tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158560722024-03-24T12:43:36.003-05:00' Gathering the Fragments '...from books new and old, from creatures great and small, from sightings of providence, here are notes taken toward the end that nothing be wasted of the lessons my Savior gives on the journey toward Heaven. - John 6:12Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.comBlogger265125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-46980671083610568322024-03-12T06:20:00.002-05:002024-03-12T09:34:34.401-05:00Seawall, Kitty Could I write a poem evoking memories, images, sensations, from a different time, a far different place - even from 26 years ago? The question tantalized me in the sleepless wee hours. It seemed like accessing a mysterious power - perhaps memory is that. <div><br></div><div>Childhood memories are often fuzzy, especially when connected with surroundings that are no longer present. It was my desire to make them live again that prompted this free verse composition recalling my family's first 3 months in Georgetown, Guyana, in the suburb of Kitty by the sea.</div><div><br></div><div><b><i>Seawall, Kitty</i></b></div><div><br></div><div>Bright, steamy heat bears down </div><div>on coastal Georgetown,</div><div>drawing ever upward the green myriad</div><div>of palms, bananas, poinciana, grasses, and unending vines, </div><div>through every gap unguarded </div><div>by the concrete works of man.</div><div><br></div><div>The brown sea glistens with attempts at blue beneath the noon day glare - </div><div>flat, innocent-appearing, </div><div>but guarded with more diligence.</div><div>Above the coastal road that curves </div><div>the busy edge of town, </div><div>the seawall stands - long, angular, prosaic, backed by a beach of tar-encrusted boulders, </div><div>and fronted by evolving paint displays,</div><div>announcing enterprises somehow linked with holding back the sea - </div><div>'Drink Low-Fat Klim!',</div><div>'Trust Western Union', </div><div>blare from rectangles of yellow,</div><div>between more numerous stretches of chipped and fading red, or white, or green that once promoted things familiar and gone. </div><div><br></div><div>My invitation is the concrete steps</div><div>to the wall's top, </div><div>where, many evenings, our house-weary feet found freedom, </div><div>wired hyper child legs leaping, </div><div>from wall to boulder, and to boulder and to boulder, </div><div>welcoming the steady rush of sea breeze from the darkening waves.</div><div><br></div><div>Dark people blossom like night flowers, from the streets and corners, </div><div>welcoming the cool of dusk, </div><div>while sudden tropic night fall </div><div>turns us back to rooms, walls, roofs, mosquito nets, and breeze-receiving windows,</div><div>where songs of tree frogs </div><div>sweetly pierce the fading roar </div><div>of city traffic in the night.</div><div><br></div><div>-AFB, 3-12-2024</div><div><br></div><div><div>
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</div><br></div><div><br></div>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-25934910442572824292024-03-10T13:46:00.003-05:002024-03-10T14:51:12.696-05:00From a Windy NightPerhaps more things do happen on dark and stormy nights. <div><br></div><div>We had let the cat out in the wee hours, after 24 hours of rainy weather had come to a near end, and the wind had begun to blow in a moonless night. Later, we heard a faint wailing, that, for a change, did not seem to come from the little boys room, but from outside.<div><br><div>"Caterwauling," said I, tiptoing from bed to take a peek at the porch, expecting to see Kitty in static mode, facing off against another critter of the night. In the dim porch light, I saw her mounded quietly on the railing, eyes closed. What was making the sound? I grabbed the flashlight and shone it through the window at some unidentified lumps on the top step. There sat Otto and Tom Bombadil, two large toms (suspected) that we had long observed slinking through distant corners of our property at odd times - Otto with his distinguished long mane of black, marked out with white nose and paws, and Tom Bombadil with his lank brown tiger-striped body that seemed to follow his huge head like a battle-wizened rear guard. They were sitting quite still on the top step, looking out on the night, while Kitty dozed on. My flashlight put an end to their music, and after a wary glance, they slunk off into the night. I felt I had spoiled a party. The sense of camaraderie only experienced with others whose company does not require eye contact or words had briefly emanated from their shadows.</div></div></div><div><br></div><div>The next morning at breakfast, we saw Tom Bombadil making his way up the hill out of our backyard. It is one more reflection on the genius of the Tolkiens who coined the name, that its rhythm is poetic.</div><div><br></div><div>Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadil </div><div>Is stalking up the windy hill. </div><div>The trees and grass toss in the blast; </div><div>His crooked stripes march stiffly past.</div><div>The fresh creek gurgles after rain,</div><div>He prowls, regarding his domain.</div><div>The night that heard his eerie song</div><div>Has packed its bags of dark and gone,</div><div>And light, familiar and fair,</div><div>Spreads color on the morning air.</div><div><br></div><div>Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadil</div><div>Is passing up the windy hill</div><div>To places suitable for light</div><div>Until returns his friend, the night -</div><div>The realm of lurking and of song -</div><div>The green woods hide him, and he's gone.</div><div><br></div><div>- AFB, 3-10-2024</div><div><br></div><div>This morning's sermon on Psalm 19 and God's glory in creation had me thinking, How is God's glory displayed in the existence and behavior of cats? "You make darkness, it becomes night, and the beasts of the forest prowl" (Psalm 104) comes to mind. They do not reveal His glory like the heavens, and yet each creature taking its place in the order of things bears some witness to the goodness of the One who orders it all.<br></div><div><br></div><div><div>
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</div><br></div>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-63493603706696846462024-01-17T09:45:00.001-05:002024-01-17T09:45:29.350-05:00Spring Valley Farm Market, October Afternoon <p><i>This poem was composed on a cold January morning, months after the warm, bright afternoon when we visited the farmer's market in Winchester. As I remembered that day, the colors, light, and smells came back vividly into the dimness of my winter room and made themselves into the beginnings of this poem. </i> <br /></p><p> </p><p>Hot autumn sun</p><p>glares from the parking lot,</p><p>through the open doorway,</p><p>glows inward, </p><p>catching curves of color, </p><p>arresting mounds of cauliflower</p><p>magnificent in violet, cream, and orange;</p><p>echoes in a hundred jars of gleaming glass -</p><p>of honey, sauce, and jellies,</p><p>bearing promises of flavor</p><p>surprising and untasted.</p><p>The apples, less reserved,</p><p>cast their sweet russet spell </p><p>of fragrance noseward</p><p>with abandon that belies </p><p>their tidy mounds of crimson, green,</p><p>and butter-yellow, piled in crates,</p><p>labeled with names and prices,</p><p>bags provided. One may buy these,</p><p>but their free intoxicating scent</p><p>is one of autumn's gifts - do not forget this.</p><p>And here's the joy of cranny crammed full stores -</p><p>sleek vacuumed packs of salt pork and pink ham,</p><p>jars of mysterious, eccentric blended tea, <br /></p><p>great mounds of onions, satin and rotund,</p><p>bunched flowers, languishing in loveliness,</p><p>and sweet potatoes, stacked up skyward</p><p>torpedo roots washed of the soil they conquered,</p><p>the soil, so low and brown, </p><p>from which comes all the colors of the market -</p><p>God bless the soil!</p><p><br /></p><p>- AFB, 1-16-24</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyh8YbphI7vnPCSN84ASiba4cX6_cL0PKW3c1gfFgqsI_flzM7O7GFn_irI8XH5MbPQIww_LMq1jlbjVsvjdLJqdkTXReH82pe35C_NM3uNCCcvszMwt0O9WIL2cqjNrXOPMXTfMBT12JrXdDcuoXGVun5GJ6iNCht1E2nHgVOq2HuSZTNxnBmWA/s952/20231024_131723.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyh8YbphI7vnPCSN84ASiba4cX6_cL0PKW3c1gfFgqsI_flzM7O7GFn_irI8XH5MbPQIww_LMq1jlbjVsvjdLJqdkTXReH82pe35C_NM3uNCCcvszMwt0O9WIL2cqjNrXOPMXTfMBT12JrXdDcuoXGVun5GJ6iNCht1E2nHgVOq2HuSZTNxnBmWA/w225-h400/20231024_131723.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-88356554993329266652023-12-25T16:42:00.002-05:002024-03-10T12:59:43.286-05:00Next Morning<i>A contemplation on the possible indifference of the crowds in Bethlehem the night Jesus was born led to this invitation to imagine the scene.</i><div><i><br></i></div><div><b>The Next Morning </b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div>Mild morning light</div><div>Sifts through the windows of the inn,</div><div>Where blear-eyed travelers</div><div>Shake out slept-in cloaks</div><div>And comment on the scarcity of</div><div>fodder, and of comfort, </div><div>and of bread, in Bethlehem.</div><div>One yawns out "Did anyone else</div><div>Hear singing in the night?"</div><div>"Nah, I sleep anywhere, most</div><div>like a rock," one says.</div><div>"People coming, going, all night,"</div><div>groans another, "hardly slept a wink - and no denying there are fleas in here."</div><div>"These crowds," growls one whose gray-striped turban smells of fish - "I'm out</div><div>to get in line first thing at these *___* registration booths -</div><div>Old Caesar never had to make his living from the sea -</div><div>I hope that red-haired boy</div><div>gave water to my donkey - here you!</div><div>Where'd you put him?"</div><div>"In the stable," calls a red-fringed silhouette of head</div><div>thrust through the morning door,</div><div>one second's shadow on the dust-thick floor.</div><div>"Here, you!" - again the sea-stained gentleman - but no response.</div><div>"I'll have to fetch the beast myself."</div><div><br></div><div>Down two turns of the sun-streaked stairs,</div><div>The dark door of the stable</div><div>Rustles with the restlessness of rising animals.</div><div>Eyes new-adjusting to the dimness, </div><div>Old Jonah sees a small white shape </div><div>Amidst the remnants of the last night's hay.</div><div>"I'll be -" he mutters, noticing the woman, and the man, nearby, asleep.</div><div>He turns away, embarrassed,</div><div>Looking for his donkey,</div><div>"This government - </div><div>Come on, you slow of bones" - </div><div>this to the donkey, gazing back, ears pricking toward the manger, nostrils twitched -</div><div>"Time we're gone".</div><div>Their shadows fill the door</div><div>One second more.</div><div>Then Mary wakes</div><div>To see the square of sunlight on the hay-strewn floor,</div><div>And hears with sudden leap of weary heart,</div><div>The whimpering in the manger.</div><div><br></div><div>-AFB, 12-25-23</div>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-72670349600212010352023-04-26T11:03:00.001-05:002023-04-26T19:52:55.212-05:00When We Can Sing<i>A poem written after reading John Bunyan describing the throne of the Lamb in his book, Prayer.</i><div><br></div><div>I've heard a deaf man speak -<div>irregular, unsettling leaps</div><div>of vocal cords untied </div><div>from careful reins that hearing</div><div>holds to modulate</div><div>our bursts of sound.</div><div>But soul must find expression.</div><div><br></div><div>Thus, first, when I imagine all</div><div>our resurrected eyes beholding </div><div>on that highest throne, a Lamb</div><div>once slain of love for us, </div><div>and now <span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">exalted </span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">as the center of all good,</span></div><div>our tongues must stumble </div><div>like the deaf <span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">before his </span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">soul's great sound</span></div><div>and cry <span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">with mingled joy and grief,</span></div><div>a startling moan of realized love</div><div>to shock the universe.</div><div><br></div><div>Not so it says.</div><div>Somehow, it will be "Worthy!" -</div><div>yes, a song of measured words - </div><div>"Worthy the Lamb once slain"</div><div>from every ransomed tongue,</div><div>each ear un-chaosed,</div><div>modulated to the music of the spheres.</div><div>We know not now the meaning</div><div>of restored, unbroken,</div><div>as we shall then,</div><div>when each ear hears </div><div>before that healing throne</div><div>its song lined out </div><div>upon a thousand, thousand</div><div>never-stumbling tongues.</div><div><br></div><div>- AFB, 4-26-23</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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</div><br></div></div>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-89588342042028942332023-02-22T13:14:00.001-05:002023-02-22T13:14:32.435-05:00A Prayer for Lent<div style="text-align: left;"> In 40 days,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>we'll stand beside the stone</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>dropped in the dew-wet grass</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>beside our dew-wet feet</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>before our tear-wet eyes,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>while dawn and bird dawn-chorus</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>echo back our joys.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Today, our eyes are dry</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>and we forget, between</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>the dishes and the wash machine</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>majestic sweetness </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>in Your voice.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> <span><span> W</span>e cannot see beyond the screen</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span> </span>the darkness of Gethsemane,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span></span> </span><span> </span>or feel beyond our creaking chair</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>the heavy cross you had to bear.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Teach us again to taste and see,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>the goodness of Your body,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>drained of blood, but not of Love,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>which bids us follow</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>till we reach again,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>the fallen stone,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>the folded linen clothes,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>the moment when</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>we turn again,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>hearing Your voice.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjivwVNTtv5Bi5swzw5d7v3EFf0_YE6V5VZm3dcYrouTQSHVVr7B_vOPbvur-qZf2-HrO90RP5kpvt1dZn7-8fSUxnMV709CBvRAxAzaGde4dU9SXRipaBQAUiIHJjgBfdSqTHyK1Wtorp9X08T2wBd-950Sht6qUnsReg4aMi0TvnLVDr-oiI/s4000/20230221_141846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="2252" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjivwVNTtv5Bi5swzw5d7v3EFf0_YE6V5VZm3dcYrouTQSHVVr7B_vOPbvur-qZf2-HrO90RP5kpvt1dZn7-8fSUxnMV709CBvRAxAzaGde4dU9SXRipaBQAUiIHJjgBfdSqTHyK1Wtorp9X08T2wBd-950Sht6qUnsReg4aMi0TvnLVDr-oiI/s320/20230221_141846.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-13393990718815058692023-02-05T12:28:00.002-05:002023-02-06T11:55:49.478-05:00Waiting for Redwings<div>Today I felt a stirring in the air outside, even from the house - a slight change in the bird songs, a bright haze in the air. Gazing out the window at the damp black tree branches and wisping clouds, I remembered the redwing blackbirds. They always came when you were sure it was a little too early to expect spring, sometimes descending flight-weary on the feeders to gobble seeds with snow-dusted wings. Then from the tree tops, would come that wild cheering call as they flared their red shoulders and laughed winter to scorn. </div><div><br /></div><div>I thought today I could cry for joy to hear one blackbird sing. Was it about now that they came? Then, I remembered the nature log on the hutch shelf - a notebook kept with sporadic devotion to a few details, mostly first sightings, new species. I went for it, and there, last year on February 6 was "First redwing blackbird call". Today is February 5. Another year noted the 9th. It might be soon now. </div><div><br /></div><div>What was the value of that dated scribble? A remembrance? A comparison? A reason to hope? Perhaps it was simply that the act of writing three words had so much potential return for the cost of effort. The returning seasons are one of God's guarantees. Noting them marks my place a little more firmly in that promised cycle. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgZ6tDJ_1w-u9b3hdju-el7TkFjcFR6yr14XjUUqTpVQ7TLJjRYYJhmfGLO0WGAMFgp5EX2x-dBRAjKtaua2Dfape8jTRX99QXqt0uNbVbXdDtz4rm07wVwZLNfsLiaQ9mRyq8OLu7-4cUCnGJl_q9_A4CdMVVlnZ1N8wfK8LRjFwE84u85U/s953/20230205_115838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="537" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgZ6tDJ_1w-u9b3hdju-el7TkFjcFR6yr14XjUUqTpVQ7TLJjRYYJhmfGLO0WGAMFgp5EX2x-dBRAjKtaua2Dfape8jTRX99QXqt0uNbVbXdDtz4rm07wVwZLNfsLiaQ9mRyq8OLu7-4cUCnGJl_q9_A4CdMVVlnZ1N8wfK8LRjFwE84u85U/w180-h320/20230205_115838.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Will I cry for joy when the first redwing sings? I don't know. I might write a poem. But I'll probably write it in the notebook. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-72050815782249671142022-06-08T10:26:00.005-05:002022-06-08T21:40:21.561-05:00Three Poems for The Time<p><b>Nowadays</b></p><p>All that is required<br />is wine poured out <br />to Caesar - <br />an affirmation <br />- none exempt - <br />that he is lord. <br /></p><p>Here is the cup, <br />where is your hand? <br />(Your soul is still your own) <br />Give Caesar his <br />three words of honor <br />with your mouth, <br />a second’s motion <br />with your hand, <br />and go your way <br />in peace. <br />Refusal is dishonor <br />and a gory death. <br />Don’t be a <br />narrow-minded fool <br />It’s just good manners <br />Nowadays.<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">===============<br /></p><p><b><br />The Flattened Bow</b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><i>"</i></span><span class="text Gen-9-15" id="en-KJV-221"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud: and
I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you and every
living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a
flood to destroy all flesh." - Genesis 9:14-15</i></span><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /> A bow is much too <br />threatening <br />when it’s bent.<br /> Take it down <br />and cut the string <br />Throw away <br />disturbing memories <br />of a God <br />who punishes and pardons. <br />His promises <br />of patience with the wicked <br />Are redolent of oppression, <br />archaic and offensive <br />to our realized selves. <br /><br />Let’s break the bow <br />and keep the colors <br />for a flag <br />to celebrate ourselves. <br />We are the gods. <br />We are the selves. <br />We do the punishing and pardoning now, <br />and bear the fragments of the bow <br />of ancient covenant <br />with no thanks <br />for being spared <br />another deluge.</p><p style="text-align: center;">=============== </p><p style="text-align: left;">
</p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Do Not Go Fragile<br /></b></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I owe the energy,
language, and rhythm of this poem to Dylan Thomas’ famous poem, <a href="https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night">“Do Not Go Gentle”</a>, which began to pulse in my brain and beg to be drummed out with different words. It is a call to those who feel the weight of the
rising tide of cultural change to not be cowed by a sense of the inevitable,
but to be courageously faithful in the midst of the darkness.</i></span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />Do not go fragile into this loud night <br />Old truth must hold the torch at close of day<br /> Burn, burn against the dying of the light <br /><br />Wise men may see the end beyond our sight <br />of dawn above the tide of dark, and they <br />Do not go fragile into this loud night <br /><br />Good men, the waves gone by, crying how bright <br />A faithful deed may shine above the bay <br />Burn, burn against the dying of the light <br /><br />Free men, who watch and work while sun takes flight, <br />With grief grown bold observe departing day,<br />Do not go fragile into this loud night. <br /><br />Grave men, whose eyes hold love of truth and right <br />Above the waves that rise to crush their prey, <br />Burn, burn against the dying of the light. <br /><br />And you my brothers, thronged on that bare height, <br />Curse, bless this land with your fierce tears I pray. <br />Do not go fragile into this loud night. <br />Burn, burn against the dying of the light. <br /><br /><br /> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4TPFKax3_ZO9uG4QL02CUxNqfTA0c9KSNSvDXHKKOWfk6iSubEUIDCelxKz9qUiTIYN4zz1G4FZ8XFjGLtH26iO0AjPej6gfcAs23UU-YGyPkwjf5E2IzRefwWtXXMww_EMZGGmmlvKYd095ODy22at_r4CpcHQLc4NZ-0EhdV3bgvcm1mo/s1200/LAN_BLAG_146-001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="749" data-original-width="1200" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4TPFKax3_ZO9uG4QL02CUxNqfTA0c9KSNSvDXHKKOWfk6iSubEUIDCelxKz9qUiTIYN4zz1G4FZ8XFjGLtH26iO0AjPej6gfcAs23UU-YGyPkwjf5E2IzRefwWtXXMww_EMZGGmmlvKYd095ODy22at_r4CpcHQLc4NZ-0EhdV3bgvcm1mo/w400-h250/LAN_BLAG_146-001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption"><a href="https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/diana-or-christ-153884"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql b0tq1wua a8c37x1j fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d9wwppkn hrzyx87i jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Diana or Christ?</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Edwin Long (1829–1891)</div></span></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-71397671539522710642022-03-21T09:47:00.001-05:002022-03-21T09:48:25.882-05:00Conquering Chaos With a Sestina
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> Yesterday, I was trying to read - Sunday afternoon reading <i>Words of Delight</i> by Leland Ryken. It's a great book, but my tumultuous thoughts couldn't settle down to calm receptivity after returning from the one social event of my week - going to church. Perhaps if I were less confined to home as a mother of littles, or less sensitive and shabby in health, church wouldn't seem like such a grand shaking up, but it is. </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Trying to read Ryken on artistry and organization in biblical poetry, all I could think was "I don't want to read about this right now - I need to actually <i>do </i>this - compose my own thoughts into poetry And I need to follow a close artistic structure, to contrast with and control the chaos of my own feelings. I'm going to write a sestina." </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sestina" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1061" data-original-width="1920" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6AqlFcUBRTbE1_4E_AFSnXnI13M0J-RhUl6xRNWdkUy0s4mqazsBuiVYpiadGX-8zu1cUg-_1DsQKGtMwMrCJ3igasBTwRvQAIH2JHAQwVmsvYnl1_BRv73DgNt5laERT3hcJOdG3pcYjaMCOn5360n4aJFmEyC-pQWmpb91uBVmYdMizx18=w400-h221" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">So I looked up the <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina">rules for a sestina</a>, grabbed a notebook and pencil and began. A child came into see me and brought me a requested eraser. Children did artwork at the dining table until I emerged a surprised hour and a half later (gazing proudly at my scribbled, crossed up, numbered lines) and made the hungry ones some popcorn, with a few tears dried on my cheeks. The poetry had done its work and I had spoken to my own heart what it needed to hear. Perhaps the Sunday morning lesson on the Pharisee and the tax collector and true religion came through a little in the circling lines.</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Here is the typed-up version.<br /></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><b> <br /></b></i></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><b>Sestina: Going to
Church on the First Day of Spring</b></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I go forth smiling,
with my well-wrapped heart</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Sweet sunshine
flashes gold upon the breeze to meet me.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Today I shall be
good, and I shall be a blessing -</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Oh! blessed be those
daffodils! that budding bush – be blessed!</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Too long has been
the winter and my loneliness!</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">We leave our drive,
content to see the roadside trees go past.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">How swift these
roads, how soon the budding trees go past.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I muse upon arrival,
friends, with well-wrapped heart.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">The rolled-up miles
accentuate and break my loneliness.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">We tumble from the
parking lot expecting faces glad to meet us
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Oh blessed be old
friends and new – I hope I may be blessed</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">As well, to be with
them. And shall I be a blessing?</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">A conversation made,
another greeted – I doubt I’ve been a blessing</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Words fly so
quickly, faces smile, turn onward and go past</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Oh people who have
listened to my tumbling words, be blessed!</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I gather in the
tatters of my once-wrapped heart</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">As other friends
pass by and kindly meet me</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Warm smiles, rare
hugs – to melt the remnants of my loneliness.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">A pause before the
service makes me wistful for my loneliness</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">How can these hasty
conversations be a blessing?<br />
The service comes with sweet and
weighty truths to meet me -</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Hold every line,
attend, lest needful words go past.</i></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Present to God
the ruins of your well-wrapped heart.</i></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Oh that I might,
despite absurdities and vice be blessed!</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">How shallow is my
love today – shall I be blessed?<br />
The God I praise felt closer
to me in my loneliness</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Than now, when
others bear the crumbles of my unwrapped heart</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Not gold, but clay –
I wished to be a blessing.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Oh to have held the
words that did go past</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">My tongue - and
listened, loving, when they came to meet me.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">My Lord, this is the
place where you have pledged to meet me.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I come with tumbled
mind and heart – oh to be blessed!</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Despise me not for
weakness or with grace go past</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Me – needy,
feeling now among my friends my loneliness.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">If I have blessed or
not – grant me at least this blessing -
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Receive and mend the
tatters of my unwrapped heart.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">My friends - who
smile, go past, or speak or come to meet me -<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Receive my unwrapped
heart, I wished you to be blessed</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Despite taint of my
loneliness, for you have been a blessing.</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </div>
<div><style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120% }a:link { so-language: zxx }</style></div>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-9141644085247568462022-03-16T08:19:00.005-05:002022-03-16T08:19:51.263-05:00Prayer/Housewife<p> In Malcolm Guite's <i><a href="https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2017/02/24/the-word-in-the-wilderness-a-journey-through-lent-2/">Word in the Wilderness</a>, </i>he ends a series of poems following George Herbert's "Prayer" by suggesting that readers might be encouraged to write their own poem imaging prayer. Guite wrote "Prayer/Walk". This is my "Prayer/Housewife"</p><p></p><p>A whispered conversation in the dark;<br />remembering when it's easier to forget; </p><p>the calm within a crowd of clatt'ring noise<span><br /></span>(My children make requests - they do not whisper, or forget) </p><p>a holding when I feel I'm letting go,<br />and letting go of things long held too dear; </p><p>the bread found in the pantry at the front,<br />and at the back, the hoped-for, hidden chocolate; </p><p>short walk to see the sun set by the pond,<br />regardless of the kitchen's dirty pans; </p><p>hot shower after hours of grimy toil,<br />hastening to repose, tranquility snatched in bits, <br /></p><p>need, want, and ought all bundled into one;<br />act of duty, spring of sudden joy.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgifV733VrCEl00O-ZJVecT0FfAHyCUqybf7VU3xjd51cSD8oP5tRbTMbnsGrIOao2pP1TFt09l-8ssail4aVkSuWS7TgYWAtw4HsvlScFYTvIwXmwAHk4ycu7xxbh--HKrbjkSOxdErwzcRGBrVIJBcBsialYJqHdRHM6z_oJj9cB2Mbxt6H4=s953" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="715" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgifV733VrCEl00O-ZJVecT0FfAHyCUqybf7VU3xjd51cSD8oP5tRbTMbnsGrIOao2pP1TFt09l-8ssail4aVkSuWS7TgYWAtw4HsvlScFYTvIwXmwAHk4ycu7xxbh--HKrbjkSOxdErwzcRGBrVIJBcBsialYJqHdRHM6z_oJj9cB2Mbxt6H4=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-27359144180893171052022-03-03T17:36:00.005-05:002022-03-03T21:36:40.716-05:00 Orange With a Stem<div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span> "This one has a stem!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span> H</span></span>e held an orange</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>from the grocery store bag,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>swaying, pendulous,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>on its slender bit of tree,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span></span><span> </span>come stowaway from California </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> on</span> the fruit truck.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>"It's so thin! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>How does it hold the orange?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> As so often</span>,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> a</span> response,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> served out at</span> my </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>inconvenience</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>to feed a child's </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>insistent mind-hunger,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>answered hunger I'd forgotten</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>was mine too -</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>"When the orange was small</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>the stem held it, </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>every day the stem grew strong</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>with the orange."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>I answered from the kitchen sink,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>rinsing knives free of soap,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>hands dripping,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>mind kindling, <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span> </span>Have I grown strong?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span> </span>Children are heavy fruit.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>When the ripe days come,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>Will I be strong enough to let go? </div><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2a/Virginie_Demont-Breton_-_Mother_and_child_in_an_orange_grove.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="559" height="800" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2a/Virginie_Demont-Breton_-_Mother_and_child_in_an_orange_grove.jpg" width="559" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="firstHeading mw-first-heading" id="firstHeading"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Virginie_Demont-Breton_-_Mother_and_child_in_an_orange_grove.jpg" target="_blank"> </a></div><div class="firstHeading mw-first-heading" id="firstHeading"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Virginie_Demont-Breton_-_Mother_and_child_in_an_orange_grove.jpg" target="_blank">Virginie Demont-Breton - <i>Mother and Child in an Orange Grove</i></a></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-17290710724087414452021-12-21T08:00:00.005-05:002021-12-21T10:45:31.949-05:00To Saint Nicholas<p>I received an invitation to write this poem when Heidi White on The Daily Poem issued a challenge to compose a poem on Saint Nicholas. Having no resistance to such challenges, I took up pencil and composed. Here is my piece - <br /></p><p>To Saint Nicholas</p><div style="text-align: left;">Your left hand did not know, good Nicholas,</div><div style="text-align: left;">What wealth your right hand gave.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Munificent extreme </div><div style="text-align: left;">and humbly dark,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Your dexterous style of giving to the poor.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">This marks a saint - to see a need,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Not as a glass in which to preen </div><div style="text-align: left;">the plumes of charitable self,</div><div style="text-align: left;">But as a gap to pour </div><div style="text-align: left;">the fullness of a loving heart, </div><div style="text-align: left;">till it be filled and more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You shunned the world's remembrance,</div><div style="text-align: left;">And so, like sportive children, we remember you.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">While you, untouched by all the world can give</div><div style="text-align: left;">of praise or blame,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Receive with unveiled eyes </div><div style="text-align: left;">and longing heart</div><div style="text-align: left;">Your Lord's "Well done."</div><p style="text-align: right;">- AFB, 12-21-21</p><p style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Nicholas" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="596" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjT-d_aME5GHGfiKRaiY-llK3Cs8DbdgMoYUMsXAjtalljPnB5OqqferzivuIMhT7tBQ5Ye14kaoaKuHtOPwvxrWvvE-BRKZZfmtdx3IzmgO5CfT3YKJCWJZdlncZPtkJihsqchLtW5aESeFNaSxjkMxcvIzNGnzPB-lzHElbyBOLJF_byHBLs=s320" width="318" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The dowry for the three virgins (Gentile da Fabriano, <abbr title="circa">c.</abbr> 1425, <a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinacoteca_Vaticana" title="Pinacoteca Vaticana">Pinacoteca Vaticana</a>, Rome)</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-46806797700823691842021-06-08T11:02:00.003-05:002021-06-08T11:06:25.466-05:00To the Periodical Cicada - A Poem<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">We have been fascinated with the advent of the seventeen-year cicadas. Their presence is overwhelming and many consider them a nuisance, but I see their life cycle as a thing of wonder. This poem is an expression of that wonder.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVX-tNXQMck_ktQgiFQeET3HY_CBTLXuT3VYlkvVjvpAuZs33GTgdxYIjuctd8IUqvqTqR96132StGZdBIN0JIBZuVyDeeo-kCgBZio0iG-5Sx-hq_K97L7075t2UXNZ4gii-C5g/s923/IMG_20210608_102235490.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="923" data-original-width="692" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVX-tNXQMck_ktQgiFQeET3HY_CBTLXuT3VYlkvVjvpAuZs33GTgdxYIjuctd8IUqvqTqR96132StGZdBIN0JIBZuVyDeeo-kCgBZio0iG-5Sx-hq_K97L7075t2UXNZ4gii-C5g/w251-h335/IMG_20210608_102235490.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><p>
Spellbound for sixteen years <br />But on the seventeenth -
<br />Spell breaks.
<br />Earth breaks.
<br />Silence breaks.
<br />Grub of the dust
<br />Is clothed in wings
<br />of flame, body of ebony, eyes of ruby -
<br />a sudden dragon -
<br />and it sings!
<br />Poor things
<br />old earth treaders scorn the sound
<br />of long-pent revelry
<br />from creatures of the underground.
<br />Clamourous and clustering,
<br />Dissonant, disruptive
<br />Impertinent, invasive,
<br />and incredible
<br />What giddy joy of wings! <br />
Whirr, tumble, dive,
<br />electrify the air,<br />
and stop to sing.
<br />Soon all this rush of noise,
<br />resonance of the short-lived glorified
<br />each orange-veined glass
of skyblown wing
<br />Will drop into the quiet grass
<br />and crumble to the patient earth
<br />Until another birth
</p>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-74122126878507882332020-12-07T07:59:00.005-05:002020-12-07T07:59:57.287-05:00December Prayer<p><span class="_8Pl3R"><span><i>I have begun to note my annual propensity to write early winter poetry as a way of lamenting and comforting the loss of the fair seasons. My eyes almost ache at looking out the window on gray trees and browning grass, and so I must adorn the drear with words. December Prayer is my offering for 2020</i><br /><br />We do not see Thee smiling on the land,<br />But hear the cries of swift departing birds,<br />Alone the sharp wind sweeps the plundered sky<br />Between the quaking arms of naked trees.<br /><br />Far gone from us the sudden hot embrace<br />Of thunderstorms upon the panting earth,<br />Rain rushing warm and sweet into our dust<br />To drench with green each thirsty blade and leaf.<br />The winter skies despair, lie down, and weep<br />Long chilling tears into the withered grass.<br /><br />The outskirts of Thy city in the clouds,<br />Piled golden eastward of the setting sun -<br />Those shining trumpet calls of summer's dusk <br />Have vanished with the dawning of the dark,<br />And westward glows the hasty yellow gleam<br />Of noon's surrender to the gaping night.<br /><br />Yet though we do not see Thee, Thou art near -<br />Thy mercy is Thy name, Emmanuel.<br />Come unto us as tender cov'ring snow,<br />As cardinal flames alight the frozen trees,<br />As sunrise turns to gold the frosted ground,<br />Great Lover, give us glimpses of Thy grace.<br />Thy ways of love surpass what we can tell,<br />And winter is Thy home, Emmanuel.</span></span></p><p><span class="_8Pl3R"><span> </span></span></p><p><span class="_8Pl3R"><span> </span></span> <br /></p>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-9239113053496091632020-02-21T10:22:00.002-05:002020-02-21T10:29:30.578-05:00Faith That Can Move MolehillsImagine faith as small as a mustard seed. What does it look like when it moves mountains? Can it move molehills too? Yes, for while nothing is too great for God's power, nothing is too small for His care. He is abundantly gracious. When we make mountains out of molehills, and then almost despair, he is still there to strengthen puny faith.<br />
<br />
It's late winter. I've been inside a lot with three children, and being fond of neatness and order, the grand propensity of small ones to destroy all things visible can drive me a little bit batty. That's not a real trial, right? I mean, on my dresser, I have the Smyrna ministries prayer guide, where I'm reminded to pray for families who are without home and job because of their faith, or who are left to mourn their brutally beheaded loved ones. There is heart-wrenching agony going on in God's worldwide family. So I feel that a bit petty becoming downcast over the fact that the kid's bathroom is being systematically broken to pieces, splattered with mud, and water-damaged, and my top-load washing machine seems unendingly filled with wet mess clean up towels. With the crowning event of the six year old crashing down on the toilet tank while standing on the seat to wipe up the toothpaste he just flung on the wall, and acquiring a knot on his head and splitting the tank from top to bottom - meaning that the kids will now have to share our relatively pristine master bathroom (Nooo!) until theirs can be repaired - I became just a little despondent. It wasn't just the mess, it was the money. Every family with kids usually has a back list of extras they'd like to have when they can save up. Shelling out the stash for a new toilet that you didn't really want is deflating. Still, I was making a mountain out of a molehill. It becomes easy to do when you're in a small house with small people most of the time. But God is not limited by that.<br />
<br />
I sat down at the desk in a random quiet moment while the children were playing, and flipped open the Bible, like a hungry person hunting in the pantry between meals. The Parable of the Ten Virgins. "...Watch, therefore, for you know nether the day nor the hour" (Matt. 25:13) Here is reality in its final state. Here was truth beyond the broken toilet. I thought about the horror of being told to depart from Jesus, and the joy of entering with him into the marriage feast. Imagine Him coming at any moment, any second. The sky outside the window was the blank white-grey of cheerless winter. But at any moment the Son of God whom we have long loved unseen, could be breaking through those clouds like lightning and changing reality forever. The devastated bathroom, stained carpet and leaky budget wouldn't matter anymore. All that would matter is that we had loved the Christ of God and been faithful to Him. My heart was flooded with joy - a joy that I felt I could not have had if the fretful state of things had not made me previously disillusioned with life. Was the Holy Spirit really filling me with joy in the midst of trials - when my trials were so silly? I knew he would do this for persecuted Christians, for people really suffering great pain, but somehow that he would use the mere disruption of my daily comforts as a step in the journey to fellowship with him was a marvelous surprise. I did not deserve this. I am too petty. But His grace is not like that. We never deserve it.<br />
<br />
I return to this. My faith can move mountains because it is a tiny link to the massive, powerful joy that I belong to the returning King. If we don't get the toilet fixed before He comes back, it's okay. Am I silly enough to need reminded of this? Yes. Is He gracious enough to come to me in the remembrance? He is.<br />
<br />
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<br />Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-27030982089129299932019-12-19T14:13:00.000-05:002019-12-19T14:13:07.454-05:00In Another Bleak MidwinterIs it truly mid-winter? I thought the 21st marked the beginning of winter, but it's lovely to think that we're almost halfway through the cold, dark tunnel. The holiday season is rarely one of natural joy for me, because the absence of warmth and sun usually bring fatigue and illness to our little family, and I struggle with the winter blues in real earnest. All the talk of hustle and bustle seem like a joke - I mean, we're just trying to stay alive here. I got my little coughing, fever patient to drink some water. I got the supper dishes washed, mostly, before crashing into bed and trying to nurse the baby to sleep. And somehow in the coming weeks we are supposed to visit all sorts of family with feasting and jollification.<br />
<br />
I wonder if little Mary felt frustrated at the holiday travel required of her. I imagine her being a much more godly, submissive, patient person than I am, rather than putting up her feet and saying "Go to Bethlehem? On a donkey? Now? Um, no. I'm pregnant. I'm staying right here. Caesar is greedy and power hungry, but even he couldn't expect people like *me* to take part in the census." But she did the right thing and took her baby bump to the right place, and Jesus was born in the eternally destined location. God always knows what He's doing.<br />
<br />
All this is just a bit of what I've been thinking about the things we <i>don't like </i>about Christmas being the things that are most nourishing to our faith and our vision of the Savior. I remember one Christmas season a couple years ago when I had the flu and was lying on the couch feeling crushed in pain and I looked over at the Nativity display we had set up, and whispered "Why, why did you come here? This miserable, broken place of pain. You didn't have to come. Oh, how you must love us." And another time as I looked at our Christmas gathering schedule that I was jotting into a notebook, and thought, "All this to do, to be with people, and I am too tired for any of it." That itself is a vivid picture of the first Christmas. Travel, people, bustle, exhaustion, and God getting his work done through ordinary people.<br />
<br />
I saw this beautiful old quote from <a href="https://www.instagram.com/amblesideschools/">Ambleside Schools on Instagram </a>that said it so well:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The grass withers, the flower falls away, but the Word of
our God endures for ever." As if Peter had said, 'All that has grown out
of this root shall drop off in order that it may be seen how deeply the
root itself is fixed in the soil.' We do not keep Christmas in the
bright, sunny time of the year, but now in the heart of winter, when
everything is bare and dry. And our Lord himself is said to be "a root
out of a dry ground," from which all the blossoms of hope and joy are to
come, but which must first be owned in its own nakedness before they
shall appear. If then, men have begun to fancy that their gladness has
another root than this, it is meet that for a time they should be left
to try whether they can keep it alive by any efforts and skill of
theirs. If Christmas joy has been separated from Christ, it is no wonder
and no dishonor to Christ that it should grow feeble and hollow. But
Christmas is not dead, because the mirth of those who have forgotten its
meaning is dead. It is not dead for you, it is not dead for people who
lie upon beds tormented with fevers, and dropsies, and cancers. It is
not dead for the children in factories, and for the men who are working
in mines, and for prisoners who never see the light of the sun. To all
these the news, "The Word who was in the beginning with God and was God,
in whom is life, and whose life is the light of men, by whom all things
were made, and without whom was not anything made that was made, became
flesh and dwelt among us, entered into our poverty, and suffering, and
death," is just as mighty and cheering news now as it was when St. Peter
first declared it to his countrymen at Pentecost. You want this truth,
you cannot live or die without it. You have a right to it. By your
baptism God hath given you a portion in him who was made flesh; by your
suffering he is inviting you to claim that portion, to understand that
it is indeed for you Christ lived and died."<br /><i>from "Christmas Day"
sermon, Frederick Maurice, M.A.</i></blockquote>
<br />
Let us embrace an ideal of the perfect Christmas as the one that makes us fall more in love with the incarnate Christ, whether it is in jollification or in quiet pain or grief. He has come for us. By faith He is ours to possess forever. Here is joy unceasing, consolation without end.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h1 class="firstHeading" id="firstHeading" lang="en" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-bottom: 1px solid rgb(162, 169, 177); font-family: "Linux Libertine", Georgia, Times, serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.3; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Carl_Blechen_-_Landschaft_im_Winter_bei_Mondschein_(1836).jpg">Carl Blechen - Landschaft im Winter bei Mondschein (1836)</a></span></h1>
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<br />Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-32402229933787675202019-12-10T08:59:00.005-05:002022-07-29T18:19:48.320-05:00The Mad Mother's SongThe children and I were recently introduced to <a href="https://www.wikiwand.com/en/The_Mad_Gardener%27s_Song">The Mad Gardener's Song by Lewis Carroll</a> via <a href="https://shows.pippa.io/the-daily-poem">The Daily Poem</a>. What a brilliant piece of nonsense! We all enjoyed it, especially me - so much so, that early this morning, I found myself composing my own version in the same form. The practice of composing one's own words in another's form is a way to learn different writing styles, and is a handy way for me to enjoy composition in this sometimes hectic season of life. My poem is un-originally titled -<br />
<br />
<i><b>The Mad Mother's Song</b></i><br />
<br />
She thought she saw a flock of sheep<br />
That grazed upon a moor,<br />
She looked again and saw<br />
A soggy diaper on the floor.<br />
"I should be grieved," she said<br />
"If this remained forevermore."<br />
<br />
She thought she saw a roll<br />
Of toilet paper on the shelf.<br />
She looked again and saw it was<br />
An evil Christmas elf.<br />
"Deception is the worst" she said<br />
"When practised on one's self."<br />
<br />
She thought she saw her husband<br />
Coming home from work at noon.<br />
She looked again and saw<br />
It was the baby's dirty spoon.<br />
"How rare," she sighed,<br />
"To see our hopes be realized too soon."<br />
<br />
She thought she saw a tank of goldfish<br />
Waiting to be fed.<br />
She looked and saw it was<br />
A pile of laundry on the bed.<br />
"Were those as dry as these," she said<br />
"They would be rather dead."<br />
<br />
She thought she saw a flock of geese<br />
Migrating to the west.<br />
She looked again and saw it was<br />
Her daughter's winter vest.<br />
"If one cannot migrate," she mused,<br />
"It's best to be well dressed."<br />
<br />
She thought she saw an ostrich<br />
With her purse upon its back.<br />
She looked again and saw it was<br />
Her child's unfinished snack.<br />
"If we waste food like this," she fumed,<br />
"We'll end up in a shack."<br />
<br />
She thought she saw her FitBit said<br />
She'd walked a hundred miles<br />
She looked and saw her husband<br />
Had been standing there awhile<br />
"How good," she cried, "To be alive<br />
To greet him with a smile."<br />
<br />
She thought she saw a choir of toddlers<br />
Singing in her bed.<br />
She looked again and saw<br />
It was a doll without a head.<br />
"How true," she thought, "that many trials<br />
Are less than what we dread."<br />
<br />
<br />
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</p><p><i>Note to the curious: I actually do not have a Christmas elf on the shelf or a FitBit, nor do I regularly encounter headless dolls. These simply came to mind as common items that fit my rhyme pattern!</i><br /></p>Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-256838238473114642019-07-29T13:41:00.001-05:002019-07-31T14:59:57.287-05:00Waiting Summer - A Poem<style type="text/css">
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<i>I've been determinedly reading through the Oxford Book of American Verse - a long project, and one I've questioned as the poets seem to become increasingly disillusioned and corrupt as one advances chronologically through the pages, but it also portrays a mental history of our nation that is enlightening. There are gems in those pages, and also glimpses of hell. When I finished the section of Hart Crane's poems (highly non-recommended) this morning, I felt inspired to write a fresh poem to lift my spirits and remind me that the world is beautiful and good under God. This one is about the hope that summer reflects to me.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>Waiting Summer</b></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Green this heavy <br />
I
only dreamed,</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When east wind
rattled the crying twigs</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
pleading the chill
white sky -</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
How long?</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
'Til the red
life blood of spring</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Will make us live,<br />
and robe us with a
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
weight of glory?</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I scarcely dreamed
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
when the first gold
shone</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
on the waking
boughs.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That now was the
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
beginning of
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It won’t be long.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Till the gray wind
whistling forest
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
exhales its sweeter
song</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gray skeletons
enfleshed</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
With emerald glory
spreading forth</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A welcome to the sky</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It is so bright,</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Above this deep and
rustling shade -</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
a shadow newly sweet</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Did we dream of
this?</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This richness, hotness</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of fresh life,</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This huge and
swaying splendor?</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We dreamt and dream
again,</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That when the last
gold splendor fades</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
and red life falls
to the scuttling ground</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It will not be the
end.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I dream of the green
buds’ push</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And the cold earth’s
groan</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That will be the
last push
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of the last groan</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That births the
glory home</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Summer beyond
summer,</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Life beyond life-<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Joy this heavy
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
You’ve never
dreamed</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the bright
King’s sight</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shatters the sighing
dust</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
With the blaze of light,</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And bare souls
blossom with burnished flesh<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then all the trees
of the field</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shall clap their
hands</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
While you go out
with
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Joy.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
- AFB, 2019</div>
<br /></div>
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<br />Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-69159297623967719922019-06-14T09:04:00.001-05:002019-06-24T10:03:17.691-05:00The Family Road TripIt started with my visionary husband's idea for a mercy ministry that integrated financial advice and the gospel in a biblical way. Over a year ago, he decided that he wanted to get the curriculum and training from the Chalmers Center to implement in our church and community, and none of my "Honey, let's just do the raising kids thing for now" would phase him. Last year he wanted to go, and I said, "Please wait for next year." This year, the training was at a church in Normal, IL. He would take vacation time to go. Maybe I would go with him. Maybe the kids would go with us too. But this would be the summer trip. I did not want this trip to happen, but sound doctrine being the wonderful thing that is, I realized that my job as a wife is to help my husband fulfill his mission in life and not the other way around. Since he had decided to do this, I needed to encourage and support him as cheerfully as possible, and not kick and drag, because that doesn't glorify God and it ain't fun for nobody.<br />
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I looked up Normal, IL. It appeared to be about as uninspiring as its name suggests. Our only summer trip opportunity - no mountains, no beaches, and no historic sites, just a mildly depressing, flat, midwest town. Then it occurred to me to check how far Normal was from Caleb's mom's house - where we had never yet visited in our seven years of marriage, because we'd been having babies all that time, and the drive is eleven hours. Waukegan was three hours away from Normal - and that became our trip plan. Take two days to drive to Grandma's house in Waukegan, with enough days at her house for Caleb to be with us before and after the class, the children and I stay with her while he drove to Normal for two days training, and then came back for Sunday and her birthday which conveniently occurred on the Monday before we left for another two day trip back. It would be an adventure, and I knew it would be utterly exhausting. I'm already tired from doing the three kids thing at home. But that made me pray about it a lot, which was a good thing. And the closer we got, the more I was determined to go, because I didn't want to miss that time together, however grueling it was.<br />
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When we told Caleb's mom our trip plans, she said "We could go to the lake!" I knew that she lived somewhat near Lake Michigan, but I didn't realize it was only six minutes away from her house. As I thought about it, the whole trip began to take on a new color. I would be able to relive with my children childhood trips to Michigan to my grandparent's farm, which was also not too far from the lake (on the eastern shore). Every summer time, my heart feels a compass needle pointing north, tugging me with longings for the region of my birth and of my happiest memories. I would try to be content to tend the garden in our West Virginia country home, only dreaming of aspens, pines and clear, cold lakes twinkling in the light of long northern summer days. Because of the way our trip plans had formed, these feelings had not been part of it before. I knew we would have to drive through Chicago to get there, and I didn't realize that the beauty of the north country lay beyond it. But Waukegan was beyond what I had expected in similarity to Michigan, and during that week, the children and I went to the lake three times - once with Grandma and the baby, and twice just by ourselves - and every time there was such joy and beauty in it and a refreshment of spirit hard to describe.<br />
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Caleb never went to the lake with us. And I had learned to know him enough that I didn't mind. Sand and water does not spark joy for him, and he had other projects to complete. He had decided to clean out his mom's garage which had suffered greatly from the influx of adult children's apartment clean outs on top of multiple teacher's job switches and classroom clean outs. I marveled at his servant's heart that was not only content, but cheerful to entirely miss trips to the beach in order to spend hours upon hours in dust, cardboard boxes and the discovery of random memorabilia. He really got as much joy out of that garage clean up project as I did from the shining stones and sparkling water of the lake front. And he and his siblings were able to give his mother a massively improved and organized garage for her birthday.<br />
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One of the difficulties of the trip was our vehicle - a 1999 Chevy Malibu, which is neither large nor new. We all fit in it quite snugly. I had our local auto place give it a tune up before the trip. The man did his best and then advised me to rent a car for such a long trip. We looked up rental options, even explored the possibility of purchasing the long anticipated mini van, and then decided to go with our car anyway. That is, until our pastor, who loves all of his little church family quite a lot, heard it, and said "You're not doing that. Take my car" (which is just as small, but not as old) and we let him make us do it. Traveling in that car made us feel the love and care of our church family with us all the way. And while we wanted to have a safe trip for our family in any case, it was especially matter of gratitude that we were able to pull into our driveway a week later with the loaned car in need of no repair but a good wash.<br />
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I wanted to face this challenge because I knew it would help our children to grow and mature by facing extended situations outside of their home routine and provide more practice for my husband and I in fulfilling our marriage roles. We got more time together in those hours, and hours, and hours on the road and at rest stops with excruciatingly long potty breaks with children and a nursing baby, to learn to bear with one another when we were so tired that we kept making poor decisions about when and where to stop, to encourage instead of criticize, and laugh with one another; to exercise repentance for failures in kindness, and to simply love being together in the bond of grace that carries us through difficulties together and forgives and enables forgiveness. This was truly sweet and God's gift.<br />
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I have so many good memories from our trip - memories of beauty, and of lessons learned. One of the beautiful memories was the time we spent off of the turnpike on the way back, driving through the heartland of Indiana and Ohio in a beautiful golden evening. We had left the terrors of Chicago traffic far behind and now passed farm after farm - old family farm houses and community churches and grain elevators and train tracks and mown grass - and Amish country with its horses and buggies and hardware stores and a young courting couple on bicycles. I felt that I was seeing America the way it had been and always ought to be. There really is nothing like the American road trip. I don't know how long our land will endure. I know it won't be forever. But while it lives, it has been a blessing to belong to it.<br />
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The time Caleb picked the hotel on the way back, and instead of the cheap hotel with the poison ivy tree by the parking lot that we had stayed at on the way out, it was (to my weary mind) a towering white castle of rest that he had provided for us.<br />
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Final mentions: Audio books: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Swallowdale-Swallows-and-Amazons-Series/dp/B001J6XDGW/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=audible+swallowdale&qid=1560519205&s=gateway&sr=8-1">Swallowdale</a> by Arthur Ransome carried us over many a mile, alternating with <a href="https://world.wng.org/radio">WORLD radio</a> podcasts. The Swallow series are such perfect summer trip books. The prize for best car snack goes to clementines, which provide air freshener, hydration, carbohydrates and entertainment all in one appealingly rotund golden package. Psalm 90 and a pillow in front of my face carried this country girl through rush hour Chicago traffic (and looking out the window at the faces of the other drivers who seemed un-fazed by their proximity to certain death) The more time I spend with my husband's family, the more I love them and the more I am thankful that I got to be married to the best of the lot ;) Two days after getting home, we are still exhausted and paying off our sleep debt, but I wouldn't have traded this trip for a week of 8 hour sleep nights. Some things are better than sleep, especially when you have the assurance that "All the way my Savior leads me".<br />
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<br />Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-3717332855181274362019-04-18T06:07:00.000-05:002019-04-18T12:57:57.459-05:00Easter Colors<style type="text/css">
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<i>This poem was written out of some womanly musings over Easter dresses and celebrations, reflecting on how we may try to show in bright and fresh attire our joy in the new life of spring and in the resurrection.</i></div>
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Shall I wear red-
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Brave color of blood
and battle?<br />
Red life was bled of love</div>
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and war for me,</div>
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Til victory waked
the dawn.</div>
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Was that dawn red?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Or was it gold -</div>
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Bright yellow of
bright joy</div>
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When sun streaked
opening sight</div>
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Into the dark and
gaping mouth</div>
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Of gutted death
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And sang into the
blue.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Shall I wear
blue?<br />
Of sapphire pavement where he sits</div>
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Enthroned, my Lord
once dead for me,</div>
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More vibrant than
the cloud-strewn sky</div>
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Through which he
flew.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I might wear blue</div>
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For it is what I
have</div>
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Enough to walk forth
into day</div>
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And sing with loved
ones</div>
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That our loved One
lives,</div>
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For it is true.</div>
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<br /></div>
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No color shall
suffice</div>
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To show my joy
</div>
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That all my love is
risen from the dead,</div>
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Until beyond rainbow
and sunset,</div>
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Tree and flower,<br />
In
newer life than Spring,</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I walk with Him in
white.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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<br />Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-83573453661363632382019-03-20T06:25:00.001-05:002019-03-20T06:26:54.682-05:00The Power and the Glory"Look! There's a little finger of cloud coming down! It's a tornado!!!!"<br />
It is a calm, breezy day with wispy clouds in the sky, but my five-year-old son is unwilling to believe my assertion that he is mistaken.<br />
<br />
"What if a star just came down and fell on the whole earth? What would happen?"<br />
<br />
"Oh! Look at that gray billowing smoke in the sky. Over there! It must be a volcano erupting!"<br />
I answer - "That's a puffy gray cloud. It might rain. But it's not a volcano."<br />
I say it not because I'm a killjoy but because I believe truth is ultimately more satisfying than delusions. But this child will keep on looking for signs of wonderful disasters (not to mention appearances of supernatural beings and exotic animal species).<br />
<br />
Lots of children are like this, especially young boys - I have early childhood memories of an older brother who made the same wishful assertions. A real tornado or volcano in the dreamed-of proximity to our home could be the destruction of our whole way of life - and if there is anything little children don't want, it is the destruction of their way of life. But deep down they want to see something explode. People laugh about it, because for many the desire lasts long past childhood. Evolutionary theory could perhaps contrive some explanation for the hunger for great scenes, but this hunger cannot jive with the idea that we exist merely to survive and perpetuate the species. We were created by God to behold the glory of God. Every little boy who wants to see something blow up spectacularly is expressing an undirected longing for his little heart's big Creator. That's just one of the reasons I think it is important to present the whole Bible to our children, and not just Bible character story books that tend to leave out the richly worded passages about God's character and actions.<br />
<br />
I've been reading through the Bible to the children for the past year and this morning we read 2 Samuel 22. The volcano boy listened with riveted attention over his bowl of oatmeal as I read -<br />
<br />
<i>“In my distress I called upon the LORD;</i><br />
<i>to my God I called.</i><br />
<i>From his temple he heard my voice,</i><br />
<i>and my cry came to his ears.</i><br />
<i>“Then the earth reeled and rocked;</i><br />
<i>the foundations of the heavens trembled</i><br />
<i>and quaked, because he was angry.</i><br />
<i>Smoke went up from his nostrils,</i><br />
<i>and devouring fire from his mouth;</i><br />
<i>glowing coals flamed forth from him.</i><br />
<i>He bowed the heavens and came down;</i><br />
<i>thick darkness was under his feet.</i><br />
<i>He rode on a cherub and flew;</i><br />
<i>he was seen on the wings of the wind.</i><br />
<i>He made darkness around him his canopy,</i><br />
<i>thick clouds, a gathering of water.</i><br />
<i>Out of the brightness before him</i><br />
<i>coals of fire flamed forth.</i><br />
<i>The LORD thundered from heaven,</i><br />
<i>and the Most High uttered his voice....</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><a href="https://www.esv.org/2+Samuel+22/">- 2 Samuel 22:7-16</a></i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><br /></i></div>
I thought "Yes!". This is strong meat for my boy. There is nothing better I could give him right now.<br />
<br />
The full-orbed character of God is all that is required to satisfy every longing of the human heart. We can only see all of it by reading all of Scripture, and our children need it just as much, if not more than we do. It is a great mistake to think that children's longings are more easily satisfied. Adults are far more easily pleased. Some days we just want to see our God as provider and praise Him for the paycheck. But the little guys are primitive and they want to see glory, and their childlike faith is ready to believe that God has all of it, which is good, because He does.<br />
<br />
Several weeks ago, on a fresh snowy day, I was outside with my son and he posed the best of his thousand questions for the day:<br />
"How does the snow show God's glory? Because it's not powerful."<br />
I paused a bit then said, "It gives us a picture of God's cleanness and purity, and how he can cover our sins and make them disappear. The Bible says, 'Though your sins be like scarlet, they shall be white as snow' when God forgives them."<br />
He just looked up into the sky and seemed to think, while I strolled off to fill the bird feeders. My heart was glad, because once again I was reminded that God is sufficient for every longing of the human heart.<br />
<br />
Let's not let our children be satisfied with Superman scenes on a screen, when they have a God who puts all the super heroes to shame. He can defeat not only our external enemies but the very sin of our inmost hearts. "Worship Him all you gods" should be written above the movie screens, and if it is not, we can remind our children that before the majesty of the Lord of Glory, their favorite super hero has no option but to bow down.<br />
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<i>The LORD reigns, let the earth rejoice;</i></div>
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<i>let the many coastlands be glad!</i></div>
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<i>Clouds and thick darkness are all around him;</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>righteousness and justice are the foundation of his throne.</i></div>
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<i>Fire goes before him</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and burns up his adversaries all around.</i></div>
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<i>His lightnings light up the world;</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>the earth sees and trembles.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The mountains melt like wax before the LORD,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>before the Lord of all the earth.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The heavens proclaim his righteousness,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and all the peoples see his glory.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>All worshipers of images are put to shame,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>who make their boast in worthless idols;</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>worship him, all you gods!</i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><a href="https://www.esv.org/Psalm+97/">- Psalm 97</a></i></div>
<i><br /></i>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrpOuD8jIfwC0x0uZCUVwvupqOM5xYbMgHkULMTSXXXAWvdsr9uIbVwLIIPGzVDxMssPWQBrGwdYdHspbwLiGZ7s6vlUSeBY5Z_Tnobq2a5S21EZEATWvbIzcZm_i3Ml9cHUz4Q/s1600/1280px-Cotopaxi_church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="1280" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrpOuD8jIfwC0x0uZCUVwvupqOM5xYbMgHkULMTSXXXAWvdsr9uIbVwLIIPGzVDxMssPWQBrGwdYdHspbwLiGZ7s6vlUSeBY5Z_Tnobq2a5S21EZEATWvbIzcZm_i3Ml9cHUz4Q/s400/1280px-Cotopaxi_church.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cotopaxi_church.jpg">Cotopaxi by Frederic Edwin Church</a></td></tr>
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<br />Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-57955126769290647352019-02-07T13:22:00.000-05:002019-02-07T13:28:02.202-05:00Chesterton on ContentmentWhen I think of contentment, I think of the oft-quoted and at-one-time-stuck-on-my-mirror definition of contentment by Jeremiah Burroughs:<br />
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<i>"Christian contentment is that sweet, inward, quiet, gracious frame of spirit, which freely submits to and delights in God's wise and fatherly disposal in every condition.” </i></div>
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This is excellent. But the perspective of others can be helpful in rounding out what the experience of contentment looks like. Enter one of my favorite authors, G. K. Chesterton. </div>
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I listened to Chesterton's <a href="https://librivox.org/a-miscellany-of-men-by-g-k-chesterton/">Miscellany of Men</a> essays during some waking night hours over the last few weeks, and dozed off through a number of them that were a bit less than captivating (granted, the slightly dull character of a work of literature is a merit in my selection for night time listening), but while listening to <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2015/2015-h/2015-h.htm#link2H_4_0037">The Contented Man</a>, my mind gave a little thrill of connection. I loved Chesterton's thoughts on this. Here's some of it:</div>
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“Content”
ought to mean in English, as it does in French, <b><i>being pleased</i></b>; placidly,
perhaps, but still positively pleased. Being contented with bread and
cheese ought not to mean not caring what you eat. It ought to mean caring
for bread and cheese; handling and enjoying the cubic content of the bread
and cheese and adding it to your own. Being content with an attic ought
not to mean being unable to move from it and resigned to living in it. It
ought to mean appreciating what there is to appreciate in such a position;
such as the quaint and elvish slope of the ceiling or the sublime aerial
view of the opposite chimney-pots. And in this sense contentment is a real
and even an active virtue; it is not only affirmative, but creative. The
poet in the attic does not forget the attic in poetic musings; he
remembers whatever the attic has of poetry; he realises how high, how
starry, how cool, how unadorned and simple—in short, how Attic is
the attic.<br />
<i><b>
True contentment is a thing as active as agriculture. It is the power of
getting out of any situation all that there is in it. It is arduous and it
is rare.</b></i> <br />
<a name='more'></a>The absence of this digestive talent is what makes so cold and
incredible the tales of so many people who say they have been “through”
things; when it is evident that they have come out on the other side quite
unchanged. A man might have gone “through” a plum pudding as a bullet
might go through a plum pudding; it depends on the size of the pudding—and
the man. But the awful and sacred question is “Has the pudding been
through him?” Has he tasted, appreciated, and absorbed the solid pudding,
with its three dimensions and its three thousand tastes and smells? Can he
offer himself to the eyes of men as one who has cubically conquered and
contained a pudding?<br />
<br />
Thus the young genius says, “I have lived in my dreary and squalid village
before I found success in Paris or Vienna.” The sound philosopher will
answer, “You have never lived in your village, or you would not call it
dreary and squalid.” <br />
Thus the Suffragette will say, “I have passed through the paltry duties of
pots and pans, the drudgery of the vulgar kitchen; but I have come out to
intellectual liberty.” The sound philosopher will answer, “<b><i>You have never
passed through the kitchen, or you never would call it vulgar. Wiser and
stronger women than you have really seen a poetry in pots and pans;
naturally, because there is a poetry in them.</i></b>” ...When you have really exhausted an experience you always reverence and love
it. </blockquote>
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When I was a child, I had the ability to take no enjoyment from the most delightful experience, simply by a will to be displeased with it. I regret the beastly time I must have given to my family on these occasions. But the day before I heard this essay, I had been to the local muddy-gravel-old-cars-everywhere-mom-and-pop-car-shop to get our car's yearly inspection stickers. It was unseasonably lovely out, and while a trip to a car inspection isn't the most pleasant way to spend a sunny day, trips with a newborn third child have to be a necessity to happen at all, and I resolved that this would be our "fun family outing" for the week. Therefore, I primed the children for the outing by talking about the inspection. Therefore, the children were allowed to get out of the car and tramp about. Therefore, I did not grouse when I was told my insurance was expired and I had to go back home and print out a new card. Therefore, the yummy snack bar came out to divert the children in the car parked in the driveway while I printed out said new card at home. Therefore I reveled in a spot of sunshine while the inspector wrote up my sticker in the damp garage. Therefore, we had an adventure and a somewhat pleasant day, despite the baby wailing throughout most of the experience. Why? Simply because I wanted to be pleased. To have "licked up such living water as there was" in the very common experience. And what Chesterton didn't say is that grace can make a change like this - from a will to be displeased from a will to be pleased. I don't think it's arrogant to recognize change in one's life, to see signs of sanctifying grace, growth in character. To never see any would be to despair.<br />
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So I thank God for Chestertonian moments. They bring such joy to life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghCf6Udx02OGQG6oAnGVpRxWABfkqsJFGVDdPJxwgCRyaqsTW7AkkwO-SMcMt_xdLz3aciwn7dLJTrxLJfIAMTVAvkCZKjO_2kQidKw6n09b3KvX_bzy5bnPl1qvLbLMLOlxWxg/s1600/DeCamp_Joseph_The_Blue_Cup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="951" data-original-width="786" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghCf6Udx02OGQG6oAnGVpRxWABfkqsJFGVDdPJxwgCRyaqsTW7AkkwO-SMcMt_xdLz3aciwn7dLJTrxLJfIAMTVAvkCZKjO_2kQidKw6n09b3KvX_bzy5bnPl1qvLbLMLOlxWxg/s320/DeCamp_Joseph_The_Blue_Cup.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:DeCamp_Joseph_The_Blue_Cup.jpg">The Blue Cup by Joseph DeCamp</a></td></tr>
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Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-40404339959307812942018-12-16T14:06:00.002-05:002018-12-16T14:14:36.154-05:00I Do RepentToday I took down one of the old hymnals in my collection, just to poke about in it and see what was there - a worn, blue 1923 Hymns for the Living Age. I do not know where I got it or if I have even looked at it before. I opened to this beautiful hymn of penitence:<br />
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Because I knew not when my life was good,<br />
And when there was a light upon my path,<br />
But turned my soul perversely to the dark,<br />
O Lord, I do repent.<br />
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Because I held upon my selfish road<br />
And left my brother wounded by the way,<br />
And called ambition duty, and pressed on,<br />
O Lord, I do repent.<br />
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Because I spent the strength thou gavest me<br />
In struggle which thou never didst ordain,<br />
And have but dregs of life to offer thee,<br />
O Lord, I do repent.<br />
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Because I was impatient, would not wait,<br />
But thrust my impious hand across thy threads,<br />
And marred the pattern drawn out for my life,<br />
O Lord, I do repent.<br />
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Because thou hast borne with me all this while,<br />
Hast smitten me with love until I weep,<br />
Hast called me as a mother calls her child,<br />
O Lord, I do repent.<br />
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~ Sarah Williams, 1868<br />
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I think the center stanza - the third - will give me the most food for meditation, because in its confession I see myself all too well.<br />
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<i>Because I spent the strength thou gavest me</i><br />
<i>In struggle which thou never didst ordain,</i><br />
<i>And have but dregs of life to offer thee, </i><br />
<i>O Lord, I do repent.</i><br />
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<br />Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-84161780453503588112018-12-13T20:08:00.001-05:002019-02-07T13:29:15.099-05:00A Vision of Christmas from Elizabeth GoudgeI've been trying to speed read a most delicious book - speed read because I bought it for a Christmas gift and I want to finish reading it first myself. (Books are the gift that keeps on giving!). <a href="https://smile.amazon.com/Scent-Water-Elizabeth-Goudge/dp/1598568418/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1544749050&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scent+of+Water"><i>The Scent of Water</i> </a>by Elizabeth Goudge, is, like all of Goudge's wonderful books that I've read, full of entrancing beauty and profound reflections on the human soul. This particular book deals with a unique aspect of humanity in the history and journals of Mary Lindsay, a woman who struggled with mental illness. I didn't expect this book to prepare me for Christmas (in anything except the hope of getting it read before Christmas comes) but I found this gem of a Christmas dream in the story's excerpt from Mary Lindsay's diary:<br />
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I heard the clock strike five and I thought, Soon it will be Christmas and I shan't be able to enjoy my first Christmas in my own home. I was very sorry for myself. I thought, I can't bear it. I was lying on stones and the walls were moving in...The walls moved in nearer and as they closed right around, trapping me, I screamed.</blockquote>
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I don't suppose I really screamed. What had happened was that I had fallen asleep at last and drifted into nightmare. I was imprisoned in stone. I knew then what men suffered who are walled up alive. But I was able to think, and I thought, Shall I scream and beat against the wall or shall I keep my mouth shut and be still? I wanted to scream because it would have been the easier thing. But I didn't. And when I had been still for a little while I found myself slowly edging forward. There was a crack in the stone. The hardness pressed against me upon each side in a horrible way, as though trying to crush me, but I could edge forward through the crack. I went on scraping through and at last there was a glimmer of light. It came to my feet like a sword and I knew it had made the crack, a sword of fire, splitting the stone. And then the walls drew back slightly on either side of me, as though the light pushed them. I had a sense of conflict, as though the darkness reeled and staggered, resisting the light in an anguish of evil strength. It had a fearful power. But the light, that seemed such a small beam in comparison with that infinity of blackness, kept the channel open and I fled down it. There was room now to run. I ran and ran and came out into the light.<br />
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I had escaped. I was so overwhelmed with thankfulness that I nearly fell. I sank down on the ground and sat back on my heels, as children do sometimes when they are saying their prayers and are tired. It was ground, not stone, it was a floor of trodden earth. The stone walls were still there but the light had hollowed them out into a cave and they no longer frightened me. There was a lantern in the cave and people were moving about, a man and woman caring for a girl who lay on a pile of hay. And for a newborn child. As I watched, the woman stooped and put Him into His mother's arms. An ox and ass and a tired donkey were tethered to the wall of the cave, and their breath was like smoke. I was not surprised, for the strange changes of a dream never surprise me. It was like one of the nativity scenes that the old masters painted, only not tidy and pretty like those. The girl was exhausted, her clothes were crumpled, and the sweat on her face gleamed in the lantern light. The man was dusty and tired and not yet free of the anxiety that had been racking him for hours past. The woman was one of those kindly bodies who turn up from somewhere to lend a hand in times of human crises. She made soft clucking noises as she gave the baby to His mother, and the two women gave each other a long look of triumph before the girl bent over her baby. He was like all newborn babies. He looked old and wizened, and so frail that my heart nearly stopped in fear, as it always does when I see a newborn child. How could anything so weak survive? His thin wail echoed in the stony place and then was stifled as He sought His mother.</blockquote>
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They've not come yet, I thought. All the prettiness the artists painted isn't here. No angels, no shepherds, no children with their lambs. It's stripped down to the bare bones of the rock and the child. There's no one here. And then I thought, I am here, and I asked, who am I, Lord? And then I knew that I was everyone. I wasn't solitary. Everyone was me and I was everyone. We were all here, every sinner whose evil had built up those dark walls that held Him like a trap. For looking around I saw that the cave of the nativity was very small. The walls were pressing in upon Him close and hard and dark the way they pressed in on me. And the old claustrophobic terror was back on me again, but not for myself. I remembered the rocks of the wilderness and the multitude of sinners surging in, selfish and clamorous, sick and sweaty, clawing with their hot hands, giving him no time so much as to eat. I remembered the mocking crowd about the cross and the thick darkness. I remembered the second cave, the dark and stifling tomb. Two stony caves, forming as it were the two clasps of the circle of His life on earth. And I remembered Saint Augustine saying, "He looked us through the lattice of our flesh and He spake us fair." Shut up in that prison of aching flesh and torn nerves, trapped in it...The Lord of glory... I remembered the sword of light that had split the rock of sin, making for me the way of escape to where He was at the heart of it. At my heart. At the heart of everything that happened to me, everything I did, everything I endured. He was not the weakness that He seemed, for He had a sword in His hand and all evil at last would go reeling back before it. He had entered the prison house of His own will. And so He was not trapped, nor was I. There was always the way of escape so long as it was to the heart of it, whatever it was, that one went to find Him.</blockquote>
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The shepherds were coming. I could hear them singing, a homely rough singing and a little out of tune. And the high sweet piping of a shepherd's pipe. I shut my eyes and listened and it came nearer and I woke up.</blockquote>
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But the singing continued. It was carol singers not far from my window.</blockquote>
I found this a profound picture of how the Man of Sorrows who has borne our diseases can meet us in the depths of any suffering, and how one person in her struggle with claustrophobia met Him there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsVm9YjvJqK8SRhciARdJN7BI9OCeYg831EovVmWDbeHGNpCjef5MUpj4WBw_nHmjaoTXQbpc95Fc8a_gEhuyVQxfRrKL_U-0SEN2OWXL6sXFfWR0tXeB7i6hxw2UsFRY9APrFQ/s1600/727px-Fritz_von_Uhde_Heilige_Nacht.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="727" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsVm9YjvJqK8SRhciARdJN7BI9OCeYg831EovVmWDbeHGNpCjef5MUpj4WBw_nHmjaoTXQbpc95Fc8a_gEhuyVQxfRrKL_U-0SEN2OWXL6sXFfWR0tXeB7i6hxw2UsFRY9APrFQ/s400/727px-Fritz_von_Uhde_Heilige_Nacht.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Heilige Nacht</span> by Fritz von Uhde</td></tr>
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Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15856072.post-10150986246807852982018-11-24T09:42:00.002-05:002019-07-03T07:04:22.804-05:00Acquainted With the Night"You were up a lot last night," my husband said to me this morning as I describe my feeling of out-of-it-ness and of having cotton balls in my eyes. His saying made me think of Robert Frost's poem "I have been one acquainted with the night", and despite my head-numbing sleep-deprivation after being much up with a stuffy nosed infant, I felt the need to write my own version of the poem, with matching meter and rhyme scheme. Maybe better than a cup of coffee? The muse was awake if nothing else is.<br />
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Here is <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47548/acquainted-with-the-night">Frost's poem</a>, and here is mine:<br />
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<i>I have been one acquainted with the night</i></div>
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<i>I've learned to change a diaper with the dark</i></div>
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<i>To spare bleared eyes the glare of night time light.</i></div>
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<i>I've loved a hungry baby in the dark,</i></div>
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<i>Though dull with weariness and ache of sleep,</i></div>
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<i>Love's joy in giving kindle's strength's dim spark</i></div>
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<i>I have been often tired enough to weep</i></div>
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<i>Until the sweetness of small velvet life</i></div>
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<i>Cradled to me, a tiny charge to keep --</i></div>
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<i>All this, to be a mother and a wife</i></div>
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<i>And further to be held in Heaven's sight --</i></div>
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<i>I could not ask for any better life</i></div>
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<i>Than what is given to me. It is right</i></div>
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<i>That I have been acquainted with the night.</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOb0jG-6wvMP_bEvwIwYSgtW2lZx4T4HBPoczS1Y6akCPyrop5u_muJHhKWHuKntK9vmcXPKxA0Qyg0614pA4wv6GaiR7hezE1ademuGAkuztzB9Kb_RuEa7ze1HRG3hrhKY7sUg/s1600/Christian_Krohg-Sovende_mor_med_barn_1883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="629" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOb0jG-6wvMP_bEvwIwYSgtW2lZx4T4HBPoczS1Y6akCPyrop5u_muJHhKWHuKntK9vmcXPKxA0Qyg0614pA4wv6GaiR7hezE1ademuGAkuztzB9Kb_RuEa7ze1HRG3hrhKY7sUg/s400/Christian_Krohg-Sovende_mor_med_barn_1883.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Christian_Krohg-Sovende_mor_med_barn_1883.jpg">Sleeping Mother with Child by Christian Krog, 1883</a></td></tr>
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Alyssa Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17336146303790544654noreply@blogger.com0