Tag Archives: husbandlove

Turn the Corner Thursday

Posted on by
7

My husband woke up feeling better today.  He’s wiped-out exhausted, but he said he feels more tired than sick.  Thank you for your prayers. 

Bless the Lord, O my soul:
and all that is within me,
bless his holy name.

Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefits:

Who forgiveth all thine iniquities;
who healeth all thy diseases;

~ Psalm 103

Guys Reciting Poems

Posted on by
6

Last Valentines Day I wrote about Guys Holding Babies.  My idea was to honor the memory of my father who died on this day in 1987 and honor my husband and sons because they are guys I love. 

Does it surprise you to know that poetry used to be clearly in the center of masculine interests?  Think of the epic poems and their authors: Homer, Virgil, Milton, some anonymous guys, and G.K. Chesterton.  We’ve been reading through the The Top 500 Poems in our morning routine; only 27 of the 500 poems in this collection were written by a woman.  Don’t forget the Biblical poets who happened to be men: Moses, David, Solomon, Hezekiah, Jonah.  And never forget the Song of Simeon, those potent words of an old man, “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.”    

My father loved poetry.  My father loved words.  He had a phenomenal mind; he could both recognize the bits of poetry and poetical references that blow past most of us and recite entire poems. Occasionally he would corner one of us kids with an imperious “Listen to this” and read a poem which took his fancy.  I wish now that I had paid more: more time, more attention, more interest, more respect.  Who were his favorite poets?  I’m not sure, but I’d guess William Cowper, John Oxenham, Joe Bailey and Luci Shaw.  Often a stoic in demeanor, the reading of a poem or article could break down my father’s reserve.  I can still hear his voice choked while reading from Joe Bailey’s A View from a Hearst.

The poetry of my husband’s childhood was the poetry of motion: dodging tackles, arcing basketballs, change up pitches.  However, he grew up with a rich liturgy and had weekly infusions of the Nicene Creed, the Lord’s Prayer and Luther’s hymns.  He brings raw honesty to poetry.  He will readily say, “I don’t get it.”  But he will also show the impact of poems he does get.  Curt was inspired by George Grant’s recitation of Alfred’s War Song and can still recite it years after he committed it to memory.

When the enemy comes in a’roaring like a flood,
Coveting the kingdom and hungering for blood,
The Lord will raise a standard up and lead His people on,
The Lord of Hosts will go before defeating every foe; defeating every foe.

For the Lord is our defense, Jesu defend us,
For the Lord is our defense, Jesu defend.

While not exactly poetry, Curt also has a keen ability to take quotes from literature and insert them into our daily life.  He does the best “Hey, Boo!” with impeccable intonation ( you need to know To Kill a Mockingbird to appreciate it) although never on command; when I least expect it, he’ll offer, “for you, a thousand times over”.  Lately, he mutters Brilliant. which is a quote from a mediocre movie; the quote makes us laugh because we were stupid enough to watch the whole thing.  

Collin, for better or for worse, has inherited my father’s genetic makeup.  He has an ear for words.  His ability to capture the cadences of the stuff he reads is remarkable. As a young boy he would quote Hiawatha while playing on the rug.  We still laugh at his youthful description of ants on the back deck who, “heedless of their life, plunged off the precipice.” Two well-loved characters, Jeeves, the gentleman’s gentleman, and Jan Karon’s Father Tim, both have a store of poetry in their minds; their quotes flow quite naturally into their conversations. Collin’s current favorite quote (from P. G. Wodehouse) surfaces whenever I mention the great Scottish poet Robert Burns.

“Jeeves, expunge the poet Burns from your mind.”
“I have already done so, sir.”

Real guys know the power of poetry. 

Real guys love words. 

Really great guys keep learning. 

I’m thankful for the real guys in my life.

Happy Birthday Curt!

Posted on by
7

Happy Birthday Curt, the great man who began as this young boy.

I’ve heard a great idea which I’ve only achieved once: sending flowers to your husband’s mother on your husband’s birthday thanking her for her work in bearing and raising him. 

I want to honor my in-laws as we celebrate another year of Curt’s life.  They played a huge role in shaping and forming him. Curt wrote the words better than I could, so I will share them with you.  Here is an excerpt of a note he wrote them in 2006.

I am not sure how old I was, but I guess I was five or so
when bedtime prayers took a twist, and a new activity was initiated.  Before ‘Now I lay me down to sleep…’ and
blessings were petitioned for every creature I could think of; I was now
required to learn to recite the Ten Commandments. 

 This seemed like a good idea.  Since God was God, I accepted the argument
that we ought to know how He wanted us to live. 
Call me weird, but no one has ever been able to convince me otherwise. There
I was, lying in bed, repeating every word my father or mother said first.  I finally, bit by bit, one command after
another, nailed all ten! 

I never forgot the gist of the thing.  I found out later I had learned a shortened
version, but the basic list would go with me wherever I went.  I knew what God did not want me to do, and I
knew as a result what He did want me to do.

 The basic list did not include the inherent blessings and
curses attached to the commandments, but my parents had not neglected
them.  Their commentary and explanation
impressed upon me the seriousness of disobeying God.  I remember telling my mother how Bobby Martin
would show off by folding his eyelids back and displaying a hideous face.  She warned me that God had the power to make
Bobby’s eyes stay that way!  Whoa!  This was my first exposure to the doctrine of
heart hardening, and I have since endeavored to steer clear.  Along the way I have broken every one of
God’s holy commandments.  But I have not
done so without shame, guilt, and a condemning conscience.  Praise God for sorrow that leads to
repentance!

The Law of God continues to grow on me, and in me, thanks to
faithful parents who night after night drummed
it into my spongy brain.  My hope is that
my children and my children’s children will love God’s Law with an even greater
fervency.  What began for me in the top
bunk of the front bedroom at 10111 Washington
each night before I went to sleep — may it continue throughout all generations.

Happy Birthday Curt!  I ought to thank God every day for you.  I don’t, but I ought to.  I do thank God for you often.  You have been one of God’s best gifts to me. 

A Cozy Talk About Pornography

Posted on by
3

Saturday morning the man I adore and I sat down for a cozy breakfast together.  We reviewed the past week, talked about our plans for the upcoming week; the conversation moseyed hither and yon. Of all places, we landed on pornography; another Christian we know is jumbled up in this morass.  

“God is so faithful,” my wise husband remarked. “He’s told us that if we persist, he will give us over to our sin.”

We sing Great is Thy Faithfulness with full hearts and think about the provision and mercies of God.  I don’t  normally think about God’s faithfulness relative to hardening hearts, keeping His word, and giving people over to their lusts.

But my people would not hearken to my voice;
and Israel would none of me.
So I gave them up unto their own hearts’ lust:
and they walked in their own counsels.
Psalm 81:11-12

The heart has devices for getting its desires. Porn is available and it seems “harmless” in the privacy of our home.  It’s far too easy.  I think fear is a good motivator here.  Not as good as love, but fear works. 

We need to talk openly about this sin with our kids.  We need to be approachable so they can tell us they need help. Do you know how to check the history on the computers in your home?  Do you? I like the idea Netflix has where you sign up as “Friends” with others and they have access to your viewing history.  It also works to see what your friends like.  If you are interested in being Netflix friends with our family, message me.

Women are not exempt from this problem.  Many novels are pornography of the emotions.  Benjamin Disraili said, “A woman guanoed her mind by reading French novels.” 

A church leader in our town resigned/was arrested because his pornography habit expanded to making secret videos of girls in the showers at the church camp.  His words to his congregation haunt me: “I thought I could handle this.” 

Lord, have mercy.

Bitterness Is Not Plastic Wrap

Posted on by
8

Do you know what it is like to lie supine and cry, how the hot tears trickle into your ears and make them all itchy?  Well, I was having one of those tears-in-the-ears moments recently, mentally recounting a wrong that had been done to me.  Clearly, I had been wronged.  Wait.  Change that to: clearly, I had been very, very, very wronged.  Each time I reviewed the situation I strung another very to my necklace of grievance. 

“Help me, babe,” I cried to my husband.  “I hate being this way.  Bitterness is clinging to my soul.” 

“Bitterness does not cling,” the wise man quietly replied. 

Those four words arrested me.  Bitterness Does Not Cling. 

Bitterness is the bowl.  A bowl is incapable of clinging; it cannot attach itself to you.  I was the cling-on.  I had got a firm grip on the bowl of bitterness and I was not letting go.  Wow.

“So how do I stop clinging to bitterness?”  I asked.

“Just Stop It.” 

“Just stop it – just like that?”

“Quit clinging to your bitterness, Carol. Let It Go.” 

Bitterness has no adhesive abilities.  It has no grip on me.  If I can remember this, it will change my life. 

Bitterness is not plastic wrap.

Forgive our trespasses
as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Hold fast that which is good.

For My Wife on Her Birthday

Posted on by
14

Forty is the old age of youth;
Fifty is the youth of old age.
~ Victor Hugo

Yes, autumn is really the best of seasons:
and I’m not sure that old age isn’t the best part of life.
But of course, like Autumn, it doesn’t last.
~ C.S. Lewis

I think it was at our wedding when Carol’s father referred to her as his song of joy, which is what her name means. Now, after almost 30 years together, song of joy has grown in its meaning for me. Throughout her life she has composed many rich verses for all of us to hear and enjoy.

Most obvious is her piano playing. But she does not simply play the piano. She rarely just matches the written notes with the proper ivories and then plunk them down in some mechanical way. Rather, she reads the notes, hears the tune, and then mixes in some inexplicable magic that then reverberates through her fingers and into the piano. She gives the piano a soul, her soul, and the
music written comes to us through her mysterious touch—she breathes her life
into the music, and we are therefore compelled to sing with all of our hearts
and all of our souls to our great God.

But this scenario describes more than just her piano playing. Read Carol’s blog. Read her weekly thanksgivings. See the attached pictures and photographs. Her writings come to our eyes in signs and symbols, but the objective images she gives us are laden with more of her magic. (It’s like baptism or communion—simple sacramental signals mysteriously moving us deep within.) She casts spells on us without our permission. She forces us to love what she loves. She conjures images of truth, beauty, and goodness we cannot resist. And over and over we are caught up in the joyful song she is singing.

Piano playing and writing can be closets to hide in, small fortresses from which we reveal only what we want others to know about us, hideouts where we protect ourselves from embarrassment, and puff ourselves up for attention. But when once you have met Carol face to face, when you share words audibly with her in her presence, you realize how genuine she really is. There is integrity between her piano, her computer, and her presence. And once again, her magic spell begins to pull you in, and you begin to love what she loves. You start loving authors you’ve never read or heard of before—others who conjur their own magic and manipulate you like Carol does. She draws you into her world with
ease and grace. And you look forward to talking again, soon.

Now, you have not lived with her as I have. At home, she’s a bit different than when she’s out and about. But that’s because she’s at home, letting her hair down, free to relax in the context of her family. But I have a witness—glory to
God—thank-you Jesus.  Carol is not selling you anything. She is not using
smoke and mirrors.  She’s the same Carol. Her magic is real, her life is
enticing.  She is a constant tune, a rhythmic harmony that fills our home with joy. She blesses our daily routine with song. 

I’m thankful the Lord has given her 50 years to sing. The music she is composing is becoming a living symphony for us all. 

Morning Routine

Posted on by
5

Cindy calls it Morning Time.  She has 20 Morning Time posts: you will be inspired to read them all.  We call it Morning Routine.  This is the time we begin together at the table.  I am remodeling our Morning Routine this week.  Exercise, brekkers and shower come first on both plans.

Before:

Read chapter of Bible   from what we were studying at the time
Sing Psalm     mix learning new ones with reviewing familiar ones
Pray   don’t ask me why, but this has always followed the singing
Read Psalm from the Vulgate    One verse in English, one in Latin
Read Catechism question    Currently WLC
Read a poem   reading through different anthologies

Remodeled:

Pray   We will begin with the daily prayer from the Lutheran Book of Prayer.  It has four weeks of daily prayers.  I would like our prayer life to grow in maturity; I like the tone and posture of these prayers.  On a tired Friday morning I want us to pray, “Send me, O Lord, into the tasks of this day rejoicing.”  

Read chapter of Proverbs   This is how we began school back in 1994, our first year of home schooling.  I’m returning to my roots, at least for autumn.  I even like the idea of picking one verse and copying it in a journal.  I remember one of my former lit students told me he was working on handwriting, and he was a high school junior at the time.

Sing Psalm    Continue on our course with more emphasis on memorization.  My husband puts me to shame with the hymns and psalms he has stored in his head.  He works on them on his lunch half hour.  Many psalms we sing are challenging musically; I have a fond hope that my son is improving in musical sight reading.

Catechism   Continue through WLC; re-evaluate when we are completed.  This makes me laugh, though.  When I was growing up catechism is what the poor kids in the Catholic church did.

Poetry    Continue through The Top 500 Poems for three weeks of the month. [Oh – Oh – and when we complete that the next anthology is The Oxford Book of English Verse.  Yippee!! ] One week during the month we will focus on one poet (Frost, Service, Cowper, Bradstreet, Kipling, etc.).  My greatest aid in sustaining any interest in poetry in my son has been Jeeves and Wooster.  More than once, Collin has read or listened to a story that referenced a poem the same week that we had read it.  The glow of recognition keeps us going.

Art   This is an addition which requires more thought and planning on my part.  We have several books to work from.  I like the drip, drip of daily exposure with a concentrated focus on one artist, one week a month.  I plan to watch Sister Wendy’s art films to educate myself.  

When I get to this point, I always want to add more.  One year we read through Grant & Wilbur’s Christian Almanac.  I’d love to do that again.  I’d love to read the Proverbs in the Vulgate.  I’d love to work through our set of People and Places and pray for the nations, learning a microbit about them each day.  I’d love to incorporate prayer for those being martyred, to raise our awareness of our brothers and sisters in chains. 

This is where my husband shines.  He has such a skill at estimating the time it takes and making priorities.  He’s always subscribed to the philosophy of Do A Few Things Well. 

My Favorite Book

Posted on by
8


You are my P.G.
Wodehouse.

You make me snort
with laughter.

 
You are my Conan
Doyle;

A mystery until the
end.

 
You are my C. S.
Lewis.

You see how beautiful
truth is.

 
You are my Hank the
Cowdog;

Silly fun with a
clever twist.

 
You are my Wendell
Berry.

You take pleasure in
provisioning.

 
You are my Martin
Luther,

Famous for good table
talk.

 
You are my David
McCullough;

Decent, insightful,
articulate.

 
You are my Anthony
Trollope,

Warm comfort on a
cold evening.

 
You are my Shakespeare,

Full of quotes worth
memorizing.

 
You are my Matthew
Henry.

“Look at this,” as
you point to a verse.

 
You are my Chilton.

You keep our cars
running.

 
You are my A.A. Milne,

A good citizen of the
100 Acre Wood.

 
You are my Dostoyevsky;

Complex, difficult,
but worth the read.

 
You are my Jeremy
Burroughs.

You model the rare
jewel.

 
You are my
Chesterton;

An original thinker
without the bulk.

 
You are my Fish and
Game Regs,

A calendar of high
holy days.

 
You are my Dickens.

You understand human
nature.

 
You are my Dante.

You write poems of
love.

 
You are my Cabela’s
catalog;

Treasures waiting in
the warehouse.

 
You are my favorite
book to read.

Word by word;

Page by page;

Chapter by chapter.


Fishing, Octaves and Chesterton

Posted on by
2

An Afternoon Fishing, 1917
Nikolai Bogdanoff-Bjelski
Art Renewal Center

Ah, the joys of boyhood!  I had been thinking of donning a docent’s cap and explaining some stuff I’ve learned about late medieval art; but when I saw this print it shouted “Summer!” “June!” “Boys!” and medieval art faded away.

☼     ☼     ☼

Words are simply delicious.  Yesterday I was reviewing intervals with one of my piano students.  When we came to eighths I said, “You rarely hear the term eighths; normally we say octaves.”  She sucked in her breath, eyes as big as stop signs, and repeated, “Eighths – octaves!  Like octagon!  I. never. knew. that. before.”   Cha-ching!!

☼     ☼     ☼

More from Thomas Cahill, a hat tip to GK Chesterton: 

The introduction of Chesterton’s Ballad of the White Horse
will no doubt strike some readers as irrelevant, since it is
an early twentieth-century, not a medieval work;
and the incident Chesterton gives us–
Alfred’s vision of the Virgin–
has no historical basis.
But for me, as in my earlier recommendation
of Kristin Lavransdatter,
there is here a genuine evocation of the feeling and fabric
of the High Middle Ages that is worthy of our attention.

☼     ☼     ☼

Off to clean my house today.  Those gooky corners of my windows.  The dusty bookshelves.   The scuzzy underneaths.  Nothing says “I love you” louder to my husband than walking into a fresh, clean house; that is, walking into his own house and finding it fresh and clean. 

O Holy Spirit, descend plentifully into my heart.
Enlighten the dark corners of this neglected dwelling
and scatter there Thy cheerful beams.

~   Augustine