Memories of Much Ado

I don't usually expect to be struck by memories in the course of cleaning up my room, but it happens. This morning, between a perfume experiment going on in the bathroom (don't ask) and the fact that the ferret was crawling around in my dresser, I gave up on folding clothes and turned to straighten the desk.

Its surface was strewn with dress patterns, and there was no good place to put them except the sewing basket whence they came. I was busy wondering how to detox a bathroom counter, and how to get Emma out of my dresser, which left me unprepared for an inverse version of Pandora's Box. I flipped the catch and... oh, my. There were a hundred brass eyelets winking up at me. I sat back on my heels, stunned.

I'll never need pictures of Much Ado About Nothing. I remember every moment. I remember the first awkward evening of measuring my charges for their costumes, in the middle of Hurricane What's-Her-Name. I remember the lights going out mid-rehearsal. I remember the endless fittings, and how I felt like nanny to a nursery full of bored boys. I had to stand on chairs for some of them.

"Will, you're a dreadful height!"

"Sorry."

But I wasn't really annoyed, and he wasn't really sorry... and he looked so funny, scrunched down to deliver the line, "I will assume thy part in some disguise, and tell fair Hero 'I am Claudio.'"

I was incredibly proud of my boys. The work often seemed beyond my capacity, but God provided. I laced boots and tied cuffs and adjusted cloaks, ignoring my sore fingers. The cast--and Shakespeare--made it all worthwhile. I taught Will to sew his fingertips together. Daniel and I spent hour after hour coaching Emily in her lines. Sarah and Carrie were up until midnight with me, making boots, enjoying fellowship.

I remember Friday night, getting ready for our second performance...

"Germany, Ireland says that he likes his boots tied just the way they are."

Will grinned at me. "Remind Ireland that I'm the Don Pedro around here. Besides, I'm related to the first white settler in West Virginia, and some pirate who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth."

Back I trotted to the front of the room, thoroughly impressed. "Ireland, Germany says..." I repeated the litany.

"It's a wonder his ancestors weren't all inbred or hanged out of existence long before he was born."

I had to laugh. Trot, trot to Boston... "Germany, Ireland says..."

I remember the way we laughed together, and the talks we had. It was always special to think through a character with one of the cast members, to step into Shakespeare, to work out the meanings of those immortal lines. Emily and I would discuss Beatrice: her pride, her ultimate humility, the way she cared for Hero, and her love for Benedict.

"Can you imagine what it must have been like for her," I would say, tucking my knees up under my chin, "to meet Benedict after he had been away to war? She loved him, and he hadn't loved her. Yet she had to meet him again, with only her wit for a defense. The tension in this first scene is incredible, and later... when they pledge to love later, you get the sense that they have both counted the cost of loving, and are deciding to do it anyway. It's very different from innocent Hero and faithless Claudio."

"Would she be angry, do you think?" Emily mused.

"Oh, somewhat I guess, don't you? But he was her equal and her friend. They understood each other, and she must have missed him. She must have missed him so much, while he was away fighting. Beatrice doesn't strike me as an angry person. She's suffered, but she hasn't allowed it to make her bitter; she cares for her cousin, and is merry and bright in spite of her heartache. That's real bravery. That's the miracle of Beatrice, to me. She's still generous, in spite of everything."

Emily grinned. "I don't think that I can work all that into the lines."

I smiled back at her. "Silly! Of course not. But when Beatrice looks at Benedict... 'all that' is in her heart."

Sitting on my floor in the sunshine, I can see their faces and hear their voices. I am backstage again, listening to Micah ad-lib a line: "Praise God, it is day!" The scenes shift... Micah getting makeup, Don Pedro and Claudio with lantern-glow on their cheekbones. I see Carrie in Hero's mask, laughing at me. I am teaching Will to dance. I am fencing with Claudio. I am listening to Leonato wrestle with the justifiability of the American Revolution. We are talking about hymns and the Passion. We are talking about whether or not Benedict should kiss Beatrice. We are singing around the piano. We are clowning at the Cast Party. We are gathered in a TJI Friday's booth at one in the morning. We are praying on Opening Night.

Oh, how I miss it! I could wish that it had gone on forever, in spite of the stress and exhaustion. But I had it for a little while... and I'll have my memories forever.

The Cave

Late this afternoon I went with Nana to her new flat, a spacious apartment comprised of two bedrooms, two full baths, kitchen, den, living room, and sun porch. It didn't exist six months ago, and I could smell paint still drying today.

"Have a drink, lovey. Would you like cheese and crackers?"

"No, thank you Nana."

We sat, and light splashed down from large windows. My grandmother flipped on the classical music station. Ice clinked in our soda glasses. We talked quietly all through a golden hour, about music and painting; about loneliness; about people and friends we have loved... and lost.

Nana isn't a Christian, but over the last few years she has become one of my favorite companions. She is an artist, and knows far more than I do about perspectives, composition, colors, etc. We share a common delight in classical music, theater, architecture, and cooking. Talking with her is bittersweet, especially when I try to share my struggles or dreams. How can I say to her, "Nana, I learn to write because I want to express the Gospel in its aching, awful beauty. I have waking nightmares about the lost, Nana, and I am desperate to show them how real Christ is"?

How can I say to her, "I long to see you rejoicing in the truth, Nana. That's why I wear this blue band on my wrist; to remind me to pray for you. I want you to understand about the cross, Nana"? How can I say, "Nana, you are dying, and it breaks my heart"? I love her, I love her... and I'm losing her. Oh, Lord God, I have spent the last six years trying to learn skill with words so that I can explain... and I can't find a way to say it! If I tell her that I am trying to learn humility, she tells me that there is a "healthy" amount of pride, but commends me for trying to "find myself."

"I do believe in some sort of a higher power, lovey. I believe in a greater design."

My mind races. Would it do any good to mention Genesis? Should I take an approach through Teleology or the Moral Law? Would a quote from Lewis or Augustine help? A desperate prayer to the God of my life: "help me! What can I say? What will she hear?"

It's as though we speak the same English, but have two totally different sets of definitions for each important word. God. Sin. Salvation. Self. Hell. Heaven. I ask questions, trying to understand. I know that I have to understand where she is. Then, I try a tentative explanation of some aspect, a sharing of some belief.

"Well, honey, you've studied this so much more than I have."

I turned my face away to hide it. What gain is all my study? I can't even find words to hold out the gift of life to her.

"I do believe that faith works for some people. I remember I had a Catholic roommate in college who lost her parents... she seemed to find such comfort in her Bible."

Hope stirred. I tried again, very gently. "I know, Nana. I could never have gotten through this semester without God. He's held me together..."

"Well, there! It works for you."

I came home and put my arms around my mother. "Nana volunteered some information about her understanding of theology, Mama."

Mama searched my eyes. "Well, that's good, honey."

I nodded. I know that it's a long process, that it takes much praying, much loving, much time and many questions. But this afternoon, weary and sad, all I can do is think of her long, long life lived for herself. All I can see is the seeming waste. Being in love is probably the highest thing that Nana recognizes. "It's good for people, lovey. I really do think that it puts a spring in the step, you know. It's special."

How can I tell her that what she sees in romantic love is only a reflection? I looked at the bars of light on the floor in her apartment, waning slowly as her life, but dying still.

How can I pierce the cave? How can I show her the Sun? How?

As Dumas said, "Wait, and hope"... to which I add "Pray, and love."

Music

"It had never occurred to me before that music and thinking are so much alike. In fact you could say music is another way of thinking, or maybe thinking is another kind of music."
--Ursula K. Le Guin

"Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent."
--Victor Hugo

"Words make you think a thought. Music makes you feel a feeling. A song makes you feel a thought."
--E.Y. Harburg (Edgar Yipsel) (1898 - 1981)

The Fairy Tale

As a little girl, I didn't care about dolls or fairy tales. I had them, but... they seemed too fake. I've always hated hypocrisy, you know? When I was seven or eight, Mom took all six of us to Toys R Us to buy goodies with our Christmas money. I spent the whole afternoon roaming up and down, watching my siblings buy legos or Barbies or games. I couldn't bring myself to choose anything; I felt lost in a sea of pink plastic. My sole purchase of the day was a pencil sharpener.

I was a toy-hater, but I wasn't abnormal enough to disdain horses. Many little girls love horses, but I was one of those who happened to live on a farm, and happened to have a mom who had been an equestrian. My parents bought me a picture-perfect white pony, whom I, in my innocence, named "Treasure."

In fairy tales the ponies are white, but they are also sweet and well-behaved. Treasure was neither. She rolled and got dirty. She ran away in the middle of the heaviest snowfall that Virginia had seen in a decade. She took off with me into the herd of black Angus cows. She yanked the reins out of my hands in order to eat grass through her bridle. She made my riding life a constant battle.

But Mom had it right, as usual--Treasure was perfect for me. I learned the first lesson of fairy tales: it's never as easy as it looks... and it wouldn't be real if it were. I still didn't think much of Cinderella stories at that time, but I did begin to learn what a coward I was, and I certainly learned that when you fall off a horse, the very first thing you must do is get right back up. Otherwise you get skittish, and the horse gets cocky.

Fast-forward five years. Me, a thirteen-year-old with half a decade of horses under her belt. I'd been knocked off against walls by loco horses, and I'd fallen off over a jump with my Arab, and I knew all about getting back up, sore but determined. We decided that I was ready for a high-stepping Thoroughbred, ready to tackle the shows. I was still scared of horses, and I always will be. But I loved them more than I feared them, and I knew how to be the boss.

A horse, to me, isn't an animal. A horse is a poem, with four feet to measure out the line, and the whole dictionary of personalities behind its big dark eyes. You can ride it metrically in an arena, with boots and a hardhat and subtle pressures of the leg to put it through its paces. Walk. Trot. Canter. Or you can ride it free verse, bareback with a halter and a lead line for reins and the fields for an arena. Either way the feet beat out a rhythm. Either way, any way, always, it's poetry.

The thoroughbred was a beautiful mare, big and sleek. I was going to call her Penny for her copper coat. She was my birthday present... until, just one week before deliver, a freak accident in the field killed her. In the wake of Penny's death, my parents stepped back to reevaluate the situation. They decided that my preoccupation with horses was preventing me from becoming interested in more important things, like friends.

"I want to be alone! I like being alone! You think that the girls from church can be my friends? They're city girls, and they don't understand anything! Why should I have friends? You think that everybody needs friends, but it's not true."

"Honey, every human being needs friends."

I didn't believe them. We had moved around through most of my growing-up years, and had only recently relocated to Maryland from Virginia. My friends had been few, and my friendships short. I could read. I had horses, and siblings if it came to human interaction. The girls from church treated me with a certain coldness because of my large vocabulary and enormous arrogance. I don't blame them now, but I certainly didn't want to be around them then.

Nevertheless, the horses went. I learned the second lesson of a fairy tale... losing what you love. We always know that the princess' handsome prince is waiting somewhere down the road, so we never feel sorry for the Cinderellas who are orphaned. At the time, however, being orphaned must have been a sorrow seemingly beyond all redemption by future happy events. I wasn't even sensible enough to be grateful for my living, loving parents. I grieved for the next two years, pushed the church girls away harder than ever, and sought every opportunity to return to my equestrian life.

Age fifteen. Third lesson of a fairy tale: hard work and dirt... and human filthiness. My parents allowed me to take a job at a local riding stable, as a barn hand. Looking back now, I don't know what the owner was thinking. Most of the horses there were worth upwards of $10,000, and all my coworkers were adults or older teens. I should never have been given such a responsible position, but I didn't know it at the time. During my six months there, I worked harder physically than I ever have before or since.

On average, I spent five hours a day mucking stalls, carrying heavy water buckets, wrestling big horses, and attracting dirt. My first act upon coming home was always a shower, then rest. I got up at 5:30 AM every Saturday morning for those twenty-four weeks, and as the weather got colder, my tasks only seemed to get heavier. Often, I was the only person on duty for the morning or evening shift. It was up to me to lead in, feed, muck out, water, and clean up after thirty horses, each weighing many times what I did, and each equipped with teeth, kicking hooves, and the wicked three-year-old mind of an equine.

One of my coworkers, a girl of college-student age, overdosed on drugs. I came in one morning to receive the news that she had died, apparently unintentionally. When the shock wore off, all I could think of was that she had been alive, and I had talked with her... and now, she, dead. Another girl ran with her high school's drama crowd and knew more than I ever wanted to about sex. A third, our only male coworker, drank. It was a safe enough environment nonetheless, or my parents would not have allowed me to continue, though I don't think that they knew everything about my coworkers. Still, no one ever mistreated me, and much of what was going on passed over my head. I was very, very innocent. But I still believed that horses were poetry, and I still dreamed of reentering the horse world as a rider. I wanted a crop for a vorpal blade... not a pitchfork.

There was nothing fake about the Barn. It was all too real. By now I had been through a stage of liking fairy tales. I had read dozens of them, and could mix or match elements of the stories for my own writing...but the sheer number of them and the similarities from story to story left my cynical, bored. Oh yes, I was beginning to write. Why? Because I had read most of the childrens' classics, and the other books at the library disgusted me. I didn't really think that I could do better, but trying was an improvement over reading Elsie's First Kiss.

Which reminds me... a word about my attitude towards boys. Disdain. I had one crush all through high school, and otherwise boys may as well have been nonexistant. I figured them for housebabies, anyway. So they did soccer and basketball. So what? I had had tennis, a little golf, volleyball, and my beloved horses. I got as dirty in one day at the barn as they did in two or three practices. To put it simply, I wasn't impressed. I also found makeup and "girly-girl" stuff unspeakably dull; I remember complaining to Mom when some of the girls with whom I was supposed to be socializing had had an entire conversation about deodorant brands.

Fairy tales? Yeah, right. Forget Prince Charming--boys are gross. Forget the white horse--been there. Castles are still cool, but the inevitable fairy-tale ending of marriage involved a kiss. Um... no.

That summer I became a Christian, which is a whole different story, and began to live in light of Christ's birth, life, death, and ressurection--what Tolkien called "the greatest Fairy Tale of all." I was remade and adopted into the royalest House, yet I did not understand. I knew that Christ loved me, knew it beyond the shadow of a thought of my fierce former doubts, and I was beginning to understand that I loved Him, but it wasn't a fairy tale to me. It was simply reality, the brightest, richest, most astonishing reality I had ever known, one that made it seem as though I had been living a black-and-white life, but was reborn into color.

At sixteen I discovered the adult classics, and my world did another flip-flop. Over the next two years I read Dickens and Austen and Mitchell and Spenser. I read Shakespeare, Hugo, Dumas, Cervantes, Milton, Marlowe, Goethe, Calvin, Luther, Aquinas, Spurgeon, and Augustine. I read Lewis and Tolkien, Steinbeck and Bradford, Franklin and Madison, Bronte and Scott. Most of all I began to seriously read the Bible.

And I began to like fairy tales. I liked their simplicity, so reminiscent of Christ's parables. I liked the way that they could reduce a complicated reality to true principles. I found in them colors--Prussian blue, purple, saffron, scarlet, black, and gold. I found in them Lewis' stained-glass Christianity.

At this time also I had my first overseas experience of two weeks in Italy. I came back different, but in such subtle ways that I did not at first realize it. What I learned in Italy, in Rome especially, was an appreciation for the weight of Church history. I have touched the graves of first-century Christians, and I have stood in the great Circus, and I saw centuries of faith beneath my feet. Truly, we stand on the shoulders of giants...but we stand with them equally at the cross. This particular fairy tale began to seem to me a very long and involved one, composed of more characters and more fantastic events than I had ever encountered.

Home again, I began to think about college. I visited PHC, wound up sitting next to DuMee in Freedoms, and made the incalculable error of raising my hand. I didn't know any better, but Dr. Stacey actually called on me. I commented on his diagram of Monarchy, Oligarchy, and Democracy. He riposted. I countered. I'm sure he got the better of the discussion, and that my question merely revealed my ignorance, but the details have mercifully been forgotten.

Freshman Fall. My roommate and I were walking up to Founders one mellow evening about a week after Orientation. She said, "I can't believe we're here! Can you? We'll come out of here Presidents and Congressmen! We're gonna shake the world!"

I smiled cynically. Unlike most freshmen, I had no illusions about nation-leading or writing a best-seller. Remember my fairy tale lessons. I knew that the white pony is a stubborn beast, that you lose your dreams, and that real life is hard work. Yet I also understood enough about my God to be sure that fairy tales reflect reality in this: the ultimate ending is happy.

But I was afraid. What if I couldn't make the grade at this difficult, elite school? Socially, my long years of semi-reclusiveness made relationships difficult. I got on with the girls well enough, for in my latter years of high school I had developed several close friendships. Laura. Jessica. Tope. Laura is at Hillsdale now. Jessica is in nursing school. Tope just finished her undergrad at Duke, but she's doing grad studies at Harvard. No rest for the weary... or the superintelligent. Laura and I were at Starbucks together this afternoon. She's going to read theology with me over Break. It was Jessica who readjusted my perspective a few weeks ago when I badly needed it, and returned my attention to the cross. I saw Tope at church this morning. She's learning to crochet. These dear girls are loving and loyal, willing to confront my sin, ready to laugh. My parents were right. I need friends.

Boys were an entirely different story. None of them measured up to my brothers, in my eyes. Housebabies. I got a reputation as a cold fish, which I deserved. I got a reputation for being proud and aloof. I deserved that too. I did very well academically, and tried to ignore my desperate homesickness. Night after night, I would slip outside to stand by the pond or in the fields opposite our dorms and pray. I was consumed with loneliness, but increasingly Christ became my all-in-all. It was necessarily so, for who was there else?

I almost didn't come back after Winter Break, but hard-learned lessons stay with you. I got back up on the horse. After talking with some of the guys whom I knew slightly, I saw how badly I had behaved towards my male classmates, and began the difficult process of breaking down my own walls. Guys were pain and trouble, and I wanted nothing to do with them... but they were also unavoidable. I adapted. They weren't my brothers, but I had no right to judge them by such an arbitrary standard. They frightened me, but I had not right to make preemptive attacks. In the Fall I had used my tongue like a dagger. I learned, slowly, to make a plowshare of it. The harvest has been in golden friendships, painful and troubling at times, but it's never as easy as it looks... and it wouldn't be real if it were.

I had a new word for The Fairy Tale now, gleaned from my classes. It was "metanarrative," and somehow the color had begun to seep out with the new name. Further I plunged into intellectualism, seeking truth, finding only theories. Kant. Kierkegaard. Rousseau. Sometime in my Sophomore spring, toward the end of Freedoms II, I shocked even myself by exclaiming to Dr. Stacey in class, "Sir, they're all so close and so far and so wrong and I'm sick of it!" That was the semester that I had Nietzsche in both Freedoms and Philosophy. I called my texts for those classes "poison which must be read," and with increasing sincerity referred to the Bible as my "antidote."

I knew that I had lost something important. I felt grey and ashy. In my desperation I reverted to very silly schoolgirl nonsense about fairies in Lake Bob, and guardian angels who lived in the lamps on campus. The color seemed gone, so I invented a mythology to restore it, but all I earned was a new reputation... this time for being "romantic" and "out of touch with reality." The last stung most, for I could not bear to be thought of as one who lived in a pink plastic world.

Something happened last summer. Looking back, I suppose you could say that I learned how to be glad. I spent much time with God, rediscovering The Fairy Tale and renewing my mind. As Christ filled my vision, it seemed to me that everything had become cross-shaped. I felt as though my soul were indeed a lamp, and that its walls grew thinner, the flame more clearly distinguished. I felt like the burning bush, for I was on fire but was not eaten up...and yet at the same time...well, I understood better than ever why it is written, "our God is a consuming fire."

I returned to school, and began to drop the Fairy of Lake Bob out of my conversation, except of course for the Legend of Lake Bob, which I still enjoy for its absurdity, and for the number of in-jokes woven into it. I still love to detour behind Dorm 5 on my way to and fro, just to look out over Lake Bob. I love to go there at night especially, to cup my hands around the lamppost's glow and stare across the blue water, or at the winedark sky.

The Fairy Tale ever deepens, in dark colors as well as bright. I keep waiting for something to give out, keep expecting the Freshman and Sophomore cynicism to return, or the overwhelming trials of last semester to crush from me my hope and joy. Apparently, however, a Princess of the House of Jehovah is not permitted to come to lasting harm. It seems that God really is about the business of soul-making, and that I shall have gladness even in the midst of it, and that faith really will turn to sight, and prayer to praise.

I know of no princess whose King-Father took more care of her than mine does of me. I know of no greater Prince than Christ, my dear Lord. And while it is written that He shall return on a white horse, I very much doubt that it will be as naughty a beast as my Treasure was... and certainly not near so dirty.

On the Care and Feeding of Boys

This has nothing to do with anything, except that I felt like writing it. Do not make the mistake, however, of thinking that the care and feeding of boys is an unimportant subject. On the contrary!--it is a matter of great significance, one which has formed the central hobby of women for centuries.

Before submitting to you my comments, allow me to offer credentials. By the last count, I am the fond sister of eight brothers. I have two older brothers by blood and one by adoption. The rest are younger brothers, one by blood and four by adoption. I have lived twenty-one years with three of these lads in semi-peace and quasi-harmony, though both peace and harmony have been on the rise significantly for the last six years or so, and are now at such levels as to render all content.

A word ought to be inserted here, by way of further preliminary, about my attitude towards boys. I like them very much, especially when they are well-behaved or--which is not at all the same thing as being well-behaved--when they are in the act of pulling a clever prank. I like boys of all shapes, ages, and varieties, though I prefer them to look like people and not movie stars. I will wait for another post, however, to give my views on that subject.

With these having been considered, I begin. This post will meander a good deal, following no particular outline. Bear with me; perhaps a useful point will materialize... or perhaps not. At any rate, I am not trying to be profound just now. I have one of my brothers with me, and what follows will take the form of an interview.

"So, Sean, how do you like to be cared for and fed?"

"Being cared for and being fed are the same thing."

"I see. So food is good?"

"Yes. Notice how 'food' and 'good' are spelled almost the same?"

"Uh-huh. Do boys liked to be tucked in and have bedtime stories read to them?"

"Yes... but bedtime snacks are better."

::Laughter all round::

"What, besides food, is the nicest thing about having girls to look after you?"

::Long pause::

"How serious is this?"

"Um, pretty serious. Why? Isn't there something nice about girls besides the food that they make?"

"Of course! Just... um, wondering."

"So....?"

"Girls buy us clothes if we give them money, and tell us what looks bad or good. And...um... they're always right!"

"Do you trust them to do that?"

"Yes, of course."

"What if they tell you to buy a pink shirt?"

"That depends on the girl."

"What do you mean, 'it depends on the girl'?"

"Well, if Christy asked me to buy a pink shirt, then I would of course buy a pink shirt. I'd buy two, in case one gets dirty!"

"Stop buttering me up. You know that I don't think guys should wear pink shirts."

"Fine then. If Christy asked me to buy a pink shirt, I'd say 'no, forget it. Go away.' ....In a nice, godly way..."

"Let's move on. What do your sisters (big or little, adopted or blood) do sometimes that drives you crazy? Maybe we can get some 'what not to do' stuff out of this."

"Um, giggling. And the 'oh, I'm fine' response to everything. The one where you can't carry things for them, or do things for them. What we're thinking is, 'well of course you can do it. We know that. But we want to carry it for you, and you just won't let us!'"

"That seems like a good transition into the other side of this whole issue. What do you think guys should do for the care and feeding of their sisters?"

"Well, encourage them, in writing... and do it to a large group of girls all at once, to avoid being conspicuous."

::Much laughter::

"Okay.... what else?"

"Planning is big. Planning events or things. They can go horribly wrong, but if we tried to plan it really well, or thought ahead, then they appreciate it. You know... something non-spontaneous to bless them. I'm speaking on behalf of all poor penniless college boys who can't buy pretty things."

::Interview tabled because two of my other brothers just appeared in the doorway, heavily armed with a marshmellow gun and a dart gun respectively::

"Well, I guess we'll have to wrap this up. Um... hi guys."

"We've come to take Sean away."

There you have it, folks: words of wisdom from one of my brothers. I will leave you to guess whether he is a big or little brother, and whether a blood relative or an adoptee. He's one of my sweetest boys (not at all movie-star, bless his fuzzy head), and as far as I'm concerned, he can stay another week.

And yes, I already fed him.

No Glory Lives Behind the Back of Such

I want to heap ire on a certain book, and I intend to be quite wrathful about it. In the spirit of Lewis (and for much the same reason) I will not give its name, but rather call it The Red Book, as he called the subject of his critique "The Green Book."

The Red Book is a prime example of what is so distressing about modern Christian Fiction. I am hardly comforted by the fact that its author is a homeschooling mother of nine, the wife of a pastor, and was an English teacher. From her writing, I gather her to be a somewhat talented person who is really interested in literature, especially Lewis and Tolkien. The Red Book is set at Oxford circa 1960, a year after C.S. Lewis' death, and is full of interesting biographical and historical information about Oxford, Lewis, and Tolkien.

It goes rapidly downhill from there. The central character is a twenty-year-old American girl studying at Oxford in her Junior year of college. I don't need to be reminded that I am a Junior, and only just twenty-one, in order to be disgusted by the insipid romance which is concocted for this poor girl, whose name is, unluckily, Kate. The author has invented a completely type-cast young lord; handsome, arrogant, obviously not a Christian, and obviously interested in getting all he can from a short-term relationship with the petite brunette.

Now, mark this. Our heroine, who is--or so we are told to believe--a devout Christian, nevertheless cannot see through the lordling's drivel and nominal Christianity. Kate is supposedly the daughter of a successful lawyer in Virginia, but I'm blessed if I can see that, and I ought to be able to, as I am myself the daughter of a successful lawyer in Virginia. She is in fact a cardboard construct driven by a very simple engine: fascination with Shakespeare and Lewis. Again, I can strongly sympathize. This girl might as well be me, except for the painful fact that she is not complex enough to be a human two-year-old, much less a human twenty-year-old.

Shakespeare, of course, lends us the perfect segue into our other, and ultimate, love interest. Enter handsome young Oxford don David MacKenzie, who just happens to be Kate's Shakespeare tutor, and just happens to be on the downswing from his own painfully-ended engagement to a young lady with whom he "broke up," as they say, for the simple reason that he had been living in sin with her, but suddenly decided to "take his faith seriously" following the death of his friend and mentor--his friend and mentor, none other than C.S. Lewis.

I am sorry to pain you, but so it is. We will skip the love triangle--so boring and maudlin with its endless misunderstandings, misaffections, and jealousies. We will pass over the behavior of David MacKenzie, who, while touted as much-tempted but filled with Galahad's own purity, nevertheless pays such attention to Kate as would severely test any girl's emotional stability and mental peace. We will even pass over the miserable scenes involving his previous intended, a brazen redhead called Charlotte, who in the course of the book fabricates a dangerous illness, apparently in a failed attempt to get David back. I've only skimmed the end, but that is my conjecture. Oh, and in case you were curious... David and Kate save their first kiss for the altar.... so appropriate for a book which might become the standard for postmodern evangelical blah.

Has it come to this! Shall I never again see a Christian novel with more than pretentions to dignity? Do Oxford, Lewis, and Tolkien now have to be dragged in as interesting filler for a dime romance? Must I listen to Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet lisped by a breathless Kate, who had been told to memorize a speech from the Bard, and of course chose that as an appropriate piece to deliver to David MacKenzie while he is examining her paper in his office?

My only solace is that this book was given to me as a Christmas present, that I did not choose it myself, and am free to leave it at home, or better yet burn it, when I go back to school in January. It was given me by someone who would most likely chuckle if he could see this critique, and will most likely agree with me about The Red Book, if he ever gets a chance to read it, which I will make it my duty to see that he does not, for it is entirely beneath his notice.

But don't despair, my dear. It has been a thoroughly lovely Christmas, and I will tell you all about it another time. For now, be content in the knowledge that I have received an Easton Press copy of The Iliad, translated by Alexander Pope, no less, and am in raptures, however it may not seem in me by some large jests that I will make.

My compliments to the author of The Red Book, and I repeat to her a paraphrase of what Petronius wrote to Nero on the occasion of the former's death at the latter's desire.

"Terrorize the people, but do not sing. Abuse the law, but do not write verse. Be a tyrant, but do not offend the sacred Muses."

The Starlight Night

I'm going to heavily ignore all tempting comments on Nietzsche and The Incredibles, since A) my wandering interest has moved on to other topics, and B) I'm not qualified to remark further without devoting additional research and thought to the matter, the which I am not presently willing to undertake, because of "A".

"A" is the case because I am at that point (in the seasonal patterns of my mental landscape) when the charm of ratio has waned, and the allure of the purely sensual is waxing. The concert probably brought it on. Understand then that it is spring in my anima, and never mind that the calendar reads December 24th. I won't attempt to explain further, nor will I apologize. It'll be winter again before you know it, probably including lots of doctrine, since the next two books on my docket are All Things for Good and The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment, both by Puritans.

But right now, it is April. Farewell, therefore, Nietzsche. Welcome to Isaiah, the Song of Songs, treatises on Beauty, disputes (held in mild and mellifluous tones) on aesthetics, and Gerard Manley Hopkins. The lattermost is responsible for this bit of lovely stuff, as delicately balanced as a gyro, and full of breathless sounds.

The Starlight Night

Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!
O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air!
The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there!
Down in dim woods the diamond delves! the elves'-eyes!
The grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies!
Wind-beat whitebeam! airy abeles set on a flare!
Flake-doves sent floating forth at a farmyard scare!
Ah well! it is all a purchase, all is a prise.

Buy then! bid then!--What?-- Prayer, patience, alms, vows.
Look, look: a May-mess, like on orchard boughs!
Look! March-bloom, like on mealed-with-yellow sallows!
These are indeed the barn; withindoors house
The shocks. This piece-bright paling shuts the spouse
Christ home, Christ and his mother and all his hallows.

It doesn't make sense? Well, puzzle over it a bit. At the very least read it aloud and roll the sounds on your tongue. Was there ever such a gorgeous thing as rhythm well sprung?

Christmas Concert

I went with my family to the Kennedy Center in D.C. last night, to hear the Washington Chorus. Many of the songs were familiar, although they had a new arrangement for O Magnum Mysterium. I enjoyed Sing Hevin Imperial greatly, but I loved best Elohim Hashivenu. The lyrics are as follows, in Hebrew and then in English.

Elohim hashivenu.
Vehaer panecha, venivashea.
Elohim tsevaot, hashivenu,
Vehear panecha, venivashea.
Adonai, Elohim tsevaot, hashivenu.
Haer panecha, venivashea.

O Lord God, turn our hearts unto Thee.
Shine Thy light upon us, and we shall be saved.
O Lord God Almighty, turn our hearts unto Thee.
Shine Thy light upon us and we shall be saved.
Our Father, O Lord God Almighty, turn our hearts unto Thee.
Shine Thy light upon us, and we shall be saved.

Notice how the names of God build on one another. First it is "O Lord God," then "O Lord God Almighty," and finally that overwhelming "Our Father, O Lord God Almighty." It made me long all over again to learn Hebrew. I wonder if there are seminaries somewhere that will teach girls, not so that they can become preachers--my understanding of biblical doctrine forbids that--but just to know and to understand... Augustine's scire et intellegere.

The Kennedy Center was as I remembered it from several previous visits; grand after a late 60's fashion, carpeted in deep, bright red. We spent a few minutes strolling on the broad marble terrace, and watched the Potomac flow by. There is nothing like the pomp and circumstance of D.C. at night, in the Center especially. I would have preferred to be at the Cathedral, for I do not especially enjoy 60's architecture, but the acoustics were wonderful, and the selection exquisite. I will not attempt to describe music in prose. For that one needs poetry at least. Sufficive to say here that the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah was breathtaking, and that, having acquired much more appreciation for good music over the last several years, my expectation of enjoyment was, in every way, met and exceeded.

Um.... yeah.

"You're talking about Nietzsche because of an animated movie made for children?!?!"

Charity stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, staring at us.

"Um... yeah." I said.

"We're cleaning out the fishtank too." Dad added, helpfully.

The Incredibles again. Dad and I duked out Egalitarianism, Ayn Rand, Objectivism, Nietzsche, and Nihilism. We took a break from fishtank-scrubbing to peer at Google screens and blog articles.

"Hey Dad, these Objectivists are mostly happy with the movie."

"Yeah, but do you see this? Egalitarians are screaming their heads off."

"I still think that Ayn Rand is just glorifying an aspect of Nietzsche, Dad."

"Okay, Chris, one more time. If A, then B. What's the 'A' again?"

"The 'A' is: 'If there are extraordinary people.' The 'B' is: 'Then they have their own moral standard.' I'm only arguing that Incredibles admits 'A.' They're one step away from Nietzsche, not arrived at Nietzsche."

"Well, Honey, ignoring excellence is as bad as worshipping it."

"True, but I want to know what the cultural implications of this movie will be."

"I think that it very appropriately and very effectively takes a whack at the 'everybody is special' cult."

"But Dad, where does that leave all the 'ordinary' folks? Apart from Christ, they are reduced to simply 'yeah, some people are more special than others, and you're in the less special category, and you can't get out of it. Sorry.' They're gonna get frustrated, and..."

"Grab the other end of this tank, would you Sweetie?"

"Sure." I grabbed. "This is heavy!"

"Yep. Swing it around this way a little..."

"And smelly!"

He grinned like an otter. "Housebaby."

"HEY!"

He knows perfectly well that I, who scorned dares and defied peer pressure all through high school, have a weakness. I can't stand the Somerville term equivalent to "incompetent" + "quitter" + "wimp."

I returned to the subject of our discussion. "I never scoped Ayn Rand and Objectivism, Dad. I mean, I knew of her, and I've done the skimmy on Atlas Shrugged..."

"Yeah, me neither." He said, tilting mucky water out of the fishtank. "It's a glitch for sure, but I never took her seriously."

I privately vowed to deal with the glitch. Ayn Rand is in the library, after all. What else are libraries for?

"Everybody mocks the 'we are all special' cult, Dad. That dog won't hunt no more. What I'm afraid of is that people will recognize this problem and the need to distinguish among persons, but will, being sinful, develop the worst possible criteria for their distinguere... who knows, maybe as bad as Hitler and Nietzsche. Only Christians have the 'one body but many members.' Apart from salvation, why not the superman and the cellar rat?"

"It's a childrens' movie, Honey."

Translation: calm down, kiddo.

I sighed. "This is very complicated, Daddy. We have the culture of the last generation, plus Nietzsche, plus Ayn Rand, plus Postmodernism..."

Dad laughed. "Welcome to the real world, Chris."

I smiled, remembering that the cares of the world don't rest on my shoulders. And anyway, they called Pharaohs and Caesars 'gods'. It wasn't as if we were dealing with something new. I picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the multicolored fishtank gravel, now boiling in its pot on the stove. Sterilizing, no doubt. "When will these be done, Dad?"

He had his back to me at the sink, but I could hear the mischevious smile. "Oh, I figured we'd serve them when they get nice and tender."

"Rocks, tender? Um....yeah."

There is nothing new under the sun, my dear.... and every evil has its answer. Rest easy.

Freedom

I threw my reading aside and glanced at the clock. 3:20 PM. It was the second full book in twenty-four hours. I felt restless.

"I'm going for a walk! I have my cell phone!"

Different jeans. You can't cut it in the woods with those flappy stylish things that they make these days. Braided hair. Where I was going, there are plenty of thorns. I struck off behind the house, judging that I had at least an hour of daylight, and wishing that I knew where my bow had gone. A cell phone is all well and good, but there's nothing like a nocked arrow to make you feel confident about meeting with strangers in the woods.

I skirted the sinkhole, scaring up a herd of deer in the process. "What are you kids doing this close to the road?" I wondered, watching their white tails vanish. I stood easy to give them time, and to devote myself to uffish thought. The sun was pretty low, directly behind me, and cast burning lances across the old yellow grass. In my present mood of boredom and controlled savagery, I did not much fancy the usual route: horse trail to quaint wooden bridge, then on across the flattened grass and through the wood fringe and uphill-downhill to the Glade.

"It's high time," I told myself, "that I had a tour of inspection."

By inspection I meant repossession. I began to wander those woods at 14, and by 16, I had mastered them. I knew every stand of trees, every turn of the stream, every good path and nasty bramble thicket. But you forget, and the woods change. You have to stay sharp. I hadn't been by the back ways in a year or more, and I could feel myself growing skittish of them. Accordingly, I slipped down to the spot where a deer path opened, marked by the still-remaining bones of a small rodent. I had been there when they still had skin. Then farewell to sunlight, and in among the dry rustling leaves.

Ordinarily at this point, I turned left. Today, it was right and a lope. I like to move fast, and I go to the woods to practice, besides archery and tracking, the woodcraft of quiet movement. There were too many dry leaves around for that now, and it annoyed me. Some people can't abide silence; I like it. The expectation of silence is part of what sends me into the forest.

Circle round to the right, until the path ends. All well there. Then turn back and plunge off the path into the Warren. The Warren is a nasty, tricky place: big tangled bushes and low paths that you have to crawl through. It's worth it though, to know the Warren paths. You can hide better there than almost anywhere else in the South part of the wood, and it has the advantage of opening out on high ground: the hill above the Dip. A paintballer would be grateful for the Dip. Splendid cover. I prefer the hill, and so, judging by the droppings, did the deer. They're smart animals; they know what high ground means. Anybody coming towards me would have to approach from lower down, where I could see them moving.

So far, so good. There were few changes in the Warren. Down the Back Way, among the trees, skirt the Broken Treefort, and--whoa there! I pulled up short to listen. Footsteps? Nooooo... not precisely. The deer? Perhaps. Whatever it was, it stopped. I shook it off and kept moving. New thorns had grown up over the place where I usually went down streamside to get across the water. I frowned, and stepped 'em down. The bridge had gone, swept away or something. How long, how long... well, it was the work of a few minutes to make a new one; I only needed a middle stepping-stone, and only because I didn't feel like getting my feet wet.

Thorns, big ones. Even in mid-December, I could smell the skunk cabbages down under that frozen muck. Phew! No wonder I was the only person who ever strayed from the clearly-marked and carefully-kept paths. Now where was that... ah, yes. Gingerly over the barbed-wire fence. Someone had chopped down a tree. Interesting. Here's the edge of the Fields, and there are the kids again, bounding off towards Oakenhall. Laura named Oakenhall, that tumbled mass of oak trees and boulders on the ridge... and behind that the Pine Ridge... and behind that the high meadow... and behind that...

I stopped thinking about terrain. The Fields are always a lovely sight, sloping up to a blue dome of Heaven like the ripples of Demeter's skirt. But it's funny how your mind goes sometimes. As I set off across the sward, and as I paused to crouch by a very late dandelion blooming away under the winter grasses, I began to think--why was I out there at all? Was it just to watch the winter sun blush itself away from a good vantage-point? Was it just to feel the stark and barren loneliness of the high fields?

"Oh, for a horse." I murmured. Those who have not had a fast canter, who have never felt the muscles bunch and roll beneath them, never experienced the pounding exhileration... well. I'm sorry, that's all. But why had I come? It was cold, and sunset, and I was half a mile from home, alone. Why had I come?

A voice from Pirates of the Caribbean popped into my mind. It was Jack Sparrow, sitting by a tropical bonfire with his bottle of rum. "Rigging and sails and deck and hull..." he said. "Those things are just what a ship needs. What a ship is, what the Black Pearl really is, is freedom."

"You're right." I told him. "Trees and birds and grass and deer and a stream... those things are just what a wood needs. What this is..." I felt the wind, and saw the dying sun, and tasted again the wild aloneness. I thought of all the paths that I knew, the way that I possessed this land, and did not possess it at all. I could choose a direction and follow it like a sinking star. Perhaps the Explorers weren't so crazy after all. I felt a faint stirring of their wanderlust.

"What a wood really is, is freedom."

I stood still, glorying in it. I felt fearless, and fierce, and like laughter. But....

But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.

Some Voices

Joan of Arc heard voices, but hers were supposedly angelic. Most people, I think, will talk about "that little voice inside." They mean their conscience, and so do I, but what I wonder is whether everybody experiences "that little voice inside" as a set of definite personalities. Let me explain...

First of all, my sense of propriety is governed by the Duchess and the Lady. The Duchess is very Victorian and wears too many petticoats. She is the one who says "smile" and "be polite" and "sit up straight," in a stern, impeccably George V tone. I dislike the Duchess, but I recognize that she is good for me, just as, supposedly, castor oil is good for me.

The Lady is an entirely different matter. She is grace and graciousness personified--not a fairy, you know, but a tall white-skinned person, who always brings calm and fragile green and rhythm to chaos. Her voice is rich: dark, shining. I want to be like her, but the fact is, she and the Duchess are really one person. The Lady is the principle, the why. The Duchess is the practical, the how. If I want to become the Lady, then I have to obey the Duchess. But I still wish that the Duchess wouldn't wear hoop-skirts and all those yards of lace. It's so stuffy!

These two between them manage my outward behavior during school hours and at social functions, although the Lady is much more prominent for banquets, balls, and big parties. I guess the Duchess knows that, having gotten me into a formal dress, she shouldn't stretch a point by tormenting my life away... Or maybe it's just easier to remember etiquette with white silk gloves on.

Then, you know, there is the Ancestor. Don't worry... I don't worship him. His voice is Duty and Courage: avuncular, bracing, but terribly firm. The Ancestor asks me, "Why are you standing there hesitating? Where is your courage, child? Have you forgotten your House and Name? Have you forgotten that you are a Viking and a Scot?" His is the voice that stings me when I am being a housebaby, afraid of something silly, or afraid of something quite serious which must nevertheless be done. It was the Ancestor who made me get back up on a horse right after I fell off. It was the Ancestor who kept me silent and steady across the stream in Montana. It is the Ancestor who takes me through the PHC wind with a laugh rather than a chattering of teeth.

There are several more, too many to describe now. Most people seem to think that I have a Fairy voice, or a Muse voice. I don't, really. I write by listening to various characters talk together in my head. I take dictation more than anything else. This is, of course, only to be expected from a vivid imagination combined with auditory sensitivity. Lewis wrote from pictures that formed in his mind: the picture of a faun in a wood, or a lamppost. I write from people who wander in and out of my imagination, as they live their lives, giving monologues or dialoguing with others. But these are transient. The Lady, the Duchess, the Ancestor, and others, remain.

Warm Fuzzies, Guys, and Dad

I went to Starbucks, aka Covenant Life Church members' hangout, to write Warm Fuzzies. This is the place where you will almost certainly see pastors, fellow church members, friends, and acquaintances in the course of twenty minutes. Today I spotted a former coworker, two former classmates from high school, and a caregroup leader, all within thirty seconds of arrival. I smiled.

"Ahhh... Starbucks."

But I had a mission, and no time for extensive catching-up with cronies. Warm Fuzzies, my dear, are serious business. These handwritten notes of love and encouragement, made for each separate member of my large family, take hours to craft. They are truly the most meaningful presents on the tree, rolled up into small scrolls and tucked among the ornaments. You don't just sit down and dash them off in an hour on Christmas Eve.

I addressed myself to the task, silently thanking God for an opportunity to tell my dear ones how very, very much I love them, and how I see God's work in their lives. At Daddy's suggestion, I made a list of the Fruits of the Spirit first, and then began to point out those fruits in the lives of each sibling, parent, or grandparent. It was such a delight, so much fun, and so faith-building, to note specific growth and give specific encouragement.

Some guy came in, and patted me on the head. I blinked.

"Hey, Baby."

"Daddy! Hi!"

He grinned at me like the ten-year-old that he is at heart, and passed on to get his coffee. Daddy is thoroughly enjoying his two weeks off from work. I sighed, happy, and turned back to my notes. At that moment...

"Hi, Christy!"

"Hi, Malcolm."

One of the former classmates, a young man of boundless enthusiasm (and disgustingly good looks), seated himself at my table, regarding me earnestly. I put down my pen.

"Christy, I have a question for you."

"Shoot." I was comfortable, and Malcolm's questions are always interesting, to say the least.

"Okay, here's the deal. It's a hypothetical question. I have a friend who might be interested in pursuing a girl in, oh, say a year. But he's concerned about how to grow in tenderness and, you know, that kind of thing. He thinks maybe he should make a goal of chivalry. In your opinion, as a girl, what are girls looking for in guys?"

"You sure this isn't you, Malcolm?"

"No, honest!" Sincerity radiated from his big brown eyes. I stifled my amusement, and considered his question.

"First of all, I tend to shy away from the whole 'chivalry' thing. Chivalry was never practiced in its ideal form, even in the Middle Ages, and the word has been so much distorted or abused nowadays that I don't really think it works as a goal or standard of behavior."

"Okay."

He was waiting for my every word, as if I were an oracle. I decided to level with him. "Malcolm, you aren't going to like this, because you've heard it before. In my experience of living with lots of Christian girls, I think I can say without exception that the kind of girl whom you would want to marry will be most interested in a guy who is wholeheartedly pursuing God. It's just very attractive, to see a guy being passionate about God. So if you want to grow in tenderness, or any good character trait, all I can say is, 'Meditate on, imitate, and pursue God.' I've never found another formula that works."

Dad reappeared at my elbow. I explained Malcolm's question, and my answer, as he sat down. Dad said, "Your answer is impeccable, Honey, but I'm not sure that it's really tailored to the specificity of Malcolm's question."

I made a gesture of inviting him to elaborate. "How so?"

"Well..." He explained that my answer was a general one that applied to every area of life, but that if a guy is specifically wondering about what he should do to prepare for marriage, then he needs to focus on growth in the areas that pertain most to that end. Responsibility. Humility. Leadership. Tenderness. I conceded his point, and decided that it would be much better to let Dad talk to Malcolm. I picked up my pen again...

"Hi guys!"

Joel, who had been studying across the room with Malcolm, stood there. I put down my pen.

"Hey, Joel! Pull up a chair."

He did so, and briefly explained that he and Malcolm had been studying for Literature, History, and Philosophy. I asked Malcolm, "Do you find that my mother's classes prepared you for college work pretty well?"

"Very well! Except, in these 'reflection papers' that they make us do, they don't want us to tell them what we're going to say, say it, and then tell them what we said."

"Huh," I responded. "Weird."

"Yeah. But otherwise, I've been very well prepared for the writing."

"And the reading?" I asked, with a conspiratorial wink. He rolled his eyes. Ah, memories. There were weeks, back in our high school days, when we had 400 pages of reading to complete for a week's worth of History alone.

"Who are you taking for Philosophy?" Dad asked.

"Dr. White. He's really into Shamenism right now."

"Is that so? You know, with all that they've been discovering about quantum physics, it turns out that only Zen-Buddhism and Christianity have an answer for the way the universe is."

It was at that point that I excused myself to go back to writing. I know Dad. If the going looked good, they would be discussing parallel realities for the next hour.

It was actually an hour and a half, and another guy wandered over, and Dad held all three of them spellbound while I wrote notes. Occasional comments drifted through my mental smokescreen.

"Well, plants are innocent." .... "That's why you don't dare pull the plug on these machines." .... "So, in Science Fiction.." .... "Well, everybody writes trilogies nowadays" .... "If this reality were shaped like a cone, you see; Honey, do you mind...?" Dad leaned over to borrow my pen and notepad. I watched him sketch a geometric shape in broad strokes. Dad loves to have a whiteboard when he's teaching, but a notepad is next best.

"Um, Dad... how about this pen?"

He took the proffered pen, and I got mine back. You can't switch pens in the middle of a Warm Fuzzy. It looks funny. I went back to my writing. Half an hour later, Dad finished the discussion and stood to leave. I looked up. "Can I catch a ride back home with you, Daddy?"

"Sure!"

I pushed my stuff together. "Did you enjoy that, Malcolm?"

"It was fascinating!"

I nodded, marveling. Every young man, every young man I've ever known, seems to become an instant fan and pupil of Dad's. It never fails. Daddy held the door open for me, and we stepped outside. A few months ago, at a play rehearsal, I remember solemly informing several members of the cast that my father is perfect. Looking at him this afternoon, absolutely bouncing off the pavement, talking to Mama on his cell phone with the tone of a man in love, and excited about going to Giant to buy dog-food... I'm convinced that I was right. He may not be perfect in an absolute sense--that distinction belongs to God--but he's the perfect father for me and my siblings, and the perfect husband for Mama.

"Honey, your dad is a prince." Mama said to me earlier today, while we both watched him watching a video that one of his clients had sent. It was a movie of their daughter's ballet recital. "Your dad is the kind of guy who watches his clients' daughters' ballet recitals."

Malcolm said to me, as I was walking out the door at Starbucks, "I'm just wondering what girls want, you know?"

Sitting here, thinking about it, I know the right answer to that question. I'll tell you what girls want, Malcolm...

They want someone just like Dad.

Lovin' Home

Have you ever seen a ferret climb over a baby gate? Too cute.

"Rejoice with me, O family!" I yodeled on the stairs, in transit from Olympus to Ithaka. "My room is finally unpacked!"

A person who is not a college student, or has not been one fairly recently, cannot conceive of the infinite difficulties associated with unpacking into a bedroom from a dorm room. Hotpots and mugs have no place. Stacks of textbooks, no longer wanted, nevertheless will not fit into any decent space. The room is strewn with corporate casual garments which will not be worn, or will be worn sparingly, during the more relaxed festivities of the Christmas season. In short, college life doesn't jive very well with home life.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Daddy is reading Ivanhoe aloud. Laura is back from Hillsdale. Marjorie is calling me to come have dropped eggs on toast. My mahogany desk--that siren-- entices me to write Christmas notes. It is well-stocked with stationary, fountain pens, sealing wax... the tools of a lost art. Jessica will be through with finals very soon. Charity has returned from Mexico. Easton Press books are being wrapped for me to open and read and love. I find myself actually tempted--I confess it--to wonder whether twenty-one is really too grown-up, too dignified, to count presents. Why, only think...

But I can't think about that right now. The ferret just scampered over my toes, and a sink full of dishes calls, and I must cease from these transports of glee. I will not, however, stop marveling at grace. Do you have any idea how much fun it is to blow soap bubbles over your dishwashing...?

I find my life of slavery and servitude to be good, deeply good. But then, you know, it all depends on who your master is.

Gratias Ago, Domine

"Oh, Lovey... those onions are chopped just about right!" My grandmother approved, as I poured a cutting-board full of them into the soup pot.

"Can I stay another week?" I asked playfully.

"Well, okay. One more week." Charity said.

Nana, Charity, and I were relaxing together while making turkey soup, since Mom and Dad had a Christmas party to attend, and Marjorie was wrapping presents. It's been a hectic day. This morning, Mom surveyed her six children as we stood gathered around the kitchen counter, and said, "Kids, Christmas is next Saturday, and because of the Mexico trip we're only now starting the shopping. This is insane."

Yes, it really is.

Today we had our traditional "Assault on the Mall." The whole family, armed with six cell phones, "plastic" (credit cards), and the envelopes containing Christmas lists, hit Lakeforest at 10:00 AM. It was beautiful! The cell phones kept us coordinated, and the Starbucks--which a benefactor of mankind had thought to place in the exact center of the mall--was a most convenient meeting place. Our surgical strike forces split and struck... and then all we had to do was keep so-and-so from peeking into somebody else's bag.

"Charity Anne, don't you dare look in my bag!"

"Did you get me a turtle?"

"I'm not going to tell you, silly!"

Charity loves turtles. She loves them as keychains or collectible spoons, as figurines or plush toys, on sweatshirts and mugs... you name it. From ten to two we shopped, with a brief interlude at the food court, where Charity and Mike played chess with the locals while the rest of us looked on.

Mike grinned at me over lunch. "Chris, I finished The First Circle. I was up until 5 AM this morning, but I finished it."

"Lunatic! How was it?"

"It. Was. Good."

I smiled at his emphasis. "My turn now, right?"

The shopping went on until 2 PM. We were ready to drop, but a satisfying pile of presents had been assimilated. I can't describe them, my dear; I'm itching to do it, but if this post fell into the wrong hands....well. Christmas secrets, you know. Charity and Marjorie took me out to see The Incredibles next, and then we wound up at Coldstone, which Marjorie has been wanting to visit for the past five months. I was pleased and amused to see my sisters' reaction to Coldstone ice cream (highly favorable), but we had the most bizarre conversation coming out of the theater and on our way there. It began when the end credits started to roll.

"How did you like it, Christy?" Marjorie asked. Unthinkingly, I replied, "Good, but I find the Nihilism somewhat disturbing." They laughed at me, and I laughed at myself. I'm not at PHC any more, Toto! But then Marjorie asked, "Why?"

I spent the entire trip to the parking garage, and then across town to Coldstone, giving Marjorie a brief (but I hope thorough) lesson in nihilism, beginning with the Latin nihil and ranging over Nietzsche, World Wars I & II, the relations between Jews and the rest of Europe from 70 AD on, 1930's Germany, the Weimar Republic, Medieval treatment of Jews as a race, the concept of "beyond good and evil," the Superman, etc. etc. etc. Charity supplemented, and Marjorie stayed interested.

It was astonishing that an animated Pixar film could spark such a discussion, but really, the undertones of that movie are only one step away from Nihilism. Its ideology is one of, "If 'everybody is special,' then no one is. These superheroes are special (read: ubermensch), and they should be allowed to exist as 'special people.'" What disturbed me was the premise that some folks are just plain better than others. It seemed a very short step from there to Raskolnikov and the Holocaust and Aryans and all the rest. I may be wrong, of course... but that was my first impression.

Marjorie's attention and intelligent questioning was a delight. She's grown up so much. Yesterday, she was preparing to write an essay on the possibility of Democrats trying to secede from the Union on account of their most recent election loss. My almost-fourteen-year-old sister is reading the newpaper and commenting on politics!

We got back, and Nana came over. The talk began with Ruled Britannia, but we were soon on the Elizabethan Era. I pulled out Worldbook Encyclopedia and began to read excerpts out loud while we sat in the Family Room admiring the tree, the fire, and the Christmas lights.

"You mean that Bloody Mary and Mary, Queen of Scots, weren't the same person?" Nana asked, sounding surprised.

"No ma'am. Mary Stuart (Mary, Queen of Scots) was Elizabeth's cousin, and her son James Stuart became James VI and succeeded to the throne of England after Elizabeth died in 1603. Bloody Mary was Elizabeth's half-sister, daughter of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. Henry VIII was married to three different Catherines; this was the first one. "

"Ohhhh!"

I shared her surprise. Much as I have loved and studied the Elizabethan Era, many of its major details continue to escape me. If asked, I would have pegged Elizabeth's death at 1601 or 1602, not 1603. Also, I could not have explained the different Marys. I was clear on the three Catherines, and I know--bless Dr. Vanderpoel!--that Anne Bolyn had a sixth fingernail growing out of each pinky (which is a little bit gross, if you think about it), and had a mole on her neck and was considered to be a witch by many.

From there we strayed somehow into turkey soup and talking over classical composers. The comparative virtues of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and Tchaikovsky were discussed at length, along with The Nutcracker and whether or not we wanted rice and carrots in the soup. The Ride of the Valkyries and Disney's new Fantasia and Rhapsody in Blue all figured in our soup-making conversation, while 103.5 played softly in the background.

My Nana can make a soup. She also knows classical music, and art, and paints, and is quite good. "If I were to play an instrument," she told me, "it would be the cello. Violins are just a little squeaky." I couldn't quite agree, because I love a well-played violin...but I hate a high and reedy one. We decided to compromise on the viola. The cello is not quite in my nature, as it is in hers. I'm just not that reddish-brown; I tend toward silver and blue. Flutes appeal to me, and so does Mozart, and I can appreciate a cello. Indeed, I love Bach's first cello suite. But... but something. Personality? Something.

"I love the Dutch painters," she said. "The things that they can do with light streaming in and colors!"

"I'll take you to the National Art Gallery," I promised. We talked about her trip to Vienna, and our joint trip to Italy.

"Which was your favorite city, Nana?"

"Oh, my! I loved Florence, and Venice, and Pompeii."

I smiled. Memories...

Now Nana has bundled up in her fleecy jacket and gone up the street to bed. Charity and Marjorie are amusing themselves somewhere. David is alternately writing his last school project and distracting me with funnies from the newspaper. Something soft and classical pours from the computer speakers. It occurs to me, my dear, that I am one of the richest people I know. I mean... all this, and Heaven too!

Gratias ago, Domine, qui mihi dat vitam aeternam! Da mihi Domine scire et intellegere... et amare... et orare.

Revisions of Style

During a break from school, I try to discipline myself toward the writing of a blog post each day. Believe it or not, diurnal blogging is a wonderful writing exercise.

"Christy, you know that I differ from you in style..."

"Yes, Danya."

"And I'm not saying that I don't like your posts..."

I laughed. "What is it, kiddo?"

"Well, your style is... um... intense."

"That's bad?"

He tried again. "It's not BAD. It's just a little--oversaturated."

I pondered. "How far off the mark are we talking here? On a scale of one to ten?"

He scratched his head. "Maybe a three?"

"So you don't want me to delete the stuff I've done."

"No! Not at all."

I grinned. "Next post I write, Danya, I'll have you check it for me. Thanks for the critique, and I'll work on it over Break."

"Cool! Oh, Krasiva, I have so much cool stuff to show you..."

And believe me, he does. Aside from his extensive photobucket collection, and the five-minute movie (a modern version of the Prodigal Son) that he did for one of his final projects, my little brother is a gifted writer. He's dead-accurate in saying that our styles differ. Danya tends to be understated, sometimes too much. I tend to favor description and repetitio, MUCH too much.

I'm so grateful for my favorite critic, and I'll be playing around with different styles for the rest of Break.

What Have We Given Up?

I was thirsty this morning either for a history lesson or a good long dictionary entry. The Catholic Encyclopedia, that most helpful resource for those interested in theology and church history, provided me with both. Here is an excerpt.

The word for Christmas in late Old English is Cristes Maesse, the Mass of Christ, first found in 1038, and Cristes-messe, in 1131. In Dutch it is Kerst-misse, in Latin Dies Natalis, whence comes the French Noël, and Italian Il natale; in German Weihnachtsfest, from the preceeding sacred vigil. The term Yule is of disputed origin. It is unconnected with any word meaning "wheel". The name in Anglo-Saxon was geol, feast: geola, the name of a month (cf. Icelandic iol a feast in December).

The history of Christmas itself is a long and fascinating tale. It originated in Egypt, of all places. People with names like "Silvia of Bordeaux" and "Chrysostom" wrote about it. Saints and church fathers argued endlessly about whether or not Christ was born on that day specifically. King Cnut, in the twelfth century, had to set up fasting laws for Christmas, just to slow down the merrymaking riots. There are three masses traditionally given on Christmas Day, "at midnight, dawn, and in die." Gloria was sung only at the first mass. And so on...

I have been pondering all semester the concept of "Christian realism" and the ways in which postmodern (chronologically, not philosophically) Christians seem to ape the secular culture rather than establishing--or rediscovering--their own. There are pages of peoples and ages associated with this feast of Christmas. This is a very rich heritage!

I appeal to history: let it illuminate for us the Christian tradition. Let it induce us to wonder what we have given up, and whether anything has been gained by the sacrifice.

Time Now to Heal

I once had a professor who told me, "bleed all over your writing." Her point was, I suppose, that good writing comes from the very heart's blood: it is genuine and passionate. When I laugh, my writing should express delight. When I grieve....you understand the rest. That is the principle, and it is one that I can appreciate, my dear; but I set another above it. It is the principle that weeping is only permitted to last for a night. One night. One only.

Last summer I was in Montana, in the Beartooth mountains with family and friends. We were hiking up to a particular lake for our campsite, and it was cold. Four miles in, rain began to pelt us. We had three children, all tired and grumpy. I was twenty, too old for tears, but when I saw the mad, freezing stream ahead, with a hundred-foot drop on the other side of that shaky bridge... my heart rebelled.

"Oh, God, I can't. Lord, I can't!"

Why, I wanted to know, were the dads intent on camping further up the valley? We had passed many pretty spots; surely any of them would do for a site! It was so dangerous; couldn't they see that? We were eleven and a dog. Could all eleven possibly cross those few sticks in safety? If you have never seen a mountain stream, then you have not understood the words "cold" and "fast". I did not think of it as water. I thought of it as a raving beast, by which my adventure-hungry brothers and father would be swallowed. I kept muttering, "a camp further up is a stupid thing to die for."

Oddly, I was not at all afraid of going over myself. I knew that I wouldn't really feel much; it would be finished too fast. But what if one of the children should be swept across the rocky lip, dashed down to be broken and killed...? Nate and Mike were standing in the stream to help us across. What if their legs simply got too numb and their grip failed? In such furious water...

We did all get across, though I never want to relive those moments again. I am thankful that they have not visited me in nightmares. We hiked further up the valley, but our proposed campsite had been waterlogged by unexpectedly high water levels. The women and children waited while our menfolk circled the area, looking for another option. We were four miles in, and if the dads got lost, or if we became separated, I wasn't at all sure of finding the way back. Besides, it gets cold up there at night: forty degrees. Besides, there are bears. And the rain. Hypothermia? Maybe. Whatever else, there was no way back but across that same stream. That was the really horrible thought.

So we waited. Finally the men appeared and announced that a site had been found. To my bitter surprise, they had decided to camp right beside that stream, on a rocky outcropping not twenty yards from the "bridge." The parents were unpardonably cheerful, and my brothers seemed to be enjoying the entire experience. Even the kids brightened, once Nate got a fire going. Food, dry socks, and tents appeared under the dads' diligent efforts. I went to bed, hugging my littlest sister close to stop her shivering... and my own. I couldn't think about anything except having eventually to recross the stream. I didn't feel anything except anger. I was furious.

Why? Because the situation had tested me. I had been placed in a position of utter helplessness, where my only role was one of trust. Did I trust God? Did I trust the dads? Oh, no... not at all! I had sinned in unbelief, in anger, and done it so thoroughly that I shocked even myself. That was a terrible night of darkness. I woke to a cold dawn, but the rain had ceased. A breakfast fire crackled somewhere near, and human voices murmuring above the rush of water. Fumble-fingered, I opened the tent flap... and found a wonder.

It was this way: the stream was fed by a lake. Lakes up there are numerous and narrow. This was one of the small ones, but "small" in the mountains means something different. It was probably not more than three acres; it curved around our campsite, became the beast-stream, and dashed off downward. Thus, although I could hear the stream close behind me, it was hid by the great rock beside which we had camped. All I saw before me was a quiet lake that scarcely rippled. It stretched away across our small valley, and ceased at a line of trees, themselves only a little green against the bare brown walls of mountain that rose six hundred feet above us.

It was like standing at the bottom of the Well of the World, and sunlight lay warm over everything. I had never seen a place more illuminated, green, and wild. White star-flowers bloomed among the hairy grasses. The air was thin and pure. I breathed it. I shall never breathe the like again. I stared at the lake, the Well-walls, the blue, blue sky... and the tiny flowers. And I was ashamed.

"Dad!" Someone shouted, "What are we gonna call the camp, and the lake?" My family must have a name for everything, you see. "What should we call it, Dad?"

"I have a name for it." I said, stepping forward to join the fire-circle and the namers. "I have a name."

"What is it, Sweetheart?"

"This is Lake Joy-in-the-Morning," I said solemnly.

"Sounds good to me!" Someone said. The conversation turned to breakfast, and who had the toilet paper roll, and whether or not Buddy, the dog, should have been allowed in somebody's tent last night, and why shouldn't the boys be allowed to build a proper bridge further upstream, so that we could cross better on our return trip...

I wandered away. They would build a new bridge, a safe one. I would not have to worry about one of the children falling. There would be fire and marshmellows, and chocolate and walks and sunning, and long experimentation with swimming in the frigid lake. The dads had known best all along. No one would get lost, no one would meet a bear, no one would be hurt or sick at all. All this was true, although I didn't know it yet. The fears were still there, but they had been crowded into the back of my mind. I was ashamed. I was ashamed because I knew that I could trust God, that God is trustworthy, and that I should have done it. The night had been dark indeed, but I knew that daybreak is always only a few hours away, and I ought to have remembered it.

"I won't forget," I promised, in my soul. I spent that entire day sitting by the lake, watching the sunlight on it and pondering God's sovereignty. I wanted to fix it in my mind and memory, so that I could never forget.

And I have not forgotten. The semester has been full of pain, sorrows large and small, more than I ever knew before. But the image of that lake, by which I spent an entire day learning to trust God, has not faded. I can see it now, sitting here at a computer in Maryland. I could see it all this autumn, while the hard theory that I was taught suddenly in Montana has been slowly translated into practice, through trial by fire, in Virginia.

Today, I was sweeping up dead green-yellow leaves from the tree in our sunroom. Full morning light fell across them, lying there jumbled in the dustpan, and all at once in my heart I was awed before their light-on-golden beauty. They were for me joy in the morning... and this time the night was not so terrible, my dear... for I have learnt something about what it means to trust God.

Let grieving go. Do not bleed on. It has had its one night, but joy is come--Oh, Emmanuel!--and morning is come. Time now to heal, O my soul. Time now to heal.

Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken

Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee.
Destitute, despised, forsaken, Thou from hence my all shall be.
Perish every fond ambition, all I've sought or hoped or known.
Yet how rich is my condition! God and Heaven are still mine own.

Let the world despise and leave me, they have left my Savior, too.
Human hearts and looks deceive me; Thou art not, like them, untrue.
And while Thou shalt smile upon me, God of wisdom, love and might,
Foes may hate and friends despise me, show Thy face and all is bright.

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure! Come, disaster, scorn and pain!
In Thy service, pain is pleasure; with Thy favor, loss is gain.
I have called Thee, "Abba, Father"; I have set my heart on Thee:
Storms may howl, and clouds may gather, all must work for good to me.

Man may trouble and distress me, 'twill but drive me to Thy breast.
Life with trials hard may press me; Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
Oh, 'tis not in grief to harm me while Thy love is left to me;
Oh, 'twere not in joy to charm me, were that joy unmixed with Thee.

Take, my soul, thy full salvation; rise o'er sin, and fear, and care;
Joy to find in every station something still to do or bear:
Think what Spirit dwells within thee; what a Father's smile is thine;
What a Savior died to win thee, child of heaven, shouldst thou repine?

Haste thee on from grace to glory, armed by faith, and winged by prayer,
Heaven's eternal day's before thee, God's own hand shall guide thee there.
Soon shall close thy earthly mission, swift shall pass thy pilgrim days;
Hope soon change to glad fruition, faith to sight, and prayer to praise.

- Lyrics by Henry F Lyte, 1824, revised 1833.

Welcome Home

I am sitting here listening to the Vienna Boys Choir perform "My Heart Will Go On." Not kidding, folks. It makes me laugh every time I hear it, and this is just that sort of night. I also have a species of bug-eyed helmet on my head, courtesy of Danya. Maybe he thinks that it will help me focus, but have you ever tried looking through inverted, red-tinted plastic cups? How about with the bottom of a plant-holder for a mouthpiece? He informs me that this is a "legitimate dollar-store gas mask." Do I believe him? Nyet. There's too much classy duct-tape on that baby for it to be a legit dollar-store product. Oh yeah...I'm only on the computer at all because I need to research for a Physics paper on nuclear hydrogen experiments. It's due Tuesday, but at the moment David has finished taking a pair of pruners (think of two-foot scissors) to the mouthpiece of the "gas mask," and is singing into his tinny toy microphone through the hole which has been created. Distracting isn't the word for it.

"Why, Danya? Why?"

"It's homework, Krasiva."

The sick thing is, I believe him. Graphics Art majors at his school take classes in fingerpainting and hang logs from trees for credit. Meanwhile I, the Literature major, sit here researching nuclear hydrogen experiments.

And now the Vienna Boys are singing "Only Time."

I think that I'm justified in feeling myself to be at home. Eggnog please, garcon!

Sanctuary

I woke at an indecently early hour this morning, but I woke in my own bed. My room is the brightest of the family bedrooms, or cubiculae, as Latin would have it. It was too soon for sunlight, although my windows face east. Shadows, shadows everywhere, clinging to my walls, my carpet, the dark mahogany dressing table and its candleholders, the tall Queen Anne desk, the portrait of me, age twelve in a blue satin dress. Whenever I come home, I find myself searching the eyes of that little girl, wondering "Could she have known that she would be me?"

No, she could not have known. But this morning I didn't even have time to ask the question. By eight, I was at Jessica's house to pick her up for fellowship at Starbucks. Her parents, dear friends, were already having their quiet time side by side in the family room. I paused to talk with them. Jessica's father is one of the pastors at CLC, and my favorite high school Literature professor. He asked me how the semester had been. "It's been tough," I answered quietly. When you mean something, you don't have to shout it. Its weight is already there. He picked up his Bible and read to me from Psalm 107. I listened, and the words sank into my thirsty soul. "Thank you." Again, quietly.

Jessica and I talked for two hours, and I found my sense of perspective largely restored. I'm not the only one who has been having a rough time of it. Encouragement and cross-centeredness flowed from her. When we were through with her semester, my sin, and God's grace, the conversation turned to Russian literature. Jessica loves the Russky novels, and I told her that I've fallen for them too. She told me about a book called Gray is the Color of Hope, by a Russian woman who learned to love God as a third-grader in Atheist class.

Gray...like the shadows on my walls this morning. Gray, like a peaceful river in autumn, when the trees flame bloodred, and the land is dying. Gray, the color that I always associate with cathedrals and stained glass. Gray is for hope, for gray is not black, but rather a brightening to white. And white is the sum of all colors, just as God is the sum of all perfect attributes.

Color of cathedral, color of sanctuary. Sanctuary! I still remember reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and how that word rang through it. Only in that book, there was no sanctuary, not even in the great cathedral. For me, sanctuary is a breath away: a breath of prayer, a breath of praise. How do they live who have not this hope? I have asked that many times this semester. I was speaking with David this morning at Starbucks, and he was telling me his latest writing project, about auras of description, Nihilists and Progressives and Relationalists, and Godot and Sarte and God.

I told him, "Danya, when we were singing last night in worship at the Singles Meeting, and we sang about how we desire to see every nation proclaiming God... Danya, I could only think of the literature that we have been reading this semester, and the misery of Heart of Darkness. Danya, it is all one long wailing. How do they survive? How do they bear it, Danya? I could not live one hour apart from Christ. How do they live?"

He saw that there were tears in my eyes. "Shhhh... it is all right, Krasiva." This is the season of hope. Winter is gray, and in the gray bursts a star, the Daystar, the Christ. Sunlight dispels dawn-grayness, and the Sun of Heaven is come among us. Emmanuel. We have hoped for Him, and He has come. Not six weeks ago I completed a two-year study of the Old Testament. Ah, my dear, they waited for so long! Generations. So too do we wait His return in glory, but we wait in grayness, in hope, for He has walked among us once. Behold, He is coming soon.

My sanctuary is not this house, the shadows on my wall, the dear love of my dearest ones. I come before my God daily, point to Christ, and cry, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary in Him, for He humbled himself beyond belief, and He gave me gray hope, and He burst and dawned on my life, and I trust in Him, and my days are not one long wailing. Sanctuary! He has born my afflictions. The punishment that was upon Him has bought for me peace. Oh, my God! My God has walked upon the lowly earth in earthly form with men of earth, and He has healed us, the broken-hearted. Sanctuary, sanctuary, sanctuary in Him, in His death, in His life, in His sovereign power and gracious love.

Veni, veni Emmanuel... return to us, who mourn in lonely exile here... in lonely, longing exile, but in exile that is gray, and shot through with pricks of light.