Looking Back

One year ago today, I shut myself into our SUV and sobbed as we drove away from the dearest faces on earth. I followed the square yellow truck northwards, through sleepy Southern towns and flooding Georgia cities, through awe-inspiring mountain passes and quiet peaceful forests. And finally, Maryland. 

A year later, I'm back, and I'm so much richer than I was but one year ago. I've gained more dear, darling faces that I weep to leave. I've gained another home in the beautiful hills of Maryland. I've gained stories of my King's faithfulness and love in times of deepest struggle. I'm back, and I'm blessed. 

One song rings through my mind as I look back on the eighteenth year of my life, the hardest, most painful and the best, most beautiful year of my life. One song in particular that looks backward and marries the tears and the pain with the joy and the hope found only in God.

I never have and never will walk alone.

Standing on this mountaintop

Looking just how far we’ve come

Knowing that for every step

You were with us

Kneeling on this battle ground

Seeing just how much You’ve done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Yes, our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did You leave us on our own

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

Kneeling on this battle ground

Seeing just how much You’ve done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone

Carried by Your constant grace

Held within Your perfect peace

Never once, no, we never walk alone

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did You leave us on our own

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

Every step we are breathing in Your grace

Evermore we’ll be breathing out Your praise

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

(Never Once, Matt Redmon)

Everyday News

::    Here's a bit I just rediscovered . . . I'm not at all unorganized, *ahem*.     ::

There's nothing like that gloriously sweet, wafting scent of freshly cut grass. Sometimes I think cows are blessed little creatures to be able to eat something as sweetly, deliciously smelling as grass. . . .

How's that for a conversation starter? ;-)

This morning God woke me up again to His gloriously beautiful world as I drove along and good-morning-to-this-fair-assembly-ed my way along sweet country roads brimming over with freshly flowering tulips and cherry blossoms. I'm not a city girl. If I didn't know that before, seven months in a crowded D.C. suburb has convinced me of it. Small southern towns, or maybe even Yankee country ones, are much more my cuppa. As one of my favorite bloggers once expressed, without the greenspace, quiet, and yes, even the Southern humidity, I lose something very much a part of myself, and yet I always find another bit of Jane Ellen -- or is it another Jane Ellen entirely? -- whilst in the city.

All these little thoughts strolled their ways across my mind this morning as I drove home -- on a "completely intentional, I-totally-know-where-this-road-goes, senic route" -- after posting a package, and it occured to me that I have done a poor job at keeping you posted on my adventures during this odd year. I'm not very good at simple updates, for there is something of the actress in me always preferring a good soul out-pouring to a holiday snapshot rambling. But one day I'll wish I had documented daily life during P.C. And so here I am.

For those of you unaware, "P.C." stands for Pastor's College, the whole reason for my living in Maryland. My dear father has been diligently slaving away at his books for the past seven months; we've dubbed him "the hermit" here because of his habit of sitting in one corner of his bedroom, back to the world, whole body hunched forward in a book or fingers tap-tapping away at a laptop. But unlike seminary or even university, Pastor's College is about more than theology and doctrine, more than professors and students, more than graduation and ordination. It truly is a whole family, whole life ordeal. Thrust into a circle of people all from different backgrounds but in similar situations, it's a time when God takes up his knitting needles and starts knit-purling heart strings together. (I pray none of you are offended by that metaphor -- what would Rachel Lynde say?)

There are twenty three family units here, twenty two dear, wonderful, friends-forever families and one unattached young man. I am the oldest P.C.K. -- Pastor's College kid, as we're referred to by . . . non-P.C.K.s . . . what is this fascination with abbreviations? -- living here with my family and one of the few above the age of ten. That makes for plenty of babysitting opportunities, let me tell you. But I couldn't be happier, really. Many of my mornings are spent encouraging young girls in their musical and scholarly pursuits; many of my evenings are whiled away playing house, acting charades, doling out stories, and holding sleepy babies. Actually, truth be told, the average age of my closest circle of friends in the P.C. is around four. (And, no, I'm not concerned about that.) :)

Other than playing with children, my time is happily passed with a high dose of simplicity. My senior year of high school is probably my easiest one since toddlerhood, and consequently I'm far more behind than I've ever been since, well,  probably toddlerhood. But spring fever's pumping through my veins this Holy Week and with it diligence. Hopefully I'll prove a trendsetter for myself. Next year looms ahead of me like Everest in my simple path, but even Everest in all its towering glory stirs up the dust of an adventurous soul.

::    Afterthought: I'm sure I had ample more details that I intended to share before this little post slipped through the cyber-cracks, but I've long since forgotten what they were. So now you can just jump to the conclusion, which I had already written, and you can get a picture of just how not-intuitively I dream up blog posts. Actually I think I had mentally composed the beginning and the end of this post and attempted to write something to glue the two together. Fail.    ::

I was driving north out of the bustle of the city to guard some sweet children in their slumber this evening. (That's my epic way of saying "babysitting," because doesn't that term just bother you, too? I mean think about it . . . ) And the setting sun was casting such warm golden light onto the maples, red with blooms, and her sister trees dripping with infantile leaflets. All around me was naught but warmth and fairy dust. But as I rounded the bend in the road, sleepy Apollo pierced down the roadway in all his last minute mustering. Indescribably golden, like the purest honey and the softest butter, that sunset demanded such reverence and awe yet incited impish desires. All I wanted to do was drive straight for that sun, into the sunset, and bask in all that amber goodness.

No, life in Maryland is far from bad.

*sigh*

In Search of Spring

In Search of Spring

A poem in honor of a childhood slipping onto the pages of history and a womanhood waiting to be written.

I come out in search of Spring today,
That ever bonny nymph,
The carefree sprite
Of color and life,
The dear companion of my youth.

She ever was my faithful friend,
Regardless of year or season,
Whatever they say,
Even winter days,
For spring lives in lands beyond reason.

For Spring, to me, was not bound by time,
As a wand'ring gypsy lives unconfined.
March until June,
And she must be through?
A more unthinkable thought was not harbored.

So dear, laughing, lovely Spring,
Imaginative, mischievous, playful Spring,
A bringer of life,
A killer of strife,
Wove round my heart like Irene's string.

But time must pass and youths must grow
And labor over words and sums,
So playtime wanes
And the heart does pang
For the sunny days of eternal Spring.

But today, I come to play again
And have a jolly springtime.
Yet though I call
And call and call
My childhood chum stays away.

Where has she turned her brilliant eyes?
And where are her tawny curls?
And her ivory hands?
And her ruby lips?
And her voice, the envy of birds?

Can it be that I -- I? even I? --
The eternal, hopeless elf-friend
Could have grown
Enough to be alone,
Forsaken by the elves and fairy dust?

"It cannot be," is my resolution,
So harder I resume my search.
And, lo, I see
Faint as can be
The evidence of my darling Spring.

She is not gone forever, no,
But eternally she is changed.
Or perhaps it is
I who lives
In a different way than before.

Perhaps children do grow and learn
And some forget the fairy folk.
But those like I,
Who'd rather die,
Remember them always when grown.

For Spring did return today,
Though she lives beyond my call.
She lives in the breeze,
In the waves of the sea;
Her dress virgin moss, grass, and flower.

Her voice echoes through my womanhood now
In the song of the bird and the shore.
Her body still warms,
In the sun's golden arms,
And the stars are still her jewels.

So I, like Wendy, now leave Neverland
To make room for my own dear child.
She will play
With Spring someday,
And I will bask in memories wild.

Save the Libraries

Prompt: If you were given $5000, how would you use it to promote education in your community?

The cool, quiet of a building of books has never failed to cheer my spirits, to enliven my imagination, to broaden my horizons. Libraries are my favorite places under heaven, places like no others, but soon to be places of the past. On an extended vacation, I drove block after block searching for a public library, to no avail. Friends explained: libraries all over town had closed for renovations but never re-opened -- budget cuts and zero interest, the serial offenders.

As Cicero stated, “A room without a book is like a body without a soul,” so a community without books is soulless, lifeless, and ignorant. Libraries, the homes of books, are essential to education but are viewed today as luxuries, evidenced by the ruthless budget cuts. We strive to save the earth, the lost, the manatees, but who will rescue the libraries? With the proper funds and special events, libraries can woo citizens back: regular toddler’s story-times, children’s homework helps, modern resources for teens, book clubs for adults, family enrichment evenings, educational lectures, and book drives for charity. 

After a class, I zipped down the road and into the children’s corner, my favorite spot in my library, only to find it empty. Not a soul, not a sound inhabited that room -- only the walls, the shelves, and the books. With five thousand dollars, I hope to banish empty libraries in my community. May their memory be erased and libraries eternally be beacons of knowledge.

Scholarship applications are one facet of my life right now. ;-)

January 14, 2012

My meditation for the day has been Psalm 121: "I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD is your keeper; the LORD is your shade on your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. The LORD will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore."

A somber passage to be my January soul-song, my driving anthem for a new year. Yet this year of all years I am reminded that sin is present, that suffering is rampant, that hurt is acute. I am reminded that sadness, loneliness, bitterness, and tears are part of the package of a sojourner in this land. I am reminded that our plans, ideals, and desires really mean nothing in light of eternity. The fact of the matter is that we are a people who have wrecked havoc on this land through our selfishness and pride but that there is a God, and He reigns over all with a omnipotent, sovereign, yet merciful and loving hand.

So while sacrifice and pain and ridicule and fear will always be a way of life on Earth, while dreams dashed and plans gone awry will always be mingled with joy, while feelings and relationships will always be hurt, we have a promise of comfort.

In the midst of conflict, even I, with nothing to resent nor complain about, will shed tears and fear the future. Yet in this moment of darkest night, I have felt more comfort and un-alone than I have felt in months. For indeed, I realize now that trials are not necessarily to test our faith or to ensure the depth of it. This trial, at least, is giving me sight of the fruit of my faith. This evening as I sat on my bed, eyes dry and a-burning from tears and body exhausted from a day-like-eternity, I felt the presence of my God. I felt Him, I saw Him, I spoke to Him. He saw me, He embraced me, He spoke back.

Faith is a struggle, dear ones. Never will we sojourners come to a point in this foreign land when faith will be easy or constant. Faith is a fight, a fight 'gainst great beasts of the Enemy. But faith is a fight well worth the taking. For -- listen and believe, friends -- in times of need, our faith will be rewarded with peace, comfort, hope, and sight.

I do not understand everything;

I do not welcome every piece of my life.

But there is hope beyond understanding,

And there is peace to be found in strife.

Take heart, O downcast soul,

Take heart, again I say.

For tomorrow the dawn will come,

Tomorrow will be a new day.

There will be time for tears,

But there will be time for laughter.

If not in this life and world at present,

Then in the Promised Land ever after.

A Medley

the sleigh bells and silver bells

are ringing ding-a-dong,

so merrily on high,

and all the children are snuggling up in bed

dreaming of sugar plum fairies

and tannenbaums and white Christmases,

and the merry gentlemen are resting

in the hope of the babe, the son of Mary,

and thoughts are a-turning

to the little town of Bethlehem,

to that (not so) silent night,

to the the child away in a manger,

and the the herald angels are heard on high,

singing gloria! gloria! in excelsis deo! hark!

and the faithful, joyful, triumphant are gathering

on this night divine to sing hallelujah,

for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.

From An Afternoon Walk

The Leaves
Maryland, September 7, 2011

Who dares to pluck the feathers from the trees so strong and high
And choose to treat as poultry God's great pillars of delight?
Who shears the bushy wool from verdant, pasture-dwelling folk
To leave so bare and naked trees like wheels with spindle-y spokes?

'Tis autumn, cruel and cold, who rips leafy plumage from the sky
And clips all warmth and color from tall oak, beech and pine.
Like death, he whispers and down she comes, gone with but a stroke;
Summer's destined time to fall, her jewels choked in gard'ner's smoke.

Just so you know, I have nothing 'gainst autumnal cheer and season; indeed, I've longed for a relished this moment, when I could see the transition coming! I love fall -- it is my favorite season -- but this is what flowed from mind to pen today... Just so you know.

Morning Ramblings

The all-too-familiar alarm interjects its loud ringing into my warm slumbers, Tone 9 from my cheap, Wal Mart cell phone, the default alarm because I'm too lazy at 11 pm to change it. As always, my lighter sleeping sister throws her arm out to the red phone button, then rolls over and closes her eyes again. I stretch and then yank my worn quilt up to my chin. Even in August, a Floridian in Maryland can feel the weather differences.

Ah, that's better. Cozy and warm. I could just close my eyes for a minute...

Forcefully, I roll over and prop my chin up on the cold headboard, looking out the window in a half-hearted attempt to stay awake. As the pine trees wave their porcupine fingers at me, I smile; those pines lining the fence are a little bit of North Florida to greet me in the morning and shade me in the afternoon. I love to watch the trees and think of the sap pumping through their veins while the blood pumps through mine. They are so alive, the trees, unmovable and still as they seem.

My eyes then flit down to the little fish pond, where the stone cherub still soaks his feet after Irene shoved him from his station on the bank.

Winston? Henry? Other little, unnamed guy we just discovered? Humph... Too early for frogs and toads to take a swim, I guess.


The colors and textures are so vibrant in that little area, bursting in hues of green, purple and white: fuzzy petunias, wispy canary grass, fragrant lavender, pearly vincas, and other unknown lovelies. Flowers in the morning are unlike flowers at any other time. Surviving the chills and darkness of night, they glisten in the sun arrayed in dewdrop diamonds. But this morning, I catch a glimpse of something unnaturally yellow, reminiscent of a sharpie highlighter, gracing the flower bed. It's Mr. and Mrs. Goldfinch. They're shy little creatures, so keep still and hushed -- at the first sound those little winged friends are off to find more private quarters.

Looks like an intruder is already coming closer. A coal black, from beak to toe, bird hops from round stone to round stone. Quickly, the finches scurry off, leaving the two blackbirds to explore the pond and surrounding area. One pecks at the canary grass, another flits about the deck. The crickets shout their monotonous tunes and crescendo all at once.

I roll back over and stand, not able to spectate any longer. Watching the beautiful world from a two story window is just not enough. Something so alive must be felt, must be joined.

Good morning, world.

Memory and Time

Memories we share together, moments no one else can know.

I will keep them close to me, never let them go.

Ten years have passed since my arrival in this wonderful place I call home. In those ten years I have gained such invaluable friendships, treasured such beautiful moments, and fallen in such deep love. For some, ten years is but another decade in this inevitable cycle we call life, but these ten years have been crucial, are irreplaceable, and will never be forgotten. 

Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.

Good-bye is so hard -- but I'm not saying, "Good-bye." I'm saying, "See you later!"

It's just ten months... Then, I'll be home.

Home.

No place like it.

MJ

MJ, second from the right, with the inseparable six

A dear friend of mind, MJ online, is in need of prayer. She is undergoing sudden surgery this morning to remove a possibly cancerous tumor from her brain. Praise God, though, she is of the elect and rests completely in His sovereign care and faithfulness. He is good, storm and sunshine.

Godward

Between finals, performances, trips, and home-life, this little kingdom hasn't received much attention. For this evening, I'll just post an inspirational quotation and promise a more substantial entry later.

"I assure you the church is not in need of more girls in their late teens and early twenties who are investing their lives in relationships with young men. What we do need, however, is an army of young women with laser-sharp focus on the Lord and his bride. We need more young women serving, praying, and giving. We need more young women developing and using the spiritual gifts and talents with which they have been blessed.

"The time will come soon enough when they will be weighed down with the responsibilities of husbands, children, and households that will hinder their ability to give of themselves outside their homes. In the meantime, let's call our daughters Godward in their focus and encourage them to keep that keen focus until a young man comes along with equal or greater focus that will allow them to do more for the King together than either of them could do on their own."

- Voddie Baucham Jr., What He Must Be

Keep your eyes set upon the King and His glory, and all your worries will melt, while all your needs with fall into place. Keep thou steady eye, ladies!

Today, I Have...

(Lady in the Water, Toni Frissell)

... the strangest desire to put on a dress and go swimming in it.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowned,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them dance; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

~ William Wordsworth

The Tree That Never Flowered

Once upon a time, just outside a sweet, little village, there lived a simple family with four daughters. In front of their little cottage stood many an old tree. One of them was a Dogwood.

However, this tree was not merely a tree. Oh, no. It was a doorway to cozy cottages, hidden chambers, bustling hospitals, and enchanting worlds. It was an ivory perch for exuberant birds, frisky squirrels, and giggling children. It was a tree of many trades.

For nine years, it watched the girls and all their companions grow in wisdom and stature but never too old for imagination. It served all its purposes well, except for one -- the Dogwood never flowered.

Every year all the other trees in the village burst forth in their seasonal radiance. Crepe Myrtle, Bradford Pear, Japanese Magnolia, and Dogwood, all flowered except for the girls' Dogwood.

Perhaps all it threw all its energy into accommodating the playmates; perhaps it was just old and weary. Whatever the case, spring always came and went, with narry a flower on the Dogwood.

One of the four girls, the oldest girl, always considered how melancholy the tree must have been, being a flowering tree that never flowered. "What a perfect poem that would be," she'd romantically think to herself, and in her artistic endeavors, she's shut herself up awaiting the nymph called Inspiration. But, no words she penned did proper justice to the dear, old tree.

Eight years passed, and the girls and the tree grew older together. The girls grew busy, and their playful jaunts beneath the Dogwood became shorter and sparser.

One spring day, after a long morning of studies, the oldest girl arrived at her dear, little home. She climbed out of her modest wagon and gathered her books. Weary in spirit, she looked about herself upon the familiar sight. But she stopped short.

What did she see perched delicately on the Dogwood? If her eyes did not betray her, there were pink flowers on the Dogwood!

But perhaps the sun was toying the the leaves. She dropped her things and rushed over to see the Dogwood clearer, but the sun wasn't plotting tricks. There were, indeed, frail and dainty, but indisputable blushing blooms adorning the sweet tree.

Of course, much rejoicing quickly filled the cottage of the little women to overflowing. Never was a simple work of nature more pleasing in a human's sight. If possible, the tree became even more esteemed in the girls' hearts. It was the pride and joy of their spring.

And, guess what. The next year, that dear, old Dogwood bloomed again.

Maybe it just needed eight years of tender love from four motherly figures. Maybe it was just saving a pleasant delight for a weary soul. Maybe...

But whatever the reasons, that dear, old tree will always be watered with love.

First Day

"There is nothing inorganic. These foliaceous heaps lie along the bank like the slag of a furnace, showing that Nature is "in full blast" within. The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree." ~ Henry David Thoreau

It's here -- the first day of spring. Someday, I want to celebrate these "first days" as holidays. I want to nurture in my child a love of nature as strong as my own!

Here's to...

(Charles Haigh-Wood, Picking Flowers for a Posy)

Spring Fever

(Peruse the picture's link at your own discretion. Unfortunately, mixed amongst the whimsical pictures and beautiful inspiration are occasional suggestive photographs.)

It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want -- oh, you don't quite know what it is you want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!

~ Mark Twain ~

Different Times, Different Struggles

(The Clothes-Line, Helen Allingham)

For a girl who is guilty of romanticizing the past and envying its citizens, this article proved interesting and insightful. Comical, too, for my attempts to imagine my American foremothers in modern supermarkets was amusing!

"We have read them all, the organic, no colarisation, 'hemp-your-own-dress' websites that leave us in awe. And then we realize that people used to do this as a matter of fact. People ate what they grew and raised. We sometimes seem to have trouble getting a wholesome dinner on the table every evening, and our gardening attempts ... well, let's just say that some people are more successful than others. . . .

"Put your pioneer woman in our modern supermarket again and try to tell her that we can't just buy anything named "bread," but that we need to read the labels to know what is actually in it. Or that "whole wheat" doesn't really mean whole wheat, and that those green beans are so sodium covered that it's almost not worth it. Then there is the organic, which really just means that it was grown the way she would have grown it, but is so expensive that you can only afford certain items and then you should prioritize ... never mind. She would star at you as if you com from another planet and wonder how you remember it all. But we do. Or we try. As they tried. . . .

"Let us enjoy the stories of our pioneer mothers. Let us admire what they have done for us. Let us learn form the wise among them, as there are wise women called forth to teach the young in any generation. And the let's put our shoulders under our own workload without comparing it to another's. . . . And next time we hear that sly voice whispering inside us, 'You will never live up to what they did,' let us joyfully answer, 'No pioneer woman ever stepped on a Lego' and go back to our work."

'Tis true, I know, but why do their tasks seem so much more bearable? The grass is always greener, isn't it? ;-)

Happy and Contented

(Ernest Walbourn, Feeding the Doves)

" 'I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good; to be admired, loved, and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman; and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg; right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it; so that, when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world, -- marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing, - and, when well used, a noble thing, -- but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.'

" 'Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put themselves forward,' sighed Meg.

" 'Then we'll be old maids,' said Jo stoutly.

" 'Right, Jo; better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands,' said Mrs. March decidedly. 'Don't be troubled, Meg; poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to time; make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing remember, my girls: mother is always ready to be your confidant, father to be your friend; and both of us trust and hope that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives.' "

- Lousia May Alcott's Little Women

O Holy Night

O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining.

Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!

O night divine, O night when Christ was born;

O night, O night, O night divine.

Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming,

With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.

So led by the light of a star sweetly gleaming

Here come the wise men from Orient and.

The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger;

In all our trials born to be our friend.

He knows our need, the our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Truly He taught us to love one another;

His law is love and His gospel is peace.

Chains shall he break for the slave is our brother;

And in His name all oppression shall cease.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,

Let all within us praise His holy name.

Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever,

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

An Eulogy and Update

Between the season's festivities and approaching deadlines, this dear blog has been neglected of late. Hopefully I'll be able to carve out some time for posting in the coming weeks. For now, however, enjoy a little poem that my darling sister, Katie, penned:

The Eulogy

Bunbury, my fellow, once so jolly,

Your death makes me melancholy.

You were to me a fantastic mate.

I'm sorry combustion was your fate.

Whenever I needed an excuse,

No matter the matter you I could use.

You had once pneumonia, twice depression,

But thrice my sympathy made a fine impression.

And now, what shall your chap Algy do,

Since you can be no longer my impromptu?

No friend could ever have been as faithful.

Your timing always proved impeccable.

Here I stand at your graveside,

Shamefully and remarkably teary-eyed,

For now what, oh what, will I do,

When I'm faced with things I don't want to do?

Ode to Bunbury, now deceased,

May you forever rest in peace!

If you aren't familiar with the inspiration for this poem, you need to pick up a copy of Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest from your library. The play is absolutely hysterical and thoroughly British -- a perfect combination! ;)

By the way, Katie did have surgery. Her cyst is gone, and she's now a bionic woman! ;) This past week, two weeks after surgery, my bling-loving girl has begun walking on only two legs rather than three... The crutches strangely resembling flamingo legs have been stored in the attic!

The only thought that comes to mind in all these circumstances is this:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below. Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Forever and ever, Amen!