Tag Archives: mylife

Somebody Loves Me

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Two somebodies went together and replenished my favorite tea.
Thank you JAB and KGB!!
Did you see how many bags?  240! 
You know what that means, don’t you?
I’m prepared to offer you a proper spot of tea. 
My teapot and cozy are on standby status.
Party, anyone?

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

The kitchen project is humming, about 1/3 done. 
If I had known I would get such a lift from clean cupboards,
I would have started finished them earlier.

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Adeste Fideles (O Come All Ye Faithful) is a favorite carol.  It was the first carol we learned in Latin.  A few years later I discovered Athanasius, who fought valiantly for the deity of Christ.  Every time we sing “Ver—–ry God, Begotten, not created” I get choked up and say a prayer of thanks for Athanasius, God’s gift to the early church. 
 

In addition to Athanasius, I will think of translations when we sing that verse.  This, from Mysteries of the Middle Ages by Thomas Cahill:

This early exaltation of Mother and Child already demonstrates
the innovative Christian sense of grace, no longer something
reserved for the fortunate few–the emperors and their
retinues–but broadcast everywhere, bestowed on everyone,
“heaped up, pressed down, and overflowing,” even on
one as lowly and negligible as a nursing mother.
In the words of a famous Latin hymn,

“God…is born from the guts of a girl.”

The hymn is “Adeste Fideles,” composed in the eighteenth
centry (in a very medieval spirit) by John F. Wade.
The full text of the cited quotation is
“Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine
Gestant puellae viscera”
The second line was unfortunately translated
in the nineteenth century by Frederick Oakley as
“Lo! he abhors not the Virgin’s womb.”
p. 103

May 7, 1968

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The lunch bell rang at 11:30.  My fifth-grade teacher dismissed the class. I put my sweater on, picked up my cello and navigated my way through the crowded hallway.  As I crossed from the dark interior to the bright sunshine my mind swept through the corners of the morning looking for a scrap of a story to tell my mom. Since Danny had moved up to Jr. High, I had my mom all to myself during lunch.

I moved slowly down the sidewalk, stopping every ten paces to change the clumsy cello to the other arm.  A tune went through my head and came out with a hum. Turning left at Elizabeth Street, I looked up and saw my dad a block ahead at the edge of the school property.  He stood still as a sentinel, shoulders slumped. 

“Dad!”

I hitched the cello closer to my body and broke into an exhuberant trot.   Never before had I seen my dad in the middle of the school day.  One by one he had taken my six older siblings out of their classes, had broken the news to them and had brought them home.  For this final breaking, he waited for me to come to him. Out of breath, I set the cello down and gave him a hug. 

“How’s Mom?  Did you bring her home from the hospital?”

His face was tired granite.

“Honey, I have some bad news.”

It wasn’t his solemnity that struck me; it was the absence of any movement.  I looked up with questioning eyes.

“Carol, Mommy is in heaven with Jesus.”

I stared at him, completely stunned.

“She died very early this morning.”

He picked up the cello and we began the two block trek towards home.  We had passed two houses on the left when I protested.

“Wait, Daddy.  You said it was bad news.  But if she’s in heaven with Jesus, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

For the first time the muscles in his face moved.  He smiled down at me wordlessly.  While I couldn’t comprehend that my Mom was dead, I could see the grief that had already moved into his eyes; I could sense him pulling into himself.   Flitting back to my own concerns, my mind reminded me of a problem.

“But I wanted to tell  Mom that I got an A on my spelling test.”

I didn’t ask for details.  There was something in his demeanor which spoke the truth.  My next impulse was to lighten his load. 

“Daddy, let me carry the cello.  Please, Daddy.  Please…let me carry the cello for you.”

He shook his head as we continued to walk.  We turned right onto Greenfield Avenue in silence.  Our heads bowed in surrender to the heavy weight as we trudged the rest of the way home.  The house was as quiet and still as my father had been. 

As we approached the porch, I bounded up the steps, remembering my news.

“Mom!  I got an A………………”  My voice broke off as the news dangled in midair. 

Why Blog?

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From my Inbox:

“I know I’ve asked you this already, but why do you blog? What is your purpose?  I’m just curious.  While I enjoy reading people’s blogs, I can’t help but think that it is also leading us away from being personal in our relationships.  What are your thoughts on this?”

Oh, how badly I want to give the quick Sunday School answer: “To glorify God and enjoy Him forever.”  That answer is not entirely untrue; however, if I am honest the answer is more complex, more self-gratifying.

Indulge me in a bit of personal history. My brother Danny introduced me to reading blogs. On one of his annual visits he brought a file of his favorite online links and installed them on my computer. He’s hot into reformed theological controversies, cooking, techno-gadgets and blogs. He knew I’ve been reading, drooling over, and collecting George Grant’s writing for years (I have a huge binder full of his book reviews from World Magazine) and showed me how to read his stuff online. It was a quick transition from reading » commenting » writing my own posts. 

So why do I blog? 

1.    I have a show-and-tell personality. Whenever I’ve read an excellent book or listened to incredible music, my joy is not complete until someone has read it or heard it and agrees that it is excellent. If you came to my house today, I’d ask if you’d like to see my _______ (silverware drawer, garden, guest room, whatever). I’m trying to get beyond foisting a book on some unsuspecting victim/friend and promising them they will Absolutely Love It; but that impulse will never be eradicated. 

2.   To improve my writing. Thoughts and phrases float across my brain, but getting them onto the screen in a readable form is good exercise. I need an editor, big time, but people are not standing in line to offer their services.

3.  To encourage other people. We all have our little sphere of influence; I try to use mine to share quotes, books, prayers, pictures, recipes and music. Truth, beauty and goodness surround us and I like to point them out. 

4.  It’s good intellectual stimulation. This refers to reading other blogs and following their links to other stories. My world has expanded in  fabulous ways. Even if it’s just exposure knowledge, I’ve learned much that is useful in the last three years.

5.  To develop friendships. It’s very odd, especially to the analog personality, but I’ve made some dear friends online. It’s really amazing to read someone else’s journal and recognize yourself. My husband tends to scratch his head as I quote one of y’all. Which one is this? he asks with a note of confusion. 

What’s wrong with blogging?

1.   Time, Where Did You Go? My clock ticks away like nobody’s business when I’m online. Dana suggested a using timer and I’m becoming more convicted that I need to. Time spent blogging is time not spent fulfilling the responsibilities which we have been given. Could you argue against that last sentence? I’d sure like to hear your argument so I could use it for myself. 

2.    Incomplete disclosure. When I blog, I filter what I want you to know about me. You do the same thing, don’t you? Of course, discretion is always called for, but, all the same, I’m putting my best face forward. I am thankful that real people that I really know read my blog. It helps me to combat hypocrisy.

3.    Isolation. I am more convinced each day that life needs to be lived within the context of covenant community. It is too easy to plug into the computer and zone out the people who are in the physical now. I try, emphasis on try, not to blog when my husband is home so I can be present with him. 

4.   Misplaced priorities. Since I really do enjoy blogging, thinking about how and what to write is often at the forefront of my mind. “My public needs me” has been a joke in our family for decades. My toilets need me too, but I don’t view them like I view you, my dear reader. 

5.   Unlimited scope. When my oldest son began to read, I devised a plan to check out each and every picture book in our public library. After a few months I asked myself, Why? I had assumed every book the library offered was worth reading.  I used to be impressed with four pages of blog links, until I realized that it was the same fallacy. I’m content to limit myself to a small group of daily reads, a larger group of weekly reads and another folder of occasional glances. There are many extraordinary blogs which I miss and that’s Okay.

Why do you blog? Or, why do you read blogs?

(P.S. Thanks, Mel, for holding my feet to the fire. I appreciate it…and you.)
 

Kitchen Project

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My deep cleaning project for the next few months is my kitchen.  I’m taking absolutely everything out of each drawer and cupboard and cleaning with bleach before I put it back in beautiful array. I wrote in this post that “I’m convinced if I don’t love a clean house I won’t be consistent in keeping it clean.”  I attacked the silver ware drawer first.  And after I’d taken out the knives, forks and spoons I was aghast at how ghastly it really was. YIKES!

I made a conscious decision to go with wood as much as possible and get rid of the plastic crap.  Sorry folks, but that’s how I feel. 

My husband about croaked when I bought stainless steel measuring spoons that cost five times what the plastic ones cost.  Ya know, if we can’t splurge once in a while when we are almost 50, then when will we, I ask you? 

My 16 year old son bets that I won’t keep it clean, with a wee bit of cynicism in that tone.  Thank you, my laddie.  You have just given me the right kind of inspiration. I’m still at the stage of perfect stacks of forks and spoons.  Hah!  This too shall pass.  Don’t despise the day of small beginnings.  It’s a good start that I love to keep this drawer clean!

~  La bella vita  ~

Kristin Lavransdatter

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This photo was taken from the campground where we just spent two days with my husband’s folks.   We spent one day mushrooming (boy-howdy, did we get the morels) and one day bass fishing.

Curt and I have an understanding:  I bring a book and read until the fishing is hot.  Then, and only then, will I fish.  Otherwise, he gets to run the boat, cast away, reel in to his heart’s content.  Better yet, he doesn’t have to untangle lines.  We’re both content and get to be together doing what we love.  We soak up the quiet, punctuated by the plop of a  fish jumping, the quiet hum of the trolling motor or the gossipy chuck-chucking of a chukar on the bank.

My book fascinated and occupied me.  I first heard of Kristin Lavransdatter reading a book list; I took note when Elisabeth Elliot named it her favorite novel.  Set in medieval Norway, it tells the tale of a young woman who grows up her father’s favorite child, but refuses his choice of husband preferring a morally unsuitable man.  [I read the first book of the trilogy, The Bridal Wreath.]  Well.  This is a tale of universal application – girl loves the wrong boy. 

What I appreciated about this book is the same thing I liked in Anna Karenina. It is an honest portrayal of love, lust, sex and everyday life after the roll(s) in the hay.  The wages of sin is death, but we’re dishonest if we pretend that the advance draw isn’t delicious.   Sigrid Unset does an excellent job revealing the deceit, the subtle changes in thinking, the isolation and the separation that follow Kristin on the path she takes.

And sometimes in church, and elsewhere too, she would feel a great yearning to take part in all that this meant, the communion of mankind with God.  It had ever been a part of her life; now she stood outside with her unconfessed sin. (p.166)

When I was a girl at home ’twas past my understanding how aught could win such power over the souls of men that they could forget the fear of sin; but so much I have learnt now: if the wrongs men do through lust and anger cannot be atoned for, then must heaven be an empty place. (p.174)

It is painful to see the tight knit love between Kristin and her father Lavrans snag, tear and unravel.

You have wrought sorrow and pain to many by this waywardness of yours, my daughter — but this you know, that your good lies next to my heart. (p.211)

“Father,” said Kristin, “have you been so free from sin all your life, that you can judge Erlend so hardly–?” “God knows,” said Lavrans sternly, “I judge no man to be a greater sinner before Him than I am myself.  But ’tis not just reckoning that I should give away my daughter to any man that pleases to ask for her, only because we all need God’s forgiveness.” (p.226)

People in the midst of self-gratification seldom think of the effect their actions will have on other people, or how many people they will affect. 

“Much have I done already that I deemed once I dared not do because ’twas sin.  But I saw not till now what sin brings with it — that we must tread others underfoot.” (p.259)

In the end, Kristin gets what she wants – minus the joy.  What she thought would fulfill her doesn’t satisfy.

The Reading Life/The Cleaning Life

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On Mother’s Day we told the kids stories from our first year of marriage. We lived in a self-contained apartment on the bottom floor of a brand new house in the country.  Our landlord (the guy upstairs) Doug was a jovial, gregarious, nice guy who loved to talk.  My husband Curt is genial, but he’s a man who puts his head down and works with a will.  Thus, while Doug was drinking coffee and talking about his plans for the day, Curt got the grass mowed.  Doug loved to analyze the differences between himself and Curt:

“In this world there are dreamers and there are doers.  I’m a dreamer and Curt is a doer.”
“In this world there are thinkers and there are workers.  I’m a thinker and Curt is a worker.”

Ya gotta love the guy. As easy as it is for me to laugh at Doug, I do the exact same thing myself.  For years I’ve held a dichotomy between readers and cleaners.  I noticed that my girlfriends who loved to read and swapped books were (like me) on the slobbish side.  And the women I admired who cleaned the lintels on a weekly basis, women who wouldn’t dream of leaving the house with a dirty spoon in the sink, didn’t tend to gush over the latest book they’ve read because Good Housekeeping was the extent of their reading repertoire.  

The person who sports bona fide credentials in both camps neatly exposes this false dichotomy.  My dear friend Lisa’s middle name is organization and she has more bookshelves and books than some public libraries.  Lerrina is organized, energetic, and cleans like a whirlwind so she could sit down and read for two hours.  Elisabeth Elliot writes of order, cleanliness and discipline in the home, but her quotes and literary references are evidence of an active reading life.  Even Laura Bush loves to Clorox shelves in her free time and yet she is a librarian who cannot not read.  

Reading that paragraph made me think: well, the key must be to have an L in your name.  Yeah right, CaroL!

As always, my husband is my saving grace.  He loves order and he lives order. There’s no sense gnashing my teeth that I don’t have a native love of dust-mopping, doing crunches and drinking nonfat milk.  I wish I did.  How many days have I been lost in a
book, hear my husband’s footsteps on the threshold, look up and see the
house with his eyes?  My young son saw me scrubbing some porcelain one day and he innocently asked, “Who’s coming over?”  I have oodles of books on this subject and have tried various methods.  All have been successful to some extent; the question is always how permanent is that success? 

I’m convinced that if I don’t love a clean house
I won’t be consistent in keeping it clean.

It’s as simple as that.  But it’s not easy.

So we’re back to the prayer that keeps getting prayed:  Change my heart, O God. 

Last night Collin was out collecting for the paper route, Curt was vacuuming the garage and otherwise taking dominion over his space, and I started (again) a project I conceived in August 2004.  It occurred to me in August 2004 that if I just pretended that I was moving and took everything out of my kitchen and cleaned, organized and put it back together in perfect harmony it would be a happy thing.  I know better than to take everything out in one day.  Over the years I’ve completed sections but never all of them at one time.  The kitchen is the command center of our home.  It is the room where I chop onions, crunch my Kashi Go Lean, blog and read blogs, teach my son, and talk on the phone.  As self-indulgent as it may be, I’m blogging about it to make sure it gets done.  Maybe I’ll even post pictures.  After, not before. There. 

  

Unspoken Words

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The sermon yesterday was a reminder to take the opportunities presented to us each day to nurture our relationships; it was a call for open communication and regular maintenance checks.  It was a bit off-topic, but my mind flew to a time when I was ten and God shut my lips.  The shutting of my mouth was a profound and incredible gift. Here’s what happened:

One afternoon in March of 1968, Missy (let’s call her that) and I had climbed a crabapple tree in her backyard and were exercising our imaginations and indulging in the sweet secret-telling that bonds silly, young girls.  Far sooner than we expected, Missy’s mom called to us to come; it was time for me to go home.  We were both disappointed, but Missy was verbally obstinate: “No!  We’re not finished!”  In a quiet, passive tone, Missy’s mom repeated her request.  Missy became more belligerent, more mouthy.  The tug-of-war was a jarring new experience for me.  Walking to the car, I was shocked to my core when Missy screamed  “I hate you!”  to her mom.  To this day I can see her pigtails, her wrinkled eyebrows, her curled lips, her passion in profile as she yelled.  Subconsciously, I must have noted that there was no immediate consequence for her talk.

For whatever reason, I kept this incident a secret and didn’t discuss it with any member of my family.  But I relived it; I pondered; I simmered; I wondered; most of all I tried to make sense of it.  Eventually I began to flirt with the idea of talking back to my mom.  I was no Elsie Dinsmore, but there were clear  ideas in our family, properly  taught and administered, on what were fitting words and fitting tones in which to speak to one’s parent. My mom brooked no disrespect from any of her children. 

At first I just played with the words in my mind.  In the same way that women can lust after imaginary men, I toyed  with a theoretical situation where I said those words.  I wasn’t angry; I was just curious. But, there were certainly times when I wanted my own way and the thought of getting it was appealing.

I rolled and swished those words around my mouth like an experienced wine-taster. But the process itself was unpleasant and stomach-achey.  It was just too weird.  I had sense enough to realize that those words were completely dissonant with my relationship with my mom.   After a week or so I made a conscious decision not to go there, breathed a sigh of relief, and carried on with my childhood.

Within a month, my mom died unexpectedly.  Shortly afterwards it hit me clean in the face what I had been spared.  This drama still resided strictly inside my head, but I knew – oh! I knew! – how gracious God was to shut my mouth.  For days on end I prayed before I slept, repeatedly thanking God that I had never spoken those words to the one person I loved more than any other. 

Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord;
keep watch over the door of my lips.
Psalm 141:3
 

 

I Love My Job

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I had a spurt of growth last night.  While I was reading on my side of the bed, everything came together in a tangible and tingling synthesis.  I almost woke my husband so he could share the tingles; but he’s heard Hildegard this and Dante that, Lewis said this and Sayers said that enough while his eyes are open; I didn’t want to disturb his dreams of finding the great tamarack. 

I had just gulped in a Teaching Company Course on the High Middle Ages in which I learned about Frederick II Hohenstaufen [what a great name!] and here old Hohenstaufen “stupor mundi” (wonder of the world) makes an appearance in Dorothy Sayers’ introduction to The Inferno.  It was like bumping into a guy in the Safeway produce section the day after a party where you first met.

Back in December, I determined to read a Charles Williams book this year but hadn’t a clue where to start.  Charles Williams was a close friend and mentor to C.S. Lewis; my previous attempts to read Williams were DOA.  In Sayer’s last paragraph of her introduction she acknowledges her debt to Charles Williams’ The Figure of Beatrice.  Score!  It’s in my Amazon shopping cart.

But the real tingles came reading the first 70 pages of Peter Leithart’s book Ascent to Love.  In the first chapter Leithart takes a stroll through medieval literature and examines the treatment different writers give to the differences between pagan and Christian outlooks.  It recapped our year of study in five gorgeous pages, referencing The Fairie Queene, Beowulf, The Song of Roland, Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight and the Canterbury Tales.  I don’t knit, but it was like gathering up a flat piece of knitting into a recognizable sweater.  Or perhaps it was more like putting the last piece into a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle. [I have been known to hold on to a piece so I get that pleasure, she says with a reddening face.]  It fits!  It connects!  It jives!

I. Get. It.  !!!!!  It is a glorious life.

Until this morning.  My husband woke up very early and was bouncier than Tigger.  He started a load of wash, walked around the house at a fast clip, opened and shut closet doors carelessly, and actually chuckled the second time I hit the snooze button.  As I left on my walk, I tossed Ascent to Love in my 16 yr. old son’s direction.  Read the first chapter, I instructed.  It will pull the whole year together – it’s Just … Incredible.  When I returned my son said, Mom, what was so great about this?  It was Boring.

Sigh.  We still have work to do.

  

Random Thoughts

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First things first: 

The winner of the book giveaway is ……. Janie!  She guessed $54 and I spent $53.63.  Is it the Cullum you’d like, my friend?  I’m headed to the post office this afternoon.  I’m delighted to have found something for which you’ve long been looking.  [Addendum: How fun!  The book she was excited about was Shake Hands with Shakespeare by Albert Cullum. Today is Shakespeare’s birthday and deathday. Have you ever thought about dying on your birthday? Yeah, I’m weird.]

When the price was 50¢/inch I usually spent $35 at the sale.  So it makes sense to me ($35 * 1.5 = $52.50) that  when the price rose to 75¢/inch I spent $53.  Happily, my husband just bought new arrows for his bow so we are both indulged.  For incredible bargains, check out what Carrie got at her library sale for a total of  $1.75!!  Woo hoo indeed!

☼     ☼     ☼     ☼     ☼

Here’s a sample quote from the book Conversation  by Theodore Zeldin.  I’m not impressed with the book, but I liked this quote (emphasis mine):

Shopping for food is a game of hide-and-seek, with packagers concealing their secrets in small print.  The time will come, I hope, when those who influence our ideas on food, the writers of newspaper articles about restaurants, and the makers of TV cooking shows, will begin to discuss the quality of the conversation which their delicious meals induce, and not concentrate only on the decor of restaurants, or the technicalities of recipes.

☼     ☼     ☼     ☼     ☼

If you like choral music, I’d recommend Morten Lauridsen’s setting of O Magnum Mysterium.  The Lauridsen is  number 5 on this CD. The first sentence would be a good lesson for a young Latin student (with help given on the hard words).  The music is perfectly paired to the text.  We heard this at a concert last night and the tears just rolled down my cheeks.  It was so beautiful that it hurt.

O magnum mysterium,
et admirabile sacramentum,
ut animalia viderent Dominum
natum jacentem in praesepio.

O great wonder, miraculous sacrament:
the beasts of the field have seen the Lord,
new-born and lying in a manger.