Bell-Ringing

TU has a tradition. There's a big bell in the center of campus, and graduates are supposed to ring the bell at the end of their university career. Kevin and some friends got together the day before graduation, and we documented the historic moment with photos.

Two Days, Two Analogies

This one is better than last night's, I promise.

We were at K's grandma's for her birthday dinner today, and K's parents gave her two new Betta fish, a male and a female. If you don't know what a Betta fish looks like, stop reading now. Find a picture online, then come back. It will help.

The male, of course, is stunning. Vibrant dark blue and red with long, flowing fins. He's flashy, glamorous, fascinating.

The female, as is often the case in nature, is dull by comparison. A shimmery silver-grey color with clipped fins, the only apparent connection to her male counterpart is a smattering of red and blue on her tiny appendages. The two fish are in a single container with a divider down the middle, as the males tend to be cannibalistic. When the two approach each other on either side of the clear plastic divider, the male struts his stuff, fluttering his side fins boldly and making a general show. The female reflects his magnificence. Her silver sides turn rosy pink or smoky blue, depending on the angle.

It makes a great analogy. Christ, the bridegroom, is magnificent in his beauty. Fiery and brilliant, He lacks nothing. We, His bride, pale in comparison. While we might be considered marginally attractive in isolation, we are nothing next to His glory. Yet, when we draw near to Him, the reflection of His vibrance makes our simple scales glow with reflected glory and we are made beautiful.

Light to Pluck By

I apologize in advance for the absurdity of this analogy.

After washing my face and brushing my teeth tonight, I commenced plucking stray hairs from my eyebrows. (Yes, I confess I pluck. . .not expansively, but, since my brows are quite dark, frequently.) Since we've been away from home and in a hotel the last 2 days (hotel light fixtures not being known for their brilliant luminosity), I had catching up to do. Bright light is a must for successful plucking. Those light baby hairs that are just starting may be innocuous and invisible now, but give them a day and they become full-fledged dark monsters. Natural light is really best, but it's hard to come by in our apartment.

As I mulled this dilemma, fighting a particularly tenacious little sprout, I thought how good friends are like good light, illuminating the out-of-place bits of our lives that need to be weeded out. They're honest and courageous enough to point out even the mostly-invisible-right-now flaws that will inevitable rear their ugly heads in the future if not discarded now. They help get problems out while they are small and mostly invisible, before they really take root and cause pain. And, when we both miss a stray eyesore, they eventually help us yank it out by the root, even if it bleeds a bit. Every now and then, they prompt a complete overhaul and reshaping, from tip to tip. Real friends--friends who know us frontwards and backwards and sidewards, too--keep us trim and groomed and nicely-shaped.

Yes, in the eyebrow of life, friends are the light by which we pluck.

Sophie!

Chris and Sassi came to visit yesterday for the last opera of the season, and we took some pictures with our beautiful little goddaughter. . .who, thankfully, has a very healthy set of lungs. . .and likes to use them. We had a great day, though. It's good to have friends.

Simple Scrolls

Last weekend's wedding cake

Final Photos

These are two of the several historical church buildings in town. Unfortunately, I didn't get a picture of the Methodist church, which is grey stone and beautiful, but these are also nice.

Scenery and Sunsets

ID

Identification?
Nope.
Intelligent Design?
Nope.
Idaho!

Here are some pictures from our trip:

the Visitor's Center

the falls that give the town its name


the really cool flower outside our hotel

the moment I knew I was born to live here. . .they have purposeless turrets!

Sometimes You're the Egg

You've heard the saying "Sometimes you're the windshield, Sometimes you're the bug"? Well, tonight I coined a similar phrase--a baking metaphor, given my current project.

Sometimes you're the bowl; sometimes you're the egg.

On the first recipe of this cake I am repeating too many times to tell, I bent my thumbnail back far enough to cause a fair amount of bleeding underneath the nail, effectively ripping the front half of my nail off the nailbed. I almost got the other thumb at the same time.

Sometimes you're the egg.

This recipe is so good, but it's really tough to get out in one perfect piece. . .too moist, I suppose. So, the first cake didn't quite come out of the pan as intended.

Sometimes you're the egg.

I need 3 batches of icing, but I only had 2 bags of powdered sugar. And, on top of that, I have to go to Rachel's to make icing, because my THREE MONTH OLD mixer died last week.

Sometimes you're the egg.

A free replacement mixer is in the mail.

Finally! Sometimes you're the BOWL.

While I wait on it, I do have good friends nearby with a durable mixer, who are even kind enough to share dinner and clean up after me.

Sometimes you're the bowl.

On my first large layer, I had the bright idea to not only cut parchment paper for the bottom, but to line the sides with strips. It came out perfect.

Sometimes you're the bowl.

And I chanced putting it on a cooling rack that often peels the top off a cake, placing a strip of parchment between the two as a hopeful safety net. An hour and a half later, the cooled cake slid right onto the waiting transfer plate.

Sometimes you're the bowl.

I can't add. Somehow, I only bought cake ingredients for half the layers.

Sometimes you're the egg.

My darling husband went to the store at about 1:30am to get what I was missing.

Sometimes you're the bowl.

The store I sent him to didn't have cake flour.

Sometimes you're the egg.

He also washed my pans and bowls for me. . .over and over and over and over.

Sometimes you're the bowl.

It's 3am, and I will be up for at least another 30 minutes. Then I'll snatch 4 (I hope that many) hours of sleep and continue. Weddings don't wait for cakes. Some days, no matter how many times you're the bowl, you still feel like the egg.

But tomorrow, when I watch our friends join their lives together and then see their friends enjoying this truly fabulous, moist, chocolate goodness. . .I will be the bowl.

Sleeplessly Waiting

It's one in the morning. . .Tuesday morning, that is, not Saturday, as you might think. I do have to work tomorrow. . .today. I should be in bed, sleeping soundly. But, being the incredibly intelligent person that I'm often not, I drank a medium-sized vanilla latte at nine o'clock. That means it had at least 2 shots of espresso in it, possibly 3. So now I can't sleep. . .go figure. And I'm starting to shake. It's all part of the coffee cycle. You'd think I'd know better, but I was swept off my feet by the charming company I had. And it wasn't even Kevin.

Before you get worried, rest assured that I was out with my brother. He invited me to dinner tonight (well. . .us, but if you know us, you know what Kevin spends all his time doing these days. . .one week to go until the big defense!), and then we went for coffee. I had a great time. If only I could now go to sleep. . .

In lieu of rest, I'll share my thoughts.

The people at Wittingshire posted a mini series recently on the theme of waiting. The phrase that keeps running through my mind is waiting in confidence. I'm doing a lot of waiting right now. The future is. . .unknown, to say the least. I don't know where we'll be 3 months from now, and those 3 months seems both very short and very long at the same time. It's exciting, and unnerving. There are other things I don't know. There are things everyone has to wait for, to wait to find out even: where we'll live, who we'll be close to, what we'll do every day, if we'll have children, how many children we'll have, how our friends and family will fare in their life choices, and more. We don't even know that we will be here tomorrow to wait for the things we're waiting for, really. For some of those things, we are waiting and wishing--fervently, sometimes desperately--for a certain result. We want things to happen a certain way. And the uncertainty of waiting becomes that much more unnerving.

That's where waiting in confidence comes in. It is waiting patiently in the secure knowledge that God gives good gifts to His children. It does not mean I know what those gifts will be. I do not know if He will give me what I wish for. I do not even know that I will always recognize His gifts as good when they come. But I know He has promised to give good. And I can rest in that. I can rest (at least when I haven't had too many shots of espresso. . .currently rest is a foreign word altogether) in the confidence that what God has planned for me is good in His eyes. I still wish. I still pray and ask for the things I wish for. But my confidence is not in the hope for those things. It is in the surety of God's good and perfect will for me, even when I do not know it.

There is peace there, and I welcome it in this time of waiting.

The Q Continuum

How, on this precious planet we call Earth, does one LOSE a Q hook??? I've lost--at least temporarily--myriad numbers of F, G, and H hooks. But HOW does one lose a Q(!!) hook? It's like losing a horse!

Nevertheless, I have lost my Q hook, and I am displeased, as I have strips of material cut, sewn, wound, and waiting to be made into rag rugs with a big, fat, Q hook. This is ridiculous.

I've spent a lot of today talking. . .and listening. I visited a friend (and her really cute towheaded son) this afternoon and spent a good amount of time on the phone with various relative and non-relative persons today. I'm thinking that I appreciate friends. The ones who I am very much like and the ones who differ very much from me. It is good to know people, to hold them accountable and know that they will do the same for you. . .that they will stare me in the face and be blunt when I need it. And that they won't think less of me for needing it.

I'm rambling, I suppose. I shouldn't be. . .I'm feeling slightly overly emotional. It's so hard sometimes to watch people make decisions that I know they have to make for themselves and to wish so badly that I could help--even when I don't really have a clue what decisions I think they should make. So it's not that I think I could help; it's just that I want to. This is barely making sense, even to me. Suffice to say that there are quite a few people I like an awful lot. I care what happens to them. And, currently, I'm wildly happy for some, mildly concerned for others, and sadly desperate for others. It's a night for extremes.

And yes, I watch too much Sci Fi.

Quilting

Below are the two baby quilts I've made in the last six months for the new babies of two good friends. They each have a pocket on the back, so that the quilt folds up into a pillow.

The Chloe Quilt:


The Sophie Quilt:

Sophie

Chris and Sassi's baby arrived last week, and we went to visit this weekend. We're privileged to be godparents to this beautiful little person.

Proud Parents


Isn't this adorable?


Occasionally, she opens two lovely gray eyes.

Popcorn, Part 2

Serious requests or no, an addendum to the popcorn post:

I used Canola oil, because that's what I buy. . .I think my grandparents buy the same, but I'm not sure.

Step 1: Pour just enough oil to cover the bottom of the pan. Be sure your pan is big enough to contain the popped corn, not just the pre-popped kernals. . .they have this tendency to expand.
Step 2: Heat over medium-high heat until the oil "dances." That is, until it's hot enough that you see waves in it and it moves of its own accord.
Step 3: Pour in 1/4 to 1/3 cup popcorn. Have the lid handy and cover immediately.
Step 4: Shake the pan vigorously on the burner, stopping for 2 second intervals to ascertain if it's still popping. Shaking is what keeps it from sticking and burning.
Step 5: When the popping subsides (note: Subside does not mean cease. When you only hear a couple isolated pops in a 2 second pause, it has subsided.), remove from the burner and empty immediately.
Step 6: Salt.

I repeatedly lift the lid on and off--just a smidgeon, to avoid escapees--as I shake and pause. I'm not really sure if this is essential or if I do it because Grandad does. :-)

Ha. Look at me give instructions like this is my life's carefully acquired skill. How many times have I done this? Yeah. . .that would be once. How quickly we falsely assume mastery. . . .

Hope

This poem, by Emily Dickinson, has been running in my head today. Well, to be more accurate, the first line drove me crazy for a while, as I couldn't remember what came next. Then I remembered all but one word--"stops"--of the first stanza. That's all I ever knew, anyway. So I looked it up. . .to see what "stops" was. (I kept thinking "hums," and that just doesn't make sense.) As a general rule, I'm not a huge Dickinson fan. I don't dislike her; she's just not usually my favorite. But this poem is an exception, and I think it typifies Christian life very well. . .and all life, in various seasons. It's a hopeful sentiment, I think, and generally buoys up my own hope. What a coincidence.

HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I ’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Like Grandad, Like Granddaughter

Whoopee! When I was little (before the popularity of microwave popcorn), my parents had an air popper. It had a little dish on top in which butter melted while the popcorn popped. We used it for movie nights and game nights and more. It made good popcorn, and I remember no complaints. But my grandparents, had something far better. They have Grandad. He always popped corn for us in a pan on the stove, and it was beyond comparison. No butter, just table salt. Healthier than microwave versions, too, I'm sure. In the past couple of years, I've persuaded him to pop corn like this again for various family gatherings. Over the holidays, I watched and learned!

Here is my beautiful stove-top-popped popcorn:

And the pan I popped it in:

On the Evils of Education

from Flannery O'Connor's "The Enduring Chill,"

When people think they are smart--even when they are smart--there is nothing anybody else can say to make them see things straight, and with Asbury, the trouble was that in addition to being smart, he had an artistic temperament. She did not know where he had got it from because his father, who was a lawyer and businessman and farmer and politician all rolled into one, had certainly had his feet on the ground; and she had certainly always had hers on it. She had managed after he died to get the two of them (her two children) through college and beyond; but she had observed that the more education they got, the less they could do. Their father had gone to a one-room schoolhouse through the eighth grade and he could do anything.

Ramblings of the Refusing-to-be-Ill

I've been fighting off whatever Kevin has had for 3 days now, and the battle is as of yet undecided. True, I have succumbed to nasal congestion and sinus pressure, but I have not yet conceded the sore throat, cough, or intermittent fever. Will I win? Check back in a couple days to see.

I noticed something I had not noticed before at the grocery store last week. I was sorely tempted by a small crate of small oranges that have proven wonderfully sweet in the past. They looked very ripe. I was facing temptation for the third time when I saw a crate with the top netting torn open. The oranges looked awful! I looked around. The oranges are encased in orange netting. The tomatoes in red. The potatoes are in a reddish-brown bag. All of the packaging effectively inhibits the consumer's judgment of the quality of the produce in question. Why have I never noticed this before???

In spite of its designation as a sick house for the past 8 days, my home doesn't look that messy. Somehow, we've continued to run the dishwasher, wash pots and pans, and even do laundry on a semi-regular basis. Hooray for me!

We bought a humidifier to help with breathing ease. I also bought a new thermometer. There were two of the same brand, both digital, both waterproof, identical to the eye except for color. One was $4.99. One was $9.99. I examined the packaging. One claimed to be equally effective for oral, underarm, or rectal use. (Aren't all digial thermometers?) One claimed to be excellent for daily use and accountability. (Do some stop working if you use them every day?) Both remember the last temperature taken. Both claimed "Professional Accuracy," whatever that means, but didn't specify to what nth of a degree they measured. I took them both up to the pharmacy counter and asked the technician if they were actually different. She looked at them. Read the packaging. Examined the claims. The she called over the pharmicist. He looked at them. Read the packaging. Examined the claims. Asked what I was going to use it for. (Does that matter?) Then he determined that it was most likely marketing. I commented on the $5 price differential. He seemed a little confused and examined them again, only to come to the same conclusion. I bought the $4.99 one.

Do you know what Oklahomans must do now to buy pseudophedrine? I had to turn over my driver's license, wait while they entered it into the compuer (presumable to see if I'm a meth manufacturer), and sign an acknowledgment that illegal use of the drug is. . .(drumroll, please) illegal. *gasp!* (Okay, it didn't actually say that verbatim. . .but really, who doesn't know that using drugs to make drugs to sell on the street is wrong?) *sigh* The pains we who do right must go through to prevent others from doing wrong.

I'll be going now. So long.

The Discipline of Work

I have been known, at times, to lose sight of the beauty of my life as it is now and to become consumed with boredom and wishing for something that I hope will be. These quotes, from Elisabeth Elliot's Discipline: The Glad Surrender speak to that attitude.

I once heard a formula guaranteed to prevent boredom: it is to have
1. Something to do
2. Someone to love
3. Something to look forward to
The Christian has all these in Christ: work, a Master, a hope. Yet how easily we forget this. One of the results of the Fall is that we lose sight of the meaning of things and begin to see the world as dull and opaque, instead of charged with glory. What other people are doing looks much more interesting and exciting than what we have to do. There is no "magic" in my routine, we think--but hers looks enviable.

It is wrong to draw so many distinctions between what we can't "get out of" doing--that is, what is necessary for survival--and what we choose to do. The eight-hour-daily job for which we are being paid is a duty as well as a physical necessity. Many of the things we do "after work," unless we are demoniacally selfish people, are work, too, often for others. Are they so different in God's eyes? I doubt it.
. . ."We shall not make any wild claims," Paul wrote to the Corinthians, "but simply judge ourselves by that line of duty which God has marked out for us, and that line includes our work on your behalf. We do not exceed our duty when we embrace your interests, for it was our preaching of the gospel which brought us into contact with you. Our pride is not in matters beyond our proper sphere, nor in the labours of other men."
What is our "proper sphere"? We cannot dismiss the fact of modern life: there are indeed many choices when it comes to discerning that sphere. Let us rest assured that God knows how to show His will to one who is willing to do it. The place to begin discovering the larger sphere is in the smaller one--in the willingness to say yes to every demand that the need of a neighbor makes us face.
. . .If our work seems to be beneath us, if it becomes boring and meaningless, mere drudgery, it may be a living, but it is not living. It is not the life of freedom and fullness a disciple's life is designed to be.
Does God ask us to do what is beneath us? This question will never trouble us again if we consider the Lord of heaven taking a towel and washing feet.

Calla Lily

This is the flower I knitted for a friend last weekend. It only took about 6 hours total, and I was very pleased with the outcome. The stem has floral wire inside, so it is posable and will stand upright in a vase. Thanks to knitty.com for the pattern.

Recent Cakes

Dark Grace

The past couple weeks have been difficult ones for people I know. Two dear friends are in the process of making decisions that will impact this life and the one to come, and I fear that neither are proceeding with utmost wisdom. Another lost her father. A friend of a friend is in serious danger of losing her newborn and 16-week-early twins. There have been several other tough situations. . .surgeries, emergency room trips, and the like. It is hard to see people I care about struggling, and I know it is harder for those more closely involved. It has driven me, as many of them, to spend more time in prayer and in Scripture seeking, I think, not so much answers (although certainly I have prayed stringently for those as well) as the assurance that God is indeed there and still in control of our (seemingly) feeble attempts at life.

I have also been reading, since New Year's, in the collected works of Flannery O'Connor, whose short stories may best be described as sick and twisted. (I say this with a hint of "tongue in cheek," but it is no stretch of the imagination to consider it accurate.) An article in the reformed magazine Credenda discusses O'Connor's writings and her penchant for the unlovely forms God's grace may take. In short, grace is not always neat and pretty. God's grace in bringing Job to a better understanding of Him was anything but pleasant, as with many others in the Bible. We may argue that Samson's final act was, in effect, his salvation; we cannot argue that it was a beautiful moment. We may legitimately point to Abraham's near sacrifice of Isaac as an example of unfailing faith; we cannot presume it was a pleasant experience of God's grace for the grieving father.

Sin is ugly. And, sometimes, the means God chooses to bring us out of sin, further into His glaringly glorious light, are more akin to Gothic images than Renaissance. Your thoughts?

SOS!

I've been hijacked by technology and forced into the world of New Blogger. Bah! It's proof positive: if you don't keep up, you get dragged along behind anyway.

Lacking the Clever Funny Thought

Perhaps my worst habit is that when I'm feeling stressed and overwhelmed by the seemingly endless length of my mental "To Do" list, I cope by wasting as much time as possible in as meaningless way as possible. It's a serious failing.

I thought of something very funny and clever to post while I was at work today. Of course, I can't remember a word of it now. We're all iced in this weekend. . ."iced in" is the term used when the roads are dangerous, but there has not been any snow. We've received a good bit of sleet and freezing rain since noon today, but the snow has yet to appear. The same is predicted for tomorrow, and I'm planning to go nowhere.

I wish I could remember my funny clever thought.

I am listening (not right this moment, but in the sense of "I am reading. . .") Nathaniel Hawthorne's The House of Seven Gables. I really like Hawthorne. His deep recognization of guilt and redemption in human lives pulls at me. Anyway, I like this quote from chapter 2:

Life is made up of marble and mud.

I am also reading (and no, I really shouldn't try to take in both at once) Wise Blood, by Flannery O'Connor, in the collected works of the same that I received for Christmas. I like her vivid description of characters in the opening chapter:

[His eyes] were the color of pecan shells. . . .

That's my favorite bit.

I was listening to my "Favorites" list on iTunes the other day and thinking what great evidence of my eclecticism it is. I, of course, have my downloaded music divided into categories by genre. But the "Favorites" category is the conglomeration of. . .you'll never guess. . .my favorites. Thus, it switches at random from a 1930's Frank Sinatra love song to Spanish praise to early 90's Amy Grant pseudo-Christian pop, with classic movie and musical bits like If I Were a Rich Man and the occasional Kirk Franklin thrown in. Oh, and then there's the Cathedrals, unforgettable essence of Southern Gospel. And a nice twangy Country tune now and then. And don't forget the switch back to stately traditional hymnody. All in all, it's pretty odd.

So much for my clever funny thought. Maybe next time.

Cribulation

K doesn't like my joke. . .he says it's only funny because I thought of it at 2am. Nevertheless, I christen these birthday cake pictures:

Pre-Crib



and Post-Crib


Ha ha ha ha ha.

Admit it. It's funny. At any rate, except for some trouble with the crib standing upright as planned, this is definitely one of the cutest cakes I've done.

For Lack of a Creative Title

I don't feel like titling tonight.

We had Knitting Night tonight. I pricked my finger. Well, stuck my finger is probably the better phrase. The needle went into my finger over a quarter of an inch. I bled. You can see the line under my skin where the needle went in slant-wise. The remarkable and ridiculous thing? It was the eye of the needle. Maybe my skin is a wee bit under-hydrated.

In other news, pictures of the baby shower cake and rag rug I made for expectant friends this past weekend.

A quote for me

"When you are not feeling particularly friendly but know you ought to be, the best thing you can do, very often, is to put on a friendly manner and behave as if you were a nicer person than you actually are." (C.S. Lewis in Mere Christianity)

I'm ashamed to admit that I need to do this often. However, I am glad to say that it really does work; it does make me into a nicer person.

Off with their heads!

Last night, about 11:15, I was eagerly counting down the minutes until midnight. . .the deadline for K's paper and end of his all day, every day work schedule. . .when I suddenly realized that the conference is in California, and a midnight deadline most likely meant a midnight Pacific time deadline, which meant I had an extra 2 hours to go. *sigh* I resigned myself to this fact with tolerable grace. Nothing was thrown or broken in the process. And I settled in for a slightly longer wait than I had thought, determined to wait up for him this night, at least, since I did not have to get up any particular time the next day. When he came home at 2:30, he broke the news. They finished some, but not all, so they submitted it in part and planned to finish the rest today. Bah. Bah. Bah. Albeit resigned to more waiting, it is with significantly less grace. . .although I have not thrown anything, and the only item I've broken is a very large chocolate bar.
Down with conferences, deadlines, and papers! I wish they had heads to off!

Likes, Dislikes, and La Vida Joyeux

I dislike deadlines that require my husband to work every evening, often into the morning, for an entire week, sending me to bed alone in an empty house. Bah.

I like that my couch is firm enough for my cup of coffee to stand securely on a coaster on the cushion next to me without fear of its overturning.

I dislike that this computer now shuts itself off when it is plugged in for very long; it's become a charge-when-shut-down-only machine. Bah.

I like that I've been a housewife every afternoon all week, washing clothes, switching out seasonal clothes (in spite of our 2 80-degrees-in-NOVEMBER days), baking (without wheat or gluten--kudos to Hannah for being my new housewife heroine; I couldn't do this all the time), and generally getting things accomplished that are not income-related (don't ask about my Arbonne progress this week. . .arrgh. . .I just want to stay home.

I dislike that I am 2 feet short of the fringe needed for the fleece cape/poncho I am making myself and that I do not know if I can get more, since these materials were a birthday gift from my grandparents 2 years ago (Yes, I'm just now making the poncho. Teaching takes everything else out of you.) Bah.

I like my music. . .that's about to die with the computer.

And I like Chesterton. So here's some more about actually living life:

To sum the whole matter up very simply, if Mr. McCabe asks me why I import frivolity into a discussion of the nature of man, I answer, because frivolity is a part of the nature of man. If he asks me why I introduce what he calls paradoxes into a philosophical problem, I answer, because all philosophical problems tend to become paradoxical. If he objects to my treating life riotously, I replay that life is a riot.

And just for the sheer joy of words:

But clearly it is quite true that whenever we go to hear a prophet or teacher we may or may not expect wit, we may or may not expect eloquence, but we do expect what we do not expect. We may not expect the true, we may not even expect the wise, but we do expect the unexpected. If we do not expect the unexpected, why do we go there at all? If we expect the expected, why do we not sit at home and expect it by ourselves?

Chesterton on Family

Yes, I do intend to cram together excerpts of an entire chapter. I'll try not to take anything out of context. :-) If it looks too long, just read the bold print.

"The family may fairly be considered, one would think, an ultimate human institution. [. . .] The common defence of the family is that, amid the stress and fickleness of life, it is peaceful, pleasant, and at one. But there is another defence of the family which is possible, and to me evident; this defence is that the family is not peaceful and not pleasant and not at one.
It is not fashionable to say much nowadays of the advantages of the small community. We are told that we must go in for large empires and large ideas. There is one advantage, however, in the small state, the city, or the village, which only the wilfully blind can overlook. The man who lives in a small community lives in a much larger world. He knows much more of the fierce varieties and uncompromising divergences of men. The reason is obvious. In a large community we can choose our companions. In a small community our companions are chosen for us. [. . .]
The complaint we commonly have to make of our neighbours is that they will not, as we express it, mind their own business. We do not really mean that they will not mind their own business. [. . .] What we really mean when we say that they cannot mind their own business is something much deeper. We do not dislike them because they have so little force and fire that they cannot be interested in themselves. We dislike them because they have so much force and fire that they can be interested in us as well. What we dread about our neighbours, in short, is not the narrowness of their horizon, but their superb tendency to broaden it. And all aversions to ordinary humanity have this general character. They are not aversions to its feeblesness (as is pretended), but to its energy. [. . .]
Of course, this shrinking from the brutal vivacity and brutal variety of common men is a perfectly reasonable and excusable thing as long as it does not pretend to any point of superiority. [. . .] Fastidiousness is the most pardonable of vices; but it is the most unpardonable of virtues. [. . .] Every man has hated mankind when he was less than a man. Every man has had humanity in his eyes like a blinding fog, humanity in his nostrils like a suffocating smell. But when Nietzsche has the incredible lack of humour and lack of imaginiation to ask us to belive that his aristocracy is an aristocracy of strong muscles or an aristocrarcy of strong wills, it is necessary to point out the truth. It is an aristocracy of weak nerves.
We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next-door neighbour. [. . .] we have to love our neighbour because he is there [. . .] He is the sample of humanity which is actually given us. [. . .]
Now, exactly as this principle applies to the empire, to the nation within the empire, to the city within the nation, to the street within the city, so it applies to the home within the street. The institution of the family is to be commended for precisely the same reasons that the institution of the nation, or the institution of the city, are in this matter to be commended. It is a good thing for a man to live in a family for the same reason that it is a good thing for a man to be besieged in a city. It is a good thing for a man to live in a family in the same sense that it is a beautiful and delightful thing for a man to be snowed up in a street. They all force him to realize that life is not a thing from outside, but a thing from inside. Above all, they all insist upon the fact that life, if it be a truly stimulating and fascinating life, is a thing which, of its nature, exists in spite of ourselves. The modern writers who have suggested, in a more or less open manner, that the family is a bad institution, have generally confined themselves to suggesting, with much sharpness, bitterness, or pathos, that perhaps the family is not always very congenial. Of course the family is a good institution because it is uncongenial. It is wholesome precisely because it contains so many divergencies and varieties. It is, as the sentimentalists say, like a little kingdom, and like most other little kingdoms, is generally in a state of something resembling anarchy. [. . .]The men and women who, for good reasons and bad, revolt against the family, are, for good reasons and bad, simply revolting against mankind. [. . .]
Those who wish, rightly or wrongly, to step out of all this, do definitely wish to step into a narrower world. They are dismayed and terrified by the largness and variety of the family. [. . .]
This is, indeed, the sublime and special romance oft he family. It is romantic because it is a toss-up. It is romantic because it is everything that its enemies call it. It is romantic because it is arbitrary. It is romantic because it is there. So long as you have groups of men chosen rationally, you have some special or sectarian atmosphere. It is when you have groups of men chosen irrationally that you have men. The element of adventure begins to exist; for an adventure is, by its nature, a thing that comes to us. It is a thing that chooses us, not a thing that we choose. [. . .] When we step into the family, by the act of being born, we do step into a world which is incalculable, into a world which has its own strange laws, into a world which could do without us, into a world that we have not made. In other words, when we step into the family we step into a fairy tale.

Mere Christianity

Three short quotes from our small group reading this week:

"If Christianity was something we were making up, of course we could make it easier. But it is not. We cannot compete, in simplicity, with people who are inventing religions. How could we? We are dealing with Fact. Of course anyone can be simple if he has no facts to bother about."

This makes me laugh. Read it aloud, with much expression and especial emphasis on "Of course anyone. . . ." and tell me it's not hilarious.

"If you picture Time as a straight line along which we have to travel, then you must picture God as the whole page onwhich the line is drawn."

I love this idea of the bigness of God.

"This idea has helped me a good deal. If it does not help you, leave it alone. It is a 'Christian idea' in the sense that great and wise Christians have held it and there is nothing in it contrary to Christianity. But it is not in the Bible or any of the creeds. You can be a perfectly good Christian without accepting it, or indeed without thinking of the matter at all."

This, I think, is very humble. We could do with more of Lewis' attitude. We might all get along better.

Bracelets and Spiders

And One for Humor

"Carlyle said that men were mostly fools. Christianity, with a surer and more reverent realism, says that they are all fools. This doctrine is sometimes called the doctrine of original sin. It may also be described as the doctrine of the equality of men."

And another. . .On Pride

"The pride which, proportionally speaking, does not hurt the character, is the pride in things which reflect no credit on the person at all. Thus it does a man no harm to be proud of his country, and comparatively little harm to be proud of his remote ancestors. It does him more harm to be proud of having made money, because in that he has a little more reason for pride. It does him mroe harm still to be proud of what is nobler than money--intellect. And it does him most harm of all to value himself for the most valuable thing on earth--goodness. The man who is proud of what is really creditable to him is the Pharisee, the man whom Christ Himself could not forbear to strike."

Ouch.

One More

From Chesterton, again:

"It is somewaht amusing, indeed, to notice the difference between the fate of these three paradoxes in the fashion of the modern mind. Charity is a fashionable virtue in our time; it is lit up by the gigantic firelight of Dickens. Hope is a fashionable virtue to-day; our attention has been arrested for it by the sudden and silver trumpet of Stevenson. But faith is unfashionable, and it is customary on every side to cast against it the fact that it is a paradox. Everybody mockingly repeats the famous childish definition that faith is 'the power of believing tha twhich we know to be untrue.' Yet it is not one atom more paradoxical than hope or charity. Charity is the power of defending that which we know to be indefensible. Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances which we know to be desperate. It is true that there is a state of hope which belongs to bright prospects and the morning; but that is not the virtue of hope. The virtue of hope exists only in earthquake and eclipse. It is true that there is a thing crudely called charity, which means charity to the deserving poor; but charity to the deserving is not charity at all, but justice. It is the undeserving who require it, and the ideal either does not exist at all, or exists wholly for them. For practical purposes it is at the hopeless moment that we require the hopeful man, and the virtue either does not exist at all, or begins to exist at that moment. Exactly at the instant when hope ceases to be reasonable it begins to be useful."

One Month and Four Days Ago. . .

Oops. It's awful. I think of all these great blog titles, clever witticisms, and profound revelations to post, but I don't actually type them. Very sad. Just think of all the wonderful products from my brain you're missing out on. . .

We had an early Thanksgiving dinner today so that we could celebrate with my mom's mom before she goest back to Florida. Everyone came to Tulsa, because B's work schedule only gave him enough time to join us if we ate here. That meant 9 people dining in our apartment. . .talk about crazy crowded! But it was fun. We set up a card table at the end of our dining table, added some folding chairs, pulled out almost all the china and a couple mis-matched pieces of silverware, and sat down to the traditional Thanksgiving fare. It's my 3rd turkey ever, and I'm proud to say it turned out as well as the second one. I refuse to take responsibility for the first one being undercooked, as it was taken out of the oven without my acquiescence. ;-)

I'm quite tired, now that everyone is gone. Of course they helped with dishes and clean-up--do you know how many dishes 9 people mess up when you use real china dinner plates, bread/fruit plates, saucers, cups, and serving pieces? And until we get a nicer dishwasher with a china cycle, I refuse to put my china or good "silver" in the dishwasher. It made for a lot of dishwashing. I'm glad I didn't have to do it all myself.

I've been continuting, albeit slowly, with Chesterton's Heretics, which is quite funny and interesting on a most-people-don't-think-this-hard-or-care-to level. (Do I get a prize for the length of that adjective?) Here are some quotes:

"Professor Huxley, in one of his clever phrases, called the Salvation Army 'corybantic Christianity.' Huxley was the last and noblest of those Stoics who have never understood the Cross. If he had understood Christianity he would have known that there never has been, and never can be, any Christianity that is not corybantic."

"Christmas remains to remind us of those ages, whether Pagan or Christian, when the many acted poetry instead of the few writing it. In all the winter in our woods there is no tree in glow but the holly."

"[Omar] and those he has influenced do not see that if we are to be truly gay, we must believe that there is some eternal gaiety in the nature of things. We cannot enjoy thoroughly even a pas-de-quatre at a subscription dance unless we believe that the stars are dancing to the same tune. No one can be really hilarious but the serious man. 'Wine,' says the Scripture, 'maketh glad the heart of man,' but only of the man who has a heart. The thing called high spirits is possible only to the spiritual. Ultimately a man cannot rejoice in anything except the nature of things. Ultimately a man can enjoy nothing except religion. Once in the world's history men did believe that the stars were dancing to the tune of their temples, and they danced as men have never danced since. . . .Dionysus and his church was grounded on a serious joie-de-vivre like that of Walt Whitman. Dionysus made wine, not a medicine, but a sacrament. Jesus Christ also made wine, not a medicine, but a sacrament. But Omar makes it, not a sacrament, but a medicine. He feasts because life is not joyful; he revels becasue he is not glad. 'Drink,' he says, 'for you know not whence you come nor why. Drink, for you know not when you go nor where. Drink, because the stars are cruel and the world as idle as a humming-top. Drink, because there is nothing worth trusting, nothing worth fighting for. Drink, because all things are lapsed in a base equality and an evil peace.' So he stands offering us the cup in his hand. And at the high altar of Christianity stands another figure, in whose hand also is the cup of the vine. 'Drink' he says 'for the whole world is as red as this wine, with the crimson of the love and wrath of God. Drink, for the trumpets are blowing for battle and this is the stirrup-cup. Drink, for this my blood of the new testament that is shed for you. Drink, for I know of whence you come and why. Drink, for I know of when you go and where."

The last one is a little long--sorry. "Corybantic" means frenzied, agitated, unrestrained, related to a priest of the Phrygian goddess Cybele whose rites were celebrated with music and ecstatic dances. I like this reminder that CHRIST brings us the joy and life of Christmas, and He does it all year round. I'm learning more about Advent this year, and for the first time that anticipation I already feel for the Christmas celebrations is critically linked to an awareness of the waiting, of the repentance and anticipation before Christ comes. In the last quote, Chesterton uses the term "stirrup cup." According to wikipedia, that is the parting drink hosts give to their guests as they are leaving. I have been frustrated with some things this week, little life lessons that are chipping at my rough edges and forcing me to choose between the path I want at the moment and the higher road. I keep reminding myself that this is a process. It's a life-long process of me getting somewhere, me becoming something. Celebrate! We're moving up!

Caking

These are pictures of my recent cakes. The wedding cake picture is a little blurry. I didn't know the camera was on the wrong setting, and I was in a hurry. Oops.

Boxes of Soap

Quotes I have read before, but that are worth reading again and sharing many times, from G.K. Chesterton:

But when people begin to talk about this domestic duty (speaking of those tasks traditionally assigned to women) as not merely difficult but trivial and dreary, I simply give up the question. For I cannot with the utmost energy of imagination conceive what they mean. When domesticity, for instance, is called drudgery, all the difficulty arises from a double meaning in the word. If drudgery only means dreadfully hard work, I admit the woman drudges in the home, as a man might drudge at the Cathedral of Amiens or drudge behind a gun at Trafalgar. But if it means that the hard work is more heavy because it is trifling, colorless and of small import to the soul, then as I say, I give it up; I do not know what the words mean. To be Queen Elizabeth within a definite area, deciding sales, banquets, labors and holidays; to be Whiteley within a certain area, providing toys, boots, sheets cakes. and books, to be Aristotle within a certain area, teaching morals, manners, theology, and hygiene; I can understand how this might exhaust the mind, but I cannot imagine how it could narrow it. How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness.
(emphasis and parentheses added)

That suffices to wash that box. For the second. . .

The current uproar over the Pope's recent comments regarding Mohammed makes me sick. And the fact that he is inching ever nearer to an outright apology disgusts me. "Please do pardon us for implying that there is an evil and violent face to Islam. Please forgive us for inciting you to blow up churches of those not even involved and murder other innocents." How is it that a group of people can commit acts of gross violence to protest they are insulted by being labeled violent and actually get a hearing from the rest of the world??? Is there no common sense left? I'd call it ironic if it didn't seem such a careless understatement to say so. No amount of soap will finish this, so I'll just stop. It's ridiculous and infuriating, and I wish Christians would step up and call Mohammed the false prophet he was. Below are quotes from other world Christian leaders.

In a first reaction from a top Christian leader, the head of Egypt's Coptic Orthodox Church criticized the pope. "Any remarks which offend Islam and Muslims are against the teachings of Christ," Coptic Pope Shenouda III was quoted as telling the pro-government newspaper Al- Ahram.

Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew I, spiritual leader of the world's 200 million Orthodox Christians, issued a statement saying he was "deeply" saddened by the tensions sparked by the pope's comments.
"We have to show the determination and care not to hurt one another and avoid situations where we may hurt each others' beliefs," the Istanbul-based Patriarchate said.

In India, Cardinal Telesphore Toppo, who is president of the Indian Catholic Bishops Conference, said the Christian community in that country must face Muslim protests over the pope's speech "with Christian courage and prayer because truth needs no other defense," according to AsiaNews, a Vatican-affiliated news agency.

taken from this article at breitbart.com

At least the Church in India has some backbone. But they, of course, are the ones on the front lines to begin with. They know that not standing up for Christ is the equivalent of not having Christ. We comfy, "civilized" countries could learn something.
But I was stopping. . .

A Happy Observation

I feel the need to point out that this is the first holiday in 2 years of which I have not spent at least a portion grading papers. Spending the day knitting, reading, and generally not laboring is much better. I look forward to Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, and a succession of other REAL holidays in the future.

"The Sending Back"

One of the hymns we sang in church this morning--many of which make proper and laudable use of somewhat archaic words--brought to mind the word "remission." We rarely hear this word in common conversation today, unless we are speaking of someone no longer battling cancer, but in the KJV it is semi-frequently used concerncing sin. Christ died to give us remission of sin. I asked myself what, exactly, it is to "remit." Literally, the root mit or mis means "to send." Re, in this context, means "back." So, to remit is, literally, "to send back." Christ died in order that we could "send back" our sin. If I order some piece of merchandise and receive it in the mail only to find that I don't like it, I can (usually) send it back and get a refund. Ultimately, I am not charged for it. Unfortunately, we cannot "send back" our actions. Yet Christ has, in effect, enabled that very thing. When we realize we can't afford to pay for the mistakes--intentional or accidental--we make, we have only to acknowledge there is already the provision for "sending them back." We aren't charged for them--except for some temporal shipping and handling--and that is God's grace.

(Useful?) Musing

Whether these thoughts are worthy of thought, not to mention profound, of plain drivel may well be a debateable question. If you find them lacking in clarity or focus, you may chalk it up to wine, chocolate, or coffee, as you choose. . .I've had a bit of all three in the past few hours.
First, some quoting from Chesterton's Heretics:

Now, it is this great gap in modern ethics, the absence of vivid pictures of purity and spiritual triumph, which lies at the back of the real objection felt by so many sane men to the realistic literature of the nineteenth century. . . .What disgusted him, and very justly, was not the presence of a clear realism, but the absence of a clear idealism. . . .In [Mr. Bernard Shaw's] eyes this absence of an enduring and positive ideal, this absence of a permanent key to virtue, is the one great Ibsen merit. . . .All I venture to point out, with an increased firmness, is that this omission, good or bad, does leave us face to face with the problem of a human consciousness filled with very definite images of evil, and with no definite image of good. To us light must be henceforward the dark thing--the thing of which we cannot speak. To us, as to Milton's devils in Pandemonium, it is darkness that is visible. The human race, according to religion, fell once, and in falling gained knowledge of good and evil. Now we have fallen a second time, and only the knowledge of evil remains to us.

I might add that we have now fallen (or are attempting to fall) a third time, refusing to recognize the knowledge of good or evil. If I haven't destroyed comprehension and context by chopping up the (several pages long) quote, you can see that Chesterton opines on the modern sensibility's ignorance of an absolute Good. He cites literature--primarily Ibsen's--as an example of modern society's acknowledgement of the bad and ugly with a seeming confusion when it comes to finding the source of good. I think, in our now post-modern society, we have gone a step further and ceased to recognize the bad or the ugly. "Tolerance" is our key virture, whether what we are tolerating is helpful or harmful. Perhaps that is the inevitable result of losing the light; we soon cease to distinguish the darkness. Instead of being surrounded by images of evil, we are surrounded by confusion and open-armed acceptance. Not only do we not know which way is up, we have forgotten there is also a way down.