Outer time is just faster than inner time. By that I mean that I think and plan for one "speed" of time, and am always shocked to find that outer time has beat me to the punch. Case in point: car inspections. How long have I known about this? Oh, for about a year. How many times have I thought about it? Usually about once a day. And now, on the last day of the month, I'm scrambling to the inspection station. (sigh) When will I ever learn?
Speaking of behind the 8-ball, I've been working on that book review fairly steadily and it is starting to come together. It is due tomorrow, and I will probably have it done if I can buckle down this evening and write write write.
News is that Auntie Kara came through her surgery doing fine. Thanks for the phone call, John. Our prayers have certainly been with her.
Prayers also go out to Matt & Leslie this morning. I hope Xavier is letting you sleep at least a little.
Lynn-nore had a check-up yesterday and everything is going just marvelously with the pregnancy.
Kara spent a few hours with Joanna yesterday on "the little beach." She played in the sand and came back with a good quantity of multi-colored sea glass and an anemone (sp?). I can't help sometimes but think what a totally different experience of things Kara is having. Her childhood stories will include this tiny beach-side town, and winters with over 130 inches of snow.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Monday, March 28, 2005
She's Growing So Fast!
No, not Lynn-nore's belly ~ Kara! It seems that every day she's growing and thinking new thoughts. Reading, and moreover writing, is just around the next corner for her. She spends part of every day trying to write notes and letters to each of us, which requires the spelling of new words and the sounding out of others. In the midst of this, she has also decided she likes the idea of writing out the musical notes for her favorite songs, for instance Mozart's A Little Night Music. This is definitely a gift she gets from Thom's side of the family!
Easter weekend was no exception to Kara's growing thoughts and ideas. Part of this was evident in her desire to choose which of the pretty Easter dresses she had been given she would actually wear this weekend. Auntie Kara had sent her a beautiful linen sage green dress with elegant lace and and Omi and Aunt TT had sent her a beautiful pink dress with flowers and chiffon and a matching hat. So, while Mommy held up the two dresses, Kara bounced back and forth on her bed saying "I'm thinking. I'm thinking. I think the pink one!" So, with the decision finally made, it's pink this week and green next week!! Admittedly, she looked gorgeous in both of them, and either would have made a perfect Easter choice, but in her new status as "big girl" the decision almost seemed to be the most important part.
Meanwhile, Kara extends a BIG Thank You to both Auntie Kara and Omi & Aunt TT for thinking of her for Easter and sending such pretty dresses. And I also want to say a big thank you to Auntie Kara for sending a beautiful maternity outfit that worked great for Mommy for Easter, too!
Love to everyone! Hope you enjoy the pictures!
~Lynn-nore
Easter weekend was no exception to Kara's growing thoughts and ideas. Part of this was evident in her desire to choose which of the pretty Easter dresses she had been given she would actually wear this weekend. Auntie Kara had sent her a beautiful linen sage green dress with elegant lace and and Omi and Aunt TT had sent her a beautiful pink dress with flowers and chiffon and a matching hat. So, while Mommy held up the two dresses, Kara bounced back and forth on her bed saying "I'm thinking. I'm thinking. I think the pink one!" So, with the decision finally made, it's pink this week and green next week!! Admittedly, she looked gorgeous in both of them, and either would have made a perfect Easter choice, but in her new status as "big girl" the decision almost seemed to be the most important part.
Meanwhile, Kara extends a BIG Thank You to both Auntie Kara and Omi & Aunt TT for thinking of her for Easter and sending such pretty dresses. And I also want to say a big thank you to Auntie Kara for sending a beautiful maternity outfit that worked great for Mommy for Easter, too!
Love to everyone! Hope you enjoy the pictures!
~Lynn-nore
Saturday, March 26, 2005
I'm in to work this morning for a few hours, making up time for earlier schedule aberrations in the week. Nursing a headache, bandaging it with coffee, I'll try and post some news.
Now, whenever I sit down alone to watch TV, I always look for the most boring shows. We are extremely blessed to have not one but three PBS stations, and I usually begin there: 2, 10, 14. Invariably there is political talk somewhere, and there is no end of cooking shows, but occasionally I will get lucky. One time I caught a fascinating documentary on Martin Luther King, Jr. Another occasion turned up a good hour on string theory. The point here, though, is that there is an equation involved in the thing: the most "boring" TV is the best TV.
Last night was our Good Friday service. We were running late, and the traffic was awful, so I barely had time to tune beforehand. Kara was upstairs, and had been warned about acting up (yesterday was a rough day for disobedience!) The hour was attended by alternating songs and readings from the Scriptures. I noticed with satisfaction that Kara was listening intently a few times, and, as far as I know, the communion meal which closed the service was the first time she had even seen that done. She was asking Lynn-nore about it, afterward. Kara's final act of the evening was to fall asleep in the car. L. and I spent the ride home talking about church tradition and the proper age for taking communion.
Low (or revivalist) churches make no sense to me, and the way that communion is done is just another aspect. First, a word about what I mean by "low" or "revivalist" churches. During the Reformation, a large group of pastors, German and English, felt that Luther and Zwingli were not taking their principle of "scripture alone" seriously enough in the area of ecclesiology. Instead of liturgical practices and traditions, church worship and practice should include only what the Scripture commends, all else being ignored as human accretion and popery. By their reading of the Bible, infants should not be baptized, nor should anyone partake of the Lord's Supper without giving signs of true repentance: public confession and a changed life. Now then, when we arrive at the 19th & 20th Centuries, we add another layer atop Anabaptism, and that layer is revivalism. Revivalism is a style or an attitude toward Christianity which further individualizes belief to the point of pure subjectivity. It is highly pragmatic. I always think of Charles Finney. He and other revival preachers reshaped evangelism and the way that people behaved as Christians. Church music (indeed, all forms of aesthetic and artistic expression) became popularized. Feelings were brought to the fore. Altar calls made conversion an "act of personal and public decision." Revivalism stressed, well, revival as the way that God acted in his church. Like a leaf in a current, the church was consistently flowing out into sinfulness, only to be brought back in through the occasional, divine-sent winds of revival fire. I have spent too much time on this. Needless to say, this movement has been around long enough to develop its own secularized church calendar its own liturgical practices and traditions, one of these being rules for communion-taking by the young.
To sum up: even though Kara is regenerate, the signs in her life, no matter how demonstrable, will not allow her to take communion or be baptized until she is in her tween years. Revivalist anthropology, in its emphasis on individual decision, cannot trust a child's mind, and only trusts a young teen upon the word of parents, Sunday School teachers and, probably, an interview with the pastor. There is a logic in this, but it is a logic which rests on presuppositions which may be as much modernity as theology, pragmatic as pneumatic.
Well, I sort of lost myself there, didn't I? There is a lot of work to be done today. Tasks put off by the malaise of the week. Questions that need answering. I'm eager to get started and to accomplish. There is that feeling of not having finished or started anything for too long. In my mind now, Satie's Trois Gymnopedies and the desire to have already read Listening on the Day of Silence (doc). A dull headache demands caffeine.
Now, whenever I sit down alone to watch TV, I always look for the most boring shows. We are extremely blessed to have not one but three PBS stations, and I usually begin there: 2, 10, 14. Invariably there is political talk somewhere, and there is no end of cooking shows, but occasionally I will get lucky. One time I caught a fascinating documentary on Martin Luther King, Jr. Another occasion turned up a good hour on string theory. The point here, though, is that there is an equation involved in the thing: the most "boring" TV is the best TV.
Last night was our Good Friday service. We were running late, and the traffic was awful, so I barely had time to tune beforehand. Kara was upstairs, and had been warned about acting up (yesterday was a rough day for disobedience!) The hour was attended by alternating songs and readings from the Scriptures. I noticed with satisfaction that Kara was listening intently a few times, and, as far as I know, the communion meal which closed the service was the first time she had even seen that done. She was asking Lynn-nore about it, afterward. Kara's final act of the evening was to fall asleep in the car. L. and I spent the ride home talking about church tradition and the proper age for taking communion.
Low (or revivalist) churches make no sense to me, and the way that communion is done is just another aspect. First, a word about what I mean by "low" or "revivalist" churches. During the Reformation, a large group of pastors, German and English, felt that Luther and Zwingli were not taking their principle of "scripture alone" seriously enough in the area of ecclesiology. Instead of liturgical practices and traditions, church worship and practice should include only what the Scripture commends, all else being ignored as human accretion and popery. By their reading of the Bible, infants should not be baptized, nor should anyone partake of the Lord's Supper without giving signs of true repentance: public confession and a changed life. Now then, when we arrive at the 19th & 20th Centuries, we add another layer atop Anabaptism, and that layer is revivalism. Revivalism is a style or an attitude toward Christianity which further individualizes belief to the point of pure subjectivity. It is highly pragmatic. I always think of Charles Finney. He and other revival preachers reshaped evangelism and the way that people behaved as Christians. Church music (indeed, all forms of aesthetic and artistic expression) became popularized. Feelings were brought to the fore. Altar calls made conversion an "act of personal and public decision." Revivalism stressed, well, revival as the way that God acted in his church. Like a leaf in a current, the church was consistently flowing out into sinfulness, only to be brought back in through the occasional, divine-sent winds of revival fire. I have spent too much time on this. Needless to say, this movement has been around long enough to develop its own secularized church calendar its own liturgical practices and traditions, one of these being rules for communion-taking by the young.
To sum up: even though Kara is regenerate, the signs in her life, no matter how demonstrable, will not allow her to take communion or be baptized until she is in her tween years. Revivalist anthropology, in its emphasis on individual decision, cannot trust a child's mind, and only trusts a young teen upon the word of parents, Sunday School teachers and, probably, an interview with the pastor. There is a logic in this, but it is a logic which rests on presuppositions which may be as much modernity as theology, pragmatic as pneumatic.
Well, I sort of lost myself there, didn't I? There is a lot of work to be done today. Tasks put off by the malaise of the week. Questions that need answering. I'm eager to get started and to accomplish. There is that feeling of not having finished or started anything for too long. In my mind now, Satie's Trois Gymnopedies and the desire to have already read Listening on the Day of Silence (doc). A dull headache demands caffeine.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Aint Misbehavin'
Sunshine this morning. Birds were singing. The threat of snow, so prominent two days ago, left with a whisper; the hind part of winter. How could anyone feel bad this morning? Indeed, for the first time this week, I really felt awake, as if the malaise is lifting away along with winter itself. Driving to work listening to Louis Armstrong's "Aint Misbehavin'", it seemed like New England itself was beginning to shake things off and remember how much it enjoys summertime (if New England listened to Kara, it may have remembered it a little sooner.)
It is strange, in a way, having Good Friday be so open, bright and clean. Good Friday isn't good for the same reasons as Easter Sunday. The "good" of good Friday is that God humbled himself to be present within it. The weather seems to have overshot the season in anticipation of what is to come. I remember well a Christmas Day in 1985 when it was so warm that Dad, Karen and I drove to Sunday worship with the top down on Karen's Volkswagen Rabbit. There, again, the weather seemed to have forgotten itself and remembered Spring on the shortest day of the year.
Struck by the disconnect between world and meaning, I felt caught. The stress of a disconnected life has settled like all that sand in my heart, working and chafing at any felt sympathies between God and I. Life demands more than I have available, or, if I do have it, I cannot find it. I keep expecting God will visit myself and my family and will open a door, put something together, come unexpectedly out of nowhere and perform the Deus ex machina opening a way out to some higher place. So far, that has not been the case. Thus, the chafing and its resulting disconnect between the world and meaning. I want to join the open praise of creation, but my heart is bruised and sore.
Hugging traffic over the Choate Bridge into Ipswich, I get to thinking about St. Theresa of Avila. She, an Abbess in the Discalced Carmelites, once wrote to her nuns that she had gone some 17 years at a stretch without the least feeling of the presence of God. Other Christians well schooled in prayer have often reported such things. Yes, St. John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz) himself wrote a book about what happens in such a dry process as this. God, as it were, moves from the inner to the outer. The God of your good feelings, the happy Dionysius-ish pan-God who assures us health and good fortune is pressed, pressed, pressed out until he seems to slip away altogether from any human experience. Abandonment, dryness, one is trod under the feet of your gentile nature seemingly without help. This, according to St. John, is actually a very blessed experience. It is a weaning experience which starves selfishness to make room for the maturity of faith.
All of this flashes through my mind just before the left turn in Ipswich proper (Lynn-nore and I tasted our first New England clam chowder on the corner there.) I realize that, in my small way, this has happened. I do not know the answer to this present question of life, but I will and do trust in Christ whether I see an open door or serendipitous chain of events or not. But wait, isn't that Good Friday, then? Isn't that what it is: God himself has been there in the disconnect and has overcome it. Now what that means for the physical situation my family is in at the moment is beyond me, but however it is for us, for me, I'm done with restless doubt. My soul may be the curmudgeon to Spring, but I'll welcome it anyway.
It is strange, in a way, having Good Friday be so open, bright and clean. Good Friday isn't good for the same reasons as Easter Sunday. The "good" of good Friday is that God humbled himself to be present within it. The weather seems to have overshot the season in anticipation of what is to come. I remember well a Christmas Day in 1985 when it was so warm that Dad, Karen and I drove to Sunday worship with the top down on Karen's Volkswagen Rabbit. There, again, the weather seemed to have forgotten itself and remembered Spring on the shortest day of the year.
Struck by the disconnect between world and meaning, I felt caught. The stress of a disconnected life has settled like all that sand in my heart, working and chafing at any felt sympathies between God and I. Life demands more than I have available, or, if I do have it, I cannot find it. I keep expecting God will visit myself and my family and will open a door, put something together, come unexpectedly out of nowhere and perform the Deus ex machina opening a way out to some higher place. So far, that has not been the case. Thus, the chafing and its resulting disconnect between the world and meaning. I want to join the open praise of creation, but my heart is bruised and sore.
Hugging traffic over the Choate Bridge into Ipswich, I get to thinking about St. Theresa of Avila. She, an Abbess in the Discalced Carmelites, once wrote to her nuns that she had gone some 17 years at a stretch without the least feeling of the presence of God. Other Christians well schooled in prayer have often reported such things. Yes, St. John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz) himself wrote a book about what happens in such a dry process as this. God, as it were, moves from the inner to the outer. The God of your good feelings, the happy Dionysius-ish pan-God who assures us health and good fortune is pressed, pressed, pressed out until he seems to slip away altogether from any human experience. Abandonment, dryness, one is trod under the feet of your gentile nature seemingly without help. This, according to St. John, is actually a very blessed experience. It is a weaning experience which starves selfishness to make room for the maturity of faith.
All of this flashes through my mind just before the left turn in Ipswich proper (Lynn-nore and I tasted our first New England clam chowder on the corner there.) I realize that, in my small way, this has happened. I do not know the answer to this present question of life, but I will and do trust in Christ whether I see an open door or serendipitous chain of events or not. But wait, isn't that Good Friday, then? Isn't that what it is: God himself has been there in the disconnect and has overcome it. Now what that means for the physical situation my family is in at the moment is beyond me, but however it is for us, for me, I'm done with restless doubt. My soul may be the curmudgeon to Spring, but I'll welcome it anyway.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Jan doing well
Quick update. Lynn-nore heard from her Dad this afternoon. Jan's surgery went very well and she is doing fine.
Overheard Thursday
Lynn-nore's Mom had surgery this morning. I haven't heard any updates regarding her status or how her surgery went. Kara's letter for today was "W", and so she took in a train whistle that Dad bought for her ages ago at a Cracker Barrel. I meant to post a photo or two of Kara's new bedroom last night. Lynn-nore is finally over her cold, but I think I must have a touch of it, because I've been mentally shot all week. This morning has been taken up listening to jazz.
Jazz has been the genre of choice for the last few months here. Lynn-nore likes jazz. Classical music, she says, makes her think math, which annoys rather than relaxes. Jazz doesn't induce the same effect. Perhaps it is because of the innate syncopation and emphasis on improvisation. Thus, it is a music that can be played around the house. I also like jazz, but haven't yet figured out how to listen to it. For example, I'm just now beginning to understand that I'm not as fond of New Orleans or Ragtime as California or Dixieland Jazz. I love Dixieland played live. When we were in Prague, a dixieland ensemble camped out in the middle of the great bridge there and drew a crowd for for the day. (Another reason why Prague is the city at the end of the universe.) Anyway, closing this out. For anyone with streaming audio, I recommend MSN Radio's Jazz Essentials station.
Jazz has been the genre of choice for the last few months here. Lynn-nore likes jazz. Classical music, she says, makes her think math, which annoys rather than relaxes. Jazz doesn't induce the same effect. Perhaps it is because of the innate syncopation and emphasis on improvisation. Thus, it is a music that can be played around the house. I also like jazz, but haven't yet figured out how to listen to it. For example, I'm just now beginning to understand that I'm not as fond of New Orleans or Ragtime as California or Dixieland Jazz. I love Dixieland played live. When we were in Prague, a dixieland ensemble camped out in the middle of the great bridge there and drew a crowd for for the day. (Another reason why Prague is the city at the end of the universe.) Anyway, closing this out. For anyone with streaming audio, I recommend MSN Radio's Jazz Essentials station.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Caleb Does Battle with Ultrasound
So, here we are again, at an ultrasound. Yesterday (Monday), Lynn-nore (and I) went to the paranatologist. There’s Caleb, sleeping soundly, that is until the wand-weilding, chatty assitant wakes him up, in which case he does what anyone else would do. He rolls around a little bit, tries to get away from the annoying sensation, and scratches himself. In comes the paranatolgist himself, a young, dark-headed man in a clean, blue shirt and snazzy red tie. He has a breezy way about him, and a frantic, headlong manner of manipulating the ultrasound as if we’d just sent a bee in there to take photos. “Everything looks great,” he says; and, truly, for Lynn-nore and I both, seeing Caleb fussing around under the prying eyes of that sonogram, he became a little baby boy. That’s him, that’s our new baby!
As for today, (Wednesday), Lynn-nore has come down ill, Kara has decided she wants to play the flute, and I’m just working. I was too "stretched" to work on the review last night, and am feeling a little guilty about that this morning. The weather reports are saying, “Snow!” but it doesn’t feel like snow outside. Actually, Spring continued to make herself known in the category of ‘more’ as in more birds, more life in the trees and plants, more of a change in the air, oh, and more leftover sand everywhere. One year, Lynn-nore and I were doing spring cleaning and swept up a good half-cup of sand from the floors. It is painful to get into the cars, knowing that I’m just tracking more sand everywhere. Kara, speaking of sand, is so ready for summer. She asked Lynn-nore the other day if she could “wear her ‘flops to the beach.”
Lynn-nore and I attended a monthly parent-training session at Beacon. It isn’t affiliated with Beacon but is, rather, an extension of a ministry called “Peace in the Home” run by some good people, Robert and Melissa Partington. The theme this week was on identifying values: What values do you want to instill in your children? And, not only what, but how. The Partington’s detailed two ways that values are instilled, by modeling and by what they called “releasing”, which is basically giving your children a chance to try their “value” skills. Interestingly enough, totally independent of each other, the first value that popped into our heads was: truthfulness. The Partington’s recommended that values be identified and even written out where everyone can see them. It reminded me of the new CEO of Tyco who said they had their corporate values etched into the glass of their conference room. The Partington’s goal in every parenting session is to urge us to bring what is habitual out into the intentional.
As for today, (Wednesday), Lynn-nore has come down ill, Kara has decided she wants to play the flute, and I’m just working. I was too "stretched" to work on the review last night, and am feeling a little guilty about that this morning. The weather reports are saying, “Snow!” but it doesn’t feel like snow outside. Actually, Spring continued to make herself known in the category of ‘more’ as in more birds, more life in the trees and plants, more of a change in the air, oh, and more leftover sand everywhere. One year, Lynn-nore and I were doing spring cleaning and swept up a good half-cup of sand from the floors. It is painful to get into the cars, knowing that I’m just tracking more sand everywhere. Kara, speaking of sand, is so ready for summer. She asked Lynn-nore the other day if she could “wear her ‘flops to the beach.”
Lynn-nore and I attended a monthly parent-training session at Beacon. It isn’t affiliated with Beacon but is, rather, an extension of a ministry called “Peace in the Home” run by some good people, Robert and Melissa Partington. The theme this week was on identifying values: What values do you want to instill in your children? And, not only what, but how. The Partington’s detailed two ways that values are instilled, by modeling and by what they called “releasing”, which is basically giving your children a chance to try their “value” skills. Interestingly enough, totally independent of each other, the first value that popped into our heads was: truthfulness. The Partington’s recommended that values be identified and even written out where everyone can see them. It reminded me of the new CEO of Tyco who said they had their corporate values etched into the glass of their conference room. The Partington’s goal in every parenting session is to urge us to bring what is habitual out into the intentional.
Monday, March 21, 2005
There is a grace in Mondays
There is a grace in Mondays. This morning I'm feeling hopeful and expectant for the day and this week. Each Monday is something new, and work is often a blessing, it is productive, sometimes creative, and always filled with as much problem-solving as I might desire. 2 "blog points" this morning. First, you will notice the 'note board' where you can leave whatever message you care to: tell us a joke, let us know how we can pray for you, share a story (within limits), whatever. That is a place for posting that isn't related to a particular blog-post (for which the comment option is provided.) Second, I'm hoping to keep up with the daily readings, sentences & collects of this week, holy week. Posting here is a way of sharing the liturgical process with you. It is a way of being caught up in the flow of the liturgical year, which, this week, means contemplating the final week of Jesus: that precious week that takes up so much space in John's gospel. It is a way of confessing that the Scripture does not come from the outside into our lives, but that, in reality, we discover that our lives are part of its story. It is right and proper for us not to sit in judgment of it, but to wait upon it, like students upon the words of a beloved teacher or like the perfect waitstaff, filling glasses and bringing dessert menues without needing to be asked because they are "waiting" upon your table. The Scriptures are more real than we are. They are more permanent than human life or government. They never fail, and are always true despite circumstance. Theirs is the last word; indeed, they bring the last word to pass, and are bringing it.
Friday, March 18, 2005
I'm a regular fat-EE bo-ba-la-TEE!
Music practice last night, it felt good to play: placement and technique were all in place. The patterns of chords and scales seemed to flow easily enough. My fingers could feel some scraping along the strings, and they are looking rusty. It is time to re-string. I really like the process of stringing, there's a "craft" kind of feeling, as if you know what you're doing. It feels as if I've just finished building this instrument by hand and now only the final touches remain. I enjoy the sensate-experience of folding the ends through and under the tuning keys, clipping them off, pulling the strings out and away from the body to stretch them, tuning, stretching, re-tuning. Time is not wasted, but enjoyed. Something gets accomplished. I love it.
On a totally different note. Kara looked at me last night, just before brushing her teeth, and says, "Daddy, you're fat." And what did I do? Did I run off into the bedroom, throw myself on the bed and cry like a girl? Did I turn down my nose and reply, "Well, you're fat too … for your age (which she is not)?" Did I pull up my shirt, smack my exposed belly with open palms and (putting on my best white trash) say, "Yep, I'm a regular fat-EE bo-ba-la-TEE!"? No. My first thought was, "Thank goodness she said that to me and not to some stranger." And after that, we had a talk about the tongue.
We have new neighbors, btw. I haven't met them yet. Maybe Lynn-nore can say something about them on her next post. (hint)
On a totally different note. Kara looked at me last night, just before brushing her teeth, and says, "Daddy, you're fat." And what did I do? Did I run off into the bedroom, throw myself on the bed and cry like a girl? Did I turn down my nose and reply, "Well, you're fat too … for your age (which she is not)?" Did I pull up my shirt, smack my exposed belly with open palms and (putting on my best white trash) say, "Yep, I'm a regular fat-EE bo-ba-la-TEE!"? No. My first thought was, "Thank goodness she said that to me and not to some stranger." And after that, we had a talk about the tongue.
We have new neighbors, btw. I haven't met them yet. Maybe Lynn-nore can say something about them on her next post. (hint)
Thursday, March 17, 2005
21 Week Springtime
Lynn-nore is at 21 weeks now. Caleb kept her up last night kicking and wriggling around. Neither of us are looking forward at all to the sleep deprivation; but that only lasts for a few months, right? News has been pretty slow around here: I've been working hard to finish my book (which I will do today. Yaaay!) We've seen a good deal of Sir Walter Raleigh & Queen Elizabeth the past few days. Lynn-nore was helping the latter with a Power Point presentation until midnight on Tuesday, while the former mopped a chess board with me...twice! Kara has been in a place the last few days. Pretty boring stuff. Say, does anyone want to hear about what it takes to get the vehicles inspected this month? The trees are starting to whisper things about Spring.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
The Lord is our Shepherd
Kara was off to school this morning. Her letter for today is "V", so off she went with a vitamin (labelled in a plastic bag) and instructions to, "Pay attention to Mrs. Kimmer today." Lynn-nore has a busy morning: meeting with a Pampered Chef recruit followed by a meeting with Queen Elizabeth to build a power point presentation. I, myself, also have a busy day here: no shortage of work this morning. Sum all of that up and it is blessing. Here's the Suffrage of the day:
Save your people, Lord, and bless your inheritance;
Govern and uphold them, now and always.
Day by day we bless you;
We praise your name for ever.
Lord, keep us from all sin today;
Have mercy on us, Lord, have mercy.
Lord, show us your love and mercy;
For we put our trust in you.
In you, Lord, is our hope;
And we shall never hope in vain.
Save your people, Lord, and bless your inheritance;
Govern and uphold them, now and always.
Day by day we bless you;
We praise your name for ever.
Lord, keep us from all sin today;
Have mercy on us, Lord, have mercy.
Lord, show us your love and mercy;
For we put our trust in you.
In you, Lord, is our hope;
And we shall never hope in vain.
Monday, March 14, 2005
My evil plan is working!
So, I arrive to pick up Kara after Sunday School yesterday and her teacher, Mrs. Tucker, gives me a strange look and says, "Kara was playing with some blocks earlier... (oh no, what happened?) ... and I noticed that she was humming Mozart."
"Ha ha!" I replied, "my evil plan is working!"
Kara and I spent a large chunk of yesterday at Chuck E' Cheese's. A friend of mine, Chris Perry, used to take his brood over there when he had some studying to do. He would study and they would play. Well, given that I'm still struggling to finish the first pass of the book I'm reviewing, that seemed like a good plan. Kara liked it. I thought the place would be pretty quiet, given that the lunch-rush was over and it was early afternoon. Not so. That place was crawling with kids. We were fortunate to find a table at which to sit. Kara was so thrilled! She could scarcely contain herself, and was no sooner free than 15' up in the air inside the "Sky Tubes." I was left to work my way through a thorny chapter on Emmanuel Levinas. I held all the tokens, though, and gave them out only one-at-a-time, so she had to keep coming back to get more. It was a good way to keep track of her and avoid becoming one of those dads walking around bellowing, "Kaitlin!"
"Ha ha!" I replied, "my evil plan is working!"
Kara and I spent a large chunk of yesterday at Chuck E' Cheese's. A friend of mine, Chris Perry, used to take his brood over there when he had some studying to do. He would study and they would play. Well, given that I'm still struggling to finish the first pass of the book I'm reviewing, that seemed like a good plan. Kara liked it. I thought the place would be pretty quiet, given that the lunch-rush was over and it was early afternoon. Not so. That place was crawling with kids. We were fortunate to find a table at which to sit. Kara was so thrilled! She could scarcely contain herself, and was no sooner free than 15' up in the air inside the "Sky Tubes." I was left to work my way through a thorny chapter on Emmanuel Levinas. I held all the tokens, though, and gave them out only one-at-a-time, so she had to keep coming back to get more. It was a good way to keep track of her and avoid becoming one of those dads walking around bellowing, "Kaitlin!"
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Kara's Too Long!
Kara is getting longer all the time, and has gotten too long for her toddler bed. Just last night, Lynn-nore and I went in to check on her, and her toes were pressed up against the footboard. Like it or not, she grows, and it is time for a new bed.
I'd posted before about some options we were looking at for her. Ultimately, we didn't go with the expensive loft beds. Lynn-nore thought about them at first because she and I didn't want to limit Kara's floor space. She plays in her room quite often. Her floor space is "her space" and we wanted to preserve as much of it as possible. So, Lynn-nore thought about this for a long time, and finally decided that by rearranging some things - including putting a 2-shelf bookcase in her closet - we could keep it inexpensive by purchasing a mattress & frame and keep most of her floorspace. (I'm sure this is exciting reading for everyone.) Anyway, we are going to go and purchase a twin mattress for her today, and she's very exited about it! I'm going to post a photo I took of Lynn-nore assembling the bookcase.
I'd posted before about some options we were looking at for her. Ultimately, we didn't go with the expensive loft beds. Lynn-nore thought about them at first because she and I didn't want to limit Kara's floor space. She plays in her room quite often. Her floor space is "her space" and we wanted to preserve as much of it as possible. So, Lynn-nore thought about this for a long time, and finally decided that by rearranging some things - including putting a 2-shelf bookcase in her closet - we could keep it inexpensive by purchasing a mattress & frame and keep most of her floorspace. (I'm sure this is exciting reading for everyone.) Anyway, we are going to go and purchase a twin mattress for her today, and she's very exited about it! I'm going to post a photo I took of Lynn-nore assembling the bookcase.
Friday, March 11, 2005
pure imagination
Imagine if you were wearing one of those virtual reality
headsets, with earphones and glasses. Now imagine if
you could never take it off, and it was always on. And
why is it always on? Because your body is full of energy,
more energy than it can get rid of, and that energy
is the very thing that keeps the virtual reality headset
going, even when it shouldn't be, even when you wish
you could turn it off. That's what Kara's brain is like,
and it is already starting to get her into trouble.
Yesterday, Mrs. Kimmer (may God bless her) had a talk with
Lynn-nore; there's trouble at school. Kara doesn't listen
well; Kara doesn't recall things quickly (though she
knows them), and so, when asked, can't answer quickly or
correctly (which makes her shy away from desiring to be
asked at all); Kara can't stop socializing; Kara can't
keep her markers, her water bottle, her *shoes* together
so that these things get lost, or scattered, or go home
with other children; Kara can't sit still; Kara can't
focus long enough to carry on a conversation.
That afternoon at home, Lynn-nore and I tried to talk with
Kara about what Mrs. Kimmer had said. Lynn-nore had already
talked with Kara about it on the way back from school, but
I hadn't had a chance to address it. Kara cried and tried
to sit in my lap, or in Mommie's lap, or roll around. Kara
claimed ignorance, "I don't know." And, when I asked her to
sit in her chair so that I could see her, she did an
interesting thing, an almost involuntary thing. Sulking in
her chair, looking away at nothing while we attempted to
talk with her, she suddenly, and quite deliberately, thrust
her pointed foot out and drew and "Z" in the air. I could
see it myself: hanging there as she drew it, all warm neon
orange and red.
Phantasie is a state of being whereby one has a tendency to
be immersed in the fantastic. Creative personalities
live with this kind of thing everyday. The composer can't
get music out of his head. The painter falls out of
animated converation, for no outwardly apparent reason at
all, because she is taken wholly up into the richness of a
passing blue. The writer is always cracking jokes about
using the foibles and forms of family and friends in his
novels. Phantasie can be a great gift in this respect,
enabling, as if a volcanoe, the molten, creative energy
of God's Spirit-saturated world to bubble up and overflow
into the air and revive, reshape and add to the rich real
estate of human culture and expression. This is all well
and good, and to be encouraged, but there are handicaps.
Phantasie can swallow a person up. It can seduce one, with
its powers to reshape the world at will, and, in effect,
allow the mind to create its own living space, all and
separate from the annoyances of living with others and with
oneself. Promising sweet aesthetic richness, it makes a
prison which isolates and deadens the self to real freedom:
the freedom for others. Selfishness, lack of discipline,
disorder in body and mind, addiction, recklessness, an
inability to love and be loved: these are all part and
parcel of the danger. Perfectionism: because you can always
imagine it better. Being constantly let down by things,
because they can never achieve what you can so easily realize
in your virtual reality machine. Impatience because the
real world does not realize results as easily as you can
"see" them. And, remember, you can't take it off, or turn
it off. It is you. It is your mind.
How easy would it be, inside that virtual reality machine,
to listen carefully to a teacher's instructions if music
was blaring in your ears as loud as if you were standing
in the orchestra pit itself? How easy do you think it
would be to concentrate on a boring, repetitive task if
you could simply turn your gaze upon your pencil, or on a
picture, and make it dance? Remember that song in the movie,
"Charlie & the Chocolate Factory?" "If you want to view
paradise, simply look around and view it. Anything you
want to: do it. Want to change the world, there's nothing
to it." Sounds like omnipotence, doesn't it, and how
far does that sin go back that wants to be God?
What must be done is to teach Kara how to live inside the
virtual reality machine. By this I don't mean teaching
her to push down and squelch these tendencies - such
instruction would only lead to passive dismissal or active
rebellion (one doesn't just shut off this thing). I
mean that she has to be taught to direct these energies
in a proper way.
(1) Energies directed. The liberal arts supply a host of
disciplines (indeed, why do you think they are called by
that name?) which give the virtual reality somewhere to go.
I would suggest those which are free but very internal,
they can be done quietly: painting, drawing, sculpting,
music. Her physical energy can't be forgotten, too:
the girl needs regular physical exercise. Dance, social
play, walking in nature (a great way of drinking in a
love of quiet of the "now." Phantasie does not like
to exist in the present. It is always leaping ahead. It
never wants to be where it is. One has to clutivate
an appreciation of the "now."
(2) Virtues encouraged. Moral instruction in the virtues
cannot be neglected, let's call this, "Other people exist
and are ultimately more important than fantasy people."
Virtues like patience, selflessness, courteousness need
affirmation as important and valuable characteristics.
(3) Expectations clear & enforced. Because the mind tends
to slip, expectations have to be clearly communicated
and then promptly enforced. Discipline now will teach
her self-discipline later. A note on methodology: any
limit placed on virtual reality is the worst form of
punishment.
(4) Talk frankly about it. Kara needs to learn to manage
her virtual reality. She needs to know about perfectionism,
selfishness, and impatience. She needs to be aware of the
dangers of losing out socially and academically because
she's off mentally somewhere. People with tendencies to
phantasie need to be taught and reminded that real life is
more rich and interesting, and relationships with real
people deeper and more satisfying, than any creation in
virtual space.
Having an overactive imagination is not an illness or even
odd. Plenty of people have to learn these skills. Those
people, as Kara gets older, will come alongside her and
help her by word and example. There is great joy in it,
but, as for today, it is not helping her much with Mrs.
Kimmer.
headsets, with earphones and glasses. Now imagine if
you could never take it off, and it was always on. And
why is it always on? Because your body is full of energy,
more energy than it can get rid of, and that energy
is the very thing that keeps the virtual reality headset
going, even when it shouldn't be, even when you wish
you could turn it off. That's what Kara's brain is like,
and it is already starting to get her into trouble.
Yesterday, Mrs. Kimmer (may God bless her) had a talk with
Lynn-nore; there's trouble at school. Kara doesn't listen
well; Kara doesn't recall things quickly (though she
knows them), and so, when asked, can't answer quickly or
correctly (which makes her shy away from desiring to be
asked at all); Kara can't stop socializing; Kara can't
keep her markers, her water bottle, her *shoes* together
so that these things get lost, or scattered, or go home
with other children; Kara can't sit still; Kara can't
focus long enough to carry on a conversation.
That afternoon at home, Lynn-nore and I tried to talk with
Kara about what Mrs. Kimmer had said. Lynn-nore had already
talked with Kara about it on the way back from school, but
I hadn't had a chance to address it. Kara cried and tried
to sit in my lap, or in Mommie's lap, or roll around. Kara
claimed ignorance, "I don't know." And, when I asked her to
sit in her chair so that I could see her, she did an
interesting thing, an almost involuntary thing. Sulking in
her chair, looking away at nothing while we attempted to
talk with her, she suddenly, and quite deliberately, thrust
her pointed foot out and drew and "Z" in the air. I could
see it myself: hanging there as she drew it, all warm neon
orange and red.
Phantasie is a state of being whereby one has a tendency to
be immersed in the fantastic. Creative personalities
live with this kind of thing everyday. The composer can't
get music out of his head. The painter falls out of
animated converation, for no outwardly apparent reason at
all, because she is taken wholly up into the richness of a
passing blue. The writer is always cracking jokes about
using the foibles and forms of family and friends in his
novels. Phantasie can be a great gift in this respect,
enabling, as if a volcanoe, the molten, creative energy
of God's Spirit-saturated world to bubble up and overflow
into the air and revive, reshape and add to the rich real
estate of human culture and expression. This is all well
and good, and to be encouraged, but there are handicaps.
Phantasie can swallow a person up. It can seduce one, with
its powers to reshape the world at will, and, in effect,
allow the mind to create its own living space, all and
separate from the annoyances of living with others and with
oneself. Promising sweet aesthetic richness, it makes a
prison which isolates and deadens the self to real freedom:
the freedom for others. Selfishness, lack of discipline,
disorder in body and mind, addiction, recklessness, an
inability to love and be loved: these are all part and
parcel of the danger. Perfectionism: because you can always
imagine it better. Being constantly let down by things,
because they can never achieve what you can so easily realize
in your virtual reality machine. Impatience because the
real world does not realize results as easily as you can
"see" them. And, remember, you can't take it off, or turn
it off. It is you. It is your mind.
How easy would it be, inside that virtual reality machine,
to listen carefully to a teacher's instructions if music
was blaring in your ears as loud as if you were standing
in the orchestra pit itself? How easy do you think it
would be to concentrate on a boring, repetitive task if
you could simply turn your gaze upon your pencil, or on a
picture, and make it dance? Remember that song in the movie,
"Charlie & the Chocolate Factory?" "If you want to view
paradise, simply look around and view it. Anything you
want to: do it. Want to change the world, there's nothing
to it." Sounds like omnipotence, doesn't it, and how
far does that sin go back that wants to be God?
What must be done is to teach Kara how to live inside the
virtual reality machine. By this I don't mean teaching
her to push down and squelch these tendencies - such
instruction would only lead to passive dismissal or active
rebellion (one doesn't just shut off this thing). I
mean that she has to be taught to direct these energies
in a proper way.
(1) Energies directed. The liberal arts supply a host of
disciplines (indeed, why do you think they are called by
that name?) which give the virtual reality somewhere to go.
I would suggest those which are free but very internal,
they can be done quietly: painting, drawing, sculpting,
music. Her physical energy can't be forgotten, too:
the girl needs regular physical exercise. Dance, social
play, walking in nature (a great way of drinking in a
love of quiet of the "now." Phantasie does not like
to exist in the present. It is always leaping ahead. It
never wants to be where it is. One has to clutivate
an appreciation of the "now."
(2) Virtues encouraged. Moral instruction in the virtues
cannot be neglected, let's call this, "Other people exist
and are ultimately more important than fantasy people."
Virtues like patience, selflessness, courteousness need
affirmation as important and valuable characteristics.
(3) Expectations clear & enforced. Because the mind tends
to slip, expectations have to be clearly communicated
and then promptly enforced. Discipline now will teach
her self-discipline later. A note on methodology: any
limit placed on virtual reality is the worst form of
punishment.
(4) Talk frankly about it. Kara needs to learn to manage
her virtual reality. She needs to know about perfectionism,
selfishness, and impatience. She needs to be aware of the
dangers of losing out socially and academically because
she's off mentally somewhere. People with tendencies to
phantasie need to be taught and reminded that real life is
more rich and interesting, and relationships with real
people deeper and more satisfying, than any creation in
virtual space.
Having an overactive imagination is not an illness or even
odd. Plenty of people have to learn these skills. Those
people, as Kara gets older, will come alongside her and
help her by word and example. There is great joy in it,
but, as for today, it is not helping her much with Mrs.
Kimmer.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Coffee, Taxes and that Darn Book Review
Thanks to the wonders of tax software, Lynn-nore and I e-filed our taxes last night. Wow, it is good to have that done! When Lynn-nore started her Pampered Chef business oh-so-many years ago, we started going to H&R Block every year, but, after awhile, we began to notice that the people we were paying to ask us questions et al., were just plugging numbers into this handy database software: software we could buy for 1/8 of the cost! It even has a name: Tax Cut (and there are lots of discounts and rebates that come with it.) If you aren't filing your taxes using software, I'd recommend it -- and for those of you with money and property, there are packages that handle all the special (obtuse) deductions and stuff.
I was up late last night reading on my book-review subject: Recovering Theological Anthropology(pictured in the lower-left-hand corner of the blog.) I'm getting old. My eyes just won't stay upon past 12:15 or so these days, no matter how great the demand to "get a few more pages done." Given my emphasis on goal setting lately, I sat down and created a work-flow diagram for this review, only to discover I'm already 160 pages behind schedule! See, the thing is, I always am pushing things to the last minute, and, frankly, I hate doing that! Age is slowly making it not only more irritating but also physically impossible to put in a 2 or 3am push before a deadline. Not only, but the work really suffers. This book is a wonderfully written, beautifully argued first-work by a new professor: it could be me. I would want someone reviewing my work to care about it, at least a little. Therefore, I'd really like to avoid the sophmoric-crunch come the end of March.
On a different note, Kara has taken her first steps toward reading this week. She is beginning to recognize short words, and her mind is beginning to behold the miracle of phonics! She loves making letters, and is always asking how things are spelled. Yes, she has begun to glimpse reading as a possibility for her, and that is really exciting.
Finally, a note on the nature of giving. This morning it occurred to me how much I'm blessed by being surrounded every day by things people have given me. Whether it is pulling some socks out of a dresser given to Lynn-nore and I by my Schwegereltern (sp?; Mom & Dad Rives); putting on a shirt that Grandmother gave me for Christmas; wearing shoes Dad bought me when he was here last; preparing and enjoying some coffee on the way to work thanks to John and Kara Williams gift of their extra coffee maker and a grinder; or eating leftovers for lunch made by the hand of my sweet wife: I'm surrounded by love, good things and good people. It is a blessed thing to start out the day with the remembrance of so many!
I was up late last night reading on my book-review subject: Recovering Theological Anthropology(pictured in the lower-left-hand corner of the blog.) I'm getting old. My eyes just won't stay upon past 12:15 or so these days, no matter how great the demand to "get a few more pages done." Given my emphasis on goal setting lately, I sat down and created a work-flow diagram for this review, only to discover I'm already 160 pages behind schedule! See, the thing is, I always am pushing things to the last minute, and, frankly, I hate doing that! Age is slowly making it not only more irritating but also physically impossible to put in a 2 or 3am push before a deadline. Not only, but the work really suffers. This book is a wonderfully written, beautifully argued first-work by a new professor: it could be me. I would want someone reviewing my work to care about it, at least a little. Therefore, I'd really like to avoid the sophmoric-crunch come the end of March.
On a different note, Kara has taken her first steps toward reading this week. She is beginning to recognize short words, and her mind is beginning to behold the miracle of phonics! She loves making letters, and is always asking how things are spelled. Yes, she has begun to glimpse reading as a possibility for her, and that is really exciting.
Finally, a note on the nature of giving. This morning it occurred to me how much I'm blessed by being surrounded every day by things people have given me. Whether it is pulling some socks out of a dresser given to Lynn-nore and I by my Schwegereltern (sp?; Mom & Dad Rives); putting on a shirt that Grandmother gave me for Christmas; wearing shoes Dad bought me when he was here last; preparing and enjoying some coffee on the way to work thanks to John and Kara Williams gift of their extra coffee maker and a grinder; or eating leftovers for lunch made by the hand of my sweet wife: I'm surrounded by love, good things and good people. It is a blessed thing to start out the day with the remembrance of so many!
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Voyage of the Ice Treader
Ice storm last night; the wind literally throwing ice at our front door most of the early evening. Kara was nervous, listening to the scraping and howling outside her window. When Lynn-nore opened the door around 10:30pm, you could see a ring of ice formations in which a rough exterior met an absolutely flat interior where it was molded against the door. This morning, I could have shoveled the snow drift around the car (it came up to my knee), but there was no time. Put it in 4-wheel-drive and pull out into the street.
Speaking of Kara, she and I started on Voyage of the Dawn Treader last night. She has had little problem integrating books without pictures, and had me read The Lion the Witch & the Wardrobe twice! I love the way Dawn Treader begins, with the lifelike painting of the boat that eventually becomes a real opening into Narnia. I love the suggestive impossibility that a nasty, dare I say "Muggle" family, owns a painting of a Narnian ship because someone gave it to them. Who in England painted a Narnian ship? Who gave them that picture? Finally, I love the way Lewis describes the process of the painting coming to life, and that image of the children standing on the frame over the sea and finally getting swept up by a "roller." Kara couldn't bear the thought of stopping!
Speaking of Kara, she and I started on Voyage of the Dawn Treader last night. She has had little problem integrating books without pictures, and had me read The Lion the Witch & the Wardrobe twice! I love the way Dawn Treader begins, with the lifelike painting of the boat that eventually becomes a real opening into Narnia. I love the suggestive impossibility that a nasty, dare I say "Muggle" family, owns a painting of a Narnian ship because someone gave it to them. Who in England painted a Narnian ship? Who gave them that picture? Finally, I love the way Lewis describes the process of the painting coming to life, and that image of the children standing on the frame over the sea and finally getting swept up by a "roller." Kara couldn't bear the thought of stopping!
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Throw it Out; Clean it Up
“Purge, purge, purge!” was the battle cry last night during a “file purge” in which hundreds of pages of put-away and no longer needed articles, notes, receipts, etc., were tossed from the file cabinet and into the trash. As below, I have at least four good piles of papers building up around the house, and these need to be filed away along with other materials. Thus, Lynn-nore and I were absolutely ruthless, ultimately tossing two, full garbage bags of material.
The goal here is to arrive at a place where books and papers that are actually wanted can truly be archived. I’m envisioning some kind of layered, hypertext-system which would allow for point-specific information such as a Table of Contents or an abstract. Cross references could easily be inserted, and the whole easily meta-indexed with Bibliographical exactness.
Lynn-nore did not sleep well last night, with periodic contractions as well as general uncomfortability. Thus, I took Kara in to school this morning. Traffic to Salem was awful, and Kara was worried she would miss playtime. Still, we had some fun chit chatting on the way. When we arrived at Beacon, Kara and I discovered two things. First, Mrs. Kimmer (that saintly woman) presented Kara right away with her missing water bottle. Second, she had not missed playtime. I waved at Katie and met Chiso and then ducked out.
The goal here is to arrive at a place where books and papers that are actually wanted can truly be archived. I’m envisioning some kind of layered, hypertext-system which would allow for point-specific information such as a Table of Contents or an abstract. Cross references could easily be inserted, and the whole easily meta-indexed with Bibliographical exactness.
Lynn-nore did not sleep well last night, with periodic contractions as well as general uncomfortability. Thus, I took Kara in to school this morning. Traffic to Salem was awful, and Kara was worried she would miss playtime. Still, we had some fun chit chatting on the way. When we arrived at Beacon, Kara and I discovered two things. First, Mrs. Kimmer (that saintly woman) presented Kara right away with her missing water bottle. Second, she had not missed playtime. I waved at Katie and met Chiso and then ducked out.
"I have overcome the world."
If one merely opens ones eyes, the absurdity of the workplace, the inanity of it, is a situation-of-living characterized by insufferable temptation. And what is this temptation? Why the temptation to either conform or despair. To conform is to say, after getting a glimpse of things, “There is a good reason,” and to shut one’s eyes again and allow oneself to accept what is as what should be and ought to be. To despair is to open one’s eyes in the workplace and refuse to shut them again. To despair is to take it all in, to brace oneself against the blast of it and stand full-on into its force. At first there is courage: I am standing, my eyes are open, I am taking it in. Then there is a wrestling with the truth of what confronts you, and then, usually, there is depair. This despair is, given the context “workplace,” marxist in ideology and hostile, even angry, frustration in the impotence that, though aware, you can do nothing about it. The philosopher Michel Foucault /foo-KOH/ describes this latter option as such:
Humanity does not gradually progress from combat to combat until it arrives at universal reciprocity, where the rule of law finally replaces warfare; humanity installs each of its violences in a system of rules and thus proceeds from domination to domination. This relationship of domination is no more a "relationship" than a place where it occurs is a place; and, precisely for this reason, it is fixed, throughout its history, in rituals, in meticulous procedures that impose rights and obligations. It establishes marks of its power and engraves memories on things and even on bodies. Although there is resistance by those at the margins of these power structures, there is no escape from these structures, no possibility of leaving them to move to a different kind … those who exist at the margins, those who lie at the margins of philosophical and social power structures, can only seek to create their own histories, to define their own space, to resist the power structures merely by existing outside of them. (The [Michel] Foucault Reader. (Pantheon Books, 1984))
When one begins working as I did, at 15, one assumes that managers and other “adults” around you are appropriate to their jobs. They had a degree or had risen through the ranks so that there was a rightness that allowed them to rise above their peers. Only later, when one grows up a little, it occurs to you the naivete of this presumption.
Perhaps it is the day when you are made to answer for going to the bathroom. Or, perhaps it is the day you realize that you haven’t seen a raise in years, but your company can’t shut up about how much money it is making. It could be something as minor as realizing that the office doesn’t throw a party for your birthday, or at your child’s birth or whatever, but, amazingly enough, they are happy to use company funds to do so for management and they expect you to join in and contribute funds (a portion of your salary) toward the adulation of your betters! Business is full of a thousand little paper-cuts to the soul. And, over time, these little bloodlettings – the death of every cherished youthful idealism, of imagination and all the higher impulses of human living – they tempt. With each one you open your eyes, and there it is: do you accept the message? Do you accept the opinion of the ruling class? Or, do you despair and become a marxist? The so-called death of marxist ideology with the fall of the Soviet Union and other communist powers means nothing. It was this same class, the one acting demure at the onanistic office party, that was at the reigns of those powers. That man or woman “leading” the meeting, talking yap yap yap like they know something only because they are prettier than everyone else at the office, that’s one of those that supposedly gave it a try, right? Which is better for this class, that they profit from Marx's self-examination or that they “disprove” the whole thing and get on to the business of celebrating each other?
There is only one way of escaping these two equally unpleasant options: to take one’s value from the cross of Christ. Only the gospel of Christ can save one from being ground up between the battling gears of capitalism and marxism. Christ does not call us “consumers” or workers. He takes authority over the so-called authority structures of the world system, with its corresponding messages of value and meaning. He has already passed judgment on them and on his people, and has called one anathema and the other his children. The responsibility of the Christian, then, is to resist these messages, and to work within the invisible webs of these awful, soul-destroying relationships, as small pinpoints of hope, of value, of peace, of reconciliation, of love.
Humanity does not gradually progress from combat to combat until it arrives at universal reciprocity, where the rule of law finally replaces warfare; humanity installs each of its violences in a system of rules and thus proceeds from domination to domination. This relationship of domination is no more a "relationship" than a place where it occurs is a place; and, precisely for this reason, it is fixed, throughout its history, in rituals, in meticulous procedures that impose rights and obligations. It establishes marks of its power and engraves memories on things and even on bodies. Although there is resistance by those at the margins of these power structures, there is no escape from these structures, no possibility of leaving them to move to a different kind … those who exist at the margins, those who lie at the margins of philosophical and social power structures, can only seek to create their own histories, to define their own space, to resist the power structures merely by existing outside of them. (The [Michel] Foucault Reader. (Pantheon Books, 1984))
When one begins working as I did, at 15, one assumes that managers and other “adults” around you are appropriate to their jobs. They had a degree or had risen through the ranks so that there was a rightness that allowed them to rise above their peers. Only later, when one grows up a little, it occurs to you the naivete of this presumption.
Perhaps it is the day when you are made to answer for going to the bathroom. Or, perhaps it is the day you realize that you haven’t seen a raise in years, but your company can’t shut up about how much money it is making. It could be something as minor as realizing that the office doesn’t throw a party for your birthday, or at your child’s birth or whatever, but, amazingly enough, they are happy to use company funds to do so for management and they expect you to join in and contribute funds (a portion of your salary) toward the adulation of your betters! Business is full of a thousand little paper-cuts to the soul. And, over time, these little bloodlettings – the death of every cherished youthful idealism, of imagination and all the higher impulses of human living – they tempt. With each one you open your eyes, and there it is: do you accept the message? Do you accept the opinion of the ruling class? Or, do you despair and become a marxist? The so-called death of marxist ideology with the fall of the Soviet Union and other communist powers means nothing. It was this same class, the one acting demure at the onanistic office party, that was at the reigns of those powers. That man or woman “leading” the meeting, talking yap yap yap like they know something only because they are prettier than everyone else at the office, that’s one of those that supposedly gave it a try, right? Which is better for this class, that they profit from Marx's self-examination or that they “disprove” the whole thing and get on to the business of celebrating each other?
There is only one way of escaping these two equally unpleasant options: to take one’s value from the cross of Christ. Only the gospel of Christ can save one from being ground up between the battling gears of capitalism and marxism. Christ does not call us “consumers” or workers. He takes authority over the so-called authority structures of the world system, with its corresponding messages of value and meaning. He has already passed judgment on them and on his people, and has called one anathema and the other his children. The responsibility of the Christian, then, is to resist these messages, and to work within the invisible webs of these awful, soul-destroying relationships, as small pinpoints of hope, of value, of peace, of reconciliation, of love.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Western / Islamic differences in reading
The Goethe Institute in Cairo invited German and Islamic intellectuals to participate in a discussion in the Egyptian desert oasis of Bahareyya in mid February. As Markus Meßling's report shows, there were substantial differences between the two parties: "It became clear that fundamentally different concepts underlie what it means to understand. Whereas from a European philological standpoint, reading always represents an active process from which even the Bible is not exempt, on the Egyptian side the reading of the Koran means passive comprehension of a manifest truth." ~ Frankfurter Rundschau, 05.03.2005
Note the difference, please. Both parties, represented by Western & Islamic scholars, desire to understand a body of sacred texts. Yet, both approach this goal very differently. The former see understanding as an active process (do you hear the shades of the Enlightenment?), the latter are open, receptive and submissive to the text. The former interrogate the text, the latter wait upon the text. This, in a nutshell, encapsulates the hermeneutical argument going on presently in the West. Deconstructionism has interrogated the text for a long time and has come away deciding that we can never know. So-called "pre-modern" methods of reading, however, were very much as is described of the Islamic scholars. The Bible interrogated, not the other way round.
Indeed, to my way of thinking, the Bible is read according to "levels of permission." One reads as one is given permission to read by the text itself. The text will guide the reader deeper into itself, as long as one waits in contemplative and expectant silence (hesuchia) upon the text itself. Not that this is always a slow process, familiarity and custom quickens the pace of understanding.
Note the difference, please. Both parties, represented by Western & Islamic scholars, desire to understand a body of sacred texts. Yet, both approach this goal very differently. The former see understanding as an active process (do you hear the shades of the Enlightenment?), the latter are open, receptive and submissive to the text. The former interrogate the text, the latter wait upon the text. This, in a nutshell, encapsulates the hermeneutical argument going on presently in the West. Deconstructionism has interrogated the text for a long time and has come away deciding that we can never know. So-called "pre-modern" methods of reading, however, were very much as is described of the Islamic scholars. The Bible interrogated, not the other way round.
Indeed, to my way of thinking, the Bible is read according to "levels of permission." One reads as one is given permission to read by the text itself. The text will guide the reader deeper into itself, as long as one waits in contemplative and expectant silence (hesuchia) upon the text itself. Not that this is always a slow process, familiarity and custom quickens the pace of understanding.
Goal Clarification
When is the last time you clarified your goals? Every so often, I realize that I've wandered into a foggy place and need to get my bearings again. This weekend was a wake-up: time to clarify goals. Most of the time, to be honest, I feel very much like a man swimming against a great current: the daily "to do," the moods of others, the demands of prior commitments, the dictates of the body: flotsam and jetsam hurled against the drowning consciousness by the tsunami of time.
Certainly, I'm convinced that a disciplined life, lived with clear goals and embracing beloved simplicity, would be a better life. I'm convinced it would be better for me and for my family. Yet, the fickelness of my nature, even as it desires this, is then swept up to that other thing. I'm like that guy in C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters who, beginning to consider the state of his soul, is put off the scent by lunch.
Today, though, today I have found some resolve in the bottom of a pocket. Perhaps it is the growing lightness of every day, or God's mercy, or the clutching and "golluming" of fleshly desperation (probably all and more), but today I am resolved to remember my goals. To seek them out, to state them, to share them. To say, "There they are," and turn my harried bark according to their stars.
Is goal-setting a sin? Is this putting too much faith in one's own abilities? Is this buying into our "over-achievement" culture and its soul-killing definitions of success? Answer: it can be. Like everything else in life, there is danger involved in goal setting. Goals can be idols. Therefore, one must always remember the first commandment. One must remember that life is lived in the presence of God, who is the real governor of our days. Goal setting is not a sinful process if one remembers that it is but a human process, and subject, then, to human limitations.
Certainly, I'm convinced that a disciplined life, lived with clear goals and embracing beloved simplicity, would be a better life. I'm convinced it would be better for me and for my family. Yet, the fickelness of my nature, even as it desires this, is then swept up to that other thing. I'm like that guy in C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters who, beginning to consider the state of his soul, is put off the scent by lunch.
Today, though, today I have found some resolve in the bottom of a pocket. Perhaps it is the growing lightness of every day, or God's mercy, or the clutching and "golluming" of fleshly desperation (probably all and more), but today I am resolved to remember my goals. To seek them out, to state them, to share them. To say, "There they are," and turn my harried bark according to their stars.
Is goal-setting a sin? Is this putting too much faith in one's own abilities? Is this buying into our "over-achievement" culture and its soul-killing definitions of success? Answer: it can be. Like everything else in life, there is danger involved in goal setting. Goals can be idols. Therefore, one must always remember the first commandment. One must remember that life is lived in the presence of God, who is the real governor of our days. Goal setting is not a sinful process if one remembers that it is but a human process, and subject, then, to human limitations.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Friday, March 04, 2005
sugaring time
Kara went sugaring yesterday in Ipswich (something I have always wanted to do). She came back too tired to talk about it. The best we could understand, she wore a "shirt" (probably an apron) that looked like a tree, and that "only a drop" of sap came out of the tap. She did, however, enjoy tasting syrup later that day, and we made pancakes for dinner. Her pancake was liberally drizzled with Vermont maple syrup.
After putting her to bed, Lynn-nore and I sat down to watch Survivor and go through some stacks. Literally, I, myself, have a good four or five stacks of papers hidden (or not) here and there throughout the apartment. We are all about purge purge purge these days, and so threw a way a ton of material. I discovered that thesis packet which I swore I'd never received -- too late now! There were also a good number of articles on Hans Urs von Balthasar which I need to either file or discard. Oh, dare I forget that Sir Walter Raleigh came through a delivered a copy of Daniel Wallace's Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics for $11!
Lynn-nore and I also decided that I should begin studying for the GRE. Perhaps re-thinking the timing for PhD work is in order. At the moment, the PhD horizon includes Princeton, Duke and Vanderbilt. That's the top-tier.
After putting her to bed, Lynn-nore and I sat down to watch Survivor and go through some stacks. Literally, I, myself, have a good four or five stacks of papers hidden (or not) here and there throughout the apartment. We are all about purge purge purge these days, and so threw a way a ton of material. I discovered that thesis packet which I swore I'd never received -- too late now! There were also a good number of articles on Hans Urs von Balthasar which I need to either file or discard. Oh, dare I forget that Sir Walter Raleigh came through a delivered a copy of Daniel Wallace's Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics for $11!
Lynn-nore and I also decided that I should begin studying for the GRE. Perhaps re-thinking the timing for PhD work is in order. At the moment, the PhD horizon includes Princeton, Duke and Vanderbilt. That's the top-tier.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
phenomenology mine (nisi intellectus ipse)
As difficult as it is, given the sea of tossed opinions which never ceases, one has to come down somewhere. And, having surveyed the options, I must confess that I am altogether smitten with phenomenology /fuh-naah-min-AAH-luh-jee/ as a philosophical method. It doesn't hurt that phenomenology is the largest and most important philosophical movement of the last 100+ years, either. Granted, it may not overcome Immanuel Kant (and actually could presuppose him); nevertheless, without resorting to pure fideistic assertion (where one's only proof is that one believes it to be so), it opens a window out of the iron-trap of empiricism (naturalism). Phenomenology does not make the mistake of forgetting that there are not just things, but persons. We do not simply run into rude objects during the wanderings of our lives, like blind bumper-cars, but consider ourselves, what we are up to, and what is about us. We value. We disregard. We consider, and are subject ourselves to the same such investigations made by other minds (nil est in intellectu quod non prius fuerit in sensu, nisi intellectus ipse.)
There are limitations, of course. Phenomenology can serve atheists as well as theists. It is just an instrument of the human mind. And, indeed, because it is so, it cannot ask from above. Phenomenology, as a method, doesn't have a divine point of view. It begins from where we stand; an earth-bound telescope for human eyes. Phenomenological questions are a human way of putting the problem. Its mechanism does not presuppose revealed truth.
Phenomenology is a tool, and, like any tool, one can use it sparingly or ruthlessly. Heretics, fools, the deluded, madmen, saints and scientists all use the same tools: it is in the manner of use that they differ (and suffer that difference.) The scientific method, to use a common example, is a perfectly good tool, yet, when overused, it becomes naturalism. Theology itself, no matter how good its intention, can fall into the same error. It, too, can forget that God is not a thing (das Seiend) among things (die Seiende). Indeed, phenomenology is not theology. It isn't a creed or confession. It doesn't, thus, protect against "the process option" or various Marxist theologies of liberation. It doesn't inoculate against panentheism.
So, what does it do? It does what it is: it is a method, a tradition of problems. It is the sonnet form to the Elizabethan poet. Yes, but what does it do for me? Ah! It allows me to pray with Augustine:
Great art Thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised; great is Thy power, and Thy wisdom infinite. And Thee would man praise; man, but a particle of Thy creation; man, that bears about him his mortality, the witness of his sin, the witness that Thou resistest the proud: yet would man praise Thee; he, but a particle of Thy creation. Thou awakest us to delight in Thy praise; for Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless, until it repose in Thee. Grant me, Lord, to know and understand which is first, to call on Thee or to praise Thee? and, again, to know Thee or to call on Thee? for who can call on Thee, not knowing Thee? for he that knoweth Thee not, may call on Thee as other than Thou art. Or, is it rather, that we call on Thee that we may know Thee? but how shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? or how shall they believe without a preacher? and they that seek the Lord shall praise Him: for they that seek shall find Him, and they that find shall praise Him. I will seek Thee, Lord, by calling on Thee; and will call on Thee, believing in Thee; for to us hast Thou been preached. My faith, Lord, shall call on Thee, which Thou hast given me, wherewith Thou hast inspired me, through the Incarnation of Thy Son, through the ministry of the Preacher. Confessions 1.1 trans. E.B.Pusey; emphases mine.)
There are limitations, of course. Phenomenology can serve atheists as well as theists. It is just an instrument of the human mind. And, indeed, because it is so, it cannot ask from above. Phenomenology, as a method, doesn't have a divine point of view. It begins from where we stand; an earth-bound telescope for human eyes. Phenomenological questions are a human way of putting the problem. Its mechanism does not presuppose revealed truth.
Phenomenology is a tool, and, like any tool, one can use it sparingly or ruthlessly. Heretics, fools, the deluded, madmen, saints and scientists all use the same tools: it is in the manner of use that they differ (and suffer that difference.) The scientific method, to use a common example, is a perfectly good tool, yet, when overused, it becomes naturalism. Theology itself, no matter how good its intention, can fall into the same error. It, too, can forget that God is not a thing (das Seiend) among things (die Seiende). Indeed, phenomenology is not theology. It isn't a creed or confession. It doesn't, thus, protect against "the process option" or various Marxist theologies of liberation. It doesn't inoculate against panentheism.
So, what does it do? It does what it is: it is a method, a tradition of problems. It is the sonnet form to the Elizabethan poet. Yes, but what does it do for me? Ah! It allows me to pray with Augustine:
Great art Thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised; great is Thy power, and Thy wisdom infinite. And Thee would man praise; man, but a particle of Thy creation; man, that bears about him his mortality, the witness of his sin, the witness that Thou resistest the proud: yet would man praise Thee; he, but a particle of Thy creation. Thou awakest us to delight in Thy praise; for Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless, until it repose in Thee. Grant me, Lord, to know and understand which is first, to call on Thee or to praise Thee? and, again, to know Thee or to call on Thee? for who can call on Thee, not knowing Thee? for he that knoweth Thee not, may call on Thee as other than Thou art. Or, is it rather, that we call on Thee that we may know Thee? but how shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? or how shall they believe without a preacher? and they that seek the Lord shall praise Him: for they that seek shall find Him, and they that find shall praise Him. I will seek Thee, Lord, by calling on Thee; and will call on Thee, believing in Thee; for to us hast Thou been preached. My faith, Lord, shall call on Thee, which Thou hast given me, wherewith Thou hast inspired me, through the Incarnation of Thy Son, through the ministry of the Preacher. Confessions 1.1 trans. E.B.Pusey; emphases mine.)
Collect of the week
A Collect /KOL-lekt/ is a short, liturgical prayer which "collects" everyone together. We might say it gets everyone on the same page: worship. In revivalist churches (low churches), pastors often pray before delivering the sermon, and worship leaders, too, use prayer in this way: to focus everyone together in worship. They, also, then pray a collect, though johnny-on-the-spot.
Anyway, because I woke up feeling "stretched" and moody, it seems a collect is the only thing for it. So here is the collect for the third week in Lent:
Almighty God, you know that we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves: Keep us both outwardly in our bodies and inwardly in our souls, that we may be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
Anyway, because I woke up feeling "stretched" and moody, it seems a collect is the only thing for it. So here is the collect for the third week in Lent:
Almighty God, you know that we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves: Keep us both outwardly in our bodies and inwardly in our souls, that we may be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Back from Boston
Our trip into Boston for the second-level ultrasound went great! We were releaved and encouraged to see that Caleb is doing great and the pregnancy is exactly as it should be. We were pleasantly surprised to be able to take advantage of some new technology that wasn't around when we were expecting Kara ~ we got to see 3-D images of Caleb! It was awesome to get such a good look at the little guy! At one point he looked like he was doing little body curls, pulling his bottom up and trying to push off the walls around him. It was quite amusing! He gave us a good wave with what looked like five little fingers! Kara came with us and was eager to see him, but then quickly bored of the attraction and became more interested in poking around the room. We also brought Joanna with us, partly for her to enjoy the ultrasound with us and partly for her to be able to sit with Kara when Kara couldn't hold it together any more. One blessing was that the sonogram technicians were really, really nice! Last time we went we were not as fortunate. So, all good news from up here and thank you all for your prayers! Enjoy the pictures! ~Lynn-nore
My First Post
Greetings to everyone! Lynn-nore here! Thom has been encouraging me to attempt to post something here on the blog, so I thought I'd give it a go. As Thom already noted in the post below, our afternoon is to be spent in Boston having a second-level ultrasound. This was initially scheduled as something of a baseline test to get a good look at where everything stands with my NOT-progressing toward labor. When I talked with the scheduling nurse at the midwives' office about the 18-week ultrasound we were supposed to have last week (to get a good look at Caleb), she said - "Oh, let's just bump that up to a second-level ultrasound in Boston and get it all taken care of the same day." The ultrasound last week had actually been cancelled due to snow. Not a lot of snow really, but even in Massachusetts we try to work around the stuff when we can!
I am going to attempt to post three pictures along with this post. One is of my favorite of Kara's artwork of late. It is a giraffe... and a house... no relationship between the two, she just wanted to draw both. The most interesting thing, to me, is how she draws animals. When I was her age and someone said "Lynn-nore, can you draw me a giraffee." I would think about the long neck and a face and know that it had four legs and come up with something. Kara didn't even attempt that. She ran upstairs and got the giraffe from her Little People toys. It's a three-inch rubbery-plastic giraffe. She set it in front of her and looked at it. Decided on perspective, dead-on versus a side shot and drew the giraffe just as it stood before her. I'm going to try to upload a picture of the giraffe as well as Kara's picture of the giraffe. She never ceases to amaze me.
The other pictures I want to post are for all you Star Wars fans out there. This was a little creative endeavor with our friends who came over to watch the Academy Awards. Sir Walter Raleigh and myself entertained ourselves during the Oscars with a little Lego fun I thought I'd share. If I can find new AA batteries for the digital camera, I'll post these ASAP.
Love to everyone and thank you for your prayers! ~Lynn-nore
I am going to attempt to post three pictures along with this post. One is of my favorite of Kara's artwork of late. It is a giraffe... and a house... no relationship between the two, she just wanted to draw both. The most interesting thing, to me, is how she draws animals. When I was her age and someone said "Lynn-nore, can you draw me a giraffee." I would think about the long neck and a face and know that it had four legs and come up with something. Kara didn't even attempt that. She ran upstairs and got the giraffe from her Little People toys. It's a three-inch rubbery-plastic giraffe. She set it in front of her and looked at it. Decided on perspective, dead-on versus a side shot and drew the giraffe just as it stood before her. I'm going to try to upload a picture of the giraffe as well as Kara's picture of the giraffe. She never ceases to amaze me.
The other pictures I want to post are for all you Star Wars fans out there. This was a little creative endeavor with our friends who came over to watch the Academy Awards. Sir Walter Raleigh and myself entertained ourselves during the Oscars with a little Lego fun I thought I'd share. If I can find new AA batteries for the digital camera, I'll post these ASAP.
Love to everyone and thank you for your prayers! ~Lynn-nore
Ultrasounds in Boston
This morning, Lynn-nore (and family) go into Boston for second-level ultrasounds. I had thought this was part of the work-up required by the paranatologist (have I mentioned that?) Yet, turns out, this was something the midwives requested. Today, then, Caleb gets an ultra-examination, and other things are closely watched as well. I hope that Kara can go, because I do not think she's seen an ultrasound, and it will be fun to drive into town. Part of me remembers that there is a possibility of getting some bad news, say that Lynn-nore is progressing. Yet, there's no sense getting panicked before we actually get there.
Last night, Kara receive a reward: a trip to Chuck E. Cheese's. She receive a sticker every time she eats dinner without the usual foolishness. Each one goes on a chart, and when the chart is full, off we go. She was so excited! There was almost no one there, so she really had the place to herself. She had a good time playing skee-ball, and steering the car on my lap on driving games (she likes to watch them wreck.) She also likes to sit with me on a 4-wheeler game, and a water racing game, both of which tilt and rumble and everything. At one point, she picked up the plastic cup of tokens and, laughing gleefully, makes off through the games like an imp, with me chasing after. Oh, she loved that!
Anyway, two points of business.
Lynn-nore said that the Harrises are monitoring our, probably quite fascinating, lives from this board. Hi guys! I think about you everyday! How's things at Marquette?
Second, by clicking on a photo you enlarge it, for you Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, etc. You can then right-click and download it, and then do whatever you like with it.
Last night, Kara receive a reward: a trip to Chuck E. Cheese's. She receive a sticker every time she eats dinner without the usual foolishness. Each one goes on a chart, and when the chart is full, off we go. She was so excited! There was almost no one there, so she really had the place to herself. She had a good time playing skee-ball, and steering the car on my lap on driving games (she likes to watch them wreck.) She also likes to sit with me on a 4-wheeler game, and a water racing game, both of which tilt and rumble and everything. At one point, she picked up the plastic cup of tokens and, laughing gleefully, makes off through the games like an imp, with me chasing after. Oh, she loved that!
Anyway, two points of business.
Lynn-nore said that the Harrises are monitoring our, probably quite fascinating, lives from this board. Hi guys! I think about you everyday! How's things at Marquette?
Second, by clicking on a photo you enlarge it, for you Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, etc. You can then right-click and download it, and then do whatever you like with it.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Snowing in Ipswich
Snowing in Ipswich. Coming out of the medieval front door at Ascension, the snow was a welcome sight, like the grace of God flowing down and gently lighting on my shoulders, my head, my face. Ascending the narrow way between the steep sides between library and hall, I felt a choir singing through the whole, white, swirling purity of the scene. My soul rose against its masculine strength, pealing:
Come, Thou almighty King,
Help us Thy Name to sing,
Help us to praise!
Father all glorious, over all victorious,
Come and reign over us, Ancient of Days!
Back at the office, Lynn-nore called. I received a letter from Hendrickson. It was typed, but personal, from Shirley. She was congratulatory at my enthusiasm and talents, but could not offer me the position. I will do the manly thing, of course. I will write, thanking her for her trouble and offering myself for any future service – there is no door that, even shut, cannot be knocked upon.
Be still my soul and wait,.. wait,.. wait upon the Lord.
Come, Thou almighty King,
Help us Thy Name to sing,
Help us to praise!
Father all glorious, over all victorious,
Come and reign over us, Ancient of Days!
Back at the office, Lynn-nore called. I received a letter from Hendrickson. It was typed, but personal, from Shirley. She was congratulatory at my enthusiasm and talents, but could not offer me the position. I will do the manly thing, of course. I will write, thanking her for her trouble and offering myself for any future service – there is no door that, even shut, cannot be knocked upon.
Be still my soul and wait,.. wait,.. wait upon the Lord.
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