Last Weekend

"Packing up. The nagging worry of departure. Lost keys, unwritten labels, tissue paper lying on the floor. I hate it all. Even now, when I have done so much of it, when I live, as the saying goes, in my boxes. Even to-day, when shutting drawers and flinging wide a hotel wardrobe, or the impersonal shelves of a furnished villa, is a methodical matter of routine, I am aware of sadness, of a sense of loss. Here, I say, we have lived, we have been happy. This has been ours, however brief the time. Though two nights only have been spent beneath a roof, yet we leave something of ourselves behind. Nothing material, not a hair-pin on a dressing-table, not an empty bottle of aspirin tablets, not a handkerchief beneath a pillow, but something indefinable, a moment of our lives, a thought, a mood.

This house sheltered us, we spoke, we loved within those walls. That was yesterday. To-day we pass on, we see it no more, and we are different, changed in some infinitesimal way. We can never be quite the same again."

~Daphne DuMaurier, Rebecca


"Darling, I am sorry that you left me crying. It is not that I am not happy--you must know--but because, for once, your leaving and the realization of your leaving came to me at the same moment and I could not help feeling how far you were going and how much we have together that we like to appreciate together, and that for a while we could not do that as directly. And I would rather feel badly (for that reason) than not feel that way. It is really such a cause of happiness to me."

~Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Bring Me a Unicorn

"To the faithful,
Absence is condensed presence--
To the others--there aren't any others!"

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

"...Pastel mesas lifted toward the skies
With light-foot winds to leap them one by one.
Here are her scornful wastelands--proud and still...

Wide miles of sweet green cleanness everywhere,
Where distant, miraged silver waters lie,
And one grows drunken on the thin bright air..."


"My weariness drops from me like a cloak,
And I am rested as a child from sleep.
The old song brings the scent of blue wood-smoke
And wind-blown lavender for me to keep--

Out of the starry net--one song I hold--
Is sweeter than any song--and it is old."


"One of me slips away--
A small thin ghost--
Out to a still, grey place--
A strange, remembered way of loneliness--
Of distances and space--
Of eerie winds--and darkness
Coming down--
Miles and miles from a town."


"An old glad madness whirling within my veins,
A song on my lips--and a strange, wild ecstasy
That only the hearts of the very young may know
Lifting up in me...

And an old road--calling one who has been away
Such a long, long while."


"Love longing lingers, waits awaking here--
Returned to shadows of my soul's desire."

Traveling

Today I saw

A town named after me (or someone with my last name)
Cows who thought I was crazy
Mountains and trees
Farms
peoplepeoplepeople (who God loves)
The inside of my car
No light on the dashboard in Kentucky
Three places where God has rescued me
People I love
A road, going ever on and on and on...

Tomorrow I'm going lower-case home.

Congratulations, Class of '06!

"Thus says the LORD:

'Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom,
Let not the mighty man glory in his might,
Nor let the rich man glory in his riches;

But let him who glories glory in this,
That he understands and knows Me,
That I am the LORD, exercising lovingkindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth.
For in these I delight,' says the LORD."

~Jeremiah 9:23, 24


Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

Be thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I thy true Son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle Shield, Sword for the fight;
Be Thou my Dignity, Thou my Delight;
Thou my soul's Shelter, Thou my high Tower:
Raise Thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven's joys, O bright Heaven's Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.


Here is the conclusion of the matter.


Benedicat tibi Dominus et custodiat te,
Ostendat Dominus faciem suam tibi et misereatur tui,
Convertat Dominus vultum suum ad te et det tibi pacem.

~Numeri 6:24-26

Ave atque Vale

"What is more melancholy and more profound than to see a thousand objects for the first and the last time? To travel is to be born and die at every instant; perhaps, in the vaguest reaches of his mind, he did make comparisons between the shifting horizon and our human existence: all the things of life are perpetually fleeing before us; the dark and bright intervals are intermingled; after a dazzling moment, an eclipse; we look, we hasten, we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing; each event is a turn in the road, and, all at once, we are old; we feel a shock; all is black; we distinguish an obscure door; the gloomy horse of life, which has been drawing us halts, and we see a veiled and unknown person unharnessing amid the shadow."

~Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Vale Draconibus

Because I can't say it:

“Think of me,
Think of me fondly,
When we've said goodbye.
Remember me once in a while
Please promise me you'll try…”

“Learning we knew; but still to-day,
With spelling-book devotion,
Words of one syllable we seek
In moments of emotion…

Far, far behind are morbid hours,
And lonely hearts that bleed.
Far, far behind us are the days,
When we were old indeed.

Leave we the child: he is immersed
With scientists and mystics:
With deep prophetic voice he cries
Canadian food statistics.

But now I know how few and small,
The things we crave need be--
Toys and the universe and you--
A little friend to tea.”

“But grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. To Him be glory both now and forever! Amen.”

“Memories
Like the corners of my mind
Misty watercolor memories
Of the way we were
Scattered pictures
Of the smiles we left behind
Smiles we gave to one another
For the way we were...
So it is the laughter
We will remember
Whenever we remember
The way we were.”

“Do not mess in the affairs of Dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.”

“Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind…

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered…

Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place…

Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.”

"don't you know that it hurts me so
To say goodbye to you?
Wish you didn't have to go
No no no no..."

“And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.”

From Malory

For like as always winter rasure doth alway erase and deface green summer, so fareth it by unstable love in man and woman. For in many persons there is no stability; for we may see all day, for a little blast of winter's rasure, anon we shall deface and lay apart true love for little or nought, that cost much thing; this is no wisdom nor stability, but it is feebleness of nature and great disworship, whomsoever useth this.

Therefore, like as May month flowereth and flourisheth in many gardens, so in likewise let every man of worship flourish his heart in this world, first unto God, and next unto the joy of them that he promised his faith unto; for there was never worshipful man nor worshipful woman, but they loved one better than another; and worship in arms may never be foiled, but first reserve the honour to God, and secondly the quarrel must come of thy lady: and such love I call virtuous love.

But nowadays men cannot love seven night but they must have all their desires: that love may not endure by reason; for where they be soon accorded and hasty, heat soon it cooleth. Right so fareth love nowadays, soon hot soon cold: this is no stability. But the old love was not so; men and women could love together seven years, and no licours lusts were between them, and then was love, truth, and faithfulness: and lo, in likewise was used love in King Arthur's days.

From my Favorite New Graduation Gift:

Capitolo I

"Quando Mary Lennox fu mandata in Inghilterra per stare con lo zio nella casa di Misselthwaite Manor, tutti furono concordi nel ritenere che era la ragazza piu brutta che avessero mai visto. E purtroppo era vero. Aveva il viso affilato, il corpicino magro e l'espressione scontrosa. I capelli, radi, erano di un biondo giallognolo, e giallognolo era anche il visino, forse perche era nata in India e, per un motivo o per l'altro, era sempre stata malaticcia..."

Il Giardino Segreto, Frances E. Hodgson Burnett

Now I just need to learn Italian.

Grazie, Susanna!

More on Motherhood

"[The problem with degrading motherhood is] Profanity. Not swearing. I'm not talking about breaking the Third Commandment. I'm talking about treating as meaningless that which is freighted with meaning. Treating as common that which is hallowed. Regarding as a mere triviality what is really a divine design. Profanity is failure to see the inner mystery.

When women--sometimes well-meaning, earnest, truth seeking ones say 'Get out of the house and do something creative, find something meaningful, something with more direct access to reality,' it is a dead giveaway that they have missed the deepest definition of creation, of meaning, of reality. And when you start seeing the world as opaque, that is, as an end in itself instead of as transparent, when you ignore the Other World where this one ultimately finds its meaning, of course housekeeping (and any other kind of work if you do it long enough) becomes tedious and empty.

But what have buying groceries, changing diapers and peeling vegetables got to do with creativity? Aren't those the very things that keep us from it? Isn't it that kind of drudgery that keeps us in bondage? It's insipid and confining, it's what one conspicuous feminist called 'a life of idiotic ritual, full of forebodings and failure.' To her I would answer ritual, yes. Idiotic, no, not to the Christian--for although we do the same things anybody else does, and we do them over and over in the same way, the ordinary transactions of everyday life are the very means of transfiguration. It is the common stuff of this world which, because of the Word's having been 'made flesh,' is shot through with meaning, with charity, with the glory of God.

But this is what we so easily forget. Men as well as women have listened to those quasi-rational claims, have failed to see the fatal fallacy, and have capitulated. Words like personhood, liberation, fulfillment and equality have had a convincing ring and we have not questioned their popular definitions or turned on them the searchlight of Scripture or even of our common sense. We have meekly agreed that the kitchen sink is an obstacle instead of an altar, and we have obediently carried on our shoulders the chips these reductionists have told us to carry.

This is what I mean by profanity. We have forgotten the mystery, the dimension of glory. It was Mary herself who showed it to us so plainly. By the offering up of her physical body to become the God-bearer, she transfigured for all mothers, for all time, the meaning of motherhood. She cradled, fed and bathed her baby--who was very God of very God--so that when we cradle, feed and bathe ours we may see beyond that simple task to the God who in love and humility 'dwelt among us and we beheld his glory.'

Those who focus only on the drabness of the supermarket, or on the onions or the diapers themselves, haven't an inkling of the mystery that is at stake here, the mystery revealed in the birth of that Baby and consummated on the Cross: my life for yours.

The routines of housework and of mothering may be seen as a kind of death, and it is appropriate that they should be, for they offer the chance, day after day, to lay down one's life for others. Then they are no longer routines. By being done with love and offered up to God with praise, they are thereby hallowed as the vessels of the tabernacle were hallowed--not because they were different from other vessels in quality or function, but because they were offered to God. A mother's part in sustaining the life of her children and making it pleasant and comfortable is no triviality. It calls for self-sacrifice and humility, but it is the route, as was the humiliation of Jesus, to glory.

To modern mothers I would say 'Let Christ himself be your example as to what your attitude should be. For he, who had always been God by nature, did not cling to his prerogatives as God's equal, but stripped himself of all privilege by consenting to be a slave by nature and being born as a mortal man. And, having become man, he humbled himself by living a life of utter obedience, even to the extent of dying, and the death he died was the death of a common criminal. That is why God has now lifted him so high. . .' (Phil. 2:5-11 Phillips).

It is a spiritual principle as far removed from what the world tells us as heaven is removed from hell: If you are willing to lose your life, you'll find it. It is the principle expressed by John Keble in 1822:

If on our daily course our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice."

~Elisabeth Elliot, from On Motherhood and Profanity: http://www.backtothebible.org/devotions/authors_attic/elliot

Thank you to a creative mother for seeing the Other World!

In Honor of a Special Lady...

"Mothers are different. Mothers are darlings."

~Lord Goring, An Ideal Husband

Post Scriptum

Many thanks to my personal web technician, Darth Nater, for the existence of this particular venue. You, sir, are invaluable. How shall I ever do without you?

Home-thoughts From Before

I’ve been feeling lately like I’m living in a past that hasn’t happened yet. I look around and see people as if we are already separated, and I am looking back on them from half a country, or half a world, or half a lifetime away. And I am homesick.

I’ve known this kind of homesickness before: it happens every time I have to say goodbye to people I love, or when I breathe in a particularly beautiful sunset, or a symphony (Beethoven, not Mozart). When I see the fleetingness of life, and know there are moments I want to hold on to, but they will slip between my grasping fingers and I will never have them again. And then I weep, on the inside at least, as a child who has been hickory-sticked.

I miss my home.

Not the one where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain (although I have always loved the perfection of the third syllable), and not the one where I am, and not the one where I will hopefully be soon. I have begun to realize how little I belong in any of these worlds, not because I don’t love them, but because I don’t belong in the world to which they belong: my citizenship is in Heaven.

And when I hear the laughter of people flying down a zipline over a retention pond, or smell the wavin’ wheat when the wind comes right behind the rain, I have to remember that these things are but a shadow, a copy of the reality that is to come. I love the Old Narnia so much because it reminds me of the New Narnia I haven’t seen yet.

And then I long for the time when I can say, as my grandmother did, “Oh, Jesus! It’s so beautiful!” When I can dwell in the house of my Father, the King yesterday, and today, and forever. When there will be no more parting, and He will wipe every tear from my eye. When His children do not give way to fights and quarrels among them. And we shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

“Oh, God, our Help in ages past,
Our Hope for years to come,
Our Shelter in the stormy blast,
And our eternal Home.”