I hope that you and your's had a blessed Thanksgiving!
We got back late last night from our Thanksgiving travels. And can I be honest? This trip was just hard.
It was hard for all sorts of reasons, some of which I understand and others I don't. There were obvious things that made it challenging, like way too much traffic, my blooming cold and cough (complete with sinus headache) which was aggravated by one house we stayed in being too hot and the other (at least the bedroom we slept in) too cold. The sweet girl was a whirl of emotions, loving time with family, but as the only kid in households of adults, sometimes struggling with all that "adult talk" that gets "soooo boring." And as always, dealing with the emotions of good-byes very hard for her. She had some struggles in the last two days particularly, with several outbursts, and I was on edge, feeling raggedy and sick, and lost my temper and my patience more than once.
Both our parental households (where we split the days we were away) are pretty stressed in different ways right now, with our moms worn out from care for dad and stepdad, both ill. At D's house, his stepfather's confusion, as his Alzheimer's worsens, continues to be a heartbreak for all of us and an especial challenge for his mom. At my house, I think my mom spent most of the time trying to make sure my dad didn't overdo while my sister and I spent most of our time trying to make sure mom didn't overdo. I was not fully prepared to see how tired my mother is. And it was painfully hard (since I'm being so honest here) to be with my sister for a couple of days and yet not really get any time just to be with my sister. Though I loved all the ways she went out of her way to make sure that she and the sweet girl got some special time together in the midst of everything.
So...home late last night to the realization that we had not bought any advent candles and to some tears as we tiredly straggled around our table, worn out from the jammed turnpike and a day where we hadn't always shown one another the grace we should (and I raise my hand first into the air here).
And yet...
So much to be thankful for. Thankful for:
88. ~the grace that met us round the mostly empty (except for a few old candle stubs) advent wreath, even when we didn't come with any of our own
89. ~the grace that always meets us, wherever we are, and sustains us even in difficult times
90. ~safe travels in our old car, despite so much traffic, and relatively few bad delays
91. ~time spent with loved ones, so dear to us
92. ~my Dad still being with us this Thanksgiving (something I would not have been at all sure of in May)
93. ~time just being hugged by my Mom
94. ~a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, prepared by loving hands, and the fun of both helping to prepare it and eat it!
95. ~time to get to know my brother-in-law better
96. ~the opportunity to "meet" (via phone) my niece's fiance -- and to celebrate in their joy as they're planning to wed in January
97. ~laughter with my sister
98. ~walking in the garden with Dad, and smelling the fall-blooming camellias, so lovely and mildly pink in the midst of the autumnal yard
99. ~having autumn back for a few days! (it's winter cold here, and the leaves mostly long gone, but there were still some brilliant colors down south)
100. ~the sweetness of my husband, especially when I was feeling anything but sweet
101. ~a special time at my husband's grandparents' graves, with his dear aunt
102. ~watching the sweet girl hand-in-hand with her aunt and uncle as we walked around the block in the neighborhood where I grew up
103. ~the license plate game -- what would we do without it?! -- and the fun of finding 38 states
104. ~the added fun of coming up with crazy mnemonics as we memorized the thirteen original colonies in order of their statehood
105. ~the colorful construction paper leaves on the "thankful tree" in the dining room, and the sweet girl's leaves (each signed with a flourish in her best cursive signature) especially the one that read simply "Lord, thank you for sending your Son."
106. ~remembering that God isn't through working in me -- and in all of us -- yet.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Five Favorite Authors
The sweet girl heard me talking about the "15 favorite authors" meme making the rounds on Facebook (a meme I've not yet had a chance to do!) and decided she'd like to make a list of her favorite 5.
Here it is, penciled this morning at breakfast. She told me these aren't in order of importance, just how they came to her. (I retained the original spelling for your enjoyment. Her spelling is truly improving, but names are hard!)
1. Beetris Poter
2. Loes Elert
3. Lara Wileder
4. Beverly Clery
5. E.B. White
Here it is, penciled this morning at breakfast. She told me these aren't in order of importance, just how they came to her. (I retained the original spelling for your enjoyment. Her spelling is truly improving, but names are hard!)
1. Beetris Poter
2. Loes Elert
3. Lara Wileder
4. Beverly Clery
5. E.B. White
Friday, November 19, 2010
Poetry Friday: Daffodils in November
My eight year old is memorizing William Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud" and I'm remembering how much I love this poem:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
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.
You can find the final stanzas here at The Poetry Foundation.
I hesitated briefly about sharing this. It is, after all, November ("dull November brings the blast/then the leaves are whirling fast"!). So it may seem a bit strange to share such a springtime poem.
But then it occurred to me that Wordsworth would love knowing we're reading and enjoying his poem in November. For Wordsworth, part of the magic of poetry was "recollection." He wrote elsewhere that poetic images could provide "life and food for future years." And so we see him in this poem, in that last stanza, lying on his couch in "vacant or in pensive mood," finding pleasure as this remembered image of the golden daffodils "flashes" on his "inward eye."
We don't know, of course, when he lay pensively on his couch recollecting this golden sea, but a dull, gray November day might be a good bet.
For some extra loveliness, you can listen as Jeremy Irons reads the poem.
This week's poetry round-up can be found at Random Noodling.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
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.
You can find the final stanzas here at The Poetry Foundation.
I hesitated briefly about sharing this. It is, after all, November ("dull November brings the blast/then the leaves are whirling fast"!). So it may seem a bit strange to share such a springtime poem.
But then it occurred to me that Wordsworth would love knowing we're reading and enjoying his poem in November. For Wordsworth, part of the magic of poetry was "recollection." He wrote elsewhere that poetic images could provide "life and food for future years." And so we see him in this poem, in that last stanza, lying on his couch in "vacant or in pensive mood," finding pleasure as this remembered image of the golden daffodils "flashes" on his "inward eye."
We don't know, of course, when he lay pensively on his couch recollecting this golden sea, but a dull, gray November day might be a good bet.
For some extra loveliness, you can listen as Jeremy Irons reads the poem.
This week's poetry round-up can be found at Random Noodling.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Did Alcott Read Austen?
I'm genuinely curious.
As I wrote up my post about Jo sitting lovingly beside Beth's bed, and as I pondered the emotional power of sister kinship in that scene, I kept getting flashes of another sister-at-the-bedside scene: Elinor watching over Marianne Dashwood.
And then I started thinking about the sister threads that run through Austen in general, and how those sister relationships often carry even deeper emotional resonance than the romantic relationships.
And then it occurred to me that family theatricals take place in both Alcott and Austen.
Both of them also enjoy using letters to advance plot and reveal character.
All of these, of course, could be coincidental similarities, or might be owing to other shared influences.
So...is there any evidence anywhere, I wonder, that points to Alcott reading Austen?
As I wrote up my post about Jo sitting lovingly beside Beth's bed, and as I pondered the emotional power of sister kinship in that scene, I kept getting flashes of another sister-at-the-bedside scene: Elinor watching over Marianne Dashwood.
And then I started thinking about the sister threads that run through Austen in general, and how those sister relationships often carry even deeper emotional resonance than the romantic relationships.
And then it occurred to me that family theatricals take place in both Alcott and Austen.
Both of them also enjoy using letters to advance plot and reveal character.
All of these, of course, could be coincidental similarities, or might be owing to other shared influences.
So...is there any evidence anywhere, I wonder, that points to Alcott reading Austen?
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Little Women: Grief, Death, Life
As the fourth and youngest child, I was born into a pretty lively household. That fact, combined with the fact that I learned to read independently quite early, means I have very few memories of being read to except for the long, wonderful Bible reading times at the kitchen table with my mother.
By the time I was nine, my grandmother had joined our family, which changed the dynamic even further as she needed pretty constant care. I realize, as I look back, how enormous were the demands on my parents' time, and I marvel at the time they managed to spend doing special things with and for me and my siblings. They certainly encouraged my love of reading, partly just by making sure we had plenty of good books around, and partly by regular library trips. Watching my grandmother devour books also helped cement my passion for reading.
But it was very rare for any adult to guide my reading in any way. I discovered good books by looking for them on my own. I discovered books I wasn't quite ready for the same way.
The only exception to this that I clearly remember is Little Women. Sometime when I was around the age of five, my mother spent some time reading it aloud -- mostly to my older sister, but of course I was there too, hanging on every word. We must've gotten pretty far, far enough in to get near the place where Beth first comes down with scarlet fever, because I remember my mother closing the book and putting it back on the shelf. Maybe she finished reading it with my sister when I was already in bed. But she made a decision, which I somehow vaguely recall, that we were stopping because she didn't think I was quite ready for it yet.
I was little enough that I didn't understand, nor do I remember questioning my mom's wisdom. But when I was old enough to pick the book back up for myself, round about the time my grandmother moved in with us, it didn't take me too long to discover why my mother had quietly decided to put the book away.
Little Women is sad. Not all of it, of course, not by a long shot. So much of it is lively, fun, filled with joy. Jo climbing trees and running races with Laurie, throwing a snowball up at his window, eating apples and clomping around in boots. Amy sleeping with a clothespin on her nose so she could look more aristocratic. Jo's cooking (enough said!) and Aunt March "settling the question" for Meg and John. Jo burning Meg's hair. The whole family sitting around and sewing their way through continents or telling wild gothic-influenced stories. Beth cheerfully playing her music -- when you think back, doesn't it seem like her piano playing is a soundtrack for the whole first half of the story?
But oh, the sadness of a beloved sister falling ill, never recovering, and finally dying at such a young age. I myself am one of three sisters, and I was moved to the core when I first read those pages, and read them again and again over the next few years. Even now, I can't really read Jo and Beth's conversation at the seashore or hear Alcott describe Beth's last hours without weeping:
Jo had never left for her an hour since Beth had said "I feel stronger when you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and "tried not to be a trouble." All day she haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours for Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed: lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them; charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.
By writing so movingly and honestly about the death of someone beloved, Louisa May Alcott gave me one of my first, and deepest, literary tastes of grief. For many years, I remembered these scenes in Beth's sickroom and thought about what I'd learned about death -- but when I read them now, so many years later, I realize that much of their staying power comes through what they say about life. We see the beauty of a life well lived, a life lived for others. And we see that it's in moments of hardship and heartbreak that our hearts often receive the teaching they need most, that even or especially through love and grief, we're being shaped and formed by loving hands.
By the time I was nine, my grandmother had joined our family, which changed the dynamic even further as she needed pretty constant care. I realize, as I look back, how enormous were the demands on my parents' time, and I marvel at the time they managed to spend doing special things with and for me and my siblings. They certainly encouraged my love of reading, partly just by making sure we had plenty of good books around, and partly by regular library trips. Watching my grandmother devour books also helped cement my passion for reading.
But it was very rare for any adult to guide my reading in any way. I discovered good books by looking for them on my own. I discovered books I wasn't quite ready for the same way.
The only exception to this that I clearly remember is Little Women. Sometime when I was around the age of five, my mother spent some time reading it aloud -- mostly to my older sister, but of course I was there too, hanging on every word. We must've gotten pretty far, far enough in to get near the place where Beth first comes down with scarlet fever, because I remember my mother closing the book and putting it back on the shelf. Maybe she finished reading it with my sister when I was already in bed. But she made a decision, which I somehow vaguely recall, that we were stopping because she didn't think I was quite ready for it yet.
I was little enough that I didn't understand, nor do I remember questioning my mom's wisdom. But when I was old enough to pick the book back up for myself, round about the time my grandmother moved in with us, it didn't take me too long to discover why my mother had quietly decided to put the book away.
Little Women is sad. Not all of it, of course, not by a long shot. So much of it is lively, fun, filled with joy. Jo climbing trees and running races with Laurie, throwing a snowball up at his window, eating apples and clomping around in boots. Amy sleeping with a clothespin on her nose so she could look more aristocratic. Jo's cooking (enough said!) and Aunt March "settling the question" for Meg and John. Jo burning Meg's hair. The whole family sitting around and sewing their way through continents or telling wild gothic-influenced stories. Beth cheerfully playing her music -- when you think back, doesn't it seem like her piano playing is a soundtrack for the whole first half of the story?
But oh, the sadness of a beloved sister falling ill, never recovering, and finally dying at such a young age. I myself am one of three sisters, and I was moved to the core when I first read those pages, and read them again and again over the next few years. Even now, I can't really read Jo and Beth's conversation at the seashore or hear Alcott describe Beth's last hours without weeping:
Jo had never left for her an hour since Beth had said "I feel stronger when you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and "tried not to be a trouble." All day she haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours for Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed: lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them; charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.
By writing so movingly and honestly about the death of someone beloved, Louisa May Alcott gave me one of my first, and deepest, literary tastes of grief. For many years, I remembered these scenes in Beth's sickroom and thought about what I'd learned about death -- but when I read them now, so many years later, I realize that much of their staying power comes through what they say about life. We see the beauty of a life well lived, a life lived for others. And we see that it's in moments of hardship and heartbreak that our hearts often receive the teaching they need most, that even or especially through love and grief, we're being shaped and formed by loving hands.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Gratitude Sunday
It's past midnight and I'm up responding to student papers. Feeling tired, feeling a tad bit anxious...not because the student papers aren't mostly brilliant and good reading, but because I've been overwhelmed in the past week or so with far too much to do, and very little time to focus and get it done as I'd like.
And I realized this evening, I am *way* overdue for a gratitude post.
So here it is, the exhausted, late-night, I-really-should-be-in-bed version of what I'm grateful for:
75. A fun day with my family. Saturday morning was especially delightful, with D's super-special artistic pancakes (have I mentioned that my husband can make incredible pancakes shapes? Like camels and hummingbirds?) followed by some errands and the library.
76. I heart our library. Seven things in on the hold shelf today, including books for school, a fun mid-grade novel with a Louisa May Alcott tie-in, season 2 of the Muppet Show (which we inaugurated at dinner) and some clarinet concertos by a Finnish performer I recently found on youtube. (And it suddenly strikes me that my Mamaw McCoy would have loved living in the 21st century...)
77. New mini-blinds for the living room window. Ours have been failing for weeks, squeaking terribly when you tried to pull them, snagging and pulling up crooked, even some slats breaking. Yesterday they came crashing down when I tried to open them! I thought replacing them would be wildly expensive, but we found just what we needed on sale at a local home store. They're a slightly creamier color than the blinds on the other window, which would bother me more except the way the sunlight shines through them feels richer and more golden -- more buttermilk custard than silvered. I found myself enthralled with the way the light looks -- enough that I'm thinking we might just go ahead and replace the other (equally ancient) set soon.
78. The love and generosity of a dear friend. Yesterday's mail brought us a gift we were not expecting in any way, shape, or form -- but which delighted our whole family so much. I sat down and cried when I opened it. We are the astonished and grateful recipients of a year-long family membership to the Carnegie musuems downtown. This is something we've always wanted to do and could never afford, and we're just...well...pretty speechless. Except I wanted to find and use words to tell our friend just how much she has blessed us. Thank you again, friend!
79. The chance to bless someone else with a small kindness this past week.
80. The sweet girl pretending to be a queen protecting princesses (two of her dolls) in seemingly constant peril. And my husband chortling and saying "You know how you felt like you struggled with catching her imagination when you were studying medieval history last year? Why is it she's totally into playing royalty when you're studying 'no more kings' and early American history?"
81. Warmer weather. Yes, I know, it's November, and it's supposed to be getting colder. And the temps yo-yo'ing back and forth means we're struggling with congestion and sore throats. But I know what's coming over the next four months, so I persist in total gratitude for sunny days in the 60s!
82. In the midst of the absolutely most crammed-busy time I can remember, taking the time to bake another loaf of bread from scratch yesterday. And enjoying the kneading of the dough as I listened to Mozart.
83. Drawing time with the sweet girl yesterday (again, another taking the time). Trying my hand at copying one of Audubon's snowy owls. Loving our Audubon studies this month.
84. 19 kids at the Thursday night outreach at church! Seeing what could have been total chaos turn into only mild chaos with real moments of God-touched connections and hope. Seeing how hungry some of the kids were for learning about peace, and our source of peace.
85. Time with the desert fathers as I've read for my diocesan and sem work this week. Even having to snatch reading time in the early morning and late at night, I just feel blessed to be able to hang out with folks like Abba Antony. Thank you, God, for all the saints.
86. An email from a dear friend yesterday morning, one that not only assured me of ongoing prayers, but showed me again how good the Lord is at helping others discern, even from afar, some of our deepest prayer needs.
87. The realization that, if I could keep my eyes open, I could keep this list going a lot longer.
And I realized this evening, I am *way* overdue for a gratitude post.
So here it is, the exhausted, late-night, I-really-should-be-in-bed version of what I'm grateful for:
75. A fun day with my family. Saturday morning was especially delightful, with D's super-special artistic pancakes (have I mentioned that my husband can make incredible pancakes shapes? Like camels and hummingbirds?) followed by some errands and the library.
76. I heart our library. Seven things in on the hold shelf today, including books for school, a fun mid-grade novel with a Louisa May Alcott tie-in, season 2 of the Muppet Show (which we inaugurated at dinner) and some clarinet concertos by a Finnish performer I recently found on youtube. (And it suddenly strikes me that my Mamaw McCoy would have loved living in the 21st century...)
77. New mini-blinds for the living room window. Ours have been failing for weeks, squeaking terribly when you tried to pull them, snagging and pulling up crooked, even some slats breaking. Yesterday they came crashing down when I tried to open them! I thought replacing them would be wildly expensive, but we found just what we needed on sale at a local home store. They're a slightly creamier color than the blinds on the other window, which would bother me more except the way the sunlight shines through them feels richer and more golden -- more buttermilk custard than silvered. I found myself enthralled with the way the light looks -- enough that I'm thinking we might just go ahead and replace the other (equally ancient) set soon.
78. The love and generosity of a dear friend. Yesterday's mail brought us a gift we were not expecting in any way, shape, or form -- but which delighted our whole family so much. I sat down and cried when I opened it. We are the astonished and grateful recipients of a year-long family membership to the Carnegie musuems downtown. This is something we've always wanted to do and could never afford, and we're just...well...pretty speechless. Except I wanted to find and use words to tell our friend just how much she has blessed us. Thank you again, friend!
79. The chance to bless someone else with a small kindness this past week.
80. The sweet girl pretending to be a queen protecting princesses (two of her dolls) in seemingly constant peril. And my husband chortling and saying "You know how you felt like you struggled with catching her imagination when you were studying medieval history last year? Why is it she's totally into playing royalty when you're studying 'no more kings' and early American history?"
81. Warmer weather. Yes, I know, it's November, and it's supposed to be getting colder. And the temps yo-yo'ing back and forth means we're struggling with congestion and sore throats. But I know what's coming over the next four months, so I persist in total gratitude for sunny days in the 60s!
82. In the midst of the absolutely most crammed-busy time I can remember, taking the time to bake another loaf of bread from scratch yesterday. And enjoying the kneading of the dough as I listened to Mozart.
83. Drawing time with the sweet girl yesterday (again, another taking the time). Trying my hand at copying one of Audubon's snowy owls. Loving our Audubon studies this month.
84. 19 kids at the Thursday night outreach at church! Seeing what could have been total chaos turn into only mild chaos with real moments of God-touched connections and hope. Seeing how hungry some of the kids were for learning about peace, and our source of peace.
85. Time with the desert fathers as I've read for my diocesan and sem work this week. Even having to snatch reading time in the early morning and late at night, I just feel blessed to be able to hang out with folks like Abba Antony. Thank you, God, for all the saints.
86. An email from a dear friend yesterday morning, one that not only assured me of ongoing prayers, but showed me again how good the Lord is at helping others discern, even from afar, some of our deepest prayer needs.
87. The realization that, if I could keep my eyes open, I could keep this list going a lot longer.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Little Women: The Copy I Read to Tatters
In my minds-eye, I can still see the brown wooden shelf. It was on the left-hand side of the living room window (as I stood by the stereo cabinet and as I faced the Sheehy's house next door) and it felt like a veritable treasure trove of book goodness. Standing side by side, like noble soldiers, were about a dozen books with brightly colored spines. A small green glass vase stood somewhere nearby, and a ceramic girl with a cherubic face also stood guard.
Sometime in the 1960s, probably when my oldest sister and brother were in grade school, my parents purchased a set of literary classics produced especially for children. These were the Grosset and Dunlap Companion Library classics, the "two-in-one" volumes that fascinated me. Hold The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on your lap and enjoy reading, and when you're done, simply flip the book over and discover Huckleberry Finn. Not all of the paired books were by the same author, but some were, and I loved the "twin" book concept. You can see a picture of some of the books I mean on this vintage book site (where yes, some gently used copies are for sale).
I don't remember how old I was when I first picked up one of the companion books from the shelf, but I do know I loved them. This set was my introduction to Black Beauty, The Five Little Peppers, Arabian Nights, and many other excellent books. Most importantly, it was my introduction to Little Women and to Little Men, the "two-in-one" Alcotts in the set.
I don't know what happened to the rest of those books (do my parents still have them?) but I do know they completely understood that I took my copy of Little Women/Little Men with me when I grew up and left home. Of course, by that time, it no longer had its colorful spine -- I had worn it off from my repeated readings. My original copy of LW looked like a wounded soldier who had done faithful service in the line of duty, perhaps not unlike some of Alcott's charges in the Washington hospital where she served as a nurse during the Civil War.
And here it is, in all its tattered glory:
You're not imagining the dirt. It's really engrained in the cover. How could it not be? I dragged this copy of Little Women up so many trees (my favorite place to read). I was a good tree-climber, but my dad was so worried that I might fall while toting books with me (and climbing one-armed) that he made a string-pulley. I could tie my books to the pulley while safely on the ground, climb with both hands free, and haul the books up after me. I'm afraid, however, that I used to lower the books again very fast and dump them unceremoniously on the ground at the base of the tree. So the dirt worked into the cover is good Virginia soil!
And what about that cover? Like many Little Women fans, I often played "guess the sister" since there was nothing that definitively stated which girl was which. I had a very definite idea about who was who on my edition's cover. Amy, of course, is easy to spot -- she's the only one with blond hair -- but the other three are brunettes. But I thought the tall one in the yellow dress had to be matronly Meg, the smiling one in purple was Beth, and the one with her back to the audience and her elbows jutting out at sharp angles had to be Jo. I mean really, who else could it be?
Examining my tattered copy again this week, I was intrigued to note just how yellowed the pages are becoming and how brittle the binding is. I clearly had favorite places I returned to again and again. For instance, I loved that first chapter dearly, so one of the first big binding breaks comes between chapters one and two:
But the death of beloved sister Beth, and Jo's subsequent journey through grief, always moved me so deeply. I wasn't surprised to see a big binding break here either:
We are physical, encultured people. The books we love, and read again and again, live forever in our minds and hearts, but there is something deeply beloved in the actual look and feel of the book itself. This is where we first entered these worlds and met these characters. Books are doorways, but sometimes what evokes the memory of the first magical passageway into a beloved fictional world is seeing and holding again the actual book itself: enjoying the threshold, the doorjamb, the shiny brass knob (tarnished over time), and even the fingerprints we've left all over it.
As I contemplated my first real post in celebration of Louisa May Alcott and Little Women, I realized the best way I could convey my deep love and appreciation for this story was to show you my first copy.
Sometime in the 1960s, probably when my oldest sister and brother were in grade school, my parents purchased a set of literary classics produced especially for children. These were the Grosset and Dunlap Companion Library classics, the "two-in-one" volumes that fascinated me. Hold The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on your lap and enjoy reading, and when you're done, simply flip the book over and discover Huckleberry Finn. Not all of the paired books were by the same author, but some were, and I loved the "twin" book concept. You can see a picture of some of the books I mean on this vintage book site (where yes, some gently used copies are for sale).
I don't remember how old I was when I first picked up one of the companion books from the shelf, but I do know I loved them. This set was my introduction to Black Beauty, The Five Little Peppers, Arabian Nights, and many other excellent books. Most importantly, it was my introduction to Little Women and to Little Men, the "two-in-one" Alcotts in the set.
I don't know what happened to the rest of those books (do my parents still have them?) but I do know they completely understood that I took my copy of Little Women/Little Men with me when I grew up and left home. Of course, by that time, it no longer had its colorful spine -- I had worn it off from my repeated readings. My original copy of LW looked like a wounded soldier who had done faithful service in the line of duty, perhaps not unlike some of Alcott's charges in the Washington hospital where she served as a nurse during the Civil War.
And here it is, in all its tattered glory:
You're not imagining the dirt. It's really engrained in the cover. How could it not be? I dragged this copy of Little Women up so many trees (my favorite place to read). I was a good tree-climber, but my dad was so worried that I might fall while toting books with me (and climbing one-armed) that he made a string-pulley. I could tie my books to the pulley while safely on the ground, climb with both hands free, and haul the books up after me. I'm afraid, however, that I used to lower the books again very fast and dump them unceremoniously on the ground at the base of the tree. So the dirt worked into the cover is good Virginia soil!
And what about that cover? Like many Little Women fans, I often played "guess the sister" since there was nothing that definitively stated which girl was which. I had a very definite idea about who was who on my edition's cover. Amy, of course, is easy to spot -- she's the only one with blond hair -- but the other three are brunettes. But I thought the tall one in the yellow dress had to be matronly Meg, the smiling one in purple was Beth, and the one with her back to the audience and her elbows jutting out at sharp angles had to be Jo. I mean really, who else could it be?
Examining my tattered copy again this week, I was intrigued to note just how yellowed the pages are becoming and how brittle the binding is. I clearly had favorite places I returned to again and again. For instance, I loved that first chapter dearly, so one of the first big binding breaks comes between chapters one and two:
But the death of beloved sister Beth, and Jo's subsequent journey through grief, always moved me so deeply. I wasn't surprised to see a big binding break here either:
We are physical, encultured people. The books we love, and read again and again, live forever in our minds and hearts, but there is something deeply beloved in the actual look and feel of the book itself. This is where we first entered these worlds and met these characters. Books are doorways, but sometimes what evokes the memory of the first magical passageway into a beloved fictional world is seeing and holding again the actual book itself: enjoying the threshold, the doorjamb, the shiny brass knob (tarnished over time), and even the fingerprints we've left all over it.
As I contemplated my first real post in celebration of Louisa May Alcott and Little Women, I realized the best way I could convey my deep love and appreciation for this story was to show you my first copy.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Sunday Into Monday
I grew up thinking that Mondays were the real start of a new week. It was only as an adult, moving more into an awareness of sacred time, that I discovered what an important and necessary part of my Christian journey Sunday-as-the-first-day-of-the-week truly was. I need Sundays, different from the rhythm of any other day, different because I gather with "all the saints" to pray and worship, different because I truly try to find good resting time (even if only in snatches in this busy season of parish ministry and constant teaching). Sundays launch me into an awareness of new beginnings in a way that Monday morning never did. And thankfully, Sundays also help prepare me to face the beginning of a new work and school week.
Because Mondays have newness about them too. We face five days of a similarly patterned rhythm in our household, where we all follow (even if loosely) work and schooling schedules. I spend time on Sunday evening looking over lesson plans for the week: setting discussion forums for my online students, seeing what I need to read for teaching preparation, beginning to read through papers posted over the weekend (reading Hippolytus and Tertullian this week, responding to papers on early asceticism).
I also work on lesson plans for the sweet girl. What will we cover this week in history, science? How can I find more creative ways to engage her in narration? What's the new spelling list look like? What part of a sentence will we be learning to diagram? Where can I sneak more poetry into our learning time? Are we tackling anything new in math? (Two digit times one digit in multiplication this week...)
And who are we especially called to pray for and serve this week?
In a way, Monday is like the second new start of the week, but it's fueled by the first new start on Sunday.
All of which makes me glad that every day, really, is a new start with God, a fresh beginning. Every day, no matter what the calendar says, is new and a gift from him...and crammed fresh-full of brand spanking new mercies. A blank piece of paper on which to begin another chapter of the story. A page on which we can sketch a new drawing in our fumbling lines.
Because Mondays have newness about them too. We face five days of a similarly patterned rhythm in our household, where we all follow (even if loosely) work and schooling schedules. I spend time on Sunday evening looking over lesson plans for the week: setting discussion forums for my online students, seeing what I need to read for teaching preparation, beginning to read through papers posted over the weekend (reading Hippolytus and Tertullian this week, responding to papers on early asceticism).
I also work on lesson plans for the sweet girl. What will we cover this week in history, science? How can I find more creative ways to engage her in narration? What's the new spelling list look like? What part of a sentence will we be learning to diagram? Where can I sneak more poetry into our learning time? Are we tackling anything new in math? (Two digit times one digit in multiplication this week...)
And who are we especially called to pray for and serve this week?
In a way, Monday is like the second new start of the week, but it's fueled by the first new start on Sunday.
All of which makes me glad that every day, really, is a new start with God, a fresh beginning. Every day, no matter what the calendar says, is new and a gift from him...and crammed fresh-full of brand spanking new mercies. A blank piece of paper on which to begin another chapter of the story. A page on which we can sketch a new drawing in our fumbling lines.
Friday, November 05, 2010
November: Celebrating Alcott and Little Women
November is one of my favorite months. Despite the growing cold and the headlong rush toward winter, there is so much about November I love: All Saints Day, Thanksgiving, the beginning of Advent, and the literary day of days.
If you've been acquainted with my blog for long, you'll know I call November 29th the literary day of days. That's because it's the birthday of Louisa May Alcott, C.S. Lewis, and Madeleine L'Engle, three of the most formative writers of my life. Three of the writers of my heart.
I thought it might be enjoyable to set aside a November to celebrate each of those authors, and this year I thought I'd start with Alcott. Not just because she comes first in the alphabet, first chronologically (born in 1832) and first in my childhood reading...though all of that is true.
I've had Alcott especially on my mind of late, in part because I just finished reading the first book in the Mother-Daughter Book Club series, which is (in large part) a loving tribute to Alcott's literary masterpiece. It's fascinating to me to see that, so many years after its initial publication, Little Women continues to inspire creativity and loyal readership.
I've also recently read Harriet Reisen's biography of Louisa May Alcott, which I highly recommended in this review last May.
And in March, I participated in Fuse #8's Top 100 Children's Novels poll. Not many 19th century novels made the cut, but Little Women came in at #25. It was, in fact, the oldest book to make the list. And I was delighted to see my quote about it posted front and center.
So for 2010, Alcott it is. Given the pace of my life right now, I don't know how much time I'll be able to devote to the celebration, but I do hope to get up some posts, particularly in celebration of Little Women. I've already got a questionnaire out to some friends who expressed interest in talking about the book with me...if you're a Little Women fan and would be interested in responding to the questions too, please let me know in the comments. And please, spread the word to any other Little Women fans you know!
If you've been acquainted with my blog for long, you'll know I call November 29th the literary day of days. That's because it's the birthday of Louisa May Alcott, C.S. Lewis, and Madeleine L'Engle, three of the most formative writers of my life. Three of the writers of my heart.
I thought it might be enjoyable to set aside a November to celebrate each of those authors, and this year I thought I'd start with Alcott. Not just because she comes first in the alphabet, first chronologically (born in 1832) and first in my childhood reading...though all of that is true.
I've had Alcott especially on my mind of late, in part because I just finished reading the first book in the Mother-Daughter Book Club series, which is (in large part) a loving tribute to Alcott's literary masterpiece. It's fascinating to me to see that, so many years after its initial publication, Little Women continues to inspire creativity and loyal readership.
I've also recently read Harriet Reisen's biography of Louisa May Alcott, which I highly recommended in this review last May.
And in March, I participated in Fuse #8's Top 100 Children's Novels poll. Not many 19th century novels made the cut, but Little Women came in at #25. It was, in fact, the oldest book to make the list. And I was delighted to see my quote about it posted front and center.
So for 2010, Alcott it is. Given the pace of my life right now, I don't know how much time I'll be able to devote to the celebration, but I do hope to get up some posts, particularly in celebration of Little Women. I've already got a questionnaire out to some friends who expressed interest in talking about the book with me...if you're a Little Women fan and would be interested in responding to the questions too, please let me know in the comments. And please, spread the word to any other Little Women fans you know!
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Art of the Circular Conversation
A little while ago...
Me: When we got out this afternoon we need to dress warmly. Your dad says it's gotten quite cold.
Sweet Girl: (indignant) COLD! No! You mean it's gotten chilly.
Me: Well, it's in the 40s.
S: (in total I heart winter/native Pittsburgher fashion) I don't consider it cold until it gets down to 30 or below.
Me: (shrugging) OK. So I guess you could say it's gotten very chilly.
S: (heads over to front window and touches palm to glass) BRR-RRR! The glass is freezing!
Me: Well, I told you it's gotten quite chilly.
S: No, it's cold.
Yes!! We have finally perfected the art of the circular conversation at our house.
Me: When we got out this afternoon we need to dress warmly. Your dad says it's gotten quite cold.
Sweet Girl: (indignant) COLD! No! You mean it's gotten chilly.
Me: Well, it's in the 40s.
S: (in total I heart winter/native Pittsburgher fashion) I don't consider it cold until it gets down to 30 or below.
Me: (shrugging) OK. So I guess you could say it's gotten very chilly.
S: (heads over to front window and touches palm to glass) BRR-RRR! The glass is freezing!
Me: Well, I told you it's gotten quite chilly.
S: No, it's cold.
Yes!! We have finally perfected the art of the circular conversation at our house.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Can Facebook Help You Write a Poem?
Maybe.
The other day I posted, as my status update, that I was wrestling with the week's poetry stretch. Write a poem about the moon. And I asked my Facebook friends this question: "what do you love about the moon?"
I loved the answers. Stories, songs, nursery rhymes, associations with the moonwalk, memories of a grandfather. It got me thinking (one of those delightful side benefits of FB from time to time) about all the different ways we delight in the moon.
So I wrote this.
Multiple Moons
The one outside
the window
is real,
rock hard,
reflecting the sunlight--
sometimes golden hued,
sometimes even
blue or rose,
or pearl in
a silver setting--
though wait,
now I am approaching
the metaphor moon,
the one that peeps
a friendly face
through tattered cloud curtains,
sits cool and serene,
a scoop of vanilla ice cream
in its dark sky bowl,
or grins a lopsided smile
on a young girl
and her silver-haired grandfather--
but hey,
I'm edging now
toward the story moon,
the one that followed Owl home,
the moon that got poked
in the eye by the rocket
that brought the picnickers
who loved cheese,
the revelers who sat
and warbled homesick songs
but then
marveled
when they saw the cow
leap right over them,
flying who knows where.
EMP 10-28-10
The other day I posted, as my status update, that I was wrestling with the week's poetry stretch. Write a poem about the moon. And I asked my Facebook friends this question: "what do you love about the moon?"
I loved the answers. Stories, songs, nursery rhymes, associations with the moonwalk, memories of a grandfather. It got me thinking (one of those delightful side benefits of FB from time to time) about all the different ways we delight in the moon.
So I wrote this.
Multiple Moons
The one outside
the window
is real,
rock hard,
reflecting the sunlight--
sometimes golden hued,
sometimes even
blue or rose,
or pearl in
a silver setting--
though wait,
now I am approaching
the metaphor moon,
the one that peeps
a friendly face
through tattered cloud curtains,
sits cool and serene,
a scoop of vanilla ice cream
in its dark sky bowl,
or grins a lopsided smile
on a young girl
and her silver-haired grandfather--
but hey,
I'm edging now
toward the story moon,
the one that followed Owl home,
the moon that got poked
in the eye by the rocket
that brought the picnickers
who loved cheese,
the revelers who sat
and warbled homesick songs
but then
marveled
when they saw the cow
leap right over them,
flying who knows where.
EMP 10-28-10
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Book Notes: Children's Lit Version
I've been swamped, overwhelmed, tired...and my writing rhythm (here as elsewhere) has been ragged at best.
But yes, I do still read!
And on a blog called Endless Books, I do still love to talk about books. So here are a few (very) random musings on reading from the past week or two. For this post, I'll stick to children's literature I've read, and also family read-alouds. Grown-up fare coming in another post soon.
* Erin was right. I loved The Mother-Daughter Book Club, a mid-grade novel (first in a series) by Heather Vogel Frederick. It's light, fun fare for the middle school girl crowd, a book that pays loving homage to Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, one of the books of my heart. It might even possibly inspire a contemporary girl to read LW, if she's not normally too excited about 19th century literature, but my guess is that this book and the subsequent ones in the series, which pay tribute to other classic books, will fare best with girls who already love reading those kinds of books. Not to mention their moms. And of course, it made me long to start a mother-daughter book club, except that we know hardly any moms with girls anywhere remotely near the sweet girl's age right now.
* The Little House weeks appear to have drawn to a close. We read Long Winter followed immediately by Little Town on the Prairie, mostly because the sweet girl begged to. We usually take a break in between series books, but she's been on such a Laura Ingalls Wilder kick, I didn't have the heart to say no...plus it was too much fun to resist. Little Town is not my favorite book in the series, but it is an important bridge between two books that are: Long Winter and These Happy Golden Years. I am thinking the latter might make a good Christmas present for the sweet girl, since (oddly) it appears to be the only Little House book we don't own a copy of. We most usually have multiple copies, or at least doubles, but I seem to have misplaced my childhood copy of Golden Years and I guess we never picked up a newer copy at Half-Price books.
* While on the Little House kick, we had fun looking at some Laura Ingalls Wilder websites. I also thought it might be fun for the sweet girl to watch an episode or two of the Little House television series from my childhood, so I put the first season DVD set on hold. It arrived, and she immediately squelched that idea: "I don't think it will be anything like the books." Well, she's right about that, so I didn't push it, but D. and I had fun watching the first regular season episode last night, despite neither of us having any time to watch anything lately. We didn't know whether to laugh or cry: the series brought back such sweet memories (well, for me, at least) but the characters are so *not* the characters we know and love from the books. Michael Landon is charming, but he's just not Pa, is he? (Does he ever play the fiddle on the show? I can't recall...) We also found ourselves falling into fits of laughter over the California landscape (rugged hills and lots of old trees) trying to masquerade as Minnesota prairie. The sheer sentimentality of the show I had almost forgotten, though I did find myself almost tearing up at the end when the Ingalls realized the strength of their new community. But that probably has more to do with my own longing for deeper community right now than it does with the show's script or acting.
* "I need to find lots of things!" the sweet girl announced plaintively the other evening. She's been on the lookout for things she can "borrow" for the small dollhouse doll she has recently renamed Arriety. Yes, we're reading Mary Norton's The Borrowers for family read-aloud. I'd forgotten what a delight it is!
* Melissa Wiley went to Mankato. Isn't that awesome? I've been longing to go there for years, and it was such fun to see it through her eyes. The new issues of Carney's House Party/Winona's Pony Cart (with Melissa's foreword) and Emily of Deep Valley were released a few weeks ago. I especially love Emily and Carney, and hope to add these beautiful new editions to my collection soon.
But yes, I do still read!
And on a blog called Endless Books, I do still love to talk about books. So here are a few (very) random musings on reading from the past week or two. For this post, I'll stick to children's literature I've read, and also family read-alouds. Grown-up fare coming in another post soon.
* Erin was right. I loved The Mother-Daughter Book Club, a mid-grade novel (first in a series) by Heather Vogel Frederick. It's light, fun fare for the middle school girl crowd, a book that pays loving homage to Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, one of the books of my heart. It might even possibly inspire a contemporary girl to read LW, if she's not normally too excited about 19th century literature, but my guess is that this book and the subsequent ones in the series, which pay tribute to other classic books, will fare best with girls who already love reading those kinds of books. Not to mention their moms. And of course, it made me long to start a mother-daughter book club, except that we know hardly any moms with girls anywhere remotely near the sweet girl's age right now.
* The Little House weeks appear to have drawn to a close. We read Long Winter followed immediately by Little Town on the Prairie, mostly because the sweet girl begged to. We usually take a break in between series books, but she's been on such a Laura Ingalls Wilder kick, I didn't have the heart to say no...plus it was too much fun to resist. Little Town is not my favorite book in the series, but it is an important bridge between two books that are: Long Winter and These Happy Golden Years. I am thinking the latter might make a good Christmas present for the sweet girl, since (oddly) it appears to be the only Little House book we don't own a copy of. We most usually have multiple copies, or at least doubles, but I seem to have misplaced my childhood copy of Golden Years and I guess we never picked up a newer copy at Half-Price books.
* While on the Little House kick, we had fun looking at some Laura Ingalls Wilder websites. I also thought it might be fun for the sweet girl to watch an episode or two of the Little House television series from my childhood, so I put the first season DVD set on hold. It arrived, and she immediately squelched that idea: "I don't think it will be anything like the books." Well, she's right about that, so I didn't push it, but D. and I had fun watching the first regular season episode last night, despite neither of us having any time to watch anything lately. We didn't know whether to laugh or cry: the series brought back such sweet memories (well, for me, at least) but the characters are so *not* the characters we know and love from the books. Michael Landon is charming, but he's just not Pa, is he? (Does he ever play the fiddle on the show? I can't recall...) We also found ourselves falling into fits of laughter over the California landscape (rugged hills and lots of old trees) trying to masquerade as Minnesota prairie. The sheer sentimentality of the show I had almost forgotten, though I did find myself almost tearing up at the end when the Ingalls realized the strength of their new community. But that probably has more to do with my own longing for deeper community right now than it does with the show's script or acting.
* "I need to find lots of things!" the sweet girl announced plaintively the other evening. She's been on the lookout for things she can "borrow" for the small dollhouse doll she has recently renamed Arriety. Yes, we're reading Mary Norton's The Borrowers for family read-aloud. I'd forgotten what a delight it is!
* Melissa Wiley went to Mankato. Isn't that awesome? I've been longing to go there for years, and it was such fun to see it through her eyes. The new issues of Carney's House Party/Winona's Pony Cart (with Melissa's foreword) and Emily of Deep Valley were released a few weeks ago. I especially love Emily and Carney, and hope to add these beautiful new editions to my collection soon.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Bits of Beauty in Autumn
Our little town is not exactly known for its beauty. In fact, sometimes you have to dig deep to find it.
But find it you can, from time to time, in small pockets. Here were a couple of those pockets we discovered last week on a autumnal walk.
Isn't the light here particularly stunning? It makes the rose so luminous and makes the fountain behind it look like glass. And the curly green moss on the side so differently textured from the sheet of falling water.
Thank the Lord for the maple trees by the town gazebo. The late afternoon sun glinting through the leaves just about melted my heart.
As did the sweet girl's heartfelt address to the treetops, when she lifted up her head and gave this impromptu oration: "Dear Leaves, please don't worry about dying. You will become dirt, and more things will grow from you."
But find it you can, from time to time, in small pockets. Here were a couple of those pockets we discovered last week on a autumnal walk.
Isn't the light here particularly stunning? It makes the rose so luminous and makes the fountain behind it look like glass. And the curly green moss on the side so differently textured from the sheet of falling water.
Thank the Lord for the maple trees by the town gazebo. The late afternoon sun glinting through the leaves just about melted my heart.As did the sweet girl's heartfelt address to the treetops, when she lifted up her head and gave this impromptu oration: "Dear Leaves, please don't worry about dying. You will become dirt, and more things will grow from you."
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Vermeer Reviews
I've posted two reviews recently on books that creatively engage the wonderful art of Jan Vermeer (1632-1675).
The first is Bob Raczka's The Vermeer Interviews: Conversations With Seven Works of Art, perhaps my favorite "art appreciation" kind of book for children ever.
The second is In Quiet Light: Poems on Vermeer's Women by Marilyn Chandler McEntyre, a poet I only recently discovered. It felt like such serendipity to come across and enjoy her poems, only to find that she'd done a whole collection centered around and inspired by Vermeer's artwork, which I've also been enjoying so much this autumn.
While the first book is good for all ages (especially appropriate and helpful for eight and up) the second is probably more suited for adults and young adults (though the music of the poems may entrance younger listeners, even if they don't grasp some of the themes).
Another book that creatively engages Vermeer is, of course, Blue Balliett's delightfully different mid-grade novel Chasing Vermeer. I'd post a review except that apparently, I never got around to writing one...hmm. I did however review both its sequels, The Wright Three and The Calder Game. Apparently both of these reviews are buried/lost in the Epinions database right now (which continues to have problems) so if you're interested in them, I'd love it if you'd click through directly from here so you can actually access them.
I'd also love to hear about any other good books and resources you'd recommend on the life and work of Jan Vermeer.
The first is Bob Raczka's The Vermeer Interviews: Conversations With Seven Works of Art, perhaps my favorite "art appreciation" kind of book for children ever.
The second is In Quiet Light: Poems on Vermeer's Women by Marilyn Chandler McEntyre, a poet I only recently discovered. It felt like such serendipity to come across and enjoy her poems, only to find that she'd done a whole collection centered around and inspired by Vermeer's artwork, which I've also been enjoying so much this autumn.
While the first book is good for all ages (especially appropriate and helpful for eight and up) the second is probably more suited for adults and young adults (though the music of the poems may entrance younger listeners, even if they don't grasp some of the themes).
Another book that creatively engages Vermeer is, of course, Blue Balliett's delightfully different mid-grade novel Chasing Vermeer. I'd post a review except that apparently, I never got around to writing one...hmm. I did however review both its sequels, The Wright Three and The Calder Game. Apparently both of these reviews are buried/lost in the Epinions database right now (which continues to have problems) so if you're interested in them, I'd love it if you'd click through directly from here so you can actually access them.
I'd also love to hear about any other good books and resources you'd recommend on the life and work of Jan Vermeer.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Scriptures: Light, Food, Fire
I'm up too late again, but wrestling through some good reading, thinking and praying. These days I am often up late reading church history and responding to student papers (my seminary students and also the diocesan students I'm working with this term). Tonight I'm mainly reading, but finding it hard to concentrate on the academic side of things because I keep getting stopped in my tracks by thoughts from theologians and writers of the past. I find myself wrestling with what they're saying on a personal, heart level, as I consider my own journey with Jesus. And I find myself thinking a lot about the kids we're teaching in catechesis class each week.
I don't know if I've written anything about that here (my blogging has been so sporadic this fall) but my husband and I are co-teaching catechesis for 6 young people, ages 13-18, in our parish. Actually my husband is doing the bulk of the teaching and coordinating, and I'm there for as much of the meeting as I can be (some weeks I have other meetings I have to do first) to help spur discussion, teach a bit of church history, and pray with them. The purpose of our weekly meeting is mostly informational, in that we're providing a lot of teaching content for the kids to chew on -- material about the story of the Scriptures, the story of the church, the creeds and the Lord's prayer. We're basically the classroom while the kids' work with their mentors, outside of the class, is like their lab. It's there where they're supposed to try their wings, attempt some spiritual stretches, engage in inner and outer spiritual disciplines, wrestle with the daily stuff, though hopefully we're helping provide framework and context for all that.
I confess I have never felt as inept as a teacher as I have with this group, except perhaps for how inept I'm currently feeling on Thursday nights where we're working with a group of highly rambunctious K-4th graders, mostly unchurched, who are having a really hard time sitting still. But that's a post for another time.
I know I'm tired, and it's easy (oh so easy) to get discouraged when I'm this tired. It's also easy to fall into the trap of thinking: if we could just come up with teaching methods more creative, more interesting, more relevant, more _______ (fill in the blank) the kids would be more responsive. But I've been wrestling through that tonight and have come to the conclusion that maybe the best thing we can be right now is just faithful. Faithful to pray for these kids, faithful to try to engage them, faithful to prod them or challenge them when necessary, faithful to let them ask questions, faithful to listen.
One thing that's particularly flummoxing me is how to share with them, in ways that are real and authentic, what the Bible can mean in a person's life (and what it means in mine). We've been challenged by the fact that they are not doing the weekly Bible reading we've assigned (or at least not willing to admit they're doing it). We've been surprised by how difficult it is for them to sustain attention or even pay attention when we read passages in class (no matter how we've tried approaching the reading). We've been stumped by how much they're struggling to see this class as something life-giving and real, an opportunity to grow with God, as opposed to a series of things they need to check off if they want to get confirmed. I wonder how much of that isn't just the way our culture sets us up to learn. How many of us are taught to think, from an early age, that we only have to put forth effort to do something if there will be a concrete kind of "pay off" -- will there be a pop quiz? is this on the test? if I don't do it, are there immediate consequences? Instead of learning that it's good to put forth effort, and to build habits, simply because the doing of something is good in and of itself, and is good for us.
Why do you read the Bible? What does it mean to you? I've had all sorts of thoughts about those questions, and all sorts of images swimming 'round my brain this evening. I've been reading Thomas Cranmer's Preface to the Great Bible from 1540, and I actually found myself chuckling a bit because the things he's addressing are almost *exactly* the challenges we're facing. He talks about how people say they don't have time to read the Scriptures because their lives are too full. Or their lives are too complex and messy. Or because they don't understand them. And he addresses all of those in ways that are both simple and helpful.
And then there's this from Cranmer, a description of the Scriptures that really arrested my attention:
…I would marvel much that any man should be so mad, as to refuse in darkness, light; in hunger, food; in cold, fire. For the word of God is light: Lucerna pedibus meis, verbum tuum. (See Psalm 119) Thy word is a lantern unto my feet. It is food: Non in solo pane viuit homo, sed in omni verbo dei. (See Matthew 4) Man shall not live by bread only, but by every word of God. It is fire: Ignem veni mittere in tertam, & quid volo nisi vt ardeat? (See Luke 12) I am come to send fire on the earth, and what is my desire but that it be kindled?
And that's what I wish I could find a way to get across to our teenagers: how the Scriptures are light in our darkness, food for our hunger, and fire in our cold.
I don't know if I've written anything about that here (my blogging has been so sporadic this fall) but my husband and I are co-teaching catechesis for 6 young people, ages 13-18, in our parish. Actually my husband is doing the bulk of the teaching and coordinating, and I'm there for as much of the meeting as I can be (some weeks I have other meetings I have to do first) to help spur discussion, teach a bit of church history, and pray with them. The purpose of our weekly meeting is mostly informational, in that we're providing a lot of teaching content for the kids to chew on -- material about the story of the Scriptures, the story of the church, the creeds and the Lord's prayer. We're basically the classroom while the kids' work with their mentors, outside of the class, is like their lab. It's there where they're supposed to try their wings, attempt some spiritual stretches, engage in inner and outer spiritual disciplines, wrestle with the daily stuff, though hopefully we're helping provide framework and context for all that.
I confess I have never felt as inept as a teacher as I have with this group, except perhaps for how inept I'm currently feeling on Thursday nights where we're working with a group of highly rambunctious K-4th graders, mostly unchurched, who are having a really hard time sitting still. But that's a post for another time.
I know I'm tired, and it's easy (oh so easy) to get discouraged when I'm this tired. It's also easy to fall into the trap of thinking: if we could just come up with teaching methods more creative, more interesting, more relevant, more _______ (fill in the blank) the kids would be more responsive. But I've been wrestling through that tonight and have come to the conclusion that maybe the best thing we can be right now is just faithful. Faithful to pray for these kids, faithful to try to engage them, faithful to prod them or challenge them when necessary, faithful to let them ask questions, faithful to listen.
One thing that's particularly flummoxing me is how to share with them, in ways that are real and authentic, what the Bible can mean in a person's life (and what it means in mine). We've been challenged by the fact that they are not doing the weekly Bible reading we've assigned (or at least not willing to admit they're doing it). We've been surprised by how difficult it is for them to sustain attention or even pay attention when we read passages in class (no matter how we've tried approaching the reading). We've been stumped by how much they're struggling to see this class as something life-giving and real, an opportunity to grow with God, as opposed to a series of things they need to check off if they want to get confirmed. I wonder how much of that isn't just the way our culture sets us up to learn. How many of us are taught to think, from an early age, that we only have to put forth effort to do something if there will be a concrete kind of "pay off" -- will there be a pop quiz? is this on the test? if I don't do it, are there immediate consequences? Instead of learning that it's good to put forth effort, and to build habits, simply because the doing of something is good in and of itself, and is good for us.
Why do you read the Bible? What does it mean to you? I've had all sorts of thoughts about those questions, and all sorts of images swimming 'round my brain this evening. I've been reading Thomas Cranmer's Preface to the Great Bible from 1540, and I actually found myself chuckling a bit because the things he's addressing are almost *exactly* the challenges we're facing. He talks about how people say they don't have time to read the Scriptures because their lives are too full. Or their lives are too complex and messy. Or because they don't understand them. And he addresses all of those in ways that are both simple and helpful.
And then there's this from Cranmer, a description of the Scriptures that really arrested my attention:
…I would marvel much that any man should be so mad, as to refuse in darkness, light; in hunger, food; in cold, fire. For the word of God is light: Lucerna pedibus meis, verbum tuum. (See Psalm 119) Thy word is a lantern unto my feet. It is food: Non in solo pane viuit homo, sed in omni verbo dei. (See Matthew 4) Man shall not live by bread only, but by every word of God. It is fire: Ignem veni mittere in tertam, & quid volo nisi vt ardeat? (See Luke 12) I am come to send fire on the earth, and what is my desire but that it be kindled?
And that's what I wish I could find a way to get across to our teenagers: how the Scriptures are light in our darkness, food for our hunger, and fire in our cold.
Living in the Present Moment
I always seem drawn to quotes about living in the present moment. Perhaps it's because I struggle to live that way, but am always blessed when I'm able to open myself to that kind of moment-to-moment living in God.
Friends who are currently fundraising to move to Singapore as missionaries wrote this in their prayer letter (received today) as they worked through the fact that they're probably not going to meet their original fundraising "deadline":
"Though God is known for working miracles, he is also known to include a 40-year detour. What we have been coming to terms with this month is how to accept either option in the future while still living our lives in the present."
I loved this, and wanted to pass it on. How true it is that often God's "time-table" isn't quite what we expect, but he stretches us, shapes and forms us through the time that he chooses for us to walk through a certain season or place. (13 plus years here in this little town we thought we'd moved to for 2 years. Becoming immersed in mission and ministry in this little town! Really. Who knew?)
And again, from these wise friends: "...I think God has us (here) for a purpose. Personally, this gives me the confidence to live in his moment today instead of my imaginary future."
Friends who are currently fundraising to move to Singapore as missionaries wrote this in their prayer letter (received today) as they worked through the fact that they're probably not going to meet their original fundraising "deadline":
"Though God is known for working miracles, he is also known to include a 40-year detour. What we have been coming to terms with this month is how to accept either option in the future while still living our lives in the present."
I loved this, and wanted to pass it on. How true it is that often God's "time-table" isn't quite what we expect, but he stretches us, shapes and forms us through the time that he chooses for us to walk through a certain season or place. (13 plus years here in this little town we thought we'd moved to for 2 years. Becoming immersed in mission and ministry in this little town! Really. Who knew?)
And again, from these wise friends: "...I think God has us (here) for a purpose. Personally, this gives me the confidence to live in his moment today instead of my imaginary future."
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Maybe They Migrated
I love autumn. The leaves here in western Pennsylvania are truly beginning to turn. Yesterday, when I walked to the post office, I was almost stunned by the beauty of the locust tree in the town park, right next to the p.o.'s flagpole. The sky was that lovely shade of blue you hardly ever see except in September/October, and the small leaves on the tree shimmered like golden coins.
The maple by the town gazebo is also blushing from the top down. A carrot top! There are several maples bunched together there, but one of them almost always turns first, and it's currently a blaze of rich, mellowy orange.
One of the advantages of living in so small a town is that you get to know the individual trees so well they fell like old friends. That's why I was shocked to realize the other day that the beautiful ginkgo trees by the public library are gone.
I don't know how I missed this fact. There were three (I think!) lovely ginkgos there for years, their skinny, knobby trunks rising like church spires. The fan-shaped leaves are beautiful when green, but especially noticeable in fall when they turn a perfectly pale yellow. They make wonderful leaf piles to play in, soft and slippery. The sweet girl played in those piles more times than I can count when she was a toddler/preschooler, and we always brought yellow ginkgo leaves home for the table.
We came out of the back door of the library last week and headed for the sidewalk. I had just opened my mouth to say "let's see if the ginkgos have started turning yellow yet" when I stopped, my mouth practically still open, and stared at the spaces where ginkgo trees used to be. Someone must have cut them down in spring or summer (though how we failed to notice this is beyond me) and really rooted them out, stumps and all. We were able to find the still slightly bare patches where the stumps used to be, but just barely.
"Where did they go?" I found myself asking stupidly, and after a thoughtful minute, the sweet girl replied, with a giggle, "Maybe they migrated!"
We had fun amusing ourselves the rest of the way home, imagining the skinny ginkgos stalking around like long-legged storks (I can't wait till we get to Tolkien and the sweet girl becomes acquainted with Ents) but I must confess I'm still in mourning. I wish now that I'd taken photos of those beautiful trees. I miss the delicate yellow fans that used to decorate our fall table.
I feel sad to think of them being cut down. I'd rather imagine them winging their way through October blue skies headed who knows where for the winter.
The maple by the town gazebo is also blushing from the top down. A carrot top! There are several maples bunched together there, but one of them almost always turns first, and it's currently a blaze of rich, mellowy orange.
One of the advantages of living in so small a town is that you get to know the individual trees so well they fell like old friends. That's why I was shocked to realize the other day that the beautiful ginkgo trees by the public library are gone.
I don't know how I missed this fact. There were three (I think!) lovely ginkgos there for years, their skinny, knobby trunks rising like church spires. The fan-shaped leaves are beautiful when green, but especially noticeable in fall when they turn a perfectly pale yellow. They make wonderful leaf piles to play in, soft and slippery. The sweet girl played in those piles more times than I can count when she was a toddler/preschooler, and we always brought yellow ginkgo leaves home for the table.
We came out of the back door of the library last week and headed for the sidewalk. I had just opened my mouth to say "let's see if the ginkgos have started turning yellow yet" when I stopped, my mouth practically still open, and stared at the spaces where ginkgo trees used to be. Someone must have cut them down in spring or summer (though how we failed to notice this is beyond me) and really rooted them out, stumps and all. We were able to find the still slightly bare patches where the stumps used to be, but just barely.
"Where did they go?" I found myself asking stupidly, and after a thoughtful minute, the sweet girl replied, with a giggle, "Maybe they migrated!"
We had fun amusing ourselves the rest of the way home, imagining the skinny ginkgos stalking around like long-legged storks (I can't wait till we get to Tolkien and the sweet girl becomes acquainted with Ents) but I must confess I'm still in mourning. I wish now that I'd taken photos of those beautiful trees. I miss the delicate yellow fans that used to decorate our fall table.
I feel sad to think of them being cut down. I'd rather imagine them winging their way through October blue skies headed who knows where for the winter.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Patchwork Post
Just a few patches from the crazy quilt of recent days...SICK
If you were a little flummoxed by yesterday's brief post, or if you've been wondering where the heck I've been, it can all be summed up in one word: SICK.
And what an odd round of sickness it's been. It started almost a week ago when I discovered I'd done a mysterious something to my back. Terrible muscle spasms, not being able to bend or walk without real pain, and it felt worst while sitting in (or getting up from) my desk chair at the computer.
It got so bad late Thursday-into-Friday that I really couldn't walk or lie down without terrible spasms radiating from my lower back into my right hip. In desperation, I strayed from my normal natural homeopathic path (a good path, by the way) and slathered myself in the menthol Icy Hot ointment. And then (in a haze of pain) completely disregarded package directions and put moist heat on top of it, which must have made the stuff absorb into my skin incredibly deeply.
Note, if you think you might have the slightest allergy to salicylates, don't do what I did.
So the result was several days of some of the worst hives I've ever had, and believe me, I've had some doozies.
Then the weather turned chilly and it started pouring rain, and I started my annual autumn bout of congestion/cough. And the cough seemed to strain my starting-to-heal back, which gave me a couple more bad days (though not quite as bad) with my back.
And then yesterday I couldn't bear the hives anymore...they didn't seem to be responding to the homeopathic remedy I was trying...so I switched to another remedy and also gave in and took Benadryl.
Which proceeded to knock me flat for most of the day. SoI was either sleeping, fighting sleep, or wishing I was sleeping...
Hence my post about not teaching while under the influence!
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"SALVE, MAGISTRA!"
That was the sweet girl's enthusiastic greeting to me the other day. Yes, we've been studying the first few lessons in Prima Latina.
I'm glad we decided to take the gentle route with Latin this year. It's been a good, slow beginning for us, just what we needed. I'm having a hard time getting in all the things we want to do, but including one PL lesson per week has been easy peasy and such an enjoyment for all of us. We couldn't afford the DVDs, but we like the audio CD. The woman who narrates the vocabulary has such a sweet southern inflection.
One of the nice things about Prima Latina is its inclusion of Latin prayers. We've been working on memorizing the Sanctus. The sweet girl's favorite word from her lessons so far is "Oremus" -- "let us pray." She often uses it as our call to prayer at dinner time or candles!
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LIVING WITH THE EARLY CHURCH
Being sick has at least afforded me some opportunity to read, and read I must if I'm going to keep ahead of the curve as I help teach the Early Church course for the seminary. It's been so good to dive back into the apostolic and sub-apostolic periods (the course runs from NT church up through Chalcedon). So I'm spending a lot of waking hours in the company of folks like Clement of Rome, Ignatius of Antioch, Irenaeus and Justin Martyr.
Good company...probably some quotes/posts forthcoming.
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"FASCINATING," said Mr. Spock, with his eyebrow raised.
Although we've had almost no time to breathe, much less watch movies, Dana and I continue our meander through the Netflix provided season 1 of the original Star Trek. What a great show...and what memories it brings back (mostly of watching them in re-runs in the 70s, along with my big brother).
I've always been fond of Bones (given my maiden name, probably understandable) but I'm really finding myself drawn to Spock lately. Hmm...
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RECIPES FROM THE ROOT CELLAR
I have fallen in love with this cookbook by Andrea Chesman, which I found recently on the "just-in" shelves at our library. It's subtitled "270 Fresh Ways to Enjoy Winter Vegetables" and although I've only tried 2 of the recipes so far, I feel game to try as many as I can from the other 268. I LOVE winter vegetables, and this book has offered some wonderful ideas for using them. Full of yummy ideas using potatoes, squashes, dark greens, carrots and other root veggies (not to mention apples).
So far I've made the Italian Wedding Soup with kale (really good, though I'd like to try it with a veggie chicken broth next time...all I had on hand was regular veggie broth) and Rumbledethump (fell in love with the name!) a casserole dish based on a recipe for Scottish colcannon.
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FEELING LIKE MA INGALLS
I joked that cooking up such a hearty Scottish dish (made with potatoes, onions, and cabbage) made me feel a little like Ma Ingalls. But I've got Ma and all the rest of the Ingalls on the brain anyway, since we have been having a Little House festival of reading this fall. Unplanned, but delightful...we finished Long Winter the other day and launched immediately into Little Town. We've been saving the reading for bedtime so Pa...er, Daddy...can join the fun.
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BOOK REVIEWS!
Oh, do I miss writing book reviews. It's funny that a writing pastime that began on a whim several years ago has become such a delight of my heart, but I do loving writing book reviews. And I'm currently in a major review writing drought -- not for lack of books, but serious lack of time (busiest schedule ever this fall, compounded by health stuff lately...)
In addition to all the books I've read recently that are piling up on my desk (and beckoning me to write about them) yesterday I got a package of books to review from Greenwillow Press, imprint of Harper Collins. It's only the second time I've had a publisher directly send me books to review, and I have to confess, though it sounds silly, that I felt like a real reviewer as I oohed and aahed my way through these beautiful books I get to read, share about and keep. You would think almost 900 written and posted reviews online would make me feel like a real book reviewer already, wouldn't you? But we writers are funny creatures...
Many more patches I could share, but dinner calls.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
TUI
Dear Benadryl, might I humbly suggest that you add "Do not attempt to teach your third grader her math lesson while taking this drug" to your warning label?
Sincerely,
One tired teacher
Sincerely,
One tired teacher
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Learning About Leaning
There's a scene that often comes back to me from the sweet and sentimental comedy While You Were Sleeping. Our heroine, Lucy, is falling in love with Jack, the brother of the man she thought she was in love with (it's a twisty plot). Neither of them has confessed their feelings for each other yet, but Jack finds himself getting jealous over the perceived attentions of Lucy's oddball neighbor. He explains that he thought that the neighbor man was "leaning" into Lucy, which in Jack's understanding means the two are especially close.
"Leaning?" Lucy asks, somewhat blankly. Yes, leaning. It's a funny, sweet scene because Jack (played by Bill Pullman in his younger years) proceeds to try to explain to her what he means by leaning. He moves in close to her, explaining that only people who feel very close or very drawn to one another find themselves "leaning." The oddball neighbor (whose intentions, as it turns out, are mostly harmless) happens by at that time and proceeds to prove Jack's point. "Is he bothering you? Because it looks like he's leaning."
I've been thinking a lot about leaning lately, and what it means in the spiritual life. Despite growing up with the hymn "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms," it's not a concept I've thought of much in connection to my relationship with God. But lately I find myself thinking of it a lot, perhaps because I am finding myself recognizing how much I need to lean. How much I need to be literally held up, sustained by the love and strength of God.
It turns out that "leaning" on God is a biblical image, and one that really does conjure up intimacy, especially the closeness of a parent/child. But it's not just the kind of leaning described in the sweet scene of a romantic movie (though that does make me smile) the kind of leaning where someone draws protectively close to someone else. Biblical leaning has to do with recognizing our essential reliance on the God who sustains us and who holds the world in being, in whom all things cohere. And it's a reliance that starts, according to the Psalmist, before we're ever aware of it, before we're even born:
"Upon you I have leaned from before my birth; you are he who took me from my mother's womb. My praise is continually of you." (Psalm 71:6)
So leaning on God is our essential state, the way we're created to be. He's the one who watches over us even as we shelter, hidden, in our mother's womb. He's the one who sustains us and brings us into the light of day, the first of many deliverances the Lord graciously provides to his people.
Sin and its power can be described in a lot of apt ways, ways that help us to understand its dangers and how it can corrupt and subvert God's plans and purposes for us. Missing the mark, being twisted or bent, turned inward, are all ways of describing or thinking about sin. But I've been thinking lately about sin also causing us to lean in the wrong direction. We lean away from God (thus moving out of the close circle of his arms) and often end up trying to lean on other things, expecting they will hold us up or sustain us, only to discover how unstable and unsteady those things are. Part of our restoration, when we begin to walk with the Lord, is that he draws us back to the close circle of his arms and helps us begin to lean on him again. Notice the use of the word in this verse from Isaiah, which describes how the people of Israel will be day be returned from their captivity to Assyria and restored to right relationship with God:
"In that day the remnant of Israel and the survivors of the house of Jacob will no more lean on him who struck them, but will lean on the Lord, the Holy One of Israel, in truth." (Isaiah 10:20)
Even once we're restored and in right relationship with God, we still sometimes find ourselves moving away from him and leaning on the wrong things. Sometimes this is obvious, and other times more subtle, but sometimes we find ourselves more dependent on external things (for happiness, peace, comfort, security) than on God himself. And when that happens, we need to repent, literally turn around, and lean back into God.
He wants us to lean. He welcomes our leaning. He remembers what we're made of (remember, he is the One who knit us together in the first place!). Perhaps a great deal of our spiritual disciplines -- prayer, solitude, study, service -- are really all about learning to lean closer and closer into him. Lean deeper. Lean with the sure and certain knowledge that he won't let us fall. And as we lean in, we discover, much to our paradoxical delight, that we are able to move outward -- not in wrong or hasty directions (looking for sustenance and security where there isn't any) but in freedom and joy, like a rooted tree, pliable in the wind.
Lord, let us lean.
"Leaning?" Lucy asks, somewhat blankly. Yes, leaning. It's a funny, sweet scene because Jack (played by Bill Pullman in his younger years) proceeds to try to explain to her what he means by leaning. He moves in close to her, explaining that only people who feel very close or very drawn to one another find themselves "leaning." The oddball neighbor (whose intentions, as it turns out, are mostly harmless) happens by at that time and proceeds to prove Jack's point. "Is he bothering you? Because it looks like he's leaning."
I've been thinking a lot about leaning lately, and what it means in the spiritual life. Despite growing up with the hymn "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms," it's not a concept I've thought of much in connection to my relationship with God. But lately I find myself thinking of it a lot, perhaps because I am finding myself recognizing how much I need to lean. How much I need to be literally held up, sustained by the love and strength of God.
It turns out that "leaning" on God is a biblical image, and one that really does conjure up intimacy, especially the closeness of a parent/child. But it's not just the kind of leaning described in the sweet scene of a romantic movie (though that does make me smile) the kind of leaning where someone draws protectively close to someone else. Biblical leaning has to do with recognizing our essential reliance on the God who sustains us and who holds the world in being, in whom all things cohere. And it's a reliance that starts, according to the Psalmist, before we're ever aware of it, before we're even born:
"Upon you I have leaned from before my birth; you are he who took me from my mother's womb. My praise is continually of you." (Psalm 71:6)
So leaning on God is our essential state, the way we're created to be. He's the one who watches over us even as we shelter, hidden, in our mother's womb. He's the one who sustains us and brings us into the light of day, the first of many deliverances the Lord graciously provides to his people.
Sin and its power can be described in a lot of apt ways, ways that help us to understand its dangers and how it can corrupt and subvert God's plans and purposes for us. Missing the mark, being twisted or bent, turned inward, are all ways of describing or thinking about sin. But I've been thinking lately about sin also causing us to lean in the wrong direction. We lean away from God (thus moving out of the close circle of his arms) and often end up trying to lean on other things, expecting they will hold us up or sustain us, only to discover how unstable and unsteady those things are. Part of our restoration, when we begin to walk with the Lord, is that he draws us back to the close circle of his arms and helps us begin to lean on him again. Notice the use of the word in this verse from Isaiah, which describes how the people of Israel will be day be returned from their captivity to Assyria and restored to right relationship with God:
"In that day the remnant of Israel and the survivors of the house of Jacob will no more lean on him who struck them, but will lean on the Lord, the Holy One of Israel, in truth." (Isaiah 10:20)
Even once we're restored and in right relationship with God, we still sometimes find ourselves moving away from him and leaning on the wrong things. Sometimes this is obvious, and other times more subtle, but sometimes we find ourselves more dependent on external things (for happiness, peace, comfort, security) than on God himself. And when that happens, we need to repent, literally turn around, and lean back into God.
He wants us to lean. He welcomes our leaning. He remembers what we're made of (remember, he is the One who knit us together in the first place!). Perhaps a great deal of our spiritual disciplines -- prayer, solitude, study, service -- are really all about learning to lean closer and closer into him. Lean deeper. Lean with the sure and certain knowledge that he won't let us fall. And as we lean in, we discover, much to our paradoxical delight, that we are able to move outward -- not in wrong or hasty directions (looking for sustenance and security where there isn't any) but in freedom and joy, like a rooted tree, pliable in the wind.
Lord, let us lean.
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