We Know We Belong to the Land

We celebrated my grandfather's birthday this past week. I'm not going to say how old he is, but I will say that he remembers walking over fences on dirt blown up as high as the posts. That's a lot of years and a lot of stories.

I like sitting around (with a cup of coffee, of course) listening to people remember an earlier time. I know compared to some places our area hasn't changed drastically from 80 or 100 years ago, but there are still a lot of things we young stupid people don't know about the way things used to work.

This really struck me last year when I started to try to write some historical fiction based on the life of my great-grandmother, who came to Oklahoma Territory to teach school. Sounds easy enough, right? After all, it was only three generations back, and I knew a little bit of family history.

As I got into it, though, I realized how woefully ignorant I am of the details of everyday life a hundred years ago, not to mention the details of my family's history. And some things are beyond the reach of even Google.

I came to understand what a thoroughly modern mindset I have when I sent my heroine--my great-grandmother-- out across the plains in a wagon looking for someone's house. I was a little concerned about her safety, but thought I was forgetting something--then I realized I had been feeling in the back of my mind that she could take a cell phone with her. You can all laugh at my stupidity now. What did people do before cell phones, anyway?

In our modern and mobile society, we don't always know a lot about our roots, or even feel like we have any. People transition from New York to California to Texas, and end up accentless and heritageless, not really sure where they are "from." Which is too bad, because a people who don't know where they came from more easily forget where they are going, or why they are here.

The story of the Trojan War is one of the greatest legends around, immortalized by Homer in the Illiad and the Odyssey. Did you ever think about what kept those men fighting for 10 years? One of my professors suggested that Troy was possible because of Ithaca (Odysseus' home). These men fought away from home for 10 long and difficult years because they had a home they came from that they wanted to protect.

Why did the American colonists, who were so proud to be British citizens, rebel? Why did Robert E. Lee resign from the United States Army to fight against it? Why could the men of World Wars I and II keep fighting in those horrible bloody trenches?

Because a man's first loyalty is to the ground on which he and his fathers were born.

Some of my foreign (California or Pennsylvania) friends used to laugh at the way I would brighten up at an "Oklahoma" license plate or flag or tell them what our state meal was (yes, we have a state meal) or belt out our state song during my exile in Virginia.

They could never see what made me homesick in pictures of what looked to them like a flat barren land. They could never understand why I cried for red dirt and open plains. They could never see the romance and excitement in the loneliness, or in a 1950 Dodge wheat truck that smelled like grease and dirt.

Because that is my heritage, and not theirs.

Most of my generation doesn't know their past. They can know facts and figures about it, but that does not compare with knowing the people who fought to make it, and the land that was a part of them. I wonder if that's why we don't have the power to fight a drawn-out war-- we are not familiar with the reason.

So please, older generations, pass on your stories. We need them. Write them down, tell them to the babies on your knees.

Younger folks: ask questions and listen to the answers. Those in the past were real live people with real problems and worries and loves. Think about their answers. They might tell you more than about them--they might tell you about you.

Confident Waiting

From someone else, whose blog I hope you read more often than mine. If you don't always get a chance to read it, read this post. Whether you are waiting to graduate or waiting to be accepted or waiting for a job or waiting for a calling or waiting for a spouse or waiting for a weekend or waiting for you know not what or why, remember the One on whom you are ultimately waiting.

http://wittingshire.blogspot.com/2007/03/waiting-in-confidence.html

Happy Second First Day of Spring

Why has spring changed dates?

Happy First Day of Spring

My Irish Heritage

My father, he was Orange,1
And my mother, she was a Green.2


Notes:
1. Orange, a reddish-yellow color. Burnt orange (all orange should be burnt) is the color of the Longhorns, the mascot of the University of Texas.

2. Green, mother's maiden name.

A thought

If I were a flower, I should like to be
A crocus, springing wildly
Where no one planted or expected me.

Beware the Ides of March!

No, not the idle of March (although you might beware March idleness, also known as spring fever). Nor are the eyes of March upon you. "Beware the Ides of March," a soothsayer warned Julius Caesar, or so Shakespeare tells us, and who among us dares to question Shakespeare? We probably shouldn't question his soothsayers either, as it turns out.

The Ides are not some furry little hooded creature from Star Wars, much as that may disappoint some. They are simply one of three times in a month used for dating by the Roman
calendar.

If you really want to know: the Romans marked time within the month from 3 dates: the Calends (yes, as in calendar), the Nones, and the Ides. The Calends were easy: the first of the month. The Nones fell on the 7th in March, May, July and October, and on the 5th at all other times. The Ides fell on the 15th in the four aforementioned months, and on the 13th in the others. To make things worse... alright, I won't tell you that they counted backwards from these dates. I knew you didn't want to know.

All that to say: the Ides of March means plain, simple March 15th, although it came to be something like the equivalent of a "9-11" for the Romans.

Caesar did not heed the soothsayer's warning (or at least not adequately), and was indeed killed in the Senate on the Ides of March, 44 b.c. This led to immediate civil wars in Rome, and some say was part of the reason for the fall of Rome. Since Caesar would have, so far as we can tell, probably managed to die at some point even if he hadn't been murdered, Rome seems to have been without hope.

Caesar's murderers were members of the Roman senate, and friends, "all honorable men" who feared that he was becoming too powerful, leaving behind the equality of the Roman republic. Consequently, they disposed of him. The most famous of these conspirators was Marcus Junius Brutus, who et tued. He was a distant cousin of Caesar's and a particular favorite with the dictator, named as one of his testamentary heirs.

It's not necessarily clear who were the good guys and who were the bad guys in the conflict. Like in other historical and current events, they didn't do us the favor of wearing white hats and black hats so we could set it down and be done with it.

Caesar, from all we can tell, was an ambitious man. He was an authoritative ruler, and even though he did refuse a crown and title of king, he didn't have any problem with being "dictator for life." Like most political leaders who are human, he probably was a mixture of good and bad elements.

Ditto (from the Latin, "dicto," "what was already spoken") for his murderers. Brutus especially in Shakespeare is from the first scene to the last an honorable, noble man-- but he also gave "the most unkindest cut of all" to the man who thought so highly of him and had pardoned him.
So it leaves unsettled the question of the assassins' justification. Were they right in taking the law into their own hands to dispose of a bloody tyrant? Was Brutus truly killing a man he loved because he loved Rome more?

Or were they themselves simply bloody murderers, imposing their own will just as tyrannically as they accused Caesar of doing? Was Brutus the most ungrateful of men? People through history have taken different sides, but we do know that Brutus did not become a heroic figure for the ages.

Whatever you may believe, The Ides and their disastrous results are a reminder to us to be very careful about trying to justify rebellion, and a lesson to all in authority not to abuse it. And we should all remember to beware of ambition, for "by that sin fell the angels."

We should also probably beware of men with lean and hungry looks who read too much, and friends with daggers in their smiles and hands. And if you see furry little hooded creatures running around, you might beware of them too.

From last week, actually

Because the 8th would have been his 25th birthday.

Bringer of Light

I wish I could remember his face. In my few hazy memories I can never quite make it out. He is always there, but when I try to see his face it fades into a blur of sunshine and shadow.

His name meant “Light-bringer,” and that is how he appears in my remembrance: a source of light so bright I can’t look directly at it, but which leaves a shadow when it is gone.

Occasionally, I see a flash of a look in a younger brother’s eyes I recognize as his, and hold my breath.

Aaron was born in Baton Rouge, La., but anyone could tell he belonged in the wheat fields of Oklahoma. My parents moved there when Aaron was a year and a half to take care of my grandmother. Aaron and Maestro, the Schitzu cocklebur collector, delighted in the wide open spaces and fresh air after the confinement of the city.

Mama and Daddy called him their “farmer boy”: nothing stood between him and helping out with the men’s work in the garden or field. He fit right in with all the outdoor critters in summer; his sunny grin and eyes sparking blue lit up my world.

In my first baby picture, he is holding me. I am a squalling red ball wrapped in a blanket, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gazing down with wonder and favor on his new charge.

His presence was a constant reassurance I took for eternally granted. I didn’t worry about anything, because I knew Aaron was there. He was my protector: when a mean big boy of four tried to pass me in line for the bumper boats, Aaron stopped him. No one cut in front of his sister.

He frequently carried me away to safety on the back of his bay rocking horse, his velvety green sombrero clashing with red and white striped jammies.

Once I tagged along with him and a friend named Andy to the creek half a mile away, where we threw in rocks and watched them splash and ripple into rings. He was six, and I was three, and our mother was proud that he was old enough to take care of me.

Despite his relative maturity, Aaron was still a child. For my third birthday, Dad set up an early camcorder on a tripod in the kitchen and positioned me in front of it for an “interview.”

I shyly avoided his questions, refusing to talk or sing my “birthday song,” until Aaron came through the door. Without turning his smile from the camera, he scooted me over on my chair and sat down.

“Am I on TV?” he asked through his teeth, careful not to break his smile.

“Yes,” Dad said, and Aaron started chattering like one of our hens. Our father asked him if he wanted everyone who saw him on TV to think he was silly.

He shrugged. “Yeah,” he laughed.

I sat up. “When I’m on TV, I’m gonna be siwwy.”

Aaron put his arm around me, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Be silly! You’re on the tape!” I immediately began producing zooming noises while Aaron “she-bop-bopped” beside me.

He bought me a gift that year too, and was almost as excited as I was — he tried to help me open it. It was a pink jewelry box with a cat on the top that looked like Mittens.

He showed me how the drawer opened so I could put in my new hairbows. He was very proud of his taste, and kept asking, “Do you like your present, Hannah? Hannah, do you like your present?”

Every night at eight o’clock our mother would read from Egermeier’s Bible Story Book, and tell us a story about when she was little. Then she let us each choose one lullaby, and we would lie in bunk beds in footie pajamas listening to her sing until we fell asleep on pillowslips he had fingerpainted. Music at night still reminds me of the comfort of having him near, and the lack after he was gone.

His favorite hymn was “Trust and Obey.” My mother cried later when we sang it. I whispered, “Aaron?” because I wanted to cry too. She nodded, surprised I understood.
I was only three when he died. His friend Andy prayed for me daily, because I had lost my best friend. God must have answered his prayers, because I don’t remember hurting. I missed him, but I knew Aaron was with Jesus, where he had always wanted to be. What could possibly be more wonderful?

For those who...can't understand

We told someone to use his bean, but discovered that he had lentil health problems.

This Week's Column

How much is a human life worth? How many people can we blame for the bad things that happen in an evil world? And how much money can we make in the process?

America has become a nation worshipping money as the highest good-- as long as it's our own money. If a doctor doesn't catch the fact that someone has a disease, or we set hot coffee between our legs and spill it, "sue!" we cry. Surely money will make everything better.

I've got news for anyone who believes that money can cure pain. It can't. It's easy, it's romantic to see courts as Robin Hood, taking from the rich Big Bad Wolf Business to give to poor grandma. But it's too easy.

Pain is always the result of 1) things we do to ourselves; 2) things other people do to us; or 3) things that happen in a fallen world that are nobody's fault. (Nobody sure gets us in a lot of trouble. Maybe somebody should sue him.) The problem is that we keep trying to squeeze numbers 1 and 3 into number 2, to the point where I wouldn't be surprised to hear of a bank robber suing his mother for failing to bring him up properly. On "The Incredibles" a man sues Mr. Incredible (the superhero, in case you don't know) for saving his life. "I didn't want to be saved!" he says. It's a joke, but it's so close to the truth that it almost ceases to be funny.

It's not much of a surprise when human beings try to shrug responsibility-- it's been happening for a long time. We don't like to admit that we make mistakes and do evil and stupid things. I know, because I have personal experience with being human-- and plenty of experience doing stupid and evil things. We automatically try to justify, or duck, or generally make things sound better for us. "Well, yes, I hit her," the child says, "but she called me a name!" "Yes, I wrecked the car," the teenager says, "but how was I supposed to know there was another car there?" Litigation is an easy way to deny personal responsibility for doing something stupid.

A legal website said of the infamous McDonald's coffee case that jurors were affected by seeing pictures of the woman's serious injuries. That is emotional evasion-- trying to take advantage of human sympathy to blur the facts. The fact was, she did something stupid by setting hot coffee between her legs. It wasn't McDonald's fault that she did that, nor was it my fault, but McDonalds had to give her money for the misuse of their product, and I have to drink cold coffee now. And when it's cold, it's a lot more bitter. Or at least I am.

There are also some things that just happen in an evil and fallen world. People die of accidents and disease every day. If we look hard enough we can probably find someone to blame or sue, but that won't solve the pain. And it certainly won't help the people we're suing or the people who will have to pay more because of higher insurance rates.

Even when others make mistakes that might hurt us, suing sets a dangerous precedent. How would we like to be treated like that? I'm thankful that people have been kind enough to overlook and forgive many mistakes I have made. It would be pretty ungrateful of me to treat everyone else as though they should be perfect.

The word "victim" has become very popular lately. It comes from the Latin verb vinco, vincere, vici, victum and literally means "someone who has been conquered." That seems like a sad thing to be. Instead of being anxious to be conquered, let's become conquerors-- big enough to overcome the bad things that happen to us, and big enough to overlook-- and forgive-- the mistakes others make. Forgiving may not weigh down the wallet, but it will lighten a load. As Portia said in "The Merchant of Venice": "mercy is above this sceptred sway; it is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute to God himself; and earthly power doth then show likest God’s when mercy seasons justice. Therefore... though justice be thy plea, consider this, that, in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy."

The Bear Necessities

This week's real column

Much Ado About Mudding

I found out this weekend that I wasn't born to be a cattle drover. Or a politician, but we knew that already.

It started in the middle of a peaceful Saturday afternoon, when someone happened to glance out the window. What we saw was our neighbor's cattle trailer, evidently bearing the calves of some distraught matres bovinae, who were circling the wagon (or the pickup, rather) and letting their displeasure be known. All might have been well, except that a few of the herd decided not to be concerned. We could see the evidence of this out of the other window, where our neighbor's wife was trying without much benefit to encourage a couple of stubborn cows and a stubborner bull out of our wheat and back to the road. Seeing our neighborly duty, we put on the coats and shoes and headed out to help.

I wondered, as I wandered out into mud staining my blue tennis shoes, what exactly I thought I was going to do to make those monstrous beasts move. I wouldn't have objected to whacking the cows, except that they were standing very close to a bull. I calculated my chances of outrunning an angry bull in thick mud. It didn't take much math to figure out they were a lot slimmer than he was. So I decided my best strategy was not to have to outrun a bull, by not making him mad. I moved around to the other side. "Ahem. I don't suppose you would like to walk back that direction?" I asked politely. He didn't like, and took another step away from the road. So I continued my fierce backwards march.

The cattle continued to munch until the trailer returned. Then they remembered that there was a reason they wanted to be with it and not with me. They trotted off mooing merrily, leaving me ankle deep in the mud.

George Washington, whose 275th birthday we celebrate today, knew some of the problems of corralling. He was, naturally, trying to corral people and not dumb beasts, but I think he may have experienced some of the same frustrations when he saw everyone wandering off in their own directions. Only he had it worse: he had to fear not only the disunity of everyone in the herd wandering off, but the far greater problem of the herd attacking and destroying itself, like a pack of cannibalistic wolves. He feared that the inward struggles would leave the infant nation vulnerable to outside attackers, too. And this is why, when he retired from the presidency in 1796 he stressed a warning: that the United States beware "the baneful effects of the spirit of party" (emphasis mine).

Washington was afraid that some men would, "according to the alternate triumph of different parties...make the public administration the mirror of the ill-concerted and incongruous projects of faction, rather than the organ of consistent and wholesome plans digested by common counsels, and modified by mutual interests." Why? Because: "however combinations or associations of the above description may now and then answer the popular ends, they are likely...to become potent engines, by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people, and to usurp for themselves the reigns of government." Sound familiar?
Alexis de Tocqueville, studying American democracy in the 1830s, saw many of the same dangers facing it--the dangers of people being more concerned with their individual gain than with the good of their country. Tocqueville believed that the most important force combating selfish individualism was Americans' "self-interest well-understood"--the understanding that it is better for us as individuals to be a nation bound to each other so tightly by our commonalities that our differences don't make us fall apart.

Today it is easy to lose sight of our common ground. Americans no longer profess a shared belief in the beliefs on which our laws were based, or in morals at all. And we have seen our politicians spend their time and votes trying to curry favor with the masses rather than doing what they know is best for the country (incidentally, the founders were very wary of rule by the masses, which is why we don't have a pure democracy). We have seen them compromise, seen time and money spent on attacking each other; not from a desire to use power for the good of the people, but from the pure and selfish love of power itself. And we have seen a country mire itself in mud.
It's time for us to forget a few things about ourselves and remember a few things about our country. Happy Birthday, Mr. Washington.

"Introduction to Poetry"

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

~Billy Collins, courtesy Worldmagblog

This Week's Column

Speaking in opposition to a bill that would make English Oklahoma's official language, the Cherokee Nation's Principle Chief Chad Smith said that the bill was "branding Oklahoma with the badge of intolerance." Leaving aside the question of whether badges are branded or things branded are badges, I see in the wording of his sentence a thought becoming all too common: the notion that we should tolerate anything-- except intolerance.

First of all, I ought to explain that I am not opposed to languages other than English. I personally believe that learning more than one language is an excellent idea, which we Americans ought to practice more. I also do not think that it is "intolerant" to declare English our official language, since those languages are, indeed, tolerated. Had the bill forbidden the use of a language other than English it would have been intolerant, but that is not the case. It is not this particular bill, however, that I wish to discuss today, but rather the virtue of tolerance.

Calling someone or something "intolerant" has become a strategy of attack rather than a statement of fact. It is a word used with a pointed finger and a slight pause and shudder to allow everyone listening to comprehend the horror we must feel at beholding an intolerant man. But because "intolerance" has become such a loaded term, we have lost sight of why tolerance is a virtue at all.

"The modern world is not evil; in some ways the modern world is far too good. It is full of wild and wasted virtues...the virtues have gone mad because they have been isolated from each other and are wandering alone," wrote G.K. Chesterton in 1905. This is still true, especially of the virtue of tolerance. Tolerance is, like other Aristotelian virtues, a virtue of the golden mean. It must remain in balance in order to remain a virtue; it is not a pure good, only a good in balance with other goods, like charity and justice. If it gets out of whack, the vices are waiting to destroy it. This is easier to see with the virtue of courage: too little produces timidity, but too much results in temerity. Only the right amount produces the virtue. What we want is not something that's "too hot" or "too cold," but "just right." It works the same way with tolerance. Too little results in intolerance: heretics being burned at the stake. This is a Bad Thing. But too much results in chaos and anarchy, which is also a Bad Thing. There is a reason the Oklahoma Highway Patrol has a "zero tolerance" policy.

A common mistake is to assume that in order to be tolerant, one must be utterly neutral, not making any kind of public commitment to beliefs, especially in the realm of morality. Committing to beliefs is called by ugly names, such as "imposing" them on others. And so we have all come to assume that in order to be a good public servant one must check his personal beliefs at the door. But this is not only undesirable; it is impossible.

"There is no such thing as Neutrality," writes J. Budziszewski. "It is not merely unachievable, like a perfect circle; it is inconceivable, like a square circle. Whether we deem it better to take a stand or be silent, we have offended this god in the very act of deeming."

Tolerance itself implies a lack of neutrality: Webster defines "to tolerate" as "to neither forbid nor prevent." The only things most of us have to restrain ourselves from forbidding or preventing are things we already have an opinion about-- and not a good one. We tolerate something we believe to be evil, points out Budziszewski, for the sake of preventing a greater evil or protecting a good. We tolerate opinions we believe to be wrong in order to protect the higher good of the right to free speech. But we do not tolerate murder; we do not tolerate theft; we do not tolerate some things even when they only harm the person doing them. Why? Because we are not neutral-- we care.

Tolerance cannot be neutral about what is good, since its very purpose is to "guard goods and avert evils," says Budziszewski. We shouldn't try to remove our system of morals, but we can recognize and set aside some of our personal preferences. I will tolerate people wearing pink and red together for the sake of peace, even though I don't like that particular color combination. But I won't have my core beliefs imposed on in the name of tolerance.

Perhaps, instead of assuming tolerance to be the highest good, we should think a little more about love instead. Tolerance can only prevent negative actions: love requires positive action. Love is often harder to accept than tolerance, because it is honest. Love is often harder to give than tolerance, because it is honest. But in the long run, it will help all of us a lot more.

Apostrophes addressed To My Native Tongue

Oh, English, English! Let us whale thee for a wile.

Let us morn thy native speaker's ignorance of other language's (morn).

Let us morn thy native speakers ignorance of there own (morn.)

Let us morn the fall of thy adverbs into jectives, thereby losing there ly and thus becoming real and quick dead.

Behold the heights from witch thou hast fallen! Let us morn thy native speaker's inability too speak there own tongue in a meaningful way, and consequent decline into the bottomless pit of cliche, from witch there is no return, to be never heard from again. Morn, ye peoples! Morn, ye alphabet soup! Morn, yonder son rising in the east!

Let us morn thy native speakers inability to use thy vocabulary. Let us morn the fact that we must weight, too here thine own beautiful words, like "facilitate," from the lips of a foreigner.

Let us morn thy native speakers fear of punctuation and disregard for the laws governing it, the fact that they cannot tell the difference between a colon and semi-colon, accept that they never use the ladder for fear of being wrong, let us bewhale the use of quotation marks for emphasis, the sprinkling of comma's wearever they are not sure or need a breath, and, oh, apostrophe's! You are dying, you are dying, you are all of you dying.

Let us morn thy native speaker's inability to put together a grammatical sentence. Like school superintendent's who say someone is committed "in" something instead of "to" it in written statements. People are only committed "in""to" asylums. Morn, dictionarie's with no one to read thee! Morn, libraries', waistlands with no inhabitants! Morn, linguist's with no subject!

Morn, noon, and night!

This Week's Column

Whether you plan to celebrate Valentine's Day with your sweetheart, or Singles Appreciation Day (SAD) with your cat, or not to celebrate at all, none of us can ignore the fact that February 14th will soon be upon us. Pink and red hearts pop up everywhere, disregarding the ancient Greeks, who believed the seat of the emotions to be less colorful internal organs. And with Valentine's Day, as with all other Great American Holidays (Christmas, Thanksgiving, Talk-Like-a-Pirate Day) the retail world sees their chance to make a lot of money-- us.

Google tells me there are 15,200,000 matches for "valentine gift." Well, "about" 15,200,000--you can give or take a few (there are, however, no matches for "unique valentine gift," so don't even bother trying for that). One website helpfully tells men that flowers and candy just aren't enough anymore-- women will notice if you don't get them, but you better not stop there. "The important thing," they all say, "is that you give her a gift from your heart, something that will show her how much you care about her. And, by the way, she's going to judge your gift to her by the amount of money you spend on it. Here!" they gleefully announce, "We have the solution: buy her jewellry and clothing and furniture and an island in the Caribbean, and she will know that you love her. Until we come up with something bigger next year." And I see them ranged in store aisles, the poor well-meaning, deluded men, hopelessly looking for a perfect gift for their perfect match.

Retailers have now decided that it's not enough to sell out their women's sections, either: ladies are evidently supposed to be buying their special someone a special something too. This can lead to some difficulty, since we have yet to find the masculine equivalent of flowers and candy. Tool sets and lawnmowers are about as close as we seem able to come, but "roses are red/violets are blue/wrenches are sweet/and so are you" just doesn't have the same ring to it. I'm sure, though, that if you are wanting to please that outdoor, farming kind of man, he would be more than happy to get a "John Deere" letter.

Don't get me wrong-- I like the idea of gifts for Valentine's Day. And gifts for the other 364 days in the year, for that matter. A box of chocolates or a bouquet of roses or wildflowers can instantly brighten the day for most women, and I imagine that the masculine alternative (whatever that may be) could do the same for most men. But the brightening factor is caused not so much by the flowers themselves, lovely though they are, as by the fact that the recipient knows someone wanted to make her happy. Any properly-ordered human being will be much happier with a dollar store gift given from a loving heart than with the Hope Diamond itself, given from a sense of obligation or guilt.

O. Henry tells a story called "The Gift of the Magi," about the gifts of two very poor people who love each other. Della, the wife in the story, wants to find her husband "something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim." She sells her one treasure-- her hair-- in order to buy him The Perfect Gift: and as it turns out, he has sold his only treasure to buy her one, too. In the end it is their sacrifices that are the most precious gifts-- the fact that each of them was willing to give up something very special (even a part of themselves) because they wanted to please the other.
After all, isn't that what love is? Not a warm fuzzy feeling or a pit to be fallen into, but an earnest desire for another person's good. Even placing the other person's interests ahead of one's own. Love is a pouring out of self, a giving-- giving up our selfish desires, giving up our wills, laying down our rights. Laying down life-- sometimes in one heroic act, and sometimes one breath at a time.
Gifts can be a wonderful expression of love and thoughtfulness, but shouldn't be confused with the Real Thing. The Real Thing keeps on giving year-round by taking out the garbage or the dog, or waking up in the middle of the night to rock the baby. Because love isn't about the loved one's worthiness-- it's more about the one doing the loving. And that's the only reason any of us can be loved.

Happy Valentine's Day! And Happy Shopping for Valentine's Day. Please shop responsibly: shop Fairview. And remember, it's the love that counts. But toasters are still not romantic.

God, Thou Art Love

If I forget,
Yet God remembers! If these hands of mine
Cease from their clinging, yet the hands divine
Hold me so firmly that I cannot fall;
And if sometimes I am too tired to call
For Him to help me, then He reads the prayer
Unspoken in my heart, and lifts my care.

I dare not fear, since certainly I know
That I am in God's keeping, shielded so
From all that else would harm, and in the hour
Of stern temptation strengthened by His power;
I tread no path in life to Him unknown;
I lift no burden, bear no pain alone:
My soul a calm, sure hiding-place has found:
The everlasting arms my life surround.

God, Thou art love! I build my faith on that.
I know Thee who has kept my path, and made
Light for me in the darkness, tempering sorrow
So that it reached me like a solemn joy;
It were too strange that I should doubt Thy love.

~Robert Browning

updates

Here we are.

New job is mostly fun. I am asking all kinds of impertinent and stupid questions, which forces me to learn a lot. And everyone thinks I'm young and stupid anyway, so I'm not losing anything (probably pleasing them, if the truth be told) when I confirm their opinion. I keep hiding behind my computer when people come in or when the phone rings, but nobody's yelled at me yet. It's not as bad in some senses as letting people at school read things I have written, because I don't care about the news articles as much. But in some ways it's worse, because I keep being afraid someone won't like the way I quoted them, or the information I included, or won't understand my editorial. And this week I had to put in my first correction--someone was only being arraigned instead of standing trial. oops. But so far people have only said nice things--that they can tell I'm educated (unlike some we shall not speak of except to say that they had a vernacular disease).

Mondays I go to the County Commissioners' meetings, where they entertain me with stories of the "good ol' boy" days of county politics, some of the results of which are still around. I find out way too much about people around. I also got some interesting quotes, like "When you get in a knife fight, the man who wins is the one with the gun." There was also some confusion about a man getting a DUI on a bicycle (he didn't).

Monday night was the school board meeting. When they were ready to go into executive session I was trying to quickly ask the superintendent some questions, and get out of the way. When I got outside the door I realized I had left my purse in the room--I had my camera over my shoulder, so hadn't noticed it. They laughed at me, but I did too.

Tuesday night was City Council-- almost as entertaining as County Commissioners. When the issue of potholes came up, the vice-mayor and another councilman said you just had to drive on the wrong side of the road (and the police chief, present, told the new recruit something about selective enforcement). Another council member said he didn't read the minutes to find out about other men's wives...

I feel rather self-counscious going to big important meetings with big important people, and asking them questions and taking their pictures. It's especially bad when I try to make a good impression because someone finds out I was homeschooled and they don't like homeschoolers and I'm feeling rather stupid because it's coffee-or-siesta time and I'm trying to ask intelligent questions and am not wanting to talk to anyone. But everyone is very anxious to be nice to me now that I'm "press," which amuses me sometimes.

There are also some sad things about small towns and people knowing each other for the last hundred years. Thursday I was at the courthouse (where there is a marvelous full-length photograph of our county's first sheriff leaning on his rifle) and a woman came in to bail out a young man, presumably her son. The judge was hanging around, although not officially, and spoke with her for a bit. After he left, the woman asked the clerk "who was that?" to which the clerk responded, "Judge Barefoot" (incidentally, I like the name). "My kids used to go to school with his kids," the woman said. There are many other instances I have seen, but do not wish to relate: people see each other's weaknesses and sins; people see others against whom they have sinned. And have it always before them.

Unrelated: I was recently trying to describe to a five-year-old where Italy is. I said it was very far away, on the other side of the world, across the ocean, not part of Oklahoma or the United States. She looked at me understandingly and asked "Texas?"

HAPPBTH DAY

To my beautifulest, adorablest, Favoritist Sister in the Universe or World.


Even if I am 2 days late. =[ And even if I do have to look up to you now. It's been so much fun being sisters and friends--even if we are too much alike. It's also been fun seeing you grow up into the lovely and sweet woman God wants you to be. And I look forward to many more years of looking up to you.

quote of the day

"Joy is the flag that flies over the castle of our hearts announcing that the King is in residence."

~Walter B. Knight

The Capped Crusader Strikes Again

"I am alive again! I am alive again!"

Yes, that's right--after a weekend that reminded me of being in school. Only I was still getting 8 hours (or at least 7) of sleep a night, which would have been really good for school. I guess I must be spoiled.

Friday began around 5 (a.m.)--not the best way of making for Happy Hannahs. This was an old job day--and I originally thought I might be home in time to get some work done on new job, but it didn't happen that way.

And then Saturday my mom and I took out for the eastern side of the state. I ran around frantically that morning trying to pack and print things and being stressed. Because I like to be stressed. My mom did almost all the driving and we had a good time on the road, and a nice time seeing cousins on the way, and cousins' children, one of whom was only two weeks old.

We stayed with 3 single ladies from the church. I told my mother that if I am single when I reach that time of life, I want a home exactly like it--except without the cats. It was a perfect blend of old and new and country elegance, with wooden floors and a stone fireplace and a cathedral ceiling with wooden beams, and bay windows...and a spinning wheel. And plenty of quiet good humor.

I had a marvelous time with the church the next day--they are just the sort of Christians it's easy to like. We had a wonderful time of real fellowship and joining in excitement about serving God. It was really wonderful being with them and visiting with their missions board.

We stopped and said hi to Jason and his mom. It was nice to see a good enemy again and have a little catching up and a little reminiscing. I was mostly nice.

And then we went on to another town, where my mom knows some folks who had invited people from their church to come hear about the mission. It was nice getting to meet them and share with them too. But on a side note: it is decidedly not pleasant to sit across the table from two people who know each other and spend the whole meal time discussing places and people in South Dakota. Remind me never to do that.

And a long trip home--but my mom drove. We changed into something more comfortable in a convenience store restroom and snuck out. I wouldn't have wanted anyone to see--my dress shoes and heart socks didn't coordinate with the pants sticking out from under my dress coat.

Monday more work--and then I took Charissa with me to my office after supper, where I had to stay to get this week's paper finished. We were there until 10:30--which I suppose would be early for school too. I needed the company--especially since I was writing about a murder trial, and the office can be a little spooky alone at night. I could tell it was late, though--I read back through something I had written and found this brilliant sentence: "it is our job to inform you, so that you can be informed." That one did get edited out. I'm beginning to think the office is "whereing" off on me--it sounds like something the guy before me would have written (the title of the post is a reference to his last column in the paper, in which he said "some fine, young, capped crusader" would replace him--I had visions of me in a various number of caps before someone pointed out to me that he probably meant "caped...").

So now I am celebrating my last day of old job by drinking coffee and writing on blogs.

And for those of you who think I'm from a small town, a note: we have a hip new coffee shop that doesn't close until 7 o'clock at night. I guess I have to make fun of it to you because I make fun of cities to people here. ;)

There's such an evil presence...

In honor of Tiffany's birthday party (from Wikipedia):

A villain is an "evil" character in a story, whether an historical narrative or, especially, a work of fiction. The villain is the bad guy or heavy, the characters who strive against the hero. A female villain is sometimes called a villainess.

A villain's disposition towards evil distinguishes him from an antagonist. For example, Javert in Les Miserables is an antagonist: He opposes the hero, but does so by such means and under such pretexts as not to become entirely odious to the reader; he may, in fact, even repent, be redeemed, or become a "good guy" in the end. (A villain is virtually always an antagonist, but an antagonist is not always a villain.) The villain is also distinct from the anti-hero, a character who violates the law or the prevailing social standards, but who nevertheless has the audience's sympathy (and may be or become good-hearted,) and is therefore the real hero of the story.
In spite of being the target of the audience's hatred, the villain is an almost inevitable plot device and often – perhaps more than the hero – the central theme of the plot.

The etymology of the word is probably Middle English villein from Old French vilain, in turn from Late Latin villanus, meaning serf or peasant, someone who is bound to the soil of a villa, which is to say, worked on the equivalent of a plantation in late Antiquity, in Italy or Gaul.[1] Consequently, it meant a person of less than knightly status, and so came to mean a person who was not chivalrous; because many unchivalrous acts, such as treachery or rape, are villainous in the modern sense, and because the word was used as a term of abuse, it took on its modern meaning. [2]

The physical attributes of the villain vary according to the culture and epoch, and are often a fairly straightforward reflection of that culture's current prejudices – racial, political, religious, or otherwise. Just as a hero is often a paragon of the prevailing beauty ideal, a villain often has some physical deformity – perhaps to suggest an equally deformed mind (as in the case of Freddy Krueger), or a rough and violent background (as in the case of Peter Pan's Captain Hook or Treasure Island's Long John Silver).

Sometimes even mere violations of the prevailing dress code are enough to label the villain of the story. In fact, the villain is often impeccably dressed, but in a style that deviates somehow from the norm, perhaps only for being too impeccable – like the mafioso in a very expensive suit, or the knight in an overdecorated armor. Another "villain dress-code" would be that of "bad cowboys" and "good cowboys" wearing, respectively, black or white hats.
A typical cartoon villain of the 1970s in American culture is pictured at the top of this article. Note the formal black clothes, exquisitely neat facial hair, sharp facial features, and maniacal demeanour. This cliché was also very common in silent motion pictures, when villains had to look sinister for easy recognition. The Rocky and Bullwinkle characters Boris Badenov, Natasha Fatale, and Snidely Whiplash, as well as the Hanna-Barbera character Dick Dastardly, are well known parodies of this cliché. Sound movies later added to their villain cliché the "evil laughter" and a snooty or smarmy voice.

In opera and musical theater, the villain/villainess is played usually by a baritone/contralto. Overacting is often used by actors portraying the character to stress particular evils.
In many American movies the villain is often British (or implied as such with a stereotypical accent)

While the stereotypical physical attributes may help identify the villain, it is the psychological and moral attributes who make that role. Even harming the hero, or killing his/her beloved ones, will not make a character into a villain – unless it is clear that the act had "evil" motives.
A common psychological feature of the movie villain is a haughty overconfidence that leads to the unnecessary explanation of one's sinister plans – which is sometimes just a plot device used by the author to explain to the audience details which he/she could not express by more natural narrative means. (And of course, those "perfect" sinister plans invariably fail, in part because the villain is too arrogant and overconfident to take any of the precautions described in e.g. the Evil Overlord List.)

Another preeminent feature of the villain's evil character is a tendency to abuse his own accomplices, blame them for his/her own failure, punish them harshly -- even for trivial faults -- and to feel no shame in betraying them should it serve his/her purpose.

Vladimir Propp, in his analysis of the Russian fairy tale, concluded that a fairy tale had only eight dramatis personae, of which one was the villain[3], and his analysis has been widely applied to non-Russian tales. The actions fell into a villain's sphere were
a story-initiating villainy, where the villain caused harm to the hero or his family,
a conflict between the hero and the villain, either a fight or other compeitition
pursuing the hero after he has succeeding in winning the fight or obtaining something from the villain.

None of these acts must necessarily occur in a fairy tale, but when they occurred, the character that performed them was the villain. The villain therefore could appear twice: once in the opening of the story, and a second time as the person sought out by the hero.[4]
When a character performed only these acts, the character was a pure villain. Various villains also perform other functions in a fairy tale; a witch who fought the hero and ran away, which let the hero follow her, was also performing the task of "guidance" and thus acting as a helper. [5]
The functions could also be spread out among several characters. If a dragon acted as villain but was killed by the hero, another character -- such as the dragon's sisters -- might take on the role of villain and pursue the hero.[6]

Two other characters could appear in roles that are villainous in the more general sense. One is the false hero; this character is always villainous, presenting a false claim to be the hero that must be rebuted for the happy ending. [7] Another character, the dispatcher, sends a hero on his quest. This may be an innocent request, to fulfill a legitimate need, but the dispatcher may also, villainously, lie to send a character on a quest in hopes of being rid of him.[8]

Are villains inherently more interesting than the heroes who oppose them? They are at least as indispensable to the stories they appear in, probably more so. Those who stand on the side of righteousness and goodness seldom have much choice but to respond, and little choice in how; for villains, all paths are wide open. Many believe that Satan, for Christians the ultimate villain, is the most interesting character in John Milton's Paradise Lost, for all that he is the embodiment of evil. Perhaps in the nefarious acts of many villains there is more than a hint of wish-fulfilment fantasy, which makes some people identify with them as characters more strongly than they do the heroes. Still, the writer's task in creating a villain is not an easy or a trivial one; a convincing villain must be given a characterization that makes his motive for doing wrong convincing. As put by film critic Roger Ebert: "Each film is only as good as its villain. Since the heroes and the gimmicks tend to repeat from film to film, only a great villain can transform a good try into a triumph."[9]

Villains can be geniuses, (see evil genius), (for example, the highly intelligent Hannibal Lecter), insane (an example being the self-proclaimed Clown Prince of Crime the Joker), power-mad megalomaniacs, (such as the Decepticon leader Megatron, who seeks to rule the universe) dignified (Count Dooku) or all of the above, for instance, Maximillion Pegasus. They may be driven by any number of forces, ranging from greed (Mr. Potter in It's a Wonderful Life and many others, especially criminal) to revenge (Magneto and his vendetta with humanity or Khan and his hatred of Kirk), or even a noble goal twisted by nefarious forces or tragedy (Darth Vader sought power to save his wife, but indirectly killed her instead). Truly, villains are a mixed bag.
However, not all villains are as awe-inspiring as the tall, black-clad Vader or as twisted as the cackling Joker. The character of Man in Bambi was noted as one of the top 100 villains of movie history[10], an impressive feat considering he himself was not completely seen on-screen.

Archenemy – the main and greatest foe of the hero who is the most difficult to defeat; archenemies come with a variety of origins, reasons for their actions etc., although their plots are often threatening to destroy or control a large amount of land, such as the world, galaxy, or universe.
Dark Lord or Evil Overlord – a villain of near-omnipotence in his realm, who seeks to utterly dominate that realm with the help of devoted followers and "Legions of Doom", and whose very name is usually anathema to the lips of the innocent.
Dog heavy – a film term for the third villain in a group, often with minimal or no lines of dialog. The term comes from B-movie Westerns: if the lead villain (or "brain heavy") is the one who leads the group and shoots the sheriff, and the next most villainous kills the deputy, the "dog heavy" is the one who kicks the dog.[11]
Evil genius – a character of great intelligence who chooses to use their knowledge for antisocial/immoral ends.
Femme fatale – a beautiful, seductive but ultimately villainous woman who uses the malign power of her sexuality in order to ensnare the hapless hero into danger.
Heel – the villain in a match of professional wrestling
Mad scientist – a scientist-villain or villain-scientist
Supervillain – a villain who displays special powers, skills or equipment powerful enough to be a typically serious challenge to a superhero.
Black Knight – A villain who is noble but is evil through circumstances.
Second string villain – often not very evil or even competent. Typically more ridiculous or annoying than fearsome or deadly and often serve as comic relief. Sometimes they reform and become probationary heroes or sidekicks. Frequently seen as the adult villains in children's adventure stories.
Tragic villain – is a villain who really does not intend to be a "villain" and perhaps believes they are honestly doing good. They are perhaps misled or not entirely in control of their feelings and/or actions.
Antihero – A character who is neither evil nor good, although this type of character is mostly willing to work for either side depending on the circumstances.

Quote of the Day

"You're not married?! You're too young for that!"

Ask Miss Mancures: Girl Needs Help

Dear Miss Mancures,

Something is very, very wrong with all the men I ever see! They don't seem to know the way the world works. They use reprehensible language in my presence, they don't offer me their seats or coats--they even expect me to open doors myself! I've tried to open doors twice, but I'm not very good at it. I either pull too hard, and send the jingle-bells-that-let-the-clerk-know-there's-a-customer through the glass, or pull too gently, and fall into the door myself. Were these men raised in a barn? Or are they just lazy? I don't know how to deal with men who aren't wrestling for trays and trash bags, or dashing for doors. Help!

Stuck Outside


Miss Mancures:

Dear Stuck,

[*we interrupt your regularly scheduled blog post to bring you the following scenarios*:

1. Hannah walks along chatting amiably about the weather, or the state of the roads, with young man from work. She comes to door, pauses momentarily to give man time to dive for the door, and for that magical thing to happen that always does with doors when there are men around. Young man does not dive. Hannah looks at door, looks at man, puzzled. Man looks at Hannah, looks at door, puzzled. Finally realizes she's not going to open door, and does himself, thinking she is either arrogant or incompetent.

2. Hannah goes out on mission with same young man from work. Leaves her coat at the office. Discovers outside that it is cold. Remarks (eyeing his nice warm coat) that it is cold outside. He remarks, "yeah; why didn't you bring your coat?" Hannah gets back in car, and thinks to herself, "well, it's no worse than walking with Helen."

*we now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post*:]

Dear Stuck,

It sounds to me like you might have been spoiled by spending four years with some of the nicest and most well-bred gentlemen in the world, whom you probably did not appreciate or thank enough at the time. The men with whom you are currently interacting might be underbred but, because you strive to be a lady, you must believe the best of them, and assume that they are trying not to offend you, or at least not trying to offend you. Do try to thank gentlemen when they display courtesy, but don't be upset if they fail to live up to your habits; and it won't hurt you to learn to open doors or remember your coat. I recommend a firm plant with the foot, followed by a gentle tug on the door's handle. I'm certain you need to practice opening the door when there are only ladies around, anyway. And remember: there's more to being a lady than walking through an open door.

Miss Mancures

[the funny thing is, I keep trying to remember: and inevitably stop unconsciously in front of the door. And after three days of this...he's started opening them. I do miss you gentlemen and ladies.]

Extra! Extra!

My new look:

Yes, that's right: I am now temporarily the reporter/writer/photographer/editor of my hometown newspaper. I am excited, but at the same time, a little daunted: I mean, look at her face! How does one go about finding stories, anyway? And worse, I have to learn to use a little more advanced technology than that typewriter: a Mac and a very expensive digital camera, which terrifies me. I look at it and remember all the clutzy things I have ever done, all of my dad's favorite fishing lures I have lost...

But then: I am also very excited. I will be writing! and getting paid for writing! and I get to do a column! and I'll be in and out of an office! It should be fun.

Anyone who knows how to be newsy, please share the scoop. And remember, folks: you heard it here first.

A Useful Idea

When our new Norton anti-virus was installed, I thought for a moment that it said "Freud detector on." Of course, it really turned out to be "Fraud," but really: wouldn't a Freud detector be ever-so-much-more-so Useful?

Ice, Ice

I happened to be in the city on Friday when the ice started. I didn't really want to be, but so it was. There was already freezing rain coming down as I entered, and accidents happening on the interstate. Every time I started from a traffic light, the car would slide around until the tires found the road. "It's not that bad," the gentleman I was taking to the doctor told me. "I've seen a lot worse than this in Chicago. I have lots of confidence in you." I wished I did. I thought I would rather drive in snow in Chicago, with the advantages of traction, and enough people and sand to cover the roads, than in Oklahoma ice and wind. I kept praying, "Lord, is this stupid?" Even when I was almost to the city, I half wished I had simply turned around and gone home. But He gave me peace, and kept me calm.

When we got to the doctor's office, I had a hard time sitting down. The adrenaline of fighting the storm kept me pacing the hall, or the waiting area, or talking to anyone I could find. My cheeks were warm.

People smiled at each other in the halls, drawn together in civilized society against the menace outside. In the hospital gift shop, they stood in line with candy bars and Cokes. "Do you have far to go?" "We had to go to 3 gas stations last night, because the first 2 were sold out." I bought a bag of peanuts--not because I thought I would go off the road, but because I knew I would get hungry if I did.

I sat and fidgeted, waiting for the doctor to get done with my patient, waiting for my phone to ring with news of Nathan, driving east, racing the storm. "Where's your coat?" asked a nice lady waiting for her daughter. I assured her I had one. My phone kept ringing, my boss telling me to get home quickly, and to be very careful.

The receptionist told me they had cancelled the afternoon appointments, and turned off the lights and locked the door. "We're getting out of Dodge," she laughed to a friend on the phone. I sat alone in the waiting area, watching the constant news coverage of invincible journalists standing by highway bridges, telling people to stay inside, listening to them telling people how to drive, giving hints like "cover your car with a blanket while you're inside; put de-icer on your driveway, beware of bridges."

Finally, I saw him coming, and I went to get the car. I pulled the key from my purse, but couldn't get it into the lock. "Oh, Father, it's iced over. What do I do now?" Then I noticed I had the wrong key.

We made it down the slippery hill, onto the road. Waiting at the stoplight, I noticed I couldn't use my windshield wipers, because they were covered in chunks of ice. So we had a Chinese fire drill--I put the car in park, and banged them with my 3-ring binder.

Everyone else on the road was behaving very carefully--leaving plenty of room between cars, driving from 10 to 30 mph. I kept both hands on the wheel (except for waving to the news camera). We counted 3 fire trucks and 1 ambulance going past, and saw 3 cars stopped in the middle of the road, and 1 in the ditch.

As we left the city, the traffic thinned out, but the white covering the road thickened. I started calculating how long it would take to get home, and sped up a little. For the first time, I felt the space between me and home as long. I wanted to be there--but I had a hundred-some miles to go first, and it was a hundred-some miles of fighting, of staying calm, of driving slowly. I mentally counted off the bridges, hills, and curves in my mind, and thanked God for straight roads.

The radio kept playing songs about summer and nice weather: "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone/ I can see every obstacle in my way" and we joked about it being summer in a Twilight Zone.

I dropped him off, and cleaned off my windshield wipers again for the last stretch. There was mist, surrounding me in white, and sleet blowing in mesmerizing swirls of white on white. I wondered if men felt like this on ships in fog. I waved at all three cars I met, wishing courage and a safe trip to my fellow travellers, and wishing I knew what they had seen.

Finally, I rode into my hometown, with half of my windshield iced over. It reminded me of the beginning of westerns, when the stranger rides out of the wilderness. And then, at last:

home.

We are really quite comfortable; our electricity has remained on (and looks as if it will continue to), and we have stayed inside and baked cookies. The southeastern half of the state, however, has had more ice and less electricity. But it is not as bad as it could have been, and Nathan made it safely; and we are thankful. I think I know, though, why Dante put ice deeper than fire...

fragility

Seeing fear in myself, and hating it--fear of disappointing people, fear of disappointing God; fear of giving in to fears that dance around inside my mind, just outside my reach, waiting for a vulnerable moment to attack. Lying in bed at night and crying at the dark gnawing within. Seeing God's love and power at work, and crying for seeing how I don't deserve it.

"Be strong and courageous."

Yesterday--fear made weather--easier, because I could face it. Not having to think of enemies within, because the enemies outside demanded attention. Knowing I was in His hands, and knowing peace in His protection. Coming home, a goal reached, safe from the wind and ice-- and realizing I couldn't do anything to help those not at home, and must trust for them, too.

"Only be strong and very courageous."

But Lord! It's so hard to be brave sometimes, especially when I am a very Small Animal. And it's so easy to feel Small, and Overwhelmed, and Alone, and like burying my head in the blankets, waiting for life to simply blow past. Feeling incorrigible and isolated; out of reach of human help.

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go."

When I don't deserve it, He is with me. When I am overwhelmed, He is with me. When I walk through the shades of death, His presence is my stay. He is gentle, loving me not because of what I do, but because of Who He Is.

"So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God in him. By this is love perfected within us, so that we may have confidence for the day of judgment, because as He is so also are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. We love because He first loved us."


"Every day the Lord Himself is near me
With a special mercy for each hour;
All my cares He fain would bear, and cheer me,
He whose name is Counselor and Power.
The protection of His child and treasure
Is a charge that on Himself He laid;
'As thy days, thy strength shall be in measure,'
This the pledge to me He made."

Thoughts

From a philosopher of our times, of unrivalled stature:

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

"Never eat more than you can lift."

"Only time can heal your broken heart, just as only time can heal his arms and legs."

~Miss Piggy

And then, from a few others, because it is January:

"When we lose twenty pounds...we may be losing the twenty best pounds we have! We may be losing the pounds that contain our genius, our humanity, our love and honesty." ~Woody Allen

"Inside some of us is a thin person struggling to get out, but they can usually be sedated with a few pieces of chocolate cake." ~Author Unknown

"Avoid any diet that discourages the use of hot fudge." ~Don Kardong

"No diet will remove all the fat from your body because the brain is entirely fat. Without a brain, you might look good, but all you could do is run for public office." ~George Bernard Shaw

"I recently had my annual physical examination, which I get once every seven years, and when the nurse weighed me, I was shocked to discover how much stronger the Earth's gravitational pull has become since 1990." ~Dave Barry

"Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled over how much weight you have gained." ~Author Unknown

"I'm in shape. Round is a shape... isn't it?" ~Author Unknown

"The leading cause of death among fashion models is falling through street grates." ~Dave Barry

"My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people." ~Orson Welles

"She looked as if she had been poured into her clothes and had forgotten to say 'when.'" ~P.G. Wodehouse

Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter's Field!

Comfort ye, comfort ye my people!

For unto us a child is born.

He did not consider equality with God a thing to be grasped, but
Made Himself nothing,
Taking the form of a servant,
Being born in the likeness of men.
And being found in human form,
He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death,
Even death on a cross.

His blood be on us, and on our children.

He became flesh, and dwelt among us,
And we have seen His glory,
Glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.
He was in the world, and the world was made through Him,
Yet the world did not know Him.
He came to His own, and His own people did not receive Him.

His blood be on us, and on our children.

He was despised and rejected by men;
A man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.
As one from whom men hide their faces,
He was despised,
And we esteemed Him not.

His blood be on us, and on our children.

Surely He has borne our griefs,
And carried our sorrows;
Yet we esteemed Him stricken,
Smitten by God, and afflicted.
But He was wounded for our transgressions;
He was crushed for our iniquities.

His blood be on us, and on our children.

All we like sheep have gone astray;
We have turned every one to his own way;
And the Lord has laid on Him
The iniquity of us all.

His blood be on us, and on our children.

Out of the anguish of His soul He shall see and be satisfied;
By His knowledge shall the Righteous One,
My Servant,
Make many to be accounted righteous,
And He shall bear our iniquities:
Upon Him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
And with His stripes we are healed.

His blood be on us, and on our children.

He has not dealt with us as we deserved,
And whoever comes to Him He will not cast out.

His blood be on us, and on our children.

And we shall sing a new song, saying,

'You are worthy,
For you were slain, and by
Your blood
You ransomed people for God
From every tribe and tongue and people and nation,
And you have made them a kingdom
And priests to our God,
And they shall reign on the earth.'

His blood be on us, and on our children.

Catching at...

Let us see how me can abuse the English today. Or degenerate into "blogtalk" or "Flying Dragon's-office-speak" (no--I'll always have too many words for that, even if they be the wrong ones).

Cousinses (including aunt and uncle)--good. Fun.

Wedding--wonderful. Hannah happy and beautiful and happily and beautifully married.

Brother--good. Nice to have home.

Yes, we went to see relations in a state which shall remain nameless, who were very gracious and hospitable and had a Barnes and Noble dangerously close by.

From there I took my solitary flight to NC, where I and my luggage eventually arrived, and got to participate in all the fun of stuffing rice bags and folding napkins and ironing very large pieces of skirt and folding programs while groomsmen played AOE (just kidding--well, kind of) and trying not to scream too loudly when hair and makeup aren't working and you realize that she's getting MARRIED...and decorating the car and putting her name on the wrong side (oops). I didn't even cry. The ringbearer was most attentive, and has joined my list of I-was-born-too-early-for. I like being a bridesmaid.

But I have decided I shouldn't get married anytime soon--walking down the aisle was scary enough as it was. Trying to maintain tempo and not trip on my skirt and not trip on the white cloth thing and holding my bouquet and smiling was almost too much for me to manage.

The wedding, I thought, was beautiful--focusing on the Lord, and them serving Him together in their marriage. They love each other, and make each other very happy, and the service was very personal. All I could see was the back of the bride's head, but I hear she was glowing. It was cool, too--the pastor spoke the vows in English, and they repeated them to each other in French. They had copies of their vows written out for all the guests to sign as witnesses.

It was far too warm, and we were all tired and hungry. and one bridesmaid almost fainted--which would have been exciting if we hadn't been worried about her ;). The pastor wore an African [whatever it's properly called], and they had a drummer for announcements. Several of the guests wore bright African clothes--there were even some with desert turbans and swords. It made me think a little of heaven, where we will all join in together singing praise to the One Who has redeeemed us to God out of every tribe, and tongue, and people, and nation. The reception hall was decorated with things from Niger, and we ate couscous and dates and olives and other things that I don't know the name for. There was bissap to drink--iced tea brewed with hibiscus, lots of sugar, and a bit of ginger--very good.

I liked our dresses too--light blue knee-length, long-sleeved tops and wrap skirts (panyas, I think), with silver and blue embroidery. The skirt measures from the floor up to about my chin and requires talent to fold (the line must come along the left, or African women will know you don't know what you're doing). Someone asked if my shoes came from Niger, too, to which I replied, "Ross!" The groomsmen all wore silver knee-length tops and silver pants, and sandals with little red pom-pom tassels. Hannah and Abdoulaye wore white, with silver and gold embroidery, and Hannah wore her mother's veil edged with pearls. The flowers were blue--white gladiolas, and delphiniums blue.

And I got to meet so many new friends who understand about missions, and see some of my long-missed school friends and most of the Dragons and Nathan! There were too many people to talk to and not enough time--a lot of that is going to have to wait for heaven.

N and I had a very fun ride home, even though Tennessee was very long and Arkansas quite literally stank. And now he is home, if only for a little while.

Someday I shall be in a place where I can stop saying goodbye. But for now, I have some crying to catch up on.

I grow old, I grow old...

I shall wear my curlers rolled.

Happy (Late) Birthday, Kiddo!

It's been (and is) so good to see you grow (and growing) into the man you are (and are becoming) now. I'm glad we decided to be friends! (miss you.)

Jehovah is My Stay

Love and prayers for Brianne K. and family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Icy shards of grief
Pricking, piercing unprotected love
When Memory opens accidentally on Now.
I long to cry, but cannot find the tears;
I want to laugh, but can't remember how.

I do not understand.

A wall springs up within a crowd:
Those who know, from those who know no pain;
Averted eyes, a stifled glance, a Red Sea dance
Around me in the hall. The silence of the shroud, preceding me,
Surrounding me, buried
To the world.

I cannot understand.

Living seems the hardest thing of all--
Eating, sleeping, breathing
With Sorrow settled mocking on my shoulder.
If I could only wilt, or fade away, and
Die--
But I am left alive,
To see the world in shades of gray, and wonder--

Why? I will not understand.


But You are still my Counselor, the One
Who takes my hands and leads me when I stumble,
Blinded, up a mountain paved with stones that bruise my heels.

And You are still the Mighty God, the One
Who died, and makes the dead alive,
The end and the Beginning.

My Everlasting Father,
Teaching me to walk again,
Hidden underneath Your wings.

The Prince of Peace,
Who cares for me, and gives me rest,
and guards my heart.

You are Jesus. I stand within
The cleft of Your hand, and see
A nail-shaped scar--
I weep, and laugh, but do not understand.

When I am weak and sad, I cling to this: that
You, Oh God, are strong. And You, Oh God, are loving.

19 degrees

Thanksgiving was lovely, thank you; 18 of us gathered around 3 tables (although this is rather a small group for this area, where everyone I talk to seems to have had more company). A game of 42 was constantly going on, and sometimes more than one--I even joined in one for amateurs. We made short work of all 11 pies, even though there were other leftovers to consider, too. The Dallas Cowboys won, and Texas lost, and the Sooners beat the Cowboys (I know most of y'all don't really care; just interpret: we were happy.) I went for walks in the beautiful fresh 74-degree country air, and sang very loudly in an attempt to prevent any chances of being shot as a deer. I think there were some hunters who were about ready to shoot me to make me be quiet, but they restrained themselves.

Today, however, if it is lovely, is only for the sake of cancelling work and staying inside with Jane Austen and hot chocolate. Every once in a while, I glance out the window to make myself more thankful for not being there. There is white; but most of it is whirling like a snow globe in the hands of an excited two-year old. More than an inch (if that) of our projected 5-8 may be outside, but it won't settle long enough for us to find out. It is enough, though, to cancel school across the state, for companies to tell their employees not to come to work, for us to be thankful we don't have any Canadians around to see the local news coverage that is almost enough to convince one we're in the middle of a blizzard from "The Long Winter." Enough for the Boys to say that they should get out of school (and beg to go outside to play football in the snow--and actually to ask me, drinking hot coffee in my pajamas and slippers under a pile of afghans to go, too--"It's great! You don't have any traction, and you're slipping all over the place..."). Cold enough for me to suggest sending hot chocolate and cookies to the mailman, and too cold for my nice thoughts to be turned into actions. Cold enough that the dog must romp in the snow, and shake himself off when he comes in, curling up on the heater vent or a stack of afghans or the nearest convenient human. Enough, in short, to make me quite certain that summer is my absolutely favorite season. But enough, too, to be quietly happy in the hominess of home in winter.

************************************************************************************

(for the many who I am sure miss my bad jokes--or at least miss me (?). I had another one the other day, but alas! It is lost to the world forever, by reason of my having forgotten it. I'm sure it was hilarious...)

Q: What do you call a snowman whose middle section has been over-rolled?

A: An Abdominable Snowman

????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Winter: My Secret

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

~Christina Rossetti

Oklahoma at Oklahoma State, 1:30 p.m. CT

Two aggies were walking down the street, whooping and celebrating. A Sooner fan noticed them, and asked what the big deal was.

"We just put together a puzzle in 3 months!" they answered.

"What's the big deal about that?" the man asked.

"It said 2-4 years on the side!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Q: How do you get an O-State grad off your porch?

A: Pay him for the pizza.

*********************************************************************************

A man walked into a bar and noticed the OSU game was on. The owner's dog was sitting on the counter, watching the game. After a little while, OSU kicked a field goal, and the dog did a backflip. The next quarter, they kicked another field goal, and the dog did another backflip. The man was intrigued.

"What does he do if they score a touchdown?" he asked the owner.

"I don't know," the man replied. "I've only had 'im five years."

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Q: What's an OSU diploma good for?

A: Parking in the handicapped spot.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
3 aggies left the football game, and headed back to their car, only to discover that they had locked the keys in it. They tried breaking into the trunk, and picking the lock, but they couldn't get in. So they were standing around, trying to figure out what to do next, and one of them asked the owner of the car, "what are we gonna do now?"

"I don't know," he replied, "but we need to think of something fast, 'cause it's startin' to rain, and I left the top down."

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

A man named Bob went to OSU, but when it came time to graduate, he hadn't completed the required math class. He stuck around to finish, but year after year he failed his math class and couldn't graduate.

Bob became something of a legend on the OSU campus. One year, the president of the school approached him and said, "Bob, we have decided to give you your own special one-question oral math test, and if you pass this, you can graduate." Word got around campus about the test, and it turned into something of an event. Lots of people wanted to come see this, so they made plans to hold the special test in the football stadium.

The day of the test arrived, and the stadium was packed out. The president arrived, and he and Bob walked out to the special platform in the middle of the field and sat down, and everyone got quiet.

"Okay, Bob," the president said, "Here's your question: what is two plus two?"

Bob sat and thought about this, and he thought some more, and finally, slowly, hesitating, he said, "two plus two is...four."

The stadium errupted. People were shouting, and carrying on, and the noise was terrific. A chant broke out, and soon became loud enough that it was clear over the uproar. Pretty soon all the people in the stadium had joined in, chanting "give him another chance! Give him another chance!"

42

Richard Dawkins, Oxford professor, from Time magazine, Nov. 13: “People who believe in God conclude there must have been a divine knob-twiddler who twiddled the knobs of these half-dozen constants to get them exactly right. The problem is that this says, because something is vastly improbable, we need a God to explain it. But that God himself would be even more improbable. Physicists have come up with other explanations…”

[Francis Collins, debating against him, brings up Occam’s Razor, which makes me happy]

later:

Time: “Could the answer be God?”

Dawkins: “There could be something incredibly grand and incomprehensible and beyond our present understanding.”

Collins: “That’s God.”

Dawkins: “Yes. But…”

First, may I say that Dr. Dawkins has more intelligence than I can even imagine. But, given that, does he not seem to be narrowing himself unreasonably? Besides never explaining why God would be more improbable than these "vastly improbable" constants that are necessary for our survival and are in place, Dawkins also accuses his opponent (the man who headed the project that mapped the human genome, if I am not mistaken) of forfeiting his scientific credibility by allowing himself to believe in a supernatural he cannot prove by the scientific method. He assumes, without explanation or argument, science’s right to predominate over all of life.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I think that faith and science, with a small s, work together admirably. I think that what we can see of the world around us, using our wonderful tool, the scientific method, fits marvelously with what we are told of what we cannot see. But even if faith and science were opposed, why ought it to be (arbitrarily?) assumed that science is higher?

I am reminded of this, from G. K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy: “As an explanation of the world, materialism has a sort of insane simplicity…we have at once the sense of it covering everything and of it leaving everything out… [A materialist, like Mr. McCabe] understands everything, and everything does not seem worth understanding. His cosmos may be complete in every rivet and cogwheel, but still his cosmos is smaller than our world. Somehow his scheme, like the lucid scheme of the madman, seems unconscious of the alien energies and the large indifference of the earth; it is not thinking of the real things of the earth, of fighting peoples or proud mothers, or first love or fear upon the sea. The earth is so very large, and the cosmos is so very small. The cosmos is about the smallest hole that a man can hide his head in…”

“The materialist philosophy (whether true or not) is certainly much more limiting than any religion. In one sense, of course, all intelligent ideas are narrow. They cannot be broader than themselves…. But as it happens, there is a very special sense in which materialism has more restrictions than spiritualism….The Christian is quite free to believe that there is a considerable amount of settled order and inevitable development in the universe. But the materialist is not allowed to admit into his spotless machine the slightest speck of spiritualism or miracle. Poor Mr. McCabe is not allowed to retain even the tiniest imp, though it might be hiding in a pimpernel. The Christian admits that the universe is manifold and even miscellaneous, just as a sane man knows that he is complex….But the materialist’s world is quite simple and solid, just as the madman is quite sure he is sane…. Spiritual doctrines do not actually limit the mind, as do materialistic denials. Even if I believe in immortality I need not think about it. But if I disbelieve in immortality I must not think about it. In the first case the road is open and I can go as far as I like; in the second the road is shut.” [emphasis added]

Or this, from J. Budziszewski’s The Revenge of Conscience, explaining why he (formerly) chose to believe in nihilism when he knew his nihilism was self-referentially incoherent: “A sixth reason was that I had come to confuse science with a certain world view, one which many science writers hold but that really has nothing to do with science. I mean the view that nothing is real but matter. If nothing is real but matter, then there couldn’t be such things as minds [Hannah’s note: unless you are an epiphenominalist =], moral law, or God, could there? After all, none of those are matter. Of course, not even the properties of matter are matter, so after awhile it became hard to believe in matter itself. But by that time I was so disordered that I couldn’t tell how disordered I was. I recognized that I had committed yet another incoherence, but I concluded that reality itself was incoherent, and that I was pretty clever to have figured this our—even more so, because in an incoherent world, figuring didn’t make sense either.”

Or maybe just this: “For although they knew God, they neither glorified Him as God nor gave thanks to Him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools.” ~Romans 1:21, 22

Happy Thanks-giving.

Happy 99th Birthday!

Oklahoma!
Where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain,
And the wavin' wheat can sure smell sweet
When the wind comes right behind the rain;

Oklahoma!
Ev'ry night my honey lamb and I
Sit alone and talk and watch a hawk
Makin' lazy circles in the sky;

We know we belong to the land
And the land we belong to is grand!
And when we say
Yeeow! Ayipioeeay!
We're only sayin'
You're doin' fine,
Oklahoma!
Oklahoma! O.K.!

I have missed you awfully...

The fans =), the heliotrope dresses and hideous yellow; IM conversations about cheese that no one else would understand, and scandalous quote doors; the pre-performance jitters and Tommy Trafford's song; the dreadful statue of Achilles and the Star of the Garter and the diamond snake brooch and the palm tree and the buttonholes. Tape and pins and fire and ice. Late-night rehearsals and set-painting, and celebrations. Being someone else.

Miss you, ET! Have a wonderful time Cyrano-ing; and I wish I were there!

Happy Birthday Levi!

...a special young man who also happens to be my brother, and has been for the last 14 years. I love you! =)

Dio e buono.

(God is good).