the sharpest possible relief. It was a hand-to-hand conflict between the Christian and the world.
-Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 48.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Something Come Down the Chimley
A beautiful red setter called Brownie, who had been asleep in the playroom armchair, woke up at the sound of Mrs. O'Callaghan scampering, and began to bark in a hysterical falsetto.
"Mr. White, Mr. White, there's something come down the chimley!"
"What sort of thing?"
"Like a banshee!"
Brownie, who had recognized the scamperer and decided that a game was to be played, continued to bark and to romp with Mrs. O'Callaghan, which caused them to carry on their conversation in shouts.
"Is it a jackdaw?"
The jackdaws had built in all the chimneys at Burkestown, after first filling them with twigs, so that it was impossible to have a fire in the house after the hatching season, and young daws in the fireplaces were fairly common objects. The tolerant creatures had respected the kitchen chimney, however, and it was still possible to have hot meals. When Mr. White asked if it were a jackdaw, he had suffered a momentary qualm that perhaps this tolerance might be at an end, and that they would have to live on cold ham in future.
"No."
"Is it a cat?"
Some cats had also taken to the chimneys at Burkestown, in the lower parts which were free of twigs, and had gone wild there. They came out at night like Harpies, to raid the dairy and the pantry, but vanished up the chimney if anyone opened the door. Nobody knew what to do about them, as they were smokeproof. It was an interesting example of synechthry.
Mrs. O'Callaghan denied the cats. Her lodger's scientific attitude had calmed her, so that she no longer wanted to recite the rosary for the time being. She was ready to take a defensive interest in what had come down, and even to repel Brownie if she could. Mr. White, always the practical Englishman, was taking control of the situation, as he generally did, and she was willing that he should do so. Her life was made up of baffling situations—for instance, although it was August, her husband was still doing the previous year's ploughing—and her usual reaction was to ignore them as much as possible. When Mr. White had insisted on putting up a Windcharger to make some electric light for them, for instance, Mrs. O'Callaghan had refused to learn how to put on the brake, on the principle that if she did not know how to do it then she could not be blamed if it broke because she had not.
She shouted hopefully, like somebody playing a card and wondering what would be played on top of it: "It be's more like a feather mop."
He knew it could not be a mop because he had swept the chimney in the room above, which was dog-legged, and, besides, the kitchen range had three dampers. He opened the door for Brownie, who rushed out under the impression that she was going for a walk, and closed it again resourcefully, so that the unnatural silence smote upon the ear.
"What do you think it is?"
Just like going to the Docther, thought Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Does it hurt here?" "Where do yez feel the pain, Ma'am?" She folded her long fingers together and gave a candid opinion.
"It might be the Archangel Michael."
-T. H. White, The Elephant and the Kangaroo, 11-12.
"Mr. White, Mr. White, there's something come down the chimley!"
"What sort of thing?"
"Like a banshee!"
Brownie, who had recognized the scamperer and decided that a game was to be played, continued to bark and to romp with Mrs. O'Callaghan, which caused them to carry on their conversation in shouts.
"Is it a jackdaw?"
The jackdaws had built in all the chimneys at Burkestown, after first filling them with twigs, so that it was impossible to have a fire in the house after the hatching season, and young daws in the fireplaces were fairly common objects. The tolerant creatures had respected the kitchen chimney, however, and it was still possible to have hot meals. When Mr. White asked if it were a jackdaw, he had suffered a momentary qualm that perhaps this tolerance might be at an end, and that they would have to live on cold ham in future.
"No."
"Is it a cat?"
Some cats had also taken to the chimneys at Burkestown, in the lower parts which were free of twigs, and had gone wild there. They came out at night like Harpies, to raid the dairy and the pantry, but vanished up the chimney if anyone opened the door. Nobody knew what to do about them, as they were smokeproof. It was an interesting example of synechthry.
Mrs. O'Callaghan denied the cats. Her lodger's scientific attitude had calmed her, so that she no longer wanted to recite the rosary for the time being. She was ready to take a defensive interest in what had come down, and even to repel Brownie if she could. Mr. White, always the practical Englishman, was taking control of the situation, as he generally did, and she was willing that he should do so. Her life was made up of baffling situations—for instance, although it was August, her husband was still doing the previous year's ploughing—and her usual reaction was to ignore them as much as possible. When Mr. White had insisted on putting up a Windcharger to make some electric light for them, for instance, Mrs. O'Callaghan had refused to learn how to put on the brake, on the principle that if she did not know how to do it then she could not be blamed if it broke because she had not.
She shouted hopefully, like somebody playing a card and wondering what would be played on top of it: "It be's more like a feather mop."
He knew it could not be a mop because he had swept the chimney in the room above, which was dog-legged, and, besides, the kitchen range had three dampers. He opened the door for Brownie, who rushed out under the impression that she was going for a walk, and closed it again resourcefully, so that the unnatural silence smote upon the ear.
"What do you think it is?"
Just like going to the Docther, thought Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Does it hurt here?" "Where do yez feel the pain, Ma'am?" She folded her long fingers together and gave a candid opinion.
"It might be the Archangel Michael."
-T. H. White, The Elephant and the Kangaroo, 11-12.
Monday, February 11, 2008
My Tiger, My Heart
My tiger, my heart
We're growing apart
We're trying to be friends
But it's hard sometimes
To be friends with something
That eats butterflies
And pencil sharpeners
And I think it would be
Happier being free
-The Boy Least Likely To
We're growing apart
We're trying to be friends
But it's hard sometimes
To be friends with something
That eats butterflies
And pencil sharpeners
And I think it would be
Happier being free
-The Boy Least Likely To
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Verbal Snapshot
Nine pairs of earrings, lovingly handcrafted in the last two days, dangling from one of my bucket chairs (maybe I'll go into business if this actuary thing doesn't work out).
Saturday, February 9, 2008
He Really Likes the Trains
Well, you'll never guess who I saw riding her bike today
She was wearing hiking boots and a mini skirt
She had a license plate that read Cinderella
So I guess that's who it must have been
So I asked her about her evil stepmother
Said she locked her up behind the cellar door
She was tired of scrubbing floors and doing the dishes
Said that cleaning stuff was quite a bore
Well I saw Puff the Dragon down on Main Street
He was standing on a corner, smoking a cigarette
I asked him about his home on the seashore
About his lighthouse, and if he had any regrets
About leaving the sand and the ocean
Standing on the side of the street and smoke his stuff
He said that it would take some getting used to
But that he really, he really likes the trains
I was walking with my brother down the Prairie Path
When all of a sudden much to our surprise
There was a flash of brilliant color amidst the foliage
And out of the bushes flew a Mighty Mouse
He was hot on the trail of an evil villain
His job to serve justice at any cost
The next thing I knew he turned to Pete and I
And he said, hey boys, I think I'm lost
-Whipple Tree Band
She was wearing hiking boots and a mini skirt
She had a license plate that read Cinderella
So I guess that's who it must have been
So I asked her about her evil stepmother
Said she locked her up behind the cellar door
She was tired of scrubbing floors and doing the dishes
Said that cleaning stuff was quite a bore
Well I saw Puff the Dragon down on Main Street
He was standing on a corner, smoking a cigarette
I asked him about his home on the seashore
About his lighthouse, and if he had any regrets
About leaving the sand and the ocean
Standing on the side of the street and smoke his stuff
He said that it would take some getting used to
But that he really, he really likes the trains
I was walking with my brother down the Prairie Path
When all of a sudden much to our surprise
There was a flash of brilliant color amidst the foliage
And out of the bushes flew a Mighty Mouse
He was hot on the trail of an evil villain
His job to serve justice at any cost
The next thing I knew he turned to Pete and I
And he said, hey boys, I think I'm lost
-Whipple Tree Band
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Entropy
Thomasina: When you stir your rice pudding, Septimus, the spoonful of jam spreads itself round making red trails like the picture of a meteor in my astronomical atlas. But if you stir backward, the jam will not come together again. Indeed, the pudding does not notice and continues to turn pink just as before. Do you think this is odd?
Sepitimus: No.
Thomasina: Well, I do. You cannot stir things apart.
-Tom Stoppard, Arcadia
Sepitimus: No.
Thomasina: Well, I do. You cannot stir things apart.
-Tom Stoppard, Arcadia
Monday, February 4, 2008
Untitled
My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst find
Thirst's all-in-all in a world of wet.
Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather—as skies
Betweenpie mountains—lights a lovely mile.
-Gerard Manley Hopkins
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst find
Thirst's all-in-all in a world of wet.
Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather—as skies
Betweenpie mountains—lights a lovely mile.
-Gerard Manley Hopkins
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Happy Birthday, Jessie!
Come on everyone
There's a lot that can be done
A little love can go a long, long way
So rise to the occasion
Of a radical invasion
Hey, don't let the world go down in flames
Fight the fire with a fire
Push it to the limit
You can be a renegade
Light a fuse, make a spark
Try to penetrate a heart
There's a burning need
To fill the world with love
Love is kind, love is sound
It makes the world go round
So it keep it turning
There could never be enough
Hatred'll spoil the feast
That's the nature of the beast
So don't ever let your heart be swayed
Draw the sword, slay the dragon
Get on the bandwagon
And be a fighter on the Love Crusade!
-Michael W. Smith, "Love Crusade"
There's a lot that can be done
A little love can go a long, long way
So rise to the occasion
Of a radical invasion
Hey, don't let the world go down in flames
Fight the fire with a fire
Push it to the limit
You can be a renegade
Light a fuse, make a spark
Try to penetrate a heart
There's a burning need
To fill the world with love
Love is kind, love is sound
It makes the world go round
So it keep it turning
There could never be enough
Hatred'll spoil the feast
That's the nature of the beast
So don't ever let your heart be swayed
Draw the sword, slay the dragon
Get on the bandwagon
And be a fighter on the Love Crusade!
-Michael W. Smith, "Love Crusade"
John Muir and the Douglas Fir
In the last half of the nineteenth century, John Muir was our most intrepid and worshipful explorer of the western extremities of our North American continent. For decades he tramped up and down through our God-created wonders, from the California Sierras to the Alaskan glaciers, observing, reporting, praising, and experiencing—entering into whatever he found with childlike delight and mature reverence.
At one period during this time (the year was 1874) Muir visited a friend who had a cabin, snug in a valley of one of the tributaries of the Yuba River in the Sierra Mountains—a place from which to venture into the wilderness and then return for a comforting cup of tea.
One December day a storm moved in from the Pacific—a fierce storm that bent the junipers and pines, the madronas and fir trees as if they were so many blades of grass. It was for just such times this cabin had been built: cozy protection from the harsh elements. We easily imagine Muir and his host safe and secure in his tightly caulked cabin, a fire blazing against the cruel assault of the elements, wrapped in sheepskins, Muir meditatively rendering the wildness into his elegant prose. But our imaginations, not trained to cope with Muir, betray us. For Muir, instead of retreating to the coziness of the cabin, pulling the door tight, and throwing another stick of wood on the fire, strode out of the cabin into the storm, climbed a high ridge, picked a giant Douglas fir as the best perch for experiencing the kaleidoscope of color and sound, scent and motion, scrambled his way to the top, and rode out the storm, lashed by the wind, holding on for dear life, relishing Weather, taking it all in—its rich sensuality, its primal energy.
//
Throughout its many retellings, the story of John Muir, storm-whipped at the top of the Douglas fir in the Yuba River valley, gradually took shape as a kind of icon of Christian spirituality for our family. The icon has been in place ever since as a standing rebuke against become a mere spectator to life, preferring creature comforts to Creator confrontations.
-Eugene H. Peterson, from the forward to Whole Prayer by Walter Wangerin
At one period during this time (the year was 1874) Muir visited a friend who had a cabin, snug in a valley of one of the tributaries of the Yuba River in the Sierra Mountains—a place from which to venture into the wilderness and then return for a comforting cup of tea.
One December day a storm moved in from the Pacific—a fierce storm that bent the junipers and pines, the madronas and fir trees as if they were so many blades of grass. It was for just such times this cabin had been built: cozy protection from the harsh elements. We easily imagine Muir and his host safe and secure in his tightly caulked cabin, a fire blazing against the cruel assault of the elements, wrapped in sheepskins, Muir meditatively rendering the wildness into his elegant prose. But our imaginations, not trained to cope with Muir, betray us. For Muir, instead of retreating to the coziness of the cabin, pulling the door tight, and throwing another stick of wood on the fire, strode out of the cabin into the storm, climbed a high ridge, picked a giant Douglas fir as the best perch for experiencing the kaleidoscope of color and sound, scent and motion, scrambled his way to the top, and rode out the storm, lashed by the wind, holding on for dear life, relishing Weather, taking it all in—its rich sensuality, its primal energy.
//
Throughout its many retellings, the story of John Muir, storm-whipped at the top of the Douglas fir in the Yuba River valley, gradually took shape as a kind of icon of Christian spirituality for our family. The icon has been in place ever since as a standing rebuke against become a mere spectator to life, preferring creature comforts to Creator confrontations.
-Eugene H. Peterson, from the forward to Whole Prayer by Walter Wangerin
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