The Future Remains Unwritten

It is Friday, April 13, 2012, and I do not yet know what tomorrow holds. Funny that such a statement can be made, given how self-evident that is for any of us. Indeed, the title of this post feels a little over the top for its topic, but it works for me, so I'm going with it.

'Twas Burns that said of mice and men,
Two hundred years ago
The best-laid schemes gang aft agley, a
Truth so wretch'd, bless'd be
To twist the tack of life we plow!

I've never been overly keen on long-term planning, in the sense of the "where do you want to be in 5 years, 10 years" variety. It is not that I believe setting goals and having a vision is unimportant - quite the contrary. It is just that over time (and reinforced the last two years in a rather painful manner), I've learned that life has a way of upsetting "the best laid plans o' mice and men." The more detailed you plan, the more likely events will invalidate your efforts. The key lesson (one I often face) is learning to adapt, keep moving and avoiding the trap that leads to paralysis when life takes a hard unexpected turn. I slip into that trap sometimes, especially because I'm typically not a big fan of "change."

It has been six weeks since we lost our home to the storm. The most frequent question I am asked, and one we ourselves are still asking, "are we going to rebuild"? So much of our focus these past few weeks has centered on the re-establishment of routine, all the legal and insurance matters, and the effort to methodically put our lives back in order. We are back at work. We are living in a rental house. Our old property is cleared of all major debris. We have managed to reduce our salvaged items from 2 10x25 storage units down to 1 (sadly, at least half of what was salvaged so far has not proved savable), but we still have a long way to go. And as much as we have tried to return to routine, life remains anything but. When I am at the office, I find myself preoccupied with matters associated with recovery. When I'm out and about looking at houses, or going through storage, or attending to little things like overdue car tag registrations and the tax assessors office - I find myself fretting about the projects at work that are at risk of falling behind schedule. James 1:8 notes that a double-minded man is unstable in all his ways. While intended for a different context, that verse to some extent does capture the distracted nature of my days. Not much to do but to pray and press through as best I can.

We have met with one builder, and plan to meet with one or two more. The one we interviewed believes that the existing foundation, aside from some repair and reinforcement, should be safe to reuse if we choose to rebuild. Once we get some cost estimates, we'll have a better feel for what the options truly are. On the one hand, this is a buyer's market for housing. I could even make the argument that it would be far more pragmatic in this economy to buy a house, rather than rebuild, since it is likely that the cost of rebuilding will exceed the cost of buying. And yet, I fully own that land. To not rebuild, I would still incur a cost of restoring it to a condition to sell. The original house plans are sitting here on the kitchen table, and each time we or the boys look at those plans, we talk as if rebuilding is the natural answer to what happens next. And certainly there is more excitement surrounding that path than the one that leads to buying something else. But of course, we miss our home, and this is all indicative of the process in which we find ourselves.

Soon I hope, we'll be able to choose a direction and start down the path laid before us. We continue to pray, we continue to gather facts, we continue to heal. It'll become clear in good time.

Bonus: Mr. Blue

Peter Robinson of Ricochet has a beautiful post today, an excerpt from a book called Mr. Blue, published in 1928 by Myles Connolly. I won't copy the post (it's short, and I encourage you to read the whole thing at Ricochet.com). But I will excerpt just the smallest of portions, if I can:

He threw his hands up toward the stars: “My hands, my feet, my poor little brain, my eyes, my ears, all matter more than the whole sweep of these constellations!” he burst out. “God Himself, the God to Whom this whole universe-specked display is as nothing, God Himself had hands like mine and feet like mine, and eyes, and brain, and ears!....” He looked at me intently. “Without Christ we would be little more than bacteria breeding on a pebble in space, or glints of ideas in a whirling void of abstractions. Because of Him, I can stand here out under this cold immensity and know that my infinitesimal pulse-beats and acts and thoughts are of more importance than this whole show of a universe."

Thanks, Peter. Simply wonderful.

Happy Easter!

Today is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it! For Christ the Lord died, but He has also risen! And Christ will indeed come again!

May the joy of Easter fill your heart and your day!



"Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!" (Luke 24:5-6, NIV)

The Death of Jesus

Adapted from a devotion published in 1996.

Intense, anguished prayer...."Not my will, Father, but yours".... "Are you the Messiah?".... Shouts, accusations from every direction, taunts..."Let's see a miracle, Son of God!".... "This man is innocent, I will release him".... "No! No! Crucify! Crucify! We have no king but Caesar!"...."I wash my hands of his blood, let it be on your heads".... The robe, the thorns piercing his flesh, the terrible agony of metal grinding through bone, being driven through flesh.... A stranger carrying his cross.... "Don't weep for me".... "Father, forgive them".... "Save yourself, if you are the Christ! Come on, you worthless piece of scum, call for your angels! Come, Oh high and mighty King -- save yourself!! He's quite clever at 'saving' others, but he can't save himself! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!".... "Hey, let's cast lots for these clothes, they'll bring a good price down in the temple market".... "Hey there, Messiah! Come down from that cross and we'll believe you!".... "Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom".... "Today, you will be with me in paradise!".... A darkness deeper than any night fell upon that site. The air became oppressive, stagnant. And as it fell, the people became quiet, the taunting died away, even as evil rejoiced. For 3 hours, the darkness smothered the land. The only sounds were the agonized breathing of the dying. Suddenly, there was a loud cry from the mouth of God, shattering the eerie silence and shattering the hearts of those who heard it. "It is finished." The
veil was torn in two. A spear thrust into His side brings forth a flow of blood and water.

The Son is dead.

It had to be done. It was the only way. Jesus died. He died so that we might live. We can never understand the joy of the Resurrection if we fail to understand the Death. In three days, the Victory was made known. But you cannot appreciate the Victory if you don't experience defeat.

"Now I have given up everything else -- I have found it to be the only way to really know Christ and to experience the mighty power that brought him back to life again, and to find out what it means to suffer and die with him. So whatever it takes, I will be one who lives in the fresh newness of life of those who are alive from the dead." (Philippians 3:10-11, LB)

"In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins ..." (Ephesians 1:7, NIV)

"... and the blood of Jesus, his Son, cleanses us from all sin." (1 John 1:7, NIV)

"Those who belong to Christ have nailed their natural evil desires to his cross and crucified them there." (Galatians 5:24, LB).

"I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me;" (Galatians 2:20, RSV)

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Originally published 05 April 1996. Encounters! Ministry, Copyright © James A. Chase

1988 Literature Homework

It was indeed, the year 1988, my junior year in high school. My Literature teacher, whose name for the moment escapes me, had assigned us a peculiar piece of creative writing homework. Our mission (which we were forced to accept), was to perform an act of blatant mimicry using as template the opening free-verse styling of Walt Whitman's 1855 "Song of Myself." It begins, of course, with the notable line "I celebrate myself, and sing myself …." I admit, I do cringe a little at the apparent sound of it, as if it were some sort of braggart's delight. But it is I suppose indicative of Whitman's style, this celebration and wonder of the created individual, and the depth of what and who we are as beings of thought, emotion and essence. Nevertheless, I used the opportunity to speak of what I knew about what I believed to be true about myself at the time. I got an A, of course.

I never thought I would use something quite like this as a blog post, but given that I hold before me my journal of poems recovered from the wreckage, plus the fact that it has been 8 days since my last post, I figure it would be as good as anything. So for your temporary enjoyment or not, I present "Personal Thoughts":

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And you too shall know
That which stirs within my being.

I sing and I play,
Losing myself in the beauty of the tune,
The melodies of the heart,
The harmonies of the soul.

I dream,
Dreams of peace and happiness,
Bravery and adventure, love and hate.
Dreams, which are
The only things which keep me sane, and
Provide me the escape I need
From time to time.

***

A child said "What is a dream?"
Climbing onto my knee.
What could I say?
For I have pondered that question all my life,
And have received no answers.

Maybe it is the playground of the soul,
A place where you can relax
And enjoy yourself without worrying
About reality and responsibility.

Or maybe it is an outlet, a bottomless hole
Into which you can release all your problems
And stress, perhaps forever, perhaps for good.
And yet, maybe it is both and more.
A deep, fathomless question,
The answer for which is not meant to be understood.

***

I believe a tune is no less than the sound
Of the Universe,
The music by which the stars themselves dance
With their intergalactic grace.
The melody sings out in the heavens
Harmony mingles in and out of the Glorious Song.
A tune of joy, life, happiness,
And eternal bliss.
A song that is inaudible to some human ears,
Yet can be felt within the stirrings of the heart,
A song from Heaven itself.

***

I understand the need for a dream,
And the need for a song,
To cleanse the soul of its worries and strife
And to relieve the pain of the heart.
Without these, life would be worthless and hard,
With no respite.
If dreams were non-existent, evil would abound,
Crimes would be committed without
Regard for others,
We would have no conscience,
No consideration,
No compassion.

But we do have these things,
And some of us
Realize their importance,
For they, in their own way, make us truly human.

Yes, I was a rather strange specimen as a 17-yr old. Well. I guess some things don't really change with time, do they.

Disposable Words

I like words. I've written or typed quite a few of them in my time. I relish the exercise of formulating a thought and laboring to fashion it in a manner that makes a concept accessible to others. I wrote poetry when I was young, Bible studies in my 20's, and a wide variety of technical and policy documentation throughout my career. I started blogging out of an innate need to write, for myself and anyone willing to suffer as my audience.

Creative writing was never really a focus during my student years. While I believe I am suitably proficient in the use of language and vocabulary, I find that the distinction between words as commodity and words as art to be a difficult chasm to span. It is for this reason and more that I find articles on the topic of the modern use of the English language so interesting. The digital age has greatly commoditized the written word, making it more and more difficult to identify true art in the preponderance of prose. In a fascinating article called "The Pros and Cons of Cyber-English," David Gelernter takes a look at some of the effects the digital age has had on the vernacular. A few excerpts:

Social networking, texting, email and digital messages have borrowed the keys to the English language and are joy-riding all over the landscape, smashing body panels and junking up the fancy interior. Many thoughtful people are worried. But it's good for English to get shaken up occasionally—by people who are using it in new ways, not by academics ordaining from on high.

In the 1980s and '90s, email saved the personal letter from extinction by moving it online. Email-writers have leaned heavily for decades on abbreviations, which suit this quick-and-casual medium. Thus the celebrated "lol," "laughing out loud," and many others.

…

When you are forced to compress your message into fewer words, each word works harder, carries more meaning on its shoulders and, accordingly, becomes more important and interesting. Digital English is no good for poetry or novels, but on balance it's refreshing.

Smiley-faces are another story. Painfully cute hieroglyphics (happy-face, sad-face) have littered email for years; they are the empty beer bottles in the literary flower garden. Anything that can't be pronounced stops the verbal music, makes the reader stumble and marks the writer as a nitwit. These pictograms are for sloppy and lazy writers: E.B. White never felt the need to draw little faces in the margin to make his meaning clear.

I confess that I have, at times, fallen into the habit of using emoticons (smiley-faces, etc.) as shorthand to convey everything from genuine emotion to simple acknowledgement in response to a message I've received. But in my regular writing, never. On to weightier matters (emphasis mine):

Digital words are disposable words. Partly the problem is technological; mostly it is psychological. Ink and paper (or parchment or papyrus) have functioned brilliantly as a presentation and storage medium for a couple of thousand years. It's easy to read a 300-year-old book or a 2,000-year-old scroll. Can you imagine booting a 2,000-year-old computer? For a technologist, "permanent" means the next 20 minutes.

Digital words are easy to write, change, send, forget. They lack the dignity of the printed word. It's hard to throw out a book, even if you don't need or want it; it's easy to delete a million bits without thinking twice. Young writers know that blogs are cutting-edge but want to see their pieces, nonetheless, in real ink on real paper in real books, newspapers or magazines.

Digital words seem cheap because they are, and they grow cheaper by the day. Consider the withering hailstorm of mail, text, social net and blog posts that assaults you the moment you go online. It's become impossible for many a normal, solid citizen to answer his email promptly. But young people seem increasingly apt to ignore uninteresting messages on purpose. If the message is important it will be resent, and if it isn't, who cares anyway? So the value of digital words sinks even lower.

Gelernter's piece is worth a read, so I'll resist citing even more of the article. The above section strikes me particularly keen. So much of our lives are wrapped up in digital mediums, more so than many of us might care to admit. After the tornado, we fretted about retrieving printed documents and papers, out of concern for identity theft and security. Books upon books were pulled out of the rubble, because they were tangible assets that could be retrieved, and perhaps more than a few no longer available in print. Yet we were also concerned about computers, tablets, PDAs and random hard drives, because of the immeasurable volume of information stored on such devices. Three weeks later, we are still not sure whether that data is recoverable, although in due time we will find out.

I consider myself fortunate that I have so much of my writing stored off in different places, including online. But in the blink of an eye, every word, every thought I have committed to digital media could disappear forever. It is almost enough to make me consider committing all of my writing to some sort of printed medium, if only as a safeguard. Yet as events have shown, there is no guarantee on even the printed word.

The truth be told, words have always been disposable. The printed word is no more permanent than the digital word - the only difference is the shelf-life and the nature of the vulnerability. A writer wishes to be read; no more, no less. Words are abundant, and therefore are commodities that have value only in the sense that when put together, they convey something of the author. Some words permeate the culture and give the appearance of immortality. But in the end, all words are temporary, no matter how masterful the formulation, no matter how wide the distribution. So perhaps the chasm between commodity and art is a wasted endeavor as a pursuit of its own aim. I will never become "known" for the things I write, but those who read what I write, they will come to know me.

More Videos - And An Empty Feeling

It is amazing what can be accomplished in a day and a half with the right equipment. I went by the property late this afternoon to find all the major debris completely gone, with only a few small piles and scattered remains littering the lot. Out there on this windy, gray afternoon, I just felt empty.

Below are a few more videos I took with my phone. I apologize if they are a bit shaky at times. I looked along the lines of the footers. I'll have to get an engineer out there to inspect the site. Right now, I'd say there's a fair chance that the slabs will have to be dug up and re-poured. I'm no expert in such matters, though.

Heavy Equipment

Today, the heavy equipment arrived on the property, working the trees on the back line. After a brief consultation, they began pulling down the remaining structure of the house, to include what was left of the kitchen and laundry room and the bonus room. Below is a 3 minute video I captured with my phone showing some of the work in action.

It was good to see the progress, but beyond that, I'm not sure how I felt. The sooner the debris is gone, the better. But after that, the harder decision awaits. All in good time, I suppose.

Space Digest

I needed a little diversion this morning, as we prepare to dive knee deep into the remains of our belongings currently held in storage. Not too long ago, I came across a site called Universe Today. UT aggregates space and astronomy news, among other features. A couple of neat items caught my attention this morning:

First, there are compiled videos of the Aurora Borealis captured from the view of the International Space Station. Here's a sample:


As have many others, I've caught myself gazing at the western sky in the evenings, watching the conjunction of Jupiter and Venus as they dance in the heavens. Their presence and their bright, steady reflection of the sun's light is mesmerizing, and stands out against the normal view of the night sky. Amateurs have captured the conjunction on camera, and the UT post has several to view. I like many of them, but below I think is my favorite (image credit Tavi Greiner):

Back to the real world, I suppose. But I admit, it's nice to blog about something else for a change.

Tuesday's Blurb

It is Tuesday, and spring is fully underway. There is a hint of pollen in the air as the leaves are beginning to unfurl on the trees. The temperature is warm, and the gnats are everywhere.

And no matter how many times I look, or how often I try to shake the image, my house remains a forlorn pile of rubble. I'm in the midst of negotiations with a debris removal company, which I hope to conclude today. Hopefully soon, we'll be able to get the property cleared enough to stop being quite the safety hazard it is now.

We have secured a new residence, and furnished it with rental furniture. My parents left this morning, and perhaps tonight we will stay at the new place for the first time. It'll take several more days to "set up house", but we are moving forward.

Insurance did come through, and although it was far from how I envisioned it, we have paid off the mortgage. In the coming months, we will have to decide whether to rebuild on the lot. Right now, it is just a little too soon to see clearly. Whatever we do, it won't come without first spending much time as a family in prayer. We have been surrounded by such grace these past 11 days, there is no way we're taking a step without prayer.

I have an idea for a longer blog post in the days ahead, but it probably won't be ready until the weekend. Other priorities must come first. In the meantime, suffice it to say, we are okay. And we will be okay.

The days are hard, but we are not alone. Thanks be to God.

Storm Aftermath - Quick Update

I thought I would take a quick moment to update on where we stand, and how we are doing. While blogging is certainly at the low end of the priorities right now, I am aware that several folks have been following the events and our circumstances.

First, allow me again to express my thanks to all for the prayers and support. We finally finished our salvage efforts yesterday. While I cannot rule out doing a little more picking around as the debris removal crews come through, for all intents and purposes, we're done looking for stuff. Our focus will now turn towards some key actions: 1) Sorting through what we have recovered, to determine what is really salvagable, and what needs to be given up; 2) finding a new residence; and 3) lots of phone calls to, well, everyone, in particular to service providers providing us services we are no longer able to use.

Today is March 7, which means this is the fifth day. It is all very surreal, and I would imagine that as the pace of activity changes, the adrenaline surge that has kept us going will fade. We are understandably exhausted, but I cannot help but to notice how tightly we are being held in the embrace of grace. As the old hymn says, "It is Well, With My Soul."

And another comes to mind: "On the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand, all other ground is sinking sand."

We are well, our family is here, and God is with us all.

Peace to you and yours, with all my heart.

When the Lights Can't Come Back On

Last year, I wrote a post here reflecting on the experience of the aftermath of a massive tornado outbreak across the south. In that storm, we narrowly avoided tornadoes to our north and to our south as close as a half mile, and as far as two miles. I shared with you about the experience of community, and my reflection of what happened When the Lights Came Back On.

On March 2, 2012, we experienced another set of devastating storms through our part of the world. This time, for me, the lights will not come back on. On Friday, our home was completely destroyed.

Nobody was home when the EF-2 twister tore through my neighborhood, leaving my home in a pile of rubble. To say that we are still in shock is an understatement. Our immediate needs have been addressed, and we are working to salvage what we can. We have already retrieved more than I thought imaginable.

In April 2011, we did what we could to reach out to neighbors, family and strangers to support relief efforts. In March 2012, I was the recipient of the generosity of my many families: immediate, church, and work. Yesterday, 60-some people descended on our property and helped us with the first phase of salvage. Boy Scouts, members of a high school football team, two church groups, FEMA, Red Cross, and numerous volunteers from a local college tackled the mess. We have been flooded with all kinds of support, kindness and care. Last year, I considered it a tremendous blessing to serve. This weekend, I consider it a tremendous blessing to allow others to share their gifts of service for me. I am overwhelmed.

With respect to my house, the lights cannot come back on. But in the eyes and hearts of those around us these past couple of days, the light is shining. We are in good spirits, all things considered. The Lord is our rock, and our refuge, in this most certain time of trouble. I will praise Him in good times, and bad, and despite our loss, we have been given much.

As I hold my family close, I cannot help but think: I have been, and remain, very, very blessed.

For those of you interested, here is a link to the interview I gave for a local TV station.

Spectacular Time-Lapse from ISS

This is cool enough that I don't really need to comment. I suggest watching it in full screen mode (the button on the bottom right of the video player). And turn up the volume. What would it be like to see such things with our own eyes?


(h/t: Aaron Miller)

Freedom From Religion Foundation Turns Sights Upon Huntsville

We live in a country with hundreds of millions of people, all of divergent views on matters of religion and politics. In communities large and small, the tradition of prayers or invocations before citizen-based meetings, town halls, sporting events and graduation has been a staple of local civic life. Perhaps for some, over time, these brief moments have become more symbolic than substantive. But for years upon years in these communities, those who don't consider themselves religious demonstrated a healthy tolerance or respect for the tradition. Until recent decades, that is. Indeed, while I would wager that the vast majority would not get their feathers in a ruffle over the matter of a short prayer or invocation before civic events, there is a tiny, anonymous minority whose intolerance of such expressions (symbolic or otherwise) creates a firestorm of controversy that ensures their victory by mere intimidation.

This minority has now brought the battle to my area. The Freedom From Religion Foundation, an organization based in Wisconsin, is bringing its mission to destroy expressions of faith in civic life against the long-standing tradition of opening prayers at the Huntsville City Council. From The Huntsville Times:

In a Feb. 16 letter to Council President Mark Russell, the Wisconsin-based Freedom From Religion Foundation argued that prayer at government meetings is "unnecessary, inappropriate and divisive" and should be stopped.
…
The letter infers that the group will sue Huntsville in federal court if the policy is not changed.

The city, of course, is taking the threat seriously. In an era of tight fiscal budgets, no local government or agency can afford to spend taxpayer money to fight such cases in court. The remarkable thing is, the city might stand a decent chance to win in court. But the cost is prohibitive, so it is more likely that the city will lay down without a fight. Oh, they'll revert to a moment of silence or the like. Because that would be the politically correct, tolerant thing to do in the face of virulent, antagonistic intolerance.

I have not been to a Huntsville City Council meeting, so I cannot speak with authority as to the typical nature of the invocation. But at various events where an opening prayer is offered, it strikes me that they are often 30-45 seconds in length, and focused more on the appeal to providence rather than proselytization. From the paper:

"The prayers currently invoked at Council meetings impermissibly advance Christianity," Schmitt wrote, "and lead a reasonable observer to believe that the Council is endorsing not only religion over non-religion, but also Christianity over other faiths."

Unidentified Freedom From Religion Foundation members who live in Huntsville complained to the national office about the City Council prayers. The group says it has more than 17,500 members nationwide, including about 150 in Alabama.

This is part that bothers me the most. Out 150, how many members of this foundation actually live in Huntsville? Suppose it is 10%. Of those 15, how many would bother to attend a city council meeting? In all likelihood, less than 5, and that may even be too high an estimate (it's not like the council meeting is heavily attended by the public). So a couple of "unidentified" local citizens decide to hide behind the skirts of a Wisconsin-based organization that operates on the basis of intimidation to tear down a local civic tradition. We'll never know who the accusers are, because this will never go to court, and the FFRF will protect the privacy and the intolerance of its members. All over the matter of an invocation or prayer that lasts less than a minute.

I want to be charitable to those with opinions that differ from mine, even on a topic like this. But I really can only shake my head in wonder at the ongoing surrender to the tyranny of the minority in our civic life.

Stray Thoughts for Thursday

I always feel guilty when I let a week go by without a blog post, which is somewhat odd given that I'm not sure exactly how much of a regular audience I have. Unfortunately, I have nothing particularly interesting to share today, so I offer instead a gallimaufry of thoughts. (Gallimaufry, you ask? It means a "hodgepodge" or "jumble." Yes, indeed, my thesaurus is indispensable to me).

A year ago today, the warranty expired on my appendix, resulting in a rupture of great proportions. In so many ways, that experience doesn't seem that long ago. I still have phantom pain from time to time. But when all is said and done, I'm still here, and I'm glad to be here. I've been blessed. I still owe my wife a cruise vacation, though. Maybe this fall?

I was outside this morning while the kids were getting ready for school. Spring is most certainly in the air - in fact, it has been nearly all winter. Last year at this time, we'd had 15 inches of snow. This year, we've seen flakes twice, with no accumulation whatsoever. I didn't even have to put insulating covers on the outside spigots. The birds are tuning up their spring symphony, the purple clover is dominating my yard, but I'll be darned if you can make me pull out the lawn mower in February. Not. Going. To. Do. It. But it is a beautiful morning, the air is moist and cool but tinged with the promise of a warm day.

I am starting to long for the day I can afford to start a second career - this one is beginning to wear on me. It still has its good moments, but every now and then I wish for something other than engineering. Of course, I don't know what else I'd do. Bottom line, it is good to be employed in this economy, so I will just have to continue to man-up.

I've been listening to a series of sermons via podcast on the topic of grace. In a strange twist, I find it much easier to extend grace than I do to receive it. On reflection, I surmise that our fallen nature predisposes us against the full embrace of grace. The dissolution of pride, I believe, is key to our transformation by grace. Because while mercy brings relief, the work of grace is far deeper when it is fully realized.

Finally, the annual Cub Scout Pinewood Derby Race has come and gone. I get great joy in letting my son design and craft his car, mostly with hand tools. When the power tools are necessary of course, I step in. Soon enough, I'll let him use the tools himself. But not just yet. His entry this year placed 23rd of 60-some cars, a small step back from last year's performance. He did well, though, and it was fun.

This concludes today's parade. Thanks for reading.

A Lesson from Twain

A few weeks ago, I discovered a neat website called Letters of Note. (To say I discovered the site is factually incorrect, as I became aware of it only through the recommendation of the author of another website. The point is, after that initial referral, I have found myself returning to the Letters of Note site almost daily). According to the proprietor, Letters of Note "is a blog-based archive of fascinating correspondence, complete with scans and transcripts of the original missives." The letters come from all walks of life, and are both contemporary and historical in context. I am enjoying it very much.

Today's entry is a letter from Mark Twain to author Edward Bok, on the subject of an interview Twain gave to Bok. The article based on the interview was never published, and Twain's letter was the primary reason. Reading the letter was delightful and fun, although to think so you'd have to appreciate Twain's mastery of the written word to understand why I enjoyed it so. Below are a few excerpts, but I would encourage you to go read the whole thing:

For several quite plain and simple reasons, an "interview" must, as a rule, be an absurdity, and chiefly for this reason—It is an attempt to use a boat on land or a wagon on water, to speak figuratively. Spoken speech is one thing, written speech is quite another. Print is the proper vehicle for the latter, but it isn't for the former. The moment "talk" is put into print you recognize that it is not what it was when you heard it; you perceive that an immense something has disappeared from it. That is its soul. You have nothing but a dead carcass left on your hands. Color, play of feature, the varying modulations of the voice, the laugh, the smile, the informing inflections, everything that gave that body warmth, grace, friendliness and charm and commended it to your affections—or, at least, to your tolerance—is gone and nothing is left but a pallid, stiff and repulsive cadaver.

…

So painfully aware is the novelist that naked talk in print conveys no meaning that he loads, and often overloads, almost every utterance of his characters with explanations and interpretations. It is a loud confession that print is a poor vehicle for "talk"; it is a recognition that uninterpreted talk in print would result in confusion to the reader, not instruction.

Now, in your interview, you have certainly been most accurate; you have set down the sentences I uttered as I said them. But you have not a word of explanation; what my manner was at several points is not indicated. Therefore, no reader can possibly know where I was in earnest and where I was joking; or whether I was joking altogether or in earnest altogether. Such a report of a conversation has no value. It can convey many meanings to the reader, but never the right one. To add interpretations which would convey the right meaning is a something which would require—what? An art so high and fine and difficult that no possessor of it would ever be allowed to waste it on interviews.

Again, go read the letter in its entirety. This latter paragraph above I find to be true and instructive. In this internet age, we are often subjected to "soulless" quotations and transcripts of what people say, utterly devoid of the manner and context in which their words were spoken. Not a few times have pundits and common folk alike latched on to spoken words in print, suffering outrageous outrage to erupt in fury, only to learn later (if they so cared to learn) that the context and manner in which the words were spoken did not fit the outrage leveled. This is true for venues like message boards and blogs (and Facebook too, I presume) - we write our thoughts, but run the risk of being misunderstood because tone and manner are often lost when posted to the digital page.

Sometimes, the printed word is all we have to go by. The transcript of a speech must stand on it own, and crafted well, the reader can capture a glimpse of the shadow of its soul. The spoken word is its own invention. To capture the spoken word in written form is shallow and two-dimensional at best. The written word has more potential for depth, but is a horse of a different color. Bridging the gap between each modus may be a nearly impossible feat. The article which Twain dismissed in his letter must have fallen quite short in its conveyance, but in contrast Twain's letter is masterful - and full of "soul."

How much of me appears in what I write? Are my compositions two-dimensional, or do they have depth? I do not know. I likely spend too much time writing "about" things, as opposed to writing "of" things. To write well is indeed "an art so high and fine and difficult" that I quail in fear at the thought that my aspirations are unreachable. But aspire to that art, I will. However, it will require effort to overcome lazy formulation and "hackery."

Cagney Weekend

As part of my recovery from the Dauphin Island expedition, I took some time this weekend to copy some James Cagney movies from the DVR out to DVD. Included in this batch were a few I had yet to watch all the way through, including Pitcher Snatcher and City for Conquest. I also enjoyed Mister Roberts, in which Cagney plays a crank of a captain on a U.S. Navy cargo ship, alongside other Hollywood greats Henry Fonda and Jack Lemmon. In Shake Hands with the Devil, Cagney plays an Irish surgeon who doubles as an influential leader in the Irish Republican Army in 1921 Dublin. In this feature, Cagney's plays a character given over to violence for its own sake, with the blackest of hearts who meets a fitting end in the final scene.

This afternoon (while I'm supposed to be cleaning up the house), I'm watching The West Point Story, where Cagney plays a Broadway director helping West Point cadets to put on a show, with an ulterior motive to get one promising cadet out of West Point into show business. According to the reviews, this was the first song-and-dance movie Cagney did following Yankee Doodle Dandy. Its star-studded cast includes Virginia Mayo, Doris Day, Gordon MacRae (Carousel and Oklahoma!). More enjoyable for me was to see Alan Hale, Jr. playing alongside Jimmy. Hale's father, (Hale Sr.) starred in 3 Cagney movies (including my favorite, The Fighting 69th), and was perhaps best known as Errol Flynn's sidekick Little John in The Adventures of Robin Hood. Hale, Jr. had his own impressive career, although he was arguably best known as the Skipper in TV's Gilligan's Island. I just thought it was kind of neat that father and son Hale both got to act with Cagney. There aren't too many scenes from this movie on YouTube, but the one linked here gives you a glimpse of Cagney, MacRae, Mayo and Hale, Jr.

As an aside, MacRae had a heck of a voice. What I wouldn't give to sing like that. Here's MacRae crooning to Doris Day:


This batch of Cagney flicks was a good one. I'm not sure when I'll get to set aside this much time again for a while, but this was good.

Dauphin Island Adventure

Every year, February's calendar ends up packed to the gills, and this year is no exception. Aside from the standard pinewood derby race preparation for Cub Scouts, and merit badge fairs for Boy Scouts, this month featured a middle school excursion to Dauphin Island Sea Lab (DISL) sandwiched between two math competitions. The first math competition was last Saturday. My oldest son placed 8th in individual performance in the pre-algebra group, out of some 80-100 students, to earn his first individual trophy in his first ever math tournament. He was the sole representative of his school (which doesn't have a middle school math team) out of 22 schools in his division. He is out again this morning, competing in a MathCounts event, again as a sole representative for his school. While he is off doing that, I'm assisting my younger son on his derby car and other Cub Scout work.

The big event of the week, however, was the 4-day, 3 night adventure to Dauphin Island. Officially called a field study, the middle school sends 7th graders down to this small island in Mobile Bay in Alabama. From here, it is about an 9 hour drive by bus, with stops. I served as a chaperone for my son and 68 other 7th graders, and not only did I manage to survive, I actually managed to enjoy the experience (although as an aside, I must confess that the social drama of 13 year olds is really something to behold - I didn't understand it when I was that age, and I don't understand it now).

The students participate in two full days of scientific discussion and activity, pertaining specifically to the unique ecology of the Mobile Bay estuary (all together now, an estuary is where fresh water systems and salt water systems meet). Activities include a trip out into the open waters of the Mississippi Sound and the Gulf of Mexico on board a DISL research vessel, several lectures on the marine and marsh life, a visit to the estuarium, a trip into the salt marsh, and the dissection of a squid. Also included is a look into the history of Dauphin Island and Mobile Bay, with a unique focus on the history of Fort Gaines and its sister forts Powell and Morgan (the site of the decisive Battle of Mobile Bay in 1864). For history buffs, this is the battle where Farragut is reputed to have proclaimed "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!"

The DISL program was really very good. My favorite, not surprisingly, was the few hours we spent on the research vessel. The vessel crew cast a net and trawled for a while, pulling in a variety of marine life specimens that the instructor used to educate the fully engaged students. While the trip itself only lasted a couple of hours, I could have stayed out on the water all day. Being on the water does me good, no matter where it is.

Below are a few other pictures of the trip. From the salt marsh:

Inside Fort Gaines:

Of course, I would be remiss if I failed to mention the wildlife adventure that was the boys hallway in our dormitory. Then again, perhaps I should simply be remiss. The species known as the teenage boy is something to behold. By and large though, they are good kids, and I enjoyed getting to know them. One last picture, to remember the all too brief moments of serenity:

Whence the Better Angels of Our Nature?

My day job and the calendar-filling activities of my kids often keep me from cultivating and nurturing interests new and old. Soaking in history, reading books and otherwise expanding knowledge simply seems impossible some days. One such interest that I have too little time to pursue is the study of speeches, particularly presidential speeches. Granted, such a hobby certainly would not make me the life of the party. But I have often wondered, given the grand preponderance of presidential speeches, just to what extent the speaker hones to the spirit and the letter of any given speech. With the use of speechwriters, of course, proper authorship and intellectual ownership of idea formulation can easily be questioned. Yet history tends to ascribe such ownership to the speaker, as it is primarily his voice that speaks life and meaning to the text. And so we presume that the speaker, upon speaking, is willing to stand behind the words he utters. But does he really? Is this easier to believe with some presidents, rather than others? To what extent is the spoken word a declaration of conviction versus sheer political posturing? It is easy to be jaded and look with a cynic's eye to the notion that a politician, even a president, actually believes everything he says in a speech. But such analysis is to confer upon the speech the character of the speaker, which may not always be a fair approach in a discussion of substance.

Now that I have concluded that rather clumsy introduction, I should make clear that I have no proper experience or training in analyzing presidential speeches. I have never completed a political science, psychology or sociology course. I simply think about things, and allow my thoughts to go where they may. No one will ever accuse me of being a proper scholar, to be sure.

Ah, Jim, get to the point, will you? You ramble on so. Sigh, if I must. I took some time recently to begin a foray into some select presidential speeches, starting with Abraham Lincoln's first inaugural address given March 4, 1861. I had to remind myself of the context and the time in which the speech was given. Between the election and the inauguration, several states seceded from the Union and established the Confederacy. The war between the states had not yet begun, the Emancipation Proclamation had not yet been issued, and Constitutional amendments ensuring the rights of all men regardless of race had not yet been conceived. Some speeches are timeless, while others are issued for the moment or the circumstance. It is abundantly clear that Lincoln's first inaugural address is written for the moment. And yet, as I pondered some of the prose within its paragraphs, I admit that my mind did stray from the context of the moment, into the context of now.

Before entering upon so grave a matter as the destruction of our national fabric, with all its benefits, its memories, and its hopes, would it not be wise to ascertain precisely why we do it? Will you hazard so desperate a step while there is any possibility that any portion of the ills you fly from have no real existence? Will you, while the certain ills you fly to are greater than all the real ones you fly from, will you risk the commission of so fearful a mistake?

So what is this national fabric that so blankets our Union, and what truly are the threats to it today? In Lincoln's day, the social contract between the government and the governed, birthed in the ideals of liberty, was being torn asunder by the issues of slavery and the extent of federal authority over the states. Today, states rights is largely a dead issue. For other than the occasional attempts to revive the notion of federalism by conservatives and certain Republican politicians looking to make a splash, the social contract is now more than ever a matter between the federal government and the people of the nation directly. The battle lines being drawn today are positioned between the citizen and the State (federal), not between the states and Washington D.C. As has been said elsewhere, we are no longer a union of states. We are simply a union. Which begs a question for another day: can the Constitution stand long without federalism?

The national fabric is worn and frayed, yet below the surface it still retains threads of priceless value and appeal. In the battle to set the boundaries of federal authority and individual liberty, advocates on both sides would do well to consider "our national fabric, with all its benefits, its memories and its hopes" before continuing too far down this dangerous game. Despite the all too human tendency towards earthly kings, the advance toward authoritarianism is not inevitable. Both sides need to understand that:

... no organic law can ever be framed with a provision specifically applicable to every question which may occur in practical administration. No foresight can anticipate nor any document of reasonable length contain express provisions for all possible questions.

The expansion of federal authority appears to operate from the premise that proper regulation can indeed govern or address every question that impacts the individual citizen. What cannot be done by statute is perpetrated by regulation that carries the weight of law. It should not be a surprise that the most demonstrative pushback against such regulation and expansion of federal authority carries the moniker derived from the Boston Tea Party in our pre-republic history. Lincoln went on to dissect the nature of our controversies, most notably constitutional controversies, as the classic confrontation of the majority and the minority:

If the minority will not acquiesce, the majority must, or the Government must cease. There is no other alternative, for continuing the Government is acquiescence on one side or the other. If a minority in such case will secede rather than acquiesce, they make a precedent which in turn will divide and ruin them, for a minority of their own will secede from them whenever a majority refuses to be controlled by such minority.

In other words, something has to give, or the controversy will persist indefinitely and potentially to our great detriment. But this is true only as long as the debate adheres to the protocols enforced. Should either side suddenly choose to quit the game, (secede, as it were), then the seceding side places itself at mortal risk. Several of the Occupy camps contained those who elected for themselves to stop adhering to laws associated with use of public property. In time, as each Occupy camp tried to become more internally organized, they fell into even smaller cliques at war with each other over control of the movement. When the rebel finally acquires authority, he has to constantly look over his shoulder lest his former rebel compatriots renew the insurrection impulse. What remains unclear, as far as the trajectory of our republic, is the identity of the majority, the identity of the minority. Each side often lays claim to the majority, and the media often take it upon themselves to tell us what "the people" believe and what they think. Whichever the case:

A majority held in restraint by constitutional checks and limitations, and always changing easily with deliberate changes of popular opinions and sentiments, is the only true sovereign of a free people. Whoever rejects it does of necessity fly to anarchy or to despotism. Unanimity is impossible. The rule of a minority, as a permanent arrangement, is wholly inadmissible; so that, rejecting the majority principle, anarchy or despotism in some form is all that is left.

Get that? The rule of a minority over a majority cannot survive long without the exchange of liberty for despotism or tyranny. Lincoln also said:

This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing Government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.

I'm not sure I have anything to add to that statement, other than all parties, whether citizen class or political class, would do well to contemplate its meaning.

By the frame of the Government under which we live this same people have wisely given their public servants but little power for mischief, and have with equal wisdom provided for the return of that little to their own hands at very short intervals. While the people retain their virtue and vigilance no Administration by any extreme of wickedness or folly can very seriously injure the Government in the short space of four years.

This alone is worth several paragraphs of exposition. I'll spare you that, if even you have read this far. Suffice it to say the operative phrase emphasized in bold text above is the linchpin. For I don't wonder that most of us believe that our public servants have demonstrated a great proclivity for mischief. We may elect politicians for short intervals, but we seem to elect them perpetually, leaving us with career politicians who feel entitled to rule rather than serve. Furthermore, it may yet be proven that quite a bit of damage can be done to the republic in the space of four years, or even eight years. Could it be that the simple reason for this is that the people no longer retain their virtue and vigilance? I think we know that answer to that query. But it is not irreversible.

The tenor of our national dialogue is slipping ever so fast into a cesspool. The national fabric is in danger of being ripped apart by the teeth of our poisonous rhetoric, where discourse dissolves into incoherent raving. I do not mean to suggest that anger cannot be justified at times. I firmly believe it can. But the anger that seems to agitate within our society succumbs too easily to irrationality. Our politics have become personal, because we have made it so, and as a consequence we have come to view those with different ideas and principles as adversaries to be destroyed. Or so it seems, some days. Rational dialogue is often ignored, or ridiculed, rendering the attempt fruitless. But such rational dialogue must be pursued, because lost in the rage, is the still critical issue that must be addressed: where is the boundary between federal authority and individual liberty, and where should it be?

We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

With this, Lincoln concluded his speech. I cannot help but wonder whether our passions have rent beyond repair the bonds of our national affection. I can only hope, in these perilous times of national angst, that the better angels of our nature would once again be manifest, before we devour ourselves.

Sunday Reflection

A tree stands still as stone before me
As the clouds race by.
But for the clouds, I would not perceive
The moving of the winds above me.
Thus I know, and will trust
That the Spirit of the Lord God is moving
Whether or not I always perceive Him.

"The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him." (Lamentations 3:24)

Red Badge at Dawn

It is a quiet and somewhat eerie start to the morning, as the petulant patter of rain echoes off the chimney cap. The sky has gone from pitch to gray as I sip my morning coffee and immerse myself in Stephen Crane's tale from years gone by. Indeed, the rain, the gray and the silence somehow add an unsettling dimension to the story as I follow along with the protagonist's battle of doubt, dishonor and disillusionment. It has been 30 years since I last turned these pages, and still I wonder (fear, really) whether the affliction of young Henry Fleming afflicts me as well.

Courage is of the moment, and perhaps of the circumstance. Wounds are of the nature of the weapons used to inflict them. Is the measure of a man's honor borne in the scars that he bears? Or are scars merely the marks of life, accorded honor only insofar as the bearer sees fit?

My coffee cup is empty, a void I must now remedy. And then, to return to the second half of the tale, and perhaps, to redemption.

Size is Relative, I Suppose

This is mind-bogglingly cool, and disturbing enough that I'm using a suspect word like "boggingly".


(h/t: @JohnPiper and 22 Words)

Allen West Nails It

Although I considered it, I've decided that I'm not going to get in the details of the Marines video incident. While I don't condone what happened, I certainly don't consider myself qualified to render judgment.

But Rep. Allen West (R-Fla) has issued a statement that in my view absolutely nails it.

I'm not even going to spoil it for you: just go here and read it for yourself.

Thou Shalt Use That Which Does Not Exist

From the annals of absurdity comes this latest example of government regulatory incoherence: Penalties for Not Using a Resource that Doesn't Exist Yet. Confused? So are a lot of people (emphasis mine):

When the companies that supply motor fuel close the books on 2011, they will pay about $6.8 million in penalties to the Treasury because they failed to mix a special type of biofuel into their gasoline and diesel as required by law.

But there was none to be had. Outside a handful of laboratories and workshops, the ingredient, cellulosic biofuel, does not exist.

The crux of the story is that the E.P.A. in its wisdom decided that in the interest of combating climate change, fuel companies are required to blend in a certain type of biofuel to the gasoline and diesel supply. There is only one teeny little problem. The technology to produce this particular biofuel does not exist. Suppliers that fail to meet the 2011 quota for the mythical biofuel blend are subject to significant fines, to be paid in full to the government. The quotas for 2012 are even higher. These suppliers face the choice of just paying the fines or going to court to challenge the fines (incurring even further cost). The E.P.A., of course, continues to believe these quotas are attainable - the fact that the mythical blend cannot be produced (although some are trying) appears to be of little relevance to the bureaucrats who seem to operate in a fantasy world of "so let it be written, so let it be done." Technology simply doesn't subscribe well to such a dictum. But they will keep trying, and I'm sure those fines will be put to good use as government loans to green companies charged with producing other mythical forms of energy in mass quantities - regardless of whether the technology and science actually exists.

As has been quoted: "Catch-22 says they have a right to do anything we can't stop them from doing." And it becomes more apparent every day.

Comedy Break

A friend of mine showed me this today at the end of a meeting, providing me a much needed laugh break. If you are not a fan of the Back to the Future movies, I'm not certain it'll make much sense to you. The comedian below is Thomas F. Wilson - the actor who played Biff "I HATE MANURE!" Tannen (and variations on the character).

I know this is not my normal blog content or style, but if you are a fan of those movies, enjoy! It is okay to laugh out loud.



(h/t: Lewis)

2012 Politics: (Insert Onomatopoeia Here)

I'm getting off to a slow start this new year. I've been looking around the last few days, perusing some headlines and reading a few pieces on the internet, searching for something, well, to write about. I'm not finding much that gets me excited enough to comment.

The 2012 political season is fully underway with the Iowa caucuses last night, but for whatever reason, every thing I hear or read comes through like the adult voices in every Peanuts cartoon ever made. (Here's a fun question: what's the onomatopoeia for the sounds Charlie Brown's teacher makes?) Perhaps I've become so jaded with the political class that everything they say seems bereft of meaning or sincerity. This is dangerous, actually, because the fruit of such is apathy at best, deep disillusionment at worst.

I can't shake the image of the final scene in the book Lord of the Flies, when the naval officer arrives on the island, restoring reality to a horrifying devolution of an adolescent social "experiment." Is there a grown-up who can restore proper order, and begin to turn this nation around toward a more sustainable, formidable future, knowing all the while that pushing a society to grow out of its adolescence is a generational task? I'm not looking for a political "savior." Hardly. I am looking for leaders at every level with the courage to face the short term chaos, but with the vision for the long term viability of this great nation.

So far, the only ones that seem to come anywhere close to that ideal have chosen not to pursue office.

Which leaves me only with an oft used onomatopoeia: Sigh.

Holiday Reading and Rime

During my little end-of-year sabbatical from the office, I have with some difficulty managed to largely put next year's uncertainties out of my mind. Uncertainty, only because in my field there is always uncertainty and questions of resources, funding and expectations. Yet other than an errand I have to run today that is directly work related, by and large it has been a nice little break.

I have even managed to indulge myself in some light reading - light in this case meaning relatively short works. Upon recommendation, I read an extended essay on Understanding American Exceptionalism. Because everybody should, I read Thomas Paine's Common Sense. And for sheer enjoyment, I re-read the Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

There are times I wish my work was more labor-oriented than it is. Doing what I do takes a great deal of cognitive energy that at the end of the day often leaves me mentally fatigued. This condition negatively affects my desire to read, especially those works that take some effort to understand. I grieve over this, because with the increasing unlikelihood that I'll ever go back for another degree, reading for the purpose of expanding my education is the only logical path I have. For me, continuing study is essential, as it is the only sure means to counter the inadequacy of whatever knowledge and wisdom I possess. Without study, I find that the wellspring from which I write easily goes dry.

This thought brings to mind two paragraphs I first read just before the holiday break, and have re-read several times over the last two weeks. From Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest, "Approved Unto God":

If you cannot express yourself well on each of your beliefs, work and study until you can. If you don’t, other people may miss out on the blessings that come from knowing the truth. Strive to re-express a truth of God to yourself clearly and understandably, and God will use that same explanation when you share it with someone else. But you must be willing to go through God’s winepress where the grapes are crushed. You must struggle, experiment, and rehearse your words to express God’s truth clearly. Then the time will come when that very expression will become God’s wine of strength to someone else. But if you are not diligent and say, “I’m not going to study and struggle to express this truth in my own words; I’ll just borrow my words from someone else,” then the words will be of no value to you or to others. Try to state to yourself what you believe to be the absolute truth of God, and you will be allowing God the opportunity to pass it on through you to someone else.

Always make it a practice to stir your own mind thoroughly to think through what you have easily believed. Your position is not really yours until you make it yours through suffering and study. The author or speaker from whom you learn the most is not the one who teaches you something you didn’t know before, but the one who helps you take a truth with which you have quietly struggled, give it expression, and speak it clearly and boldly.

In its proper context, and even expanding the context, the second paragraph resonates with me. I can know a thing without really knowing, but I can't truly know that thing apart from the ownership that comes with the struggle or the striving. The lesson to be learned may even require suffering the consequences of a folly (Water, water every where, And all the boards did shrink;), until we recognize that so much of what we think we know does nothing to quench our deepest thirst (Water, water every where, Nor any drop to drink). But once learned, the lesson and the wisdom it bequeaths becomes our own, with the credibility and authority to speak it. All we need then is courage at the appointed time.

Venite Adoremus Dominum

"Do not be afraid ; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people ; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. (Luke 2:10-11)

Merry Christmas!

Last Minutes

Today is a day of last minutes. Last minute shopping. Last minute baking. Last minute wrapping. Last minute cleaning. Every year it seems, so many of us find ourselves utterly unprepared to savor the spirit of the season. How tempting it is to overcomplicate the simple, to fill every minute of every day with worries that rob us of peace, with activity that swallows whole the opportunity for contemplative respite. We have long since lost the art, the discipline of simply being still.

As night falls on this hallowed Christmas Eve, after the kids are off to bed and presents are safely tucked under the tree, when your last minute concerns are all laid to rest, carve out a few more last minutes to just be still, for as the song says, "'tis the eve of our Saviour's birth." A holy night, indeed. May we treat it as such, and find hope renewed in our weary hearts.

The Little Drummer Boy

I seem to be in a season that entails not exposition, but quiescence. So, with this post, I continue the musical thread.

I have been blessed throughout my life to have been exposed to a wide variety of music styles and musical artists, and depending on my mood, I enjoy most of them. A few I have had the fortune to see perform live on stage. One such opportunity came when I was a teenager in North Dakota. My mother took me into Grand Forks to see a performance by Roger Whittaker. I don't remember a great deal about the concert itself, although I do seem to recall that he used the platform to speak out against the poaching of the African elephant in Kenya. But I digress.

I have always been somewhat envious of those few baritones who have that full, rich sound that can both command the moment and soothe the listening ear. Whittaker and Bing Crosby readily come to mind. Indeed, Crosby has a famous rendition of the following holiday classic, but in honor of my mother who first exposed me to Roger Whittaker, here is The Little Drummer Boy.


Postscript: While distinctly non Christmas, The Last Farewell is always worth a listen.

Noel Nouvelet

I've been camping out on YouTube lately, searching the video archives for classical and traditional performances of various carols. I fear the slow decline of traditional worship attendance will sadly make 4-part choral performances less accessible to many, leaving exposure of such music to schools that can afford choir programs. Nevertheless, there is beautiful music out there to be found, to be heard and enjoyed.

Below is a lovely French carol, "Noel Nouvelet." In the English, we often hear it sung as "Sing We Now of Christmas." Performed in the original French, here is the King's College Choir of the University of Cambridge, England. Enjoy!

Il est né le divin enfant

Now that my year-plus project has finally come to a successful conclusion (well, for 2011 anyway), it is time to begin loosening the binds that have constricted and constrained my muse. While it may yet take some effort to unwind, I can't think of a better way to start than by simply enjoying the sounds of the season.

Still Here, Just Busy

We're in the midst of wrapping up a major project at work, one that is scheduled for final delivery in the next 10 days. Every bit of free time has been dominated by this activity, and unfortunately that may well continue until this is over in mid-December. So consuming is this, that there is a feeling of guilt every time I take a pause.

The push has made it hard to sleep soundly, and easy to miss the little joys of the coming Christmas season. I do get bits of it though, as I walk through the room while my boys practice piano, playing soft Christmas music. I carved out just enough time yesterday to get the tree set up for them to decorate today.

I'll head to church today, but then it will be back to work. As for the next blog post, well, I'll try to get back into it before Christmas. Fare thee well!

Thanksgiving Reflection

I find myself in an interesting place this Thanksgiving, and for a number of reasons I am deeply reflective. Some of it is just life: work, family, being 40. I find that I've done a lot of striving, reaching for things based on my own search for significance. And while I don't often fall into the trap of over-estimating my worth, I do sometimes under-estimate it to a certain degree. What I still seek to perfect, however, is that balanced, objective measure of myself.

Romans 12:3 says: “For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you.” 2nd Corinthians 13:5 says: “Test yourselves to see if you are in the faith; examine yourselves! Or do you not recognize this about yourselves, that Jesus Christ is in you – unless indeed you fail the test?”

Romans 12 (3:4-8) goes on to say: “Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a man's gift is prophesying, let him use it in proportion to his faith. If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach; if it is encouraging, let him encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let him give generously; if it is leadership, let him govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let him do it cheerfully.”

I am frequently reminded of my own need for a sober examination of mind and heart, in the context of what I am called to be and the person I aspire to be in the faith. This examination is essential as we journey through the process of sanctification, a journey that we each must take as we grow ever more closer to conforming to the image of Christ. It matters not whether it compares to the journey or experiences of another. It is the insight and wisdom we gain through this journey that matters, as it is the work of God in us. To the extent that what we experience and learn inspires or educates others, that is the seed and the fruit that comes from the testimony of the Holy Spirit’s work in us. It is really a remarkable thing, actually, that our journey toward the fullness of Christ – through all our struggles and our humanity – becomes the transformative work that lights the way for others to see the Truth.

In Matthew Henry’s commentary on the Romans 12:3-8 passage, he wrote: “Whatever our gifts or situations may be, let us try to employ ourselves humbly, diligently, cheerfully, and in simplicity; not seeking our own credit or profit, but the good of many, for this world and that which is to come.”

I like those words. But I have to almost daily remind myself of their importance.

What does this have to do with Thanksgiving? It is a fair question. I suppose it is simply this: I indeed have much to be thankful for - more blessings than I can count - and I have been given much. What better way to honor such blessings, such gifts, than to endeavor to live a life that seeks not selfish gain, but rather seeks something greater - fruit that others may enjoy, fruit that will last (John 15:16).

Food for thought. Happy Thanksgiving!

Three Cheers for Nordstrom!

Contrary to popular belief amongst people who know me, I'm not all Bah Humbug at Christmas time. This post, however, will do nothing to dispell that myth. Knowing that people close to me are going to have to work Thanksgiving simply because their employers insist in getting a head start on Black Friday, I find this pleasantly refreshing:

As more and more stores give into the Christmas Creep, putting trees and wreaths out on the sales floor as early as June and July, Nordstrom continues to buck the trend — not only refusing to put up holiday decorations before Thanksgiving, but also letting the world know about it.

On the doors to their stores, Nordstrom has posted signs like the following:

In case you can't read the text, it says: "We won't be decking our halls until Friday, November 25. Why? We just like the idea of celebrating one holiday at a time. Our stores will be closed on Thursday for Thanksgiving festivities. On Friday, our doors will open to ring in the new season in style. From our family to yours, Happy Thanksgiving."

Refreshing indeed! Of course, I do wonder ... just because the stores are closed doesn't mean employees are off Thanksgiving. I presume some will have to show up to put out the holiday gear by opening on Friday. Oh well, it was a nice thought anyway.

Maryland Sunset

The view out my hotel window at the end of this beautiful fall day ...


The camera phone simply does not do the color justice. Praying for a good week.

Veterans Day 2011

Events move around us at the speed of life, leaving us at times breathless and at times restless. So it is now, and so it is always. Perhaps as a consequence of this pace - or as a consequence of our nature - we sometimes fail to remember deeds done before that allow us to continue the standard of living we have today. We sometimes fail to remember deeds done now by those who treasure a nation and a home that even today stands as a beacon of hope.

From its inception 92 years ago, Veterans Day (known then as Armistice Day) has been an occasion for many words, sometimes written, sometimes spoken. It is to just some of these words I turn today, as I reflect on the service of many for the sake of us all:

"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.” - Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address

“This nation will remain the land of the free only so long as it is the home of the brave.” - Elmer Davis

“In the beginning of a change, the patriot is a scarce man, and brave, and hated and scorned. When his cause succeeds, the timid join him, for then it costs nothing to be a patriot.” - Mark Twain

“Moral courage is the most valuable and usually the most absent characteristic in men.” - Gen George S. Patton

“It is easy to take liberty for granted, when you have never had it taken from you.” - Unknown

“For it has been said so truthfully that it is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the agitator, who has given us the freedom to protest. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, serves beneath the flag, whose coffin is draped by the flag, who gives that protester the freedom to abuse and burn that flag.” - Georgia Senator Zell Miller

The above are but a small few, but I close this post with the following from Ronald Reagan's 1985 Veterans Day speech at Arlington National Cemetery (emphasis mine):

Peace fails when we forget what we stand for. It fails when we forget that our Republic is based on firm principles, principles that have real meaning, that with them, we are the last, best hope of man on Earth; without them, we're little more than the crust of a continent. Peace also fails when we forget to bring to the bargaining table God’s first intellectual gift to man: common sense. Common sense gives us a realistic knowledge of human beings and how they think, how they live in the world, what motivates them. Common sense tells us that man has magic in him, but also clay. Common sense can tell the difference between right and wrong. Common sense forgives error, but it always recognizes it to be error first.

We endanger the peace and confuse all issues when we obscure the truth; when we refuse to name an act for what it is; when we refuse to see the obvious and seek safety in Almighty. Peace is only maintained and won by those who have clear eyes and brave minds. Peace is imperiled when we forget to try for agreements and settlements and treaties; when we forget to hold out our hands and strive; when we forget that God gave us talents to use in securing the ends He desires. Peace fails when we forget that agreements, once made, cannot be broken without a price.

Each new day carries within it the potential for breakthroughs, for progress. Each new day bursts with possibilities. And so, hope is realistic and despair a pointless little sin. And peace fails when we forget to pray to the source of all peace and life and happiness. I think sometimes of General Matthew Ridgeway, who, the night before D-day, tossed sleepless on his cot and talked to the Lord and listened for the promise that God made to Joshua: “I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.”

We're surrounded today by the dead of our wars. We owe them a debt we can never repay. All we can do is remember them and what they did and why they had to be brave for us. All we can do is try to see that other young men never have to join them. Today, as never before, we must pledge to remember the things that will continue the peace. Today, as never before, we must pray for God's help in broadening and deepening the peace we enjoy. Let us pray for freedom and justice and a more stable world. And let us make a compact today with the dead, a promise in the words for which General Ridgeway listened, “I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.”

May God bless you today as you take time to remember and honor those who protect what we are from enemies without, and enemies within.

RIP Bil Keane

Last link of the lunch break brought me this news. Bil Keane, creator of the Family Circus comic strip, has passed away at the age of 89.

I often copy down my favorite panels. The one below I feel is most appropriate. Thanks for all the smiles, Mr. Keane.

Wait, I Thought They Were "Holiday Trees"

With all of the other events in the news, you might not know it, but Christmas trees are all the rage. First, from the files of political correctness, I bring you the Wisconsin governor:

On Monday, Walker decided that he wanted to shake things up a bit. Rather than following recent tradition and referring to the (Christmas) tree that is placed in the Wisconsin’s Capitol Rotunda as a “holiday tree,” he’s changing course. For the past 25 years, lawmakers have referred to the evergreen that is decorated with ornaments and a star with this benign, uncategorized reference. Now, Walker plans to, once again, call the tree what it is — a Christmas tree.

But when asked, spokesman Cullen Werwei confirmed that the decision was intentional. “It’s a Christmas tree,” Werwei said. “In all honesty, I don’t know what more to say about it.” In the Charleston Daily Mail, Don Surber echoed this sentiment, writing, “Republican Governor Scott Walker of Wisconsin just ended 25 years of stupidity.”

Yet ironically, not even the federal government seems all that bent out of shape in calling a Christmas Tree a Christmas Tree. From the "I want a taxpayer subsidized government job in marketing holiday wares" category:

In the Federal Register of November 8, 2011, Acting Administrator of Agricultural Marketing David R. Shipman announced that the Secretary of Agriculture will appoint a Christmas Tree Promotion Board. The purpose of the Board is to run a “program of promotion, research, evaluation, and information designed to strengthen the Christmas tree industry’s position in the marketplace; maintain and expend existing markets for Christmas trees; and to carry out programs, plans, and projects designed to provide maximum benefits to the Christmas tree industry” (7 CFR 1214.46(n)). And the program of “information” is to include efforts to “enhance the image of Christmas trees and the Christmas tree industry in the United States” (7 CFR 1214.10).

To pay for the new Federal Christmas tree image improvement and marketing program, the Department of Agriculture imposed a 15-cent fee on all sales of fresh Christmas trees by sellers of more than 500 trees per year (7 CFR 1214.52). And, of course, the Christmas tree sellers are free to pass along the 15-cent Federal fee to consumers who buy their Christmas trees.

Strengthen the Christmas tree industry's position in the market? What, there's competition? Must be the artificial tree market. Taxing real trees in an effort to get people to buy real trees seems like a winner to me. Yeah, that'll work.

Furthermore, if the federal government officially recognizes the evergreen on display in November and December as a Christmas tree, then once and for all can we not dispense with the whole "holiday tree" nonsense? Fred Gailey, call your office.

Ah yes, Christmas is in the air.

UPDATE: Within two hours of my post, the Obama administration elects to delay the dreaded Christmas tree tax.

Intentionally Untitled

Try as I might, I simply cannot decide on a title for this post. So let's just put that aside, and allow me to relate an experience I had yesterday morning on the way to work.

I live outside the city proper, so the morning commute to get my kids to school and myself to work is a 40 minute routine, on average. Yesterday however, traffic flow over the mountain and into town was abnormally slow. Usually, that means an accident up on or near where the interstate starts. Checking my watch, I knew I had time, provided we at least kept moving. Still, I found myself feeling a little grumpy at the delay, but with my kids in the car, I kept my thoughts to myself.

After reaching the high point, I was able to look down and see the flashing lights down on the left hand side, at the point where the interstate moves to its upraised segment. As we crawled ever so closer, I couldn't see any evidence of a pile up, or a stalled vehicle. Just a solitary police car, parked on the narrow shoulder and jutting out slightly into the traffic lane. In my mind, I'm trying to figure out all the standard scenarios. And I was puzzled, because the officer was the only one on the scene, and he was partially blocking traffic. Why didn't he just go ahead and move out of the way? He's obviously doing his job, but he is also creating a traffic hazard.

As I'm already locked in the left lane, I figure there's not much I can do but wait it out. When I finally came up alongside the police car, I still didn't see anything. And then I did, and I'm not sure I can completely explain what happened next.

About five feet in front of the officer's car, laying down next to the median barrier, was a dog. He was panting a bit, head erect, and clearly frightened. I could not tell if he was injured, and as I drove by, I fixed my eyes upon him for just an additional moment in my side mirror. Then I had to move on, as the traffic had picked up the pace past the cop, past the dog.

But throughout the rest of the commute, my mind just kept replaying the image of what I had just seen. That the dog was alive at all was a miracle in itself, for where he was, there really was nowhere for him to go. He was trapped by the traffic, by the side walls of the road itself. How did he get there? Who did he belong to? What was going to happen to him? It was further a wonder that the dog stayed put, as one can only imagine the impact to both him and morning commuters had he darted out again into the road.

Then my thoughts settled on the police officer, and suddenly I found myself fighting a wave of deep-seated emotion that nearly engulfed me. This officer could have easily driven by and ignored the plight of this poor animal. Most people probably would have. Yet he parked there, providing a shield of protection around the dog, protecting him as best he could from the heavy flow of traffic and the possibility of further injury or death, presumably waiting for the arrival of animal control or some other rescue. All these thoughts and emotions, as one who has been sheltered, as one who has tried to shelter … this scene was such a poignant and living metaphor in so many ways … I find it hard to speak of it out loud. I've only told the story twice, and each time struggled to get through it.

I don't know what happened to the dog, and there's no way I'll ever know. But I won't forget what I saw, and I won't forget what I felt. It's given me a lot to think about.