Heinrich opened the parcel in surprise, and read the note taped to the bundle of yellow papers inside.

"Come now, you can be a chum, can't you, and record this silly little thing for me? Just remember the good old days when we did it together, and those fine strolls on the docks when we were finished. What larks, eh? Isn't that what we used to say? -H.W.
p.s. If it's not too much bother, could you do it this week? Send me the manuscript back when you're done, along with the recording.
p.p.s. And don't go trying to make improvements on my stuff. I remember every note of it, and I'll hear if it's not right.
p.p.p.s. Only, if you don't mind, humor me and treat it as a great secret. It's those voices in my head, you know--or at least, the doctors say that's what it is. -H.W."

"Ah, Hector," he smiled when he had read it. "Not even the loony-house can keep you down. Don't you know this is illegal? You really must be losing it...no song is worth risking your neck over, however lovely. Poor chap...why did it have to happen to you, who were the brightest star we had? But...at the same time...how can I refuse? What larks, indeed. It's the least I can do, I suppose."

He flipped slowly through the tattered pages. His face sobered.

"My word, Willoughby, what have you become?" he muttered softly. "This is absurd."

Some pages were almost entirely blackened with notes flying in every direction; in other places there would be nothing at all but a slow series of chords, each sustained almost beyond reasonable endurance, for pages at a time. Sometimes the only thing written was a ridiculously simple melody on a single instrument. Sometimes there were so many melodies and counter-melodies going at once, chaos seemed the only possible outcome. This was not the Willoughby he had known. This was impossible.

---------------


"Hello? Hello? I say, someone did answer the phone--I heard them. Where'd they go?"

"I'm still here, sir, if you'd only let me speak. This is the Guildenbrock Mental Institute. How may I--"

"I know it's the Guildenbrock Mental Institute, you nitwit. Why would I dial a number without knowing who it belonged to? Especially a Mental Institute...good heavens. Are you an employee or an inmate? They oughtn't to let inmates answer the phone. Very bad policy. Get me a nurse or a doctor or someone."

"I am a nurse, sir, and we call them patients, not inmates."

"Another bad policy. Might as well call 'em what they are. But whatever you want to call them, I have to speak to one of them. Called Hector Willoughby."

"Oh, I'm sorry sir, but we don't allow our patients access to the telephone. Like you said, it would be a bad policy."

"I said it would be a bad policy to let them answer it, not talk on it, and I meant the ones who really are off their rockers. Willoughby isn't crazy--you know that as well as I do, I'm sure, unless you really are as dense as you make yourself out to be."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not allowed to give out that information. And it's on the Rule Board, that no patients are to be allowed to use the telephone. I'm sorry."

"Look here, miss. I'm sure you're sorry, but you're going to be a whole lot sorrier if you don't let me talk to Hector. Don't you know you're talking to Heinrich Zinsser? Things never go well for people who get in the way of Heinrich Zinsser. Now get Willoughby on the phone, I say."

"Heinrich Zinsser? The real Heinrich Zinsser?"

"No, the pretend one. Go find Willoughby."

"You mean Heinrich Zinsser, the great composer and conducter? The one who wrote the march for the Commander's victory parade? The one with twelve motorcars and a gilded piano and ever such a handsome son?"

"Yes, well, I suppose he's a good enough looking kid in his own way, but he's got an ugly moustache."

"No-one's going to believe me when I tell them I talked to the real, live Heinrich Zinsser on the telephone. Oh my goodness. Which patient did you say you wanted to talk to, again? Oh, I remember now. H. Willoughby. That's #80395, I think. I'll have him here in a jiffy."

"In a who?"

But she was already gone.

......................

"Hello? Willoughby, that you?"

"Ah, yes. Hector. Nice of you to call. I'm afraid you'll have to make it quick, though. Doctors don't like me using this thing. Think it's bad for my digestion, no doubt, or some rot like that. They haven't got a clue what they're doing--sometimes I wonder if they're really doctors at all. But tell me, what's on your mind? Surely you didn't call just to talk about the weather?"

"We weren't talking about the weather, you old fish. Don't be ridiculous. The point is, what was that manuscript you sent me? Where did it come from?"

"Ah, was it really so bad? I didn't mind it, but I'm crazy, you know. You can't trust a crazy man's instincts. Plus I didn't have any instruments to test it out on. They aren't allowed here, of course. Had to write it all straight out of my head. Bound to go wrong somewhere."

"There you go talking nonsense again! Gone wrong? If that music was wrong, I could wish every note ever written had been just as bad. It was perfect! Divine! Where did it come from, I say? There was electricity in the air when the orchestra played it! Even the instrumentalists felt it, and they don't know a thing about anything. What was it?"

"Oh, then you did like it. I'm glad. I can't stay and talk though, old friend. Just send me the recording, why don't you. Tally-ho."

"But no, I say, hang on for just one moment. You've got to explain this to me. I'm in such a state, you see. I can't even pour my own tea, I'm in such a state. I mean, real music like that isn't allowed anymore! What were you thinking? But it was perfect! How did you do it?"

"I know it's not allowed, silly. That's why I had to do it."

"What kind of explanation is that? You can't really expect me to understand your riddles! Speak English!"

"Sorry, I must be going now. Nice chatting. Call again sometime. But no, on second thought, don't. They wouldn't like that."

"Wait! Come back. At least let me come visit. You could talk then, couldn't you?"

"No, you'd better not do that. Just send me the recording, like a good chap. Thanks!"

"But why not? Come on, Willoughby, be rational. I say--"

click.

my life as a series of minor disasters

Act 1

Scene 1

The stage is set. It is Monday, the eighth of December. Tierney rises early and, for once in their lives, both she and Camille are ready to leave for work with time to spare. Tierney even feels comfortable enough with the day's progression to drive slightly under the speed limit. Then, about halfway through Hartley, it happens. An elderly gentleman on his way to the grocery store makes an ill-considered left turn, and the crunch of shattered glass and crumpled metal announces the end of the short life of Tierney's Camry. As the smoke and dust slowly drift away, it becomes apparent that the right side of Cami's face has not reacted well to its encounter with the airbag, and the man in the other vehicle is bleeding pretty steadily out the back of his hand. But that is the extent of the damage to human life from this encounter, and everyone is thankful.

Scene 2

Fast forward to Tuesday, December ninth. Tierney, in spite of a deep-seated conviction that there is nothing in the world the matter with her, agrees to a precautionary post-crash trip to the chiropractor. Camille is scheduled to see the chiropractor a little later the same morning, as well as the opthomologist, for her eye was scratched and bruised in the collision. Altogether, the appointments ought to take only a couple of hours, and Tierney should be able to return to work at noon. But, alas and alack, the highways and byways have all been thoroughly coated with a glassy layer of ice, and are impassable at speeds greater than 30 miles an hour. After much toil and travail, Cami's eye is examined and proclaimed mostly-healed, both girls get their necks thoroughly cracked, and Tierney finally arrives at work a full two hours before it is time to go home.


Intermission

(From Wednesday, December tenth, through most of Saturday, December thirteenth, life proceeds at a fairly normal rate, pausing only for occasional tic-like problems that register but as small blips on the radar screen, and which are almost immediately forgotten. This is a good time to go out and replenish your supply of popcorn and Diet Pepsi, if you're running out.)

Act 2

Scene 1

Saturday, the thirteenth of December, flies by with nary an incident, but Tierney wraps up the day with a long, vivid, and disturbing dream about vampires, which finally awakens her at 6:00 in the morning. This occurrence, subsequently deemed the worst nightmare Tierney has ever had, is made all the stranger by the fact that she has never watched a vampire movie, and has thought about vampires approximately twice in her life.

Scene 2

The date is Sunday, December the fourteenth. Tierney and her mother drive to the evening worship service in spite of impending weather problems, due largely to the fact that the choir is singing before church this evening, and Tierney is the designated choir pianist. Upon the conclusion of the service, offers of places to stay the night begin to fill the air, and a glance outside proves them not unjustified. A short venture out onto the highway proves them very well justified indeed. The Erwin van makes an about-face, and proceeds instead to the Visser abode, where it remains until the next morning. Its human inhabitants, along with the residents of said abode and another family of refugees, amuse themselves until midnight by playing "Apples to Apples" and a very dangerous game of spoons. After being soundly beaten in the latter, and declared "neat", "delightful", "offensive", "revolutionary", and "aged" in the former, Tierney parts ways at last with her church attire, and falls soundly (not to mention dreamlessly) asleep in a very soft bed.

Scene 3

The fifteenth day of December is a Monday, and is, incidentally, Keegan's thirteenth birthday. School is given a two-hour-late start, much to the relief of Tierney, who will now have sufficient time to return home, shower, and find something more suitable to wear than a sweater and a tiered skirt, before returning for work by 10:30. Unfortunately, when she and her mother arrive home, they discover that the shower drain has frozen in their absence, and that the only person to get a shower has been Keegan, who remains unaware of the problem until later. Tierney makes do the best she can, but has a fairly rotten day at school. Late starts are not, she decides, good for anyone. However, at last the schoolday ends, and when she returns home she finds her mother making a pecan pie to take along to Keegan's birthday celebration with Grandpa and Grandma in an hour and a half. But what, in such a situation, is the electricity to do but go out? So it goes out. And it stays out. The family abandons the pecan pie project, finishes their preparations in the dark, and departs for the Pizza Ranch in Spencer. While there, Tierney eats just under ten pounds of food off the buffet, and drops a piece of dessert pizza on its face. The electricity is, we are happy to report, once more operational when the troops return some hours later.

Scene 4

On the morning of Tuesday, the sixteenth day in December, Tierney wakes up and shivers violently. Her face is cold, her feet are cold, her blankets are cold, and her mind is cold. Whose bright idea was it to turn the heater off in the middle of the night? Apparently it was the heater's idea, and it's sticking to it. Tierney pumps all the hot air and steam into the bathroom that she can find, and still barely survives her shower. She dons three long-sleeved shirts, wishes her chilly family all the best, and leaves for work. One can only hope that the repairman will arrive soon. (And he does.)

Let us hear the conclusion of the matter.

Tierney walks slowly through the quiet, powdery snow, squinting her eyes a little against the flurries of snowflake clumps still making their leisurely way down from the heavens. She shuffles her feet and kicks the snow around, smiling for no good reason at all. She's trying to think of a new way to describe the snow, a fresh, true way that will bring a vivid picture to your mind and make you think of it in a way that never occurred to you before. Gently falling powder snow deserves to be described in such a way; but she can't think of anything. One wishes for the mind of C.S. Lewis at times like this. In spite of this failure on her part, she is not downcast. It is hard to be sad when school has been let out early because of the weather (which is not even all that bad), and there is snow falling all around, as if all the world is a giant snow globe that has just got itself righted. Is there anything so quiet as snowfall without wind, the soft feather flakes brushing gently together, rustling on the very edge of hearing? Ah, life is beautiful, disasters and all.

Merry Christmas

Hmm. Christmas. What does that make you think of?

Some people think of a cone-shaped tree in the living room, wrapped in twinkling lights and crowned with a plastic star. Which is actually pretty weird if you think about it, because what in the world does that have to do with anything?

Some people think of an enormously fat, apparently omnipresent man in a red coat who somehow squeezes himself, in a rather criminally-minded manner, down the chimney at night, leaving presents for everyone in socks hung by the fireplace. That's even worse than the whole tree thing, because besides being weird and disturbing, it's just plain impossible.

Other people, the pious ones, remember "the real reason for the season". They think of singing angels in the sky, richly-dressed kings on camels, shepherds, sheep, and a sweet little baby in a feed trough. In some ways, I suppose this is the strangest Christmas image of all.

It is, nevertheless, a familiar one. You can hardly live in America and not know what a "nativity scene" is. We recognize them at once, with the necessary components--Mary, Joseph, three wise men, a selection of shepherds, a donkey, a cow, and a few sheep--all gathered in a neat little arc, with a neat little manger in the center, cradling a baby in a neat little nest of fresh, soft straw. It's a serene and peaceful arrangement. It's tidy, it's well-lit, and it's cute. But there's nothing "cute" about Christmas.

What is there, honestly, that is "cute" about having to be born in a stable? Even on a superficial, story-telling level, it's rather horrible. A stable is for animals. It smells like animals, and it's cold at night and dirty. In most portrayals of the nativity scene, I've noticed that the manger is uncommonly cradle-like, both in size and in structure. I haven't done any in-depth research on ancient Middle-Eastern mangers, so maybe that's really what they were like; but somehow I doubt it. And even if they were, if you think about it, would you readily lay your hours-old baby to sleep in a trough from which farm animals had eaten, lined only with a layer of scratchy, prickly hay? What a rude way for any baby to greet the world, let alone the Son of God. The scene we call the nativity is many things, but it can never be cute.

Go deeper. Perhaps indeed we are too flippant about the circumstances into which Christ was born; perhaps we gloss over the atrocity of it all. But how do we treat the infant Savior Himself?

Of a "holy infant, so tender and mild" we sing, and we request that He "sleep in heavenly peace". We smile indulgently as we listen to small children tell us in song about "the little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay", laid away in a manger.

From whence comes this condescension? Does it never occur to us that the only reason the infant lay there in the manger at all was because He had come to suffer the torments of hell in the place of His chosen people? Our offense against God is so great, that this was the payment required: that the eternal, almighty Son of God must be born a helpless baby, live a homeless man, and die the death of a criminal, rejected by man and forsaken by God. Never once, in the life He lived for us, did He sin. But His is not an adorable innocence, bathed in a soft, friendly glow and covered all around with comfortable fuzzies. His perfect holiness ought instead to drive us, trembling, to our knees in humility and unspeakable gratitude. God's love, demonstrated thus in the sacrifice that set us free, is indeed beyond our comprehension, and this really should fill us with joy, for the agony of hell that faced us has been replaced with glory and eternal life in Christ. But this does not make Him a God to be trifled with. He is not, as C.S.Lewis so powerfully put it, a tame lion.

O LORD, I have heard Your speech and was afraid;
O LORD, revive Your work in the midst of the years!
In the midst of the years make it known;
In wrath remember mercy.
God came from Teman,
The Holy One from Mount Paran.
His glory covered the heavens,
And the earth was full of His praise.
His brightness was like the light;
He had rays flashing from His hand,
And there His power was hidden.
Before Him went pestilence,
And fever followed at His feet.
He stood and measured the earth;
He looked and startled the nations.
And the everlasting mountains were scattered,
The perpetual hills bowed.
His ways are everlasting.
I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction;
The curtains of the land of Midian trembled.
O LORD, were You displeased with the rivers,
Was Your anger against the rivers,
Was Your wrath against the sea,
That You rode on Your horses, Your chariots of salvation?
Your bow was made quite ready;
Oaths were sworn over Your arrows.
You divided the earth with rivers.
The mountains saw You and trembled;
The overflowing of the water passed by.
The deep uttered its voice,
And lifted its hands on high.
The sun and moon stood still in their habitation;
At the light of Your arrows they went,
At the shining of Your glittering spear.
You marched through the land in indignation;
You trampled the nations in anger.
You went forth for the salvation of Your people,
For salvation with Your Anointed.
You struck the head from the house of the wicked,
By laying bare from foundation to neck.
You thrust through with his own arrows
The head of his villages.
They came out like a whirlwind to scatter me;
Their rejoicing was like feasting on the poor in secret.
You walked through the sea with Your horses,
Through the heap of great waters.
(Habakkuk 3 : 2 - 15)

God's character has never changed and never will, even when He came as a baby, even when He hung dying on the tree. Can you stand before this God and call Him "sweet little Jesus"? Can you stand before Him and say anything at all, without His salvation?

When I heard, my body trembled;
My lips quivered at the voice;
Rottenness entered my bones;
And I trembled in myself,
That I might rest in the day of trouble.
When he comes up to the people,
He will invade them with his troops.
Though the fig tree may not blossom,
Nor fruit be on the vines;
Though the labor of the olive may fail,
And the fields yield no food;
Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,
And there be no herd in the stalls--
Yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
I will joy in the God of my salvation.
The LORD God is my strength;
He will make my feet like deer's feet,
And He will make me walk on my high hills.
To the Chief Musician.
With my stringed instruments.
(Habakkuk 3 : 16 - 19)

much ado about not much at all

And so I find myself working a full time job. It's one of the last things (apart from joining a convent or the military) that I would have predicted or desired for myself, and even now I often find myself wishing I was on a different path, and wondering why I'm not. (I suppose this seems weird, in a world where the norm is for girls to pursue a career of some form or another; but that is a topic for another day.) However, I can begin to see how, if I were to spend all my time keeping house, reading, writing, and doing the other things I used to think I was going to do with myself, I would probably become too comfortable, and lose sight of the need for continued growth. Stagnation never does much toward saving the world.

Sometimes I am mildly perturbed, for reasons varying widely in their degree of selfishness, by the sadly deficient nature of my appearance. But then I think to myself, you know, if I were beautiful at all, I would run a high risk of becoming intolerably vain about it. Not to say that I'm not vain enough as it is. I am, to be sure, but my current vanity is tempered by the constant reminder that it has no basis in reality. So in the end, it's probably more of a blessing than a curse, even though it's easier to see it the other way around.

Often, what looks like a disaster, or at least a disappointment, is actually the best possible thing that could have happened. Actually, scratch that part about "often". Make it always. Several well-known and oft-quoted verses come to mind:
"And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)
"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope." (Jeremiah 29:11)
"Beloved, do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you; but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ's sufferings, that when His glory is revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy." (1 Peter 4:12-13)
"And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope." (Romans 5:3-4)
And there are more...but you get the idea.

Now, perhaps you are thinking to yourself, "This is all true, and certainly it is glorious and wonderful and well worth reminding ourselves of; but it's not a very original thing to devote a blog post to." (Not that blog posts have to be original--mine are living (or dead) proof of that.) Well, the abnormal part of this train of thought is still coming, so keep your shirt on.

It's entirely possible that I am the only person in the history of mankind to have felt this particular way; at least, I don't recall ever hearing anyone else speak of it in my presence. So perhaps I am sticking my neck out here; perhaps this is the testing point, the point at which clinical insanity is diagnosed, the point of no return. Maybe they'll name a whole new species of mental instability after me. That would be one way to go down in history, though I can think of a few better. Curing the common cold, for example, or inventing disposable clothing. But I digress.

The thing is that, though knowing and believing that God really does work all things (including unpleasantnesses, if that's a word) for good is a tremendous comfort, my appallingly sinful nature has found a way to shade even this truth with grey, and twist it into something it's not. Observe:

-My primary "goal" (if you want to call it that) in life is to be a wife and mother, a keeper at home; and that's what I think it should be. But sometimes I think I want it too much, and then it begins to seem likely that God will see fit to re-organize my priorities by causing me to live out my days as an old maid.

-I think it would be rather disappointing and difficult, not to mention boring, to be rich. So sometimes I think that I will probably inherit a prosperous diamond mine, or marry a multi-millionaire, in order to learn patience, temperance, wise generosity, and...who knows what else.

-I hate city driving, and I would miss the sunset and the stars dreadfully; so in order to remove distractions and fix my mind more firmly on things that actually matter, perhaps God has a long-term city dwelling in my future. Probably a high-rise apartment in downtown Chicago, with one window, no yard, and noisy traffic 24/7. Ouch.

-I think it would be fun to have twins, so I probably won't.

-I would rather not be burnt at the stake, so I probably will.

-In the unlikely event that there is someone out there who is simultaneously godly enough for me to want to marry him, and crazy enough to want to marry me, I suppose he will have a bent towards know-it-all-ism, will hate reading and love rap, will have an annoying Boston accent, and will have a last name starting with G. (Cursive G's are such a plague.) All of those things would be somewhat difficult to live with, but I'm sure I would learn all kinds of valuable things through the experience (and I mean that).

Do you see the pattern? In all these things, I keep in mind (quite sincerely) that God can and will use everything He does in my life for my good. I acknowledge, pretty readily, that the things I think I want are often inferior to the things I actually need, and that God knows the difference between the two infinitely better than I do. My problem is that I start to assume that He will pretty much always use the most unpleasant means available to teach me the things I need to learn. I begin to subconsciously feel that, although the end result will be good, God would like me to suffer as much as possible between now and then...just because.

It's a subtle perversion of the truth, because God's ways aren't our ways, and often they really are painful and unpleasant to endure. And really, if God does see fit for me to be a rich, apartment-dwelling old maid until I am finally burnt at the stake in my old age, He will have done me no wrong. The problem isn't with the hypothetical situation, but with my arrogance and lack of trust in attempting to predict God's plan, and in assuming it will be everything I hope it's not.

I suppose I make myself sound like a confirmed and irrevocable pessimist. The redeeming quality all this absurdity has to it, is that it is almost always subconscious, half-hearted, and semi-jocular. So why do I write about it at such length? Good question.

So. How about it? Am I off my onion? Well, duh...

Why

Black. White.
Stop. Go.
Right. Wrong.
Why is it seldom so easy?

Light and dark.
Good and evil.
Life and death.
They cannot coexist. The division is clear and unyielding.
Why do we have such a hard time seeing it?

Smudged lines and vague instructions aren't the problem. God didn't create a muddled universe. He didn't make the rule book a cryptic and complicated mess, in hopes that we'd mess up in our efforts to figure out how to play the game. He didn't set us up to fail.
The problem isn't the way the lines are drawn. The problem is with our eyes.

Given the clearest possible instructions--"of this tree you shall not eat"--we still managed to rebel, and now we see all as through a glass, darkly. Truth is still truth, and it's written on our hearts, whether we want to see it or not. Good is good, and evil is evil. There is no grey area; no middle ground.

I think what messes us up--even when, by the Spirit's power, our eyes start to open--is that in our quest for righteousness, we're usually looking for the wrong thing. What we'd really like to find is a step-by-step guide to holiness through external obedience. This action always takes precedence over that action. The less you talk, the less trouble you'll be in. Work always comes before play. Mercy always trumps justice. We may not like them much, but regulations are relatively easy to obey. Hard-and-fast laws of good behavior make life simple, comfortable...and hollow.

In the grand scheme of things, it's pretty easy for me to lift the corners of my mouth into a smile, wrap my fingers around a doorknob, and hold the door open for the lady behind me at the store. It's even possible, without exerting an enormous amount of energy (most days), to do so while feeling quite pleasant about it inside. I feel I have done well. It was the right thing to do, and I did it. Do I really think that's all it takes to please God? I'd like to think that, but I know I'm wrong.

I ask myself, then...Why do I do what I do? Why do I do even a simple "good deed" like opening the door for a stranger? I can think of about a million wrong answers.
Maybe I want the lady I'm helping to admire me and think what a nice person I am.
Maybe I want the young couple in the checkout aisle (who I hope are watching) to notice what I'm doing and think what a nice person I am.
Maybe someone in the general vicinity knows someone else that I know and want to impress, and I'm hoping news of my good deed will eventually get around to the that person.
Maybe I am pleased at the level of sanctification I have evidently now reached.
Maybe it just makes me feel good to remind myself what a nice person I'm capable of being.
Maybe I'm imagining the lady is a queen of some distant land, and obviously you open doors for queens of distant lands.
Maybe I feel guilty for snapping at my brother this morning, and now I've redeemed myself.
Maybe I was rigorously trained as a small child to always open doors for people behind me at stores, and I'm still afraid of being spanked if I don't.
Maybe I'm paranoid about bad karma catching up with me.
Maybe someone told me last week what a courteous young lady I am, and I feel I must keep up that reputation.
Maybe I'm upset with myself for being so discourteous in the past, and I'm doing penance by opening as many doors for people as I can find in an hour.
Maybe I missed lunch, and I'm hoping the lady has a granola bar or two in her purse that she'll feel like sharing if I'm nice.
Maybe...a thousand other things.

But there's only one right answer.
The lady behind me at the store was made in the image of God, and He has commanded me to honor His image by loving her as I love myself. God sent His only son to live and die in my place, to ransom me from the pit of hell and bring me instead to eternal life in His presence. Out of thankfulness for what He has done, how can I not offer myself as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God? My chief end in life is to glorify and serve my God forever. If I love Him, I will keep His commandments.

How often I do what looks like the right thing. How seldom I do it for the right reason.

1 Samuel 16 : 7b
For the Lord does not see as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

Colossians 3 : 23
And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men.

1 Corinthians 10 : 31
Therefore, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.

Edit

to the post-before-last:

I might have decided that I actually like Batman better than Spidey. It may never be official, but we have watched both recently, and that is my inclination at the moment.

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

The Song of the Salesman

I was going through some old papers yesterday, and found this little song I made up years ago. Probably the only truly great thing I've ever written. If you feel so disposed, you can sing it to the tune of "If you're happy and you know it".

This is all you need to make your life complete!
Even though it doesn't work it's really neat!
See, it's packaged so inviting,
Don't those colors look exciting?
And that price you thought so fright'ning
Can't be beat!

batman-inspired bunny trails

It's too bad Batman is a fictional character, because if he was real, I think I could tell him why he has such a hard time keeping Gotham City clean. Actually, it would be sort of nice if Batman were real even if I didn't have anything especially relevant to say to him. If there's one thing this world needs more of, it would have to be young multimillionaires who dress up as large, black bats at night and chase criminals in and out of dark alleys and parking lots. There's always room on the streets for another batmobile or two.

I have singled out Batman in spite of the fact that I would tend to like Spiderman better. This is because, while other superheroes (like Superman and Spidey) exist primarily to protect the largely innocent population from outlandishly ugly and outrageously evil supervillains who periodically crawl out of the woodwork, Batman tends to fight general corruption (along with the inevitable supervillain). He finds himself very much alone and, like Athanasius, "against the world". (I think the parallel with Athanasius ends there, though.) The city is so thoroughly riddled with crime, apathy, and despair that it often seems that Batman and one or two minimally influential cohorts are the only "good guys" in the whole place. Gotham City's problems are such that the death of the villain alone is always an insufficient remedy. Of course it helps, if only because there will be fewer exploding skyscrapers and chaotic car chases for awhile; but it does little to actually cure anything. The poison reaches too deep.

Batman's problem, as I see it, is that he fights an internal disease with external antidotes. Certainly it is noble to rid the community, whenever possible, of otherwise unchallenged drug lords and other deranged criminal masterminds. I'm not saying that doesn't need to be done; it does. But that's only the beginning of the cure. Batman fails because he assumes that, once there are no more slavering, clown-faced maniacs wandering the streets, the general population will be free to unleash its dormant goodness, and the inherent virtue of mankind will win the day.

Unfortunately for Batman (and the rest of us), that's not how it works. After all the stray supervillains have been rounded up and disposed of (though there seems to be an endless supply of them in most superhero-inhabited realms), the deep-rooted corruption of every man, woman, and child alive still remains; and it won't heal itself. People need more than slightly-less-dark; they need light. By itself, the eradication of lies isn't enough; it has to be replaced with the truth. Crime is only a symptom; the real disease is in our hearts. The people of Gotham City need the gospel.

As it happens, the real world needs the gospel, too. I think we make a mistake when we start to think some kind of salvation can be found if we just reform our national and global political systems. This isn't to say that the government doesn't need reforming--it does, rather desperately, and working toward such reform is a worthy and honorable endeavor (when pursued for the right reasons, of course). But the government got into its current quagmire because of a deeper, darker problem in the hearts of the people who voted it into existence. And unless we pull out the weed by its roots, it will only come back, stronger than ever.

The other side of the same coin is that only the Holy Spirit can breathe life into the dead souls of men. Without His power, no amount of begging, pleading, lecturing, preaching, reasoning, or discussing will do any good at all. At the same time, when God wills that one of His elect be saved, He can use the strangest (and often even the weakest) means to bring it to pass. In short, whichever direction you go, it's beyond our control. Perhaps this seems rather discouraging and hopeless. Actually, though, it is the height of glory, and a hope beyond imagination. God is in absolute control, and He works all things for the glory of His name and the good of His people. It is not our burden to determine the path of history; we have only to give our best effort to the tasks laid out before us, whatever and wherever they may be, and God will take care of the rest.

So whether America rises again or falls at last into darkness, whether Batman ever finally succeeds in securing tranquility for Gotham City, we can rest with perfect confidence in the providence and omnipotence of God. Someday we'll see the whole story, and our small part in it will finally make sense.

In the meantime, we have work to do.

If I Knew

If I knew that today was my last day on earth,
Would I do what I’m doing right now?
Would I say what I’m saying, though I know it might hurt,
If it was the last thing you'd hear from my mouth?

Would I spend so much time on such trivial things,
If I thought that was all I would do?
Would the things I’ve not done still be put off, you think,
If I knew I’d be leaving so soon?

Would the things that annoy me and get on my nerves
Maybe not seem like such a big deal?
Would I feel so offended at that one thoughtless word,
If I knew it was the last thing I’d feel?

Could I let some things go, and give others more care?
Would my speed to forgive be the same?
If I knew time was short, could I choose to forbear,
And quietly shoulder the blame?

Might my thoughts have more depth, and my words greater weight,
Would my deeds have more purpose and drive?
Would I hesitate so before doing what’s right?
Would I be so reluctant to try?

Yesterday’s gone, and it will not return;
Tomorrow may not come at all.
If you knew that today was your last day on earth,
Would you be ready to answer the call?

Lunchtime at the Nursing Home

I used to work in the kitchen at the local nursing home. This was (and remains) my opinion of the food there--and of almost all institutionally prepared "food" as well. (I'm cheating on this blog thing so far...by posting things I wrote months or even years ago. Eventually, however, I will write something new.)

"Bring the poison for the inmates!"
Calls the Captain to the guard.
"Cook them all the food that we hate:
Make it soggy, dry, or hard;
But if it's pleasant to the palate,
We will feather you with tar!"
"Might as well just feed them fishbait,"
Someone mumbles to the chard.

"What they like the best is plastic,"
Says the Captain with a smile.
"Soaked in chemicals and gases,
And the waters of the Nile.
Call it food (don't sound sarcastic),
And hum gaily all the while!"
Grumbles someone, "In the Arctic
There are things to eat less vile."

"Forward, march!" now cries the Captain.
"Down the hall we go to feed!
They are waiting in the dungeon:
Thence we go to quench their greed!
With a pile of Slime and Onions
We supply their every need."
"Nearer death with every luncheon,"
Mutters someone. "That's our creed."

Expectation

Every journey has a destination, and every story has an end. The song is beautiful while it lasts, but there always comes the moment when the last note hangs quivering in the air, and when it has finally fled away, we are left in silence. It cannot last forever. We long, as we turn over the last page of a beloved book, to go back to the beginning, reaching out desperately for what has been, but can never be again. As we see the end of a beautiful road drawing nigh, we wish hopelessly that it would go on and on...forever. But it must come to an end; it could not stay so beautiful forever, or if it did, we should grow weary of it. Better to let it go while the memory is still sweet, and hang on instead to that memory, however mingled with pain. But why then the pain? Why are we not content? Why do our hearts still ache for something more? It is because this is not enough. Even in our reaching backwards, we know that what we really want cannot be found there. What we are truly seeking lies ahead of us, not behind. We were created for perfection, but we have fallen--this we know. and in ourselves we are dead, and heedless of our plight. But our ransomed souls cry out for restoration; we long to be made whole. In this life, we will never be complete. Everything around us, and we ourselves, are only broken copies of what was; fleeting shadows of what will be. This world is not where we belong. It is full of joy and beauty, to be sure; but the highest beauty is mingled with pain, and the deepest joy is bittersweet...and there will always be an end. That is why there is that ache that will never quite go away; that longing we can never quite define; that hole that is never quite filled while we remain in this life. One day we will go home; we will become what we were made to be, and we will be complete. And then we will be caught up and swept away by a beauty and a joy so high, so deep, and so perfect, that an eternity will not be sufficient for us to begin to comprehend it. And this time, it will never, ever end. Hallelujah!

"For the earnest expectation of the creation eagerly waits for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope; because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now. Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the redemption of our body For we were saved in this hope, but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one hope for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with perserverance."

~Romans 8:19-25~

Bugs and Babies

I was driving a light blue minivan down a lonely gravel road, early one morning this summer, at a rate of approximately 56 mph. I was on my way to pick strawberries for a local strawberry patch, and I wasn't feeling overly enthused about the idea. I was tired of picking strawberries. You probably would have been, too, if you'd been doing it, in the blistering sun and pouring rain, for 5-7 hours every day for nearly three weeks. It's not the worst thing in the world (malaria and typhoid fever are worse), but it wasn't exactly at the top of my List of Favorite Things to Do on a Rainy Thursday Morning. I was trying to cheer myself up by listening to the radio, rolling the windows halfway down, and taking the humps on the gravel road without slowing down; and then I noticed a bug crawling around on the inside of my window. And I thought to myself, "What an odd bug." Because it was. It looked sort of like a rather flat tick, with somewhat larger legs, and long, graceful antennae. A "Great American Tick-alope", according to my slightly eccentric, but nevertheless clever and charming, sister Camille. (That probably won't make any sense unless you've seen the Pixar short-story-film thing that comes before The Incredibles. I think it's called "Boundin" or something like that. Pretty cute.)

Anyway, I was thinking about this bug (and trying not to go off the road while I watched it crawl hither, thither, and yon), and it occurred to me what a grand adventure it must be having, in a small, buggy kind of way. Imagine being half an inch long, and finding yourself plastered to the inside of the window of a van hurtling recklessly down a rather bumpy road. And this particular fellow still had enough energy and courage left to go exploring on this speeding sheet of transparency. I admired his pluck.

It made me think about the things we miss when we live too much on the safe side. When we slather ourselves in sunscreen, keep our feet carefully on the sidewalk, and always follow the recipe. Sometimes I like to take off my shades, even when the sun is shining in all its painful brilliance; just so my eyes can experience life "all the way". Sometimes I'd rather turn off the AC and roll down all the car windows instead, whatever havoc it will doubtless wreak on my hair; just because.

I know, they're little things. But I've never been to Cuba or ridden a motorcycle, and I don't live near any roller coasters; so I get my thrills when and where I can.

---------

Later that afternoon I was playing my cello, and my baby brother was hollering in his crib. At first he contented himself with making loud, squalling sounds like a tornado siren or a small fighter jet coming in for a landing. Eventually, however, I noticed he was more and more consistently yelling, "Neen! Neen!". That's my name. Probably he had started hearing cello-ish noises and deduced that I was ignoring him. (For the record, I wasn't precisely ignoring him. I was going to get him up....my plan just wasn't quite as instantaneous as his.) So I went in and turned off the box fan that's supposed to keep the sleeping child from hearing the wakeful noises that tend to permeate the rest of the house (like telephones and cellos), then went over to have a chat with my smallest sibling.

"Hallo, Beebee," I cooed, "Why are you screeching like that? You sound like a screech owl...a baby screech owl."

(People always say silly things to babies, small children, and animals. I can't explain it, but I do it, too.)

Sam babbled something incoherent in reply, and bounced impatiently up and down in his crib. I am fluent in Sammish, and I knew that this should be approximately translated, "Get me out of this death trap, you mean girl. I want some pretzels." I was in a benevolent mood, so I obliged.

"You want out of bed?" I asked sweetly, "Come here, then, baby. But why were you screeching so much before? You never told me."

"Owie," said Sam, and he stuck his thumb in my mouth. That would be Sammish for "Kiss it".

in which we discuss the dangers of driving at sunset

When I took the driving test to get my license, I only made one mistake. But it was a bad mistake. According to the lady who kept track of my score, it was the worst mistake listed on her sheet (except, probably, for mowing down pedestrians or attempting to outrun a cop). Going through an unmarked intersection, you see, I apparently breezed right through, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and putting myself and my passenger in grave danger of being broadsided by any number of phantom cars that might or might not have been there. Subtract eight points from the final tally. Actually, I retain the private opinion that I did look both ways before crossing the street; only that my head didn't move, and due to the fact that I was wearing sunglasses, my instructor failed to note the silent rotation of my eyeballs in their sockets. I did not, however, press charges at the time, seeing that I received a passing grade even with the deduction. It was also comforting that, apart from my instructor, my mother, and myself, no-one ever need know about the incident, thus keeping my driver-ly reputation, for now, at a decent level of mediocre. Unless, of course, some loony-bird were to take it into her head to include it as an anecdote in a blog post intended to be broadcast all across the universe by way of the internet. But what kind of nut would do something like that?

It struck me the other day what a tragically hilarious irony it would be if that was how I died: if, in a carbon-copy repeat of that one mistake on that first day, I was flying blissfully through an unmarked intersection on my way to a Bingo re-match at the senior center, heedless of danger and daydreaming happily of brownies and decaf coffee, only to be skewered at the last by a panic-stricken semi. Actually, it would probably be the semi's driver that would be panic-stricken. I doubt if the truck itself would care that much.

I seem just as likely, if not more so, to die in a head-on collision with oncoming traffic (what other kind of traffic, might I ask, does one get into head-on collisions with?), due to an irresistible compulsion to gaze, enraptured, at the sunset or a passing pelican, instead of at the road. Roads don't stand up to a whole lot of enraptured gazing, and I tire of them rather quickly. Sunsets, on the other hand...ah, me. Oh, and pelicans. Pelicans are nice, too. So are wallabies, for that matter. But I digress.

I was headed east on a rather lonely blacktop this evening, and I could see rain on the horizon. A greyish haze smothered most of the visibly sky, but there was a certain amount of sunshine filtering thoughtfully through from the west. It was neither gloomy nor cheerful. I didn't even really notice that it was anything at all, until later. I came to a stop sign, and signaled a left turn. There was a blue minivan coming up on my right, so I waited for them to pass. (See, I do sometimes look both ways at intersections.) I happened to glance to my left as I rounded the corner, and I saw the sky.

It wasn't quite sunset yet, but it was glorious. I groped, even then, for words that might translate a little bit of this glory to the page; but the endeavor was vain. Imagine a clear, blue patch of sky on the western horizon of an otherwise overcast sky. Imagine a single column of mounting, gilt-edged cloud in the center, and hard-edged rays of sunlight spilling out into the corn fields below. Imagine that, only a hundred times better and more brilliant. Do you think you could keep your eyes off it? I couldn't.

The glory surprised me. The rest of the sky was so nondescript this evening; who would have anticipated such brilliance in that one corner? There's something incredible about finding beauty where you didn't expect it. A dandelion wriggles its way up through a crack in the sidewalk. A boring acquaintance turns out, in fact, to be quite witty and charming once you get to know her. A really lovely song sets in the middle of an otherwise forgettable CD. A hand-written letter arrives from a far-away friend. A gorgeous sunset crowns the end of a cloudy day.

I glanced back at the road just in time to avoid hitting a large pickup truck coming over the brow of a hill. They should never have given me my license.