Nothing Else Matters

I heard a sermon this weekend that rocked my thoughts. Being Easter weekend, you might imagine the sermon had something to do with the plan of salvation, Christ's death and resurrection. Of course you'd be right. Among the many standout things Randy Roberts, the speaker, shared were some of his favorite quotes about the importance of this plan of salvation. One of them has stuck in my mind and rolled around consciously and subconsciously ever since. Grant it, it's not been that long, but long enough to make a fairly deep impact. It goes something like this:

If the plan of salvation isn't real, then nothing else matters. If it is real, then nothing else matters.

Thinking about this over the weekend, I have been overwhelmed by the amazing love and sacrifice of this gift of salvation. I went to a church I'd never gone to before because one of my students was being baptized. At the end of the service, which was a blessing all by itself, I had the privilege and joy of singing Gilbert Martin's arrangement of "When I Survey the Wondrous" cross. the choir director just called people out from the congregation to sing this beautiful hymn and I all but ran up to sing with them. It was the most glorious way to end the day.

When I survey the wondrous cross

On which the Prince of Glory died;

My richest gain I count but loss,

And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,

Save in the death of Christ, my God;

All the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to His blood.

See from His head, His hands, His feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down.

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet

Or thorns compose so rich a crown.

Were the whole realm of nature mine

That were a present far too small;

Love so amazing, so divine,

Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Linger Awhile

The birds at my back patio feeders are greedy and messy. And their messiness has brought a family of mice to reside there as well. The mice are growing as fat as the birds. Fortunately the seeds keep them content away from my house. Still, in spite of these side effects, I am enjoying the bird activity on the other side of the living room glass. I am starting to recognize specific birds, not just species. Goldfinch and other little yellow birds have appeared in the past two weeks. They chow down on the seed as if it were their last meal, singing in between dips into the seed.

The Mourning Doves are bullies, chasing each other and the smaller Inca Doves. The finches (both house and gold) are cheerful and agile. The Abert's Towhee is loud; so is the Gila woodpecker. The Mockingbirds are acrobats, often doing the splits between one feeder and the next. Other little birds come and go making for a hopping little bird's paradise. I've definitely enjoyed lingering awhile as I watch their comings and goings.

from I STOOD TIPTOE

by John Keats

Linger awhile upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:
They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. (61-64)

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. (87-92)

Architectural Delight

Twice during this month I've spent time exploring the grounds and residence at Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West located about 10 minutes from my new home in Arizona. Until my first visit with my sister at the beginning of the month, I had no idea that one of the buildings connected with my work place was designed by the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, but it made sense once I learned that. Wright's "bring the outside in" designs that made him famous was so obvious I dont know why I didn't think of it sooner,what with the fish pond and water fall that is the focal point of the building's lobby.

My first visit, we just wandered the grounds enjoying the desert beauty that was so close to the heart of designer who lived here 6

months of the year during the latter part of his life. The house and design studio

seem to organically rise out of the desert floor like a ship that has run aground.

I took the 90 minute tour last week and was completely fascinated by the life of this man who was clearly a genius, but one of a somewhat dubious personal philosophy and practice. The tour guide was knowledgable and personable, one who wore no rose-colored glasses when it came to the personality he presented to us. I appreciated and enjoyed the tour immensely, enough to know I'm going to need to come back and explore further.

Meanwhile, I'm reading T.C. Boyle's The Women which chronicle's Wright's life from the perspective of the women in his life (4 wives and a couple of mistresses). The writing in this book is particularly beautiful making it a joy to read for that reason alone. The stories of these women are also compelling...and sad in the long run. Wright was charismatic enough to attract these (and others) women, but didn't seem to know how to take care of a relationship for any length of time. But the writing...it's as beautiful as F. Scott Fitzgerald or Alan Paton or Willa Cather. Just. Plain. Amazing.

A Prayer in Spring

Robert Frost (1915)

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,

The which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

Photos taken two weeks ago in the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, AZ

Classroom Graffiti

There's a strange phenomenon occurring in my classroom. Kids are writing on the desks. Now this fact isn't the strange part. Kids write on desks all the time. But they usually don't write the kind of thing I found on several desks last week. I was so surprised, I left it there for a few days! See if you don't find this graffiti as interesting as I did:

A Psalm of Life

It's Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's birthday today. Perhaps best known for his story-poems about American history, Longfellow was once a household name, known as one of the Fireside Poets (people used to read his poems by the fireside) as well as one of the Schoolroom Poets (his picture was hung in every schoolroom and school children memorized his poetry). Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, and John Greenleaf Whittier fall into those categories as well. I think I first read this poem in one of the Little House books when Carrie recited it for one of the famous School Exhibitions. I especially love the message of the last verse and have my American Lit. students memorize it each year.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Twittering about Twitterers (the bird kind)

4:15 p.m. I'm sitting out on my patio trying to be as still as possible, hoping the birds will think I'm just a bumpy part of the wall and come back so I can get better closeups of them. I've been taking pictures from the inside, through the sliding glass door, which is fine, but I want better, closer pictures. But do you think they will cooperate? Of course not! Why would they do that?! I am looking straight at a male broad-tailed hummingbird who is looking at me...from the tip top of a tree...at a safe distance. I can see and hear other birds who are even closer, all of whom are pointedly ignoring the inviting enclosure that is my patio. From experience, I know that they will swarm the deck, so to speak, the minute I give up and go to the other side of the glass. But I'm determined to wait them out. I have nowhere else to go right now. And nothing better to do.

4:20 p.m. The hummingbird has been resting in that tree for quite awhile. Long enough for two others to join him. Oops. Now he's moved to a closer tree. Now a closer branch. Now back tothe top of the second tree. Wonder what he's thinking? He looks right, then left. Then straight ahead as if checking to see if I'm moving. Nope. Not going anywhere.

4:25 p.m. My cats are moving from door to glass window, wanting their piece of the sunshine. It'd be all over if they were to come outside, so of course I ignore their pleadings.

4:30 p.m. Now he's back to the farther taller tree, this time with his back to me. Now he's looking over his shoulder...and I can see the red puffing out under his chin. Now he's turned around and is facing my direction again. Looking right, then left, now giving me his profile. Will he? Won't he? Which way is he going to turn next? Whose patio is he going to grace with his presence?

4:35 p.m. A couple walks by and spots him in the treetop. He flashes his red at them and then takes off...out of sight. Maybe for the feeder he's been eyeing in that direction. Well, he'll be back. Yup. There he is! Wow! That was quick!

4:40 p.m. Meanwhile, the other birds are still snoozing, almost motionless, in the trees. Oops! He's off again. This time back to the other tree to visit with two friends. They wake up long enough to give him a glance but then ignore him again. He sits, waits. Waits for what?

4:45 p.m. Dogs bark in the distance, birds continue to chatter nearby. The wind gently ruffles the leaves of my oleander and shakes the limb that wholes the nectar that is waiting for this little fellow.

4:50 p.m. Last week, when I did not have my feeder out yet, he kept buzzing my ear and hanging right in my face as if to say WHERE is my food? So I went and got the feeder I'd put away until cooler weather came (to discourage the bees). Barely had I brought it out than he was buzzing my head, eager for the food.

4:55 p.m. Hmm. Now I'm wondering if there aren't two. The one I've been watching just dove down and buzzed right through my patio...to my neighbor's feeder. No sooner had left, when there was another back in the tree. Now that one just flew through my patio to the neighbor...and flew right back to the tree! Maybe there's only one. I really can't tell. But I didn't see it fly back that first time. It was just in the tree again. Wonder why he keeps passing my feeder by for hers? Perhaps I should freshen the nectar.

5:00 p.m. In any event...I could watch this play out all day...but that would also mean that the birds stay away all day...Oh! Here's a chatty house finch and an inca dove. Maybe more will start to come back...

5:10 p.m. 10 minutes later (after shooting (with my camera) dozens of finches)...yes, there ARE two! I just saw them fly by together. Cool!

5:20 p.m. And now there is new nectar and a different feeder out, this time one with yellow on it to attract his attention. We'll see now what happens. Yes, there he is back up in the tree, surveying the lay of the land...come on little guy! Come on!

Too Short - Too Long - Long Enough

I had the day off from school. Unusual in a boarding school setting. I was grateful for the day, but I am also grateful for the reason for the day. This holiday doesn't just celebrate the life of a powerful Civil Rights activists, it reminds us the importance of treating every human being with dignity and respect, and of supporting and protecting their rights as carefully and passionately as I do my own. Here's a poem about Martin Luther King, Jr. that I like to share with my students either the Friday before or the Tuesday after we have this day off:

Thirty-Nine Years - Too Short - Too Long - Long Enough
By Willa Perrier
from: A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul
(c) 1995 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen

From 1929 to 1968 is only 39 short years.
Too short to gather the fruits of your labor
Too short to comfort your parents when your brother drowns
Too short to comfort your father when mother dies
Too short to see your children finish school
Too short to ever enjoy grandchildren
Too short to know retirement

Thirty-nine years is just too short.

From 1929 to 1968 is only 39 short years, yet it's
Too long to be crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination, it's
Too long to stand in the quicksand of racial injustices, it's
Too long to receive threatening phone calls, often at the rate of forty per day, it's
Too long to live under the sweltering heat of continuous pressure, it's Too long, 39 years is just too long.

From 1929 to 1968 is only 39 short years, yet it's
Long enough.
It's long enough to journey all the way to India to learn under a great teacher how to walk through angry crowds and keep cool.
It's long enough to be chased by police dogs and lashed by the rushing waters from the fireman's hoses because you are dramatizing the fact that justice has a way of eluding me and my brother.
It's long enough to spend many days in jail while protesting the plight of others.
It's long enough to have a bomb thrown into your home.
It's long enough to teach angry violent men to be still while you pray for the bombers.
It's long enough.
It's long enough to lead many men to Christianity.
It's long enough to know it's better to go to war for justice than to live in peace with injustices.
It's long enough to know that more appalling than bigotry
and hatred are those who sit still
and watch injustices each day in silence.
It's long enough to realize that injustices are undiscriminating
and people of all races and creeds experience
its cruel captivity sooner or later.
It's long enough.
It's long enough to know that when one uses civil disobedience
for his civil rights, he does not break the laws of the
Constitution of the United States of America - rather he seeks
to uphold the principles all men are created equal; he seeks
to break down local ordinances that have already broken the
laws of the Constitution of the United States.
It's long enough.
It's long enough to accept invitations to speak to the nation's leaders.

It's long enough to address thousands of people on hundreds of different occasions.
It's long enough to lead 200,000 people to the nation's capital
to dramatize that all of America's people are heirs to the
property of rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
It's long enough to enter college at 15.
It's long enough to finish and earn several degrees.
It's long enough to earn hundreds of awards.
It's long enough to marry and father four children.
It's long enough to become a drum major for peace.
It's long enough to earn a Nobel Peace Prize.
It's long enough to give the $54,000 prize money to the cause of justice.
It's long enough to visit the mountain top.
It's certainly long enough to have a dream.

When we note how much Martin Luther King packed into 39 short years, we know it's long enough for any man who loves his country
and his fellow man so much that life itself has no value -
unless all men can sit at the table of brotherhood as brothers.
Thirty-nine years is long enough - for any man to knowingly
flirt with death each day of his life - because to spare himself
heartaches and sorrow meant two steps backward for his brother
tomorrow.

Martin lived for several centuries, all rolled into 39 short
years. His memory will live forever. How wonderful it would be
if we could all live as well.

Martin, like all others, would have welcomed longevity - yet
when he weighed the facts, he said, "It's not how long a man
lives, but how well he uses the time allotted him."

And so we salute and honor the memory of a man who lived in
the confusion of injustice for all his too short, too long,
long enough 39 years- "For He's Free At Last."

Fanfare for a Fragile Life

Tonight's Tucson Memorial Service began with Aaron Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man." A lovely and powerful way to begin a time of reflection, celebration, and encouragement. Written to commemorate America's entrance into World War II, the Fanfare was also Copland's tribute to all who contributed to victory, especially those not in the spotlight.

I was reminded of the role of the "common" person several times tonight throughout the speeches and readings. In between the tears and admiration came the realization, or maybe I should say reminder, that life is fragile. These were common, ordinary folks thrust into an extraordinary situation not of their making or choosing who did not shrink from the service of their country or neighbor.

I was inspired. And humbled. It could have been me. It could have been any of us on any given Sunday.

The Greatest Hazard

“To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.”

One of my freshmen students posted this as his Facebook status this evening. Seemed more profound than what I normally get from him so I Googled it. "Author Unknown." Still, I credit him for realizing something of depth and sharing it with his friends. He got quite a discussion going from it.

Speaking of freshmen. I'm so glad they grow up! Some days that's all that gets me through a class with them. I love them dearly. But they do challenge me...sometimes...

Preface

We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day. ~Edith Lovejoy Pierce

If, in fact, New Year's Day is chapter one, then tonight is the preface. The space where we gather up our thoughts about what is to come, an opportunity to serve notice regarding my head about the year to come. #1, do not procrastinate. About anything.

Since June I've been working on an integrated teaching unit about New England's Women Writers. It's supposed to be a minimum of 60 pages with no fewer than 8 technology components integrated throughout. It's due today. And I'm not quite done, much to my chagrine. I started off with grandiose plans. I was originally going to have mini units for 15 authors, and had made good progress by mid-July when all of a sudden everything about my life changed and I've not done anything since then until this week. Sigh.

I've been in Maine for the past week. Before that, I was in Massachusetts for a week. It's been so good to be here with family! And even with the blizzard on Sunday-into-Monday, I've enjoyed every minute. Tomorrow I go back, back to the Valley of the Sun, back to work, back to the solitary life for another 5 months (solitary meaning without family, not friends). I go back, though, with renewed determination to do all the things I should be doing on a daily basis rather than sporadically. I know I can do it because I am claiming the assurance that "I can do all things through Christ."

A Christmas Carol

by G. K. Chesterton

The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all alright.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world's desire.)

The Christ-child stood on Mary's knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
And all the stars looked down.

A Christmas Hymn

A stable lamp is lighted

Whose glow shall wake the sky;
The stars shall bend their voices,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
And straw like gold shall shine;
A barn shall harbor heaven,
A stall become a shrine.

This child through David’s city
Shall ride in triumph by;
The palm shall strew its branches,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
Though heavy, dull, and dumb,
And lie within the roadway
To pave His kingdom come.

Yet He shall be forsaken,
And yielded up to die;
The sky shall groan and darken,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry
For stony hearts of men:
God’s blood upon the spearhead,
God’s love refused again.

But now, as at the ending,
The low is lifted high;
The stars shall bend their voices,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry
In praises of the child
By whose descent among us
The worlds are reconciled.

-- Richard Wilbur

Between Darkness and Light

This is the perfect Winter Solstice poem!

From The Winter Solstice
by John Matthews

It is within the darkness and the silence
That the magic of Christmas starts;
Somewhere between the glimmer of lights
And the first breathless moment
When children come
Stumbling like new-born angels
Into morning light.

Within the darkness and the silence
We sit, watching wonder
Evolve into form; where we
Enter the ringing silence
In which the first bells of Christmas
Sound the music of the soul;
Where the morning joy begins
With a single carol
To a half-forgotten tune.

It is here, between the darkness
And the light,
That we wait, uncertain,
Seeking the moment
That challenges us to believe
In a freshly minted miracle
Born every Christmas Day.

Western Town

You know you are in a western town (as opposed to a New England town) when cowboy boots beat out Bean boots. Friday, I decided to explore Old Town Scottsdale while hunting down some Arizona-ish stocking treats.

This was the first touristy thing I've done since I moved to AZ 5 months ago. Having started work the day after I arrived in August, I've not had the time to look around me until Friday. And even then, I didn't have much time to give it. Still, it was enough to enjoy. And I found the stocking treats I'd hoped for. Not a bad couple of hours!

There were many art galleries and jewelry shops with beautiful offerings I could not afford. There were quite a number of sculptures of horses, cowboys, and indians and a couple of real horses as well.

Venders were friendly, and even helpful. One lady gave me a great stocking stuffer idea (which I can't share at the moment since I followed up on it).

I wanted to get some native pottery, but didn't find anything I liked (that I could afford). I didn't get to all the shops, though, so maybe I'll find something when I go back (and I will).

What Sweeter Music Can We Bring

For journal writing this week, I've had my students writing about and around Christmas. One day I asked them to write about their favorite Christmas carol. Today, I played some Christmas music (Chris Botti's Christmas album) and asked them to write where the music took them. At school, I don't play music with words because I want the students to use their own words and not be influenced by those of others. But at home, and in the car, it's a different story. Nothing says Christmas to me like Christmas music. And nothing says Christmas music to me like John Rutter's Christmas carols (unless it's the Carpenters Christmas albums...).

One of my favorite John Rutter carols is actually a setting of a poem by 17th century English pastor and poet Robert Herrick. His "What Sweeter Music" describes exactly the power and purpose of music to express our love and gratitude for the gift of the Christ child. (I wrote about this carol a couple of years ago, too, and you can go here to read more about the poem and hear a nice setting of it.)


A Christmas Carol, Sung to the King in the Presence at White-Hall

Chorus:
What sweeter music can we bring,
Than a Carol, for to sing
The Birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the Voice! Awake the String!
Heart, Ear, and Eye, and every thing
Awake! the while the active Finger
Runs division with the Singer.

From the Flourish they came to the Song.

Voice 1:
Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
And give the honor to this Day,
That sees December turn'd to May.

Voice 2:
If we may ask the reason, say:
The why, and wherefore all things here
Seem like the Spring-time fo the year?

Voice 3:
Why does the chilling Winter's morn
Smile, like a field beset with corn?
Or smell, like to a mead new-shorn,
Thus, on the sudden?

Voice 4:
Come and see
The cause, why things thus fragrant be:
'Tis He is born, whose quick'ning Birth
Gives life and luster, public mirth,
To Heaven and the under-Earth.

Chorus:
We see Him come, and know Him ours,
Who, with His Sun-shine, and His Showers,
Turns all the patient ground to flowers.

Voice 1:
The Darling of the World is come,
And fit it is, we find a room
To welcome Him.

Voice 2:
The nobler part
Of all the house here, is the Heart,

Chorus:
Which we will give Him; and bequeath
This Holly and this Ivy Wreath,
To do Him honor; who's our King,
And Lord of all this Revelling.

Robert Herrick (1596-1674)

#29

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments." If I've heard it once, I've heard it 60 times. Minimum. "My Mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun." "Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.""I think my love as rare" "I scorn to change my state with kings."

I've been hearing kids say quotes all week long. We are in the midst of the Renaissance period in British Lit and I had my 60 students memorize 6 fairly substantial quotes from some of the best poems of the period...including their choice of four Shakespeare sonnets. Alas, none of them chose my personal favorite, Sonnet #29. Most chose the famous Sonnet #116 or the infamous Sonnet #130. Many of the boys claimed they could not, absolutely could not memorize a sonnet. "It's too hard," they'd say. Their mean old teacher was merciless and heartless. As a result, the majority of them can now claim they know a Shakespeare Sonnet by heart. And I know three.

OK so they are right. It is hard. But oh so satisfying =)

When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

"Chick"

I'm on my lunch break. Normally, I don't take one, as I have so much to do, so much "Ed-line" to keep up with (our school's on-line grade book program). The only time I take "off" for lunch is when I have meetings. Such was the case today. A student senate meeting led by a mature and responsible young lady whose grandfather is an icon in the world of religious/ inspirational art. But that's a story for another day. I only mention it because I came back from the meeting and decided to take the rest of the lunch period for "me" before I went back to grading, recording, posting, and, finally, teaching.

So I'm on my lunch break and I think maybe I'll try to write what's been on my mind since before the break: Robert Bolt's "A Man for all Seasons," the movie I'm showing to my AP 11th

grade English Lit. class. I told them yesterday that this was possibly my all-time favorite movie. Then I thought of all the other movies I love (including one I shared two weeks ago with the sophomores--The Mission) and I amended it to be "one of" my favorites. Regardless of where it ranks on my list (at least in the top 5), it is a favorite. Amazing. Powerful. Inspiring. Memorable. Challenging (as in challenging me to do and be better). And funny.

Yes, funny. You wouldn't expect funny when talking about a 15th-century setting with religious and political...and philosophical...themes criss-crossing through it like a maze. But there are definitely funny spots in it... like Sir Thomas calling his wife Alice "Chick." The first time I heard that, I thought I had miss-heard it. I thought "chick" was more of a "modern" term of endearment. Not one issuing forth from erudite Renaissance mouths!!! But there it was again today, plain as day (and the close-captioning words on the screen). It made me laugh all over again, right along with my students.

What they will discover, however, as we progress through the movie, is that one's conscience, and the keeping of it, is no laughing matter. It is, quite clearly (at least here), a matter of life and death. I asked the students if there was any belief they were willing to give their life for. Most of them "hoped" they'd die for their family or religion. But several of them were unsure. It's a scary thing to deliberately choose death over life for the sake of principle. Maybe they're a little young to be dwelling on such things. I'd like to think that I at least gave them something to think about. Because there will come . . . a day . . .

Stacks

I've been enjoying a new blog, Good Light Comfortable Chair. I especially enjoyed yesterday's entry, "The Stacks in My Study" about magazines and torn-out magazine articles.

I, too, have had stacks. Stacks of books, stacks of magazines, stacks of articles I've torn out for reading and filing. Yes, filing. I have had great plans to be organized. Someday. Meanwhile, I moved this summer and had to seriously consider what to do about all my stacks. Family members who were helping me move of course thought I should just throw things away. Why would I move stacks of magazines and articles I've not read in years? Just throw them out! Start all over in a stack-free house!!! (Notice they did not say that about the books).

Well, I ended up moving some of the magazines, but all of the torn-out articles. Four months later, they are still in stacks in my new study. Waiting for a rainy day to come along so I can go through them, sort them, and file them for future reading/use. Maybe. Consider, though, that I now live in Phoenix where it rarely rains...

Thankful

For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food, for love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I went south for Thanksgiving for the first time in my life. Normally this day would find me with 2-3 dozen family members and friends somewhere in Massachusetts, but this summer--within the space of 2-3 weeks--our family somewhat combusted (not in a bad way) and moved to the far corners of the country: I moved to Phoenix for a new teaching job; a niece moved to Loma Linda, CA for medical school; my youngest sister and her husband moved to Charlotte, NC for a new teaching/principal job for him; and a nephew moved to Collegedale, TN for college.

This was a shock for a family that has been within 2 hours of each other for the past 18 years or more and has managed to spend every holiday and every birthday together during that time. While I've been lucky to see everyone at least once between September and this week, we won't be all together until Christmas now. Still, the seven (out of 11 core members) of us have enjoyed this Thanksgiving break together in Charlotte.

I do have much to be thankful for, in spite of the distance that has come so suddenly upon us. And it has been good to contemplate it all over the days.