Oy! Books!

My one goal this year with my blog was to use it as a repository for not only a listing of the books I've read in 2012, but also my impressions thereof.  And I have, of course, fallen short.  So, I've read plenty of good books that I have not yet noted, but shall try to remember to note today -- with the briefest of accompanying descriptions:

We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver: This ultimately gut-wrenching novel is told in the voice of a mother whose son, Kevin, committed a school massacre.  The form is in a series of letters to her estranged husband who had always been their disturbed son's greatest champion.  The mother had never really wanted to be a mother, nor had she really bonded with her boy in the years leading up to the killing.  It is an interesting study of nature vs. nurture, as the mother struggles throughout to come to terms with her offspring's descent into evil -- was he born that way?  was it her fault?  Personally, I think when you give a kid a name like "Kevin," you're just asking for trouble down the road.  Ms. Shriver is a writer I always enjoy at a certain level, mainly because she takes her time to really establish characters, and she is unafraid to be politically incorrect in pursuit of literary truth.  Oh, but that unflinching voice can get dark, though.  She is also one of those writers with whom I would love to have a cuppa someday, as in her interviews, she always comes across as a hoot and a half.

Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander: I finished Hope right before going off on a Women's Retreat with ladies from my church.  Everything about Christianity is born from our great hope; so, being thrust from my reading cocoon into a time and place set aside for worship and prayer about hope helped focus my reflections upon the novel I had just read.  It is a secular Jewish novel, through and through.  This means that it is alternately uproariously and outrageously funny and hair-pullingly frustrating.  Which, I am certain, is just what Mr. Auslander intended.   

Shakespeare's English Kings by Peter Saccio:  Prof. Saccio is one of those (occasionally) bearded academics on whom I have a bit of a crush. If you have never seen his Teaching Company lectures on the Bard, I encourage you to seek them out.  His ebullience for the shaker of spears and stirrer of souls comes through in this history book; however, it really is what it purports to be: a chronicle for the historically confused of the English Kings about whom Shakespeare wrote magnificent plays.  I had been hoping for more Bill and less Henrys and Richards, but that was my own foolishness.  Still, a good and engaging read that helps indeed to place those unwieldy monarchs in order for the bewildered American.

Inventing English by Seth Lerer: Another Teaching Company crush!  What woman could resist a man who speaks Old English with ease and enthusiasm?  A stronger willed woman than I!  This book is the next step up for those who have read Bill Bryson's The Mother Tongue, and are looking for a still accessible, but more scholarly, review of the English language's roots and growth and metamorphoses.  Prof. Lerer is a philologist par excellence, who definitely puts the emphasis on the philo.  A very nice read -- though it's still hard to wrap my mind and tongue around the Great Vowel Shift.

The Power of Art by Simon Schama: This sort of book is irresistible to me.  I am definitely one of those philistines who knows so little about visual art, but remains fascinated and appreciative and always in search of more information.  So, I seek out books that are written, not by dry academics, but by enthusiasts -- whether professional or amateur.  Simon Schama's book fits the bill.  He takes several different important and revolutionary artists and gives thoroughly delightful biographical sketches and career histories for each.  It seems to me the pitch-perfect mixture of the personal (and how can you discuss a form of art so visceral as painting or sculpture without bringing in the personal?) and the professional.  Especially touching to me was the chapter on Van Gogh.  He has never been one of my favorite artists (hey!  where was Manet, Mr. Schama?); but, I certainly learned to appreciate his work a little more after learning more about him.

The Abolition of Britain by Peter Hitchens and The Fortunes of Permanence by Roger Kimball: I guess I'll always classify these two books together in my mind, because I read them simultaneously.  There is a certain sense of masochistic pleasure that conservative curmudgeons like me take in books of this sort.  They confirm what we know to be true: that everything is going to hell.  And there is more than a bit of catharsis in reading about that perdition-directed descent from such erudite and witty sources as Mr. Hitchens and Mr. Kimball.  Add to that the facts that Mr. Kimball is one sexy, sexy beast of a man and Mr. Hitchens is British, and you've got a perfect concoction of awesome to delight and depress.  I found this interesting: a quote used in both books from George Santayana, writing of England in the early 20th century: "Never since the heroic days of Greece has the world had such a sweet, just, boyish master.  It will be a black day for the human race when scientific blackguards, conspirators, churls, and fanatics manage to supplant him."  Michael Medved may say and prove that "America is the Greatest Nation on God's Green Earth," but I'll confess here and now that t'would have been far better to lose America than to have lost Britain. 

 Hmmm . . . I am sure I am missing some books.  Oh yes! I did read Robert O'Brien's The Silver Crown before assigning it to Sadie as her first book report book of Fourth Grade.  Not a very good book, I'm afraid.  The plot is sloppy, the characters are under-developed, the pacing is off-putting, the ending is unsatisfying.  I still made Sadie read it, because she needs to understand bad books, as well as good ones.  She, of course, missed all of its faults -- but that's what teachers are for! 

Now I'm reading through Simon Schama's History of Britain trilogy -- based upon his mini-series of the same name.  And I have a new book from the library: a one-volume (!) history of the Roman Empire -- Rome: An Empire's Story by Greg Woolf.  Should clip along at a good pace.  Re-checked out some Ibsen and Moliere collections -- to see if I could coax myself off of old favorites and try some different ones of their plays.  And I also borrowed Robert Fitzgerald's translation of The Iliad.  Did I get a good one?  Not sure.  There are so many translations -- every single one seems to have its detractors and fans.  I've read good things about Fagles and Lattimore; and, in September's New Criterion, John Talbot writes glowingly of Anthony Verity's brand new translation.  Of course, they did not have that one in the library yesterday.  Maybe, if I'm left unsatisfied by Fitzgerald, I'll seek out the Verity translation in a bit.  Any thoughts, blog passers-by?   

What I Did Not Know

Yesterday, I did not know that a salad covered in dressing and left in the refrigerator for a half an hour will come out with the lettuce leaves wilted; I did not know I was out of bread yeast; I did not know that the longest river in Great Britain is the Severn.

A week ago, I did not know that the deer had returned to our neighborhood; I did not know that our neighbors had a new dog; I did not know that I could be moved to tears by an unexpected phrase in Old English (wordum wrixlan).

A fortnight ago, I did not know that there is a lake up in the Snoqualmie range that reflects God’s glory disguised as trees and rocks and bright, blue sky;  I did not know that I could laugh so hard in water so cold;  I did not know that I could guide three friends around Seattle using only a map and gut instinct and never once get lost.

A month ago, I did not know that my daughter could do a Latin grammar crossword in half and hour; I did not know that adding lemon zest to blueberry muffins zings them to another level; I did not know how irritating I would come to find King Solomon during family Bible study.

Three months ago, I did not know that I could ever run more than two miles at a time;  I did not know that one cup of coffee is OK before a run, but never two; I did not know that the etymological root of parable was Greek (para+bole= to throw alongside), not Latin (parare=to prepare), as I had thought (thank you, Mrs. Arends).

Six months ago, I did not know how I was ever going to survive homeschooling my daughter; I did not know how I was ever going to survive teaching a Sunday School class full of rambunctious boys; I did not know that my favorite king from Chronicles would be Hezekiah.

A year ago, I did not know how much I would love learning Latin; I did not know that I was going to lose my job; I did not know how many times my heart would break over the next year.

Five years ago, I did not know about George MacDonald; I did not know that my dad had had a mild stroke he was hiding from me; I did not know this beautiful thought: “In a nutshell, the Bible, from Genesis 3 to Revelation 22, tells the story of a God reckless with desire to get His family back" (thank you, Mr. Yancey).  

Ten years ago, I did not know how much I would love being a mother;  I did not know half of my wonderful  friends; I did not know that I would find a true calling in teaching Sunday School.

Eleven years ago, I did not know that airplanes could be used as weapons to murder thousands.  I do not think many of us did.

Fourteen years ago, I did not know what it was like to lose someone very close to you.

Seventeen years ago, I did not know my Savior.

Today, I do not know what joy or sorrow lies in wait for tomorrow; today, I do not know when that thief in the night may come; I do not know if, tomorrow, I’ll awake to find the sun still ruling over the day, or live to see the moon rule again over the night; I do not know much about things political, metaphysical, psychological, or pedagogical.  And, though I dig in with my fingers and strain with my arms to get a hold of the future, it eludes me.  This great Not Knowing would be almost too great, I think, but for the one thing I know for certain: what I learned seventeen years ago.  Jesus Christ is who He said He is, and He is going to do everything He said He is going to do. 

Wordum wrixlan drew tears from my eyes the other day when I came across the phrase, because it means an “exchange of words” in Old English.  So much of how we experience God is based upon an exchange of words.  We offer up our words of prayer and psalms and hymns with praise and wonder and weeping; He offers us His inspired recorded word and His ever-unfolding revelatory Word made flesh.  The phrase also carries with it a sense of word-weaving, and it was used by the Anglo-Saxons to describe the power of poetry.  When I am peevish or petulant or angry or terrified by the Not Knowing, I can turn to His mysterious wordum wrixlan to bring me back to what I do know.

Today, I know that He who began a good work in me will be faithful to complete it (hallelujah!); today, I know that He knit me together in my mother’s womb to be fearfully and wonderfully made as one of His marvelous works; today, I know that when I weep, it will never be as one without hope; today, I know that I am part of the flock who ought not to fear, for it is our Father’s good pleasure that we should inherit the kingdom; today, I know that only in Him is life and that His life is my light and the light of all men, and the darkness will never comprehend Him; today, I know that He can do everything, and that no purpose of His can ever be withheld from Him; and, even when I falter and fail today, I know that so long as He lends me breath I can rise again to be steadfast and immovable in His work, reassured that, not only are His mercies new every morning, but that, in Him, my labor shall never be in vain.

On September 13, I will have known my Savior for seventeen years.  I have learned a few things since then – much of it of the trivial gets-burned-up-on-Judgment-Day sort, alas; but, there have been lessons of gold and silver and precious stones mercifully scattered as well – but, nothing I’ve learned would bolster and bear me up to meet the Not Knowing of life had His love not stormed the towers of my heart those many years ago. And it is enough.  It is enough to know that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come,  nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.  Yes, indeed, it is enough.

Just Because I'm Not on Facebook or Twitter . . .

. . . I have to share -- when I absolutely need to share -- the mundane and, perhaps, inane facts of my life on my blog.  And, I absolutely need to share the fact that, since May 2012, I have lost 24 lbs.!  Huzzah!

Here's the great tool I've used (other than sweating profusely and no pie): Map My Run.  Not only can I map and log those long hours of running, they have a nutrition tool that has really kept me on track with my eating.  The good news: I've lost the weight!  The bad news: Every time I log my new lower weight, my available consumable calories goes down.  Boo-hoo.  Now I only get 2089 a day (but, they will credit you for calories burned during a workout).

I'm so ready for my two 10K's coming up in September!  The latter one (Barrington Honor Ride and Run, September 22) I am especially excited about, as it raises money for a great cause: helping wounded warriors' physical rehabilitation through bicycling!  How cool is that?  I cannot get my bike to Barrington, IL where the ride/run is being held for the 27-mile ride; so, I'm running the 10K instead.  If you are at all interested to learn more about this event and charity, please visit my fundraising page: http://www.active.com/donate/BarringtonHonorRide/JOlawsk1

Now, I am pretty convinced that I'm going to run half of the Seattle Marathon with my dear friend, Anita, in November.  Mostly because I covet this shirt:





Aaw yeah!

 

How I Spend My Sunday Mornings

Back To The Bible @ CCS | 8.5.12 from Calvary Chapel South on Vimeo.

Perfectly Delicious Blueberry Muffins

I don't think that the good folks at America's Test Kitchen will mind my sharing this muffin recipe from their excellent general cookbook, The America's Test Kitchen Family Cookbook.  I have never made anything that was other than delicious when using this book.  It is my go-to resource (along with www.allrecipes.com) for baking and cooking.

First, though, if at all possible, collect 1 1/2 - 2 cups of sun-kissed, perfectly ripe blueberries off of your own blueberry bushes at the beginning of July.  Mine are producing prodigiously again this year.  Blueberry bushes just seem to do well up here in the PNW -- in a way, alas, that I fear tomatoes never shall.  I planted 8 more blueberry plants in the backyard.  Not next summer, but maybe summer of 2014, I shall have more blueberries than I'll know how to handle.  But, making these muffins will be a good and rewarding start.  Here goes:

Big Beautiful Lemon-Blueberry Muffins
Makes 12 muffins
Prep time: 5 minutes (yeah, if you're awesome -- it takes me longer)
Total time: 50 minutes (see note above)

3 cups all-purpose flour (I use King Arthur Flour, because it is the best out there)
1 cup sugar
1 T. baking powder
1/2 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 1/2 cups plain, lowfat yogurt (I use vanilla flavor)
2 large eggs
Zest from two lemons
8 T. unsalted butter -- melted then cooled
1 1/2 - 2 cups of fresh blueberries, tossed in 1 T. flour

Combine dry ingredients (flour, powder, soda, salt, sugar) in a large bowl.  Beat together the two eggs with the yogurt.  Add the lemon zest to this wet mixture -- I add a little of the fresh lemon juice, too.  Fold it into the dry ingredients until just mixed (do not overmix).  Fold in the melted butter.  Lastly, fold in the blueberries.  This batter will be very solid and sticky -- not in any sense liquidy.  Scoop the batter evenly into coated muffin tins.  The batter will be sticking up over the muffin tin tops.  That is OK.  Bake at 375° for 25-30 minutes -- muffins will be golden brown and pleasingly uneven looking.  Let them cool in the pan for 5 minutes, then out of the pan for 10 minutes before serving to delighted and grateful muffin eaters.

For all my strawberries, I usually just serve those washed and sliced with the world's best and easiest fruit dip.  Take one jar of Kraft Marshmallow Creme (7 oz) and beat together with one 8 oz. package of softened Philadelphia Cream Cheese.  Trust me: this is where it is at for dipping strawberries. 

Don't you just love the fresh fruits of summer?  Especially if you happen to be blessed with the ability simply to pluck them from your own garden -- the literal fruits of your labor?

This and That (An Update for Friends and Family) (That's Right, Both of You)

I've been wanting to write a post on a hilarious and disturbing novel I read recently: Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander.  Unfortunately, I returned the book to the library before beginning the write-up, and now I'm not sure if I have all of my points correct.  So, I guess I'll have to re-check the book (or *gasp* buy it). 

I've also been running.  A lot.  A lot and a lot and a lot of running.  And here is something I have learned: do not drink two cups of coffee before you run 5 miles.  Just don't do it.  One cup may be fine; not two.  Wee, wee, wee -- all the way home, if you catch my drift.  Going to do my first 5K tomorrow.  Then, two 10K's in September.  And maybe, just maybe, the Seattle Half Marathon in November.  What do you think?  Am I nuts?

Spent some quality time with my hoe and a stubborn patch of long, prairie grass yesterday.  A good outlet for my inner rage.  Betcha didn't know I had inner rage, did ya?  Yeah, I didn't know it myself until I attacked that grass yesterday.  And, I've got the popped blister on my left thumb as evidence -- and a smooth-ish expanse of dirt, as well.  The ducks just swam about in their pool watching me, being happy duckies, and thinking it strange that anyone would sweat and strain so much when there is sunshine and water to enjoy.

Still homeschooling the Bug.  Found an interesting Elementary Koine Greek curriculum so that we can take the letters we've been learning to the next level.  When time travel finally gets perfected, we'll be able to blend in with the New Testament locals (at least the educated ones), as Koine Greek was the lingua franca of the era -- or so the textbook tells me.  Continuing with Latin, of course.  We have three science curricula for 4th Grade: one Christian-based, one critical thinking-based; one physical science with hands-on experiments-based.  My little girl is a science wiz -- just so long as she doesn't have to do too much math!  Doing a composition course from Memoria Press -- Classical Composition by James A. Selby.  Literature will be one assigned book a month with a book report due at the end.  American, World and Washington State history.  German.  5th Grade math.  P.E. and music.  Plus, poetry memorization, Bible study and Bible verse memorization.  And Geography with Dad.  Sounds like a full year, huh?  We "do school" over the course of 12 months, so it will be more staggered than it appears. 

I am also in the midst of two very similar books -- at least similar in theme and scope, though very different in structure and style.  The first is The Abolition of Britain by Peter Hitchens.  The second is The Fortunes of Permanence by that sexy, sexy beast, Roger Kimball. Rrrarrrr.  Both books inform me that everything's gone to pot on both sides of the pond.  I already knew this, but it is rather fun to revel in the utter swirling-pits-of-hell-ishness of it all.  Both men are superb writers -- Mr. Hitchens is a Brit, so, of course, you already know they're the bomb-diggetty of the writing world; Mr. Kimball is American, but he writes like a Brit (meaning: well) and is absolutely super-hottihot to boot. Rrrarrr. 

They say -- and this is an unconfirmed rumor -- that there will be sunshine for the next five days at least!  Can summer have finally come to the PNW?  Instead of making hay while the sun shines, I'll be going to the water park.  Toodle-oo!

Sarah Smith and the Something More

Ah, Mother’s Day.  It came around again.  Of course, Provie was drawn out of the mothballs in the attic and given a good shake and presented to us in her annual splendor.  For Christian women, she comes hand-in-hand with Mother’s Day.  There is no escaping her.

I will confess here and now that I am none too fond of the Virtuous Wife from Proverbs 31, whom I have nicknamed Provie. Oh, I know her worth is far above rubies.  I know that her own works will praise her in the gates.  In fact, I am willing to concede that some of the most beautiful things ever written about women in the Bible are written about her.   The words are sublime and inspiring: "She does him good and not evil all the days of her life." "Her children rise up and call her blessed." "She opens her mouth with wisdom, and on her tongue is the law of kindness."  There is much to admire, but something is missing.

My husband says I am far too hard on her; I don’t care.  “She just wants to take care of her family,” he says, “You know half a dozen women who are just like the Virtuous Wife.”  Then, he lists off my wonderful friends in support of his statement.  “Yes and no,” I reply.  I do indeed know myriad women who mirror some of the outward qualities of Provie, but they are so much more so than she. I mean, does anybody really like this Proverbs vision of the ideal woman? She's always getting up early and buying fields and spinning and filling up ships and getting food and displaying her merchandise. Sounds like a real bore to me.  And, yes, her husband will have no lack of gain.  And yes, she reaches out her hands to the needy.  I get it; she’s pretty darn amazing.  But again, something is missing.

This view of a wife comes to us from God, of course.  He inspired Solomon to put down the words.  We know, then, that He must want us to take note of the qualities of this Virtuous Wife.  This character sketch apparently also comes from that good, ol' scoundrel, King Solomon’s, mom. He called himself King Lemuel in 31:1, but he wasn’t fooling anybody.  I can only imagine that Bathsheba harangued him constantly to make better choices in his love life.  As she watched the parade of foreign beauties arriving in Jerusalem to share her son’s bed, she must have wished for him just one Hebrew wife who had in her possession the greatest attribute of all: fear of the Lord. Years later, I imagine, he wrote this proverb under divine inspiration to make it up to her; “Ma was right all along,” he must have sighed to himself, as he witnessed the deceitful charms and passing beauties of his pagan wives.  Thus, was ensconced for all times the wifely ideal.  Again though, I say,  something is missing.

I believe that the Christian ideal of womanhood must veer at least a bit from this Proverbs 31 portrayal, by necessity of this Age of Grace in Christ. Proverbs 31 is all about doing. Provie works and works and works and works.  It is good work, too.  Blessed work that fortifies and edifies her family.  She is at a distance, though.  We do not get to know her.  When will she draw near a moment and just be? Doesn’t it remind you of Martha, Lazarus’s sister?  I can imagine Provie’s being worried and troubled by many things.  But, I as a Christian woman want to choose the greater part.  I want to choose the one thing that is needed.  So, I offer up as my own role model Sarah Smith of Golders Green.

Do you know Sarah Smith?  She is the Great Lady from Chapter 12 of The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis's novel about heaven and hell.  The narrator boards a bus in hell that is bound for heaven.  On it are miserable souls kept in the bondage of their own making.  He then takes a tour of heaven with 19^th century Scottish author, George MacDonald, as his guide; he, along with the other souls under damnation, must make a choice: to die to themselves and find life anew in the realm of glory or to return to hell in the chains of self-satisfied sin.  In that plane, as in ours, too  many make the latter choice.  It is not Scripture, but it is Spirit-soaked.  My favorite part is when he first views the Great Lady (edited):

Then, on the left and right, at each side of the forest avenue, came youthful shapes, boys upon one hand, and girls upon the other. . . . Between them went musicians: and after these a lady in whose honour all this was being done. . . . Only partly do I remember the unbearable beauty of her face.

"Is it? ... is it?" I whispered to my guide.

"Not at all," said he. "It's someone ye'll never have heard of. Her name on earth was Sarah Smith and she lived at Golders Green."

"She seems to be ... well, a person of particular importance?"

"Aye. She is one of the great ones. Ye have heard that fame in this country and fame on Earth are two quite different things."

"And who are all these young men and women on each side?"

"They are her sons and daughters . . . Every young man or boy that met her became her son . . . Every girl that met her was her daughter."

"And how ... but hullo! What are all these animals? A cat-two cats-dozens of cats. And all those dogs . . . why, I can't count them. And the birds. And the horses."

"They are her beasts. . . . Every beast and bird that came near her had its place in her love. . . . And now the abundance of life she has in Christ from the Father flows over into them." I looked at my Teacher in amazement. "Yes," he said. "It is like when you throw a stone into a pool, and the concentric waves spread out further and further. Who knows where it will end? Redeemed humanity is still young, it has hardly come to its full strength.”

“But already there is joy enough in the little finger of a great saint such as yonder lady to waken all the dead things of the universe into life." (emphasis added)

Now that . . . that makes me weep with shameful knowledge of my own shortfalls and sins and doubts and denials. I cannot feel bad about not getting up early and filling up a bunch of ships; but, I can remember times when I have not shown the love of Christ to those upon whom I have come in my life, and feel real and true sorrow.  My husband says, “Of course you like this Sarah Smith, because you like gadding about with kids and animals and not doing any real work.”  As always, he knows me only too well.  There is nothing to suggest, though, that Sarah was less than industrious during her earthly time – but she was something more.  There was overflowing  joy in her; there was overarching love in her.  If Provie is Martha, then Sarah is Mary – both women, good and true; but one who just got it a little better.  There is only one thing I want from this life: to live it in a way that, when the shadows fade and we are out of the cave and into the sunlight, my eternal legacy will mirror just a hundredth of that of Sarah Smith of Golders Green.

After All, Early June Strawberries Are the Best

Or maybe I just think they are because it had been so long since I'd plucked a ripe strawberry from the vine and enjoyed its sweet juiciness then and there.  Despite our chilly spring here, some of my strawberries are already bright red-ly eatable; so, I ate them!  Blueberries will start coming ripe next.  And I've even plucked a few snap peas as well.  They said I was silly planting my garden in March . . . but, I'll get at least two harvests of some crops this summer!  Happy garden produce time to all gardeners out there in cyber-ville!

I Hate Anti-Stratfordians

I know, I know, hate is a strong word.  But, I do hate anti-Stratfordians, and here is why:

I just finished Bill Bryson's updated and expanded illustrated edition of his Shakespeare biography.  It is a nifty piece of work -- wry and inquisitive without falling into wild speculation; appreciative without being hagiographic; concise and yet very satisfying.  The last chapter raised my blood pressure a bit, though: Claimants.

Now, Mr. Bryson does a nice smack-down of the anti-Stratfordian poppycock peddlers.  He gives many different theories the once-over, finds each one severely and comically wanting, and dismisses each in turn.  Mr. Bryson asserts with authority and incredulity at there having ever been any question of it Shakespeare's authorship of the plays attributed to him.  And that is well and good.

But, I want revenge.  Yes!  Revenge!  It absolutely infuriates me that so-called scholars and other people who ought to know better continue down this perfidious path unpunished, besmirching not only the name and reputation of one man, but the entire ideas of the individual human spirit and creative genius.  William Shakespeare, the son of a glover (eew!  tradesman!), was a provincial know-nothing who only attended grammar school and then trod the boards for a living.  There is no way he could have written some of the most sublime artistic expressions of English language.  Ergo, he must not have written them.  Must have been an aristocrat . . . or two . . . or three!

That whole conjecture is repulsive to my American soul; but, it ought to repulse anyone who marvels at and is grateful for the great works of art that enrich our lives and expand our humanity.  To think that it is only a certain "type" of person who can scale the heights of Mount Horeb to brush his fingers against the face of God, is to know nothing about art or about history.  Tell me again of all the great poet kings.  David.  Yes, but according to the anti-Stratfordians, David could not have been king at all and written those glorious psalms because he was born an obscure shepherd boy in the wilderness of Judea.  Must have been Saul -- oops, he had backwater roots, too.  Um, Jonathan?  He was born royal, so it must have been him.  See how ridiculous that theory is?

Was William Shakespeare chosen by God in the same way as David or Abraham?  Or, was it sheer human gumption and a ton of hard, diligent work that brought him to the summit of his art?  Or both?  I guess your opinion on that depends upon your opinion of creative work.  I believe that all art wells up from the spring of our Creator God.  I believe that there is no such thing as a thoroughly secular piece of art, because all creative expression in man is a reflection -- whether conscious or not -- of how he views and honors his Creator -- either to His glory or to man's damnation.  I also believe in the 10,000 hour rule -- that excellence in anything comes at the price of, if not blood, then toil, sweat, and tears. 

Those not of a spiritual bent might disagree with part of my premise.  They would do well not to; but, that is up to them to decide.  What is not up to them to decide is on whom the spark of genius will fall. I believe it falls on far more than we will ever remember in posterity, but few are willing to make the sacrifices to realize their own genius.  William Shakespeare made those sacrifices.  Interestingly, his friends made their own sacrifices, too, after Shakespeare's death -- ensuring that the Bard's works were collected and published and kept alive.  Fall on your knees, you lovers of language, in gratitude for the people who saved Shakespeare for us, and the good God who covered it all with His blessing.

Anyway, to deny William Shakespeare credit for his achievements is the most base sort of robbery. 
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
I know that the villain Iago said that; that does not make it less true.  I also know that those rascally anti-Stratfordians have parlayed their lies into, if not riches, then renown.  But, they are trying to steal from the glover's son, the grammar-school boy, the actor, the playwright --  yes, and even from all in this world who yearn to reach that elusive summit, no matter how low our origins -- the only good name that should ever be attached to that very good body of work: William Shakespeare.

Also Read . . . or Reading . . .

Some other books I'm getting through are as follows: 
How to Keep Kosher: A Comprehensive Guide to Understanding Jewish Dietary Law by Lisë Stern is so not written for a shiksa, Christian, and Messianic Jewish dilettante like me.  But, it is a wonderful book!  I've been wondering lately if we who are Christians give up something beautiful when we ignore Jewish laws and traditions in our true freedom in Christ.  After all, our Savior walked this earth as an observant Jew.  So, I've been exploring things like keeping kosher and keeping the Sabbath.  This makes my husband very tense.  The man loves bacon.  I see it as just another way to worship and honor my awesome God -- to remember all the things He did before putting on flesh and dwelling with us.  Ms Stern's book is written with clarity, humor, understanding, and charity.  There are many ways to keep kosher -- many different levels of observance.  This book will help you achieve however strict or casual an observance to which you are called.

In the same spirit as the above book, I'm also reading Sen. Joe Lieberman's paean to remembering the Sabbath Day and keeping it holy, The Gift of Rest.  Why aren't Christians more particular about honoring God by observing this commandment?  I think it is because it is -- at least for me -- too easy to get caught up in the constant rush and excuse our lack of obedience through a misunderstood (or calculatedly misunderstood) freedom in Christ.  It's not about being legalistic and whited sepulchre-ish.  It's about opening up to even greater gifts through obedience. It is definitely worthwhile to me to study further the blessings of true, biblical rest.

And now for something completely different: I have found that one of my favorite writers, Bill Bryson, has released an updated and illustrated edition of his excellent biography of William Shakespeare!  Oh, happy day!  So, I'm indulging in that toothsome treat as late as I can keep my eyelids open at night.  Loving my two Bills!

Starting on some Angela Thirkell, as well.  Right now I have read the first couple chapters of The Demon in the House.  She is said to be of the same vein as Austen, Wodehouse, and Benson.  I'm having a hard time getting into this first volume, but I'll keep at it.  It took me a little while to get into E.F. Benson, as well, and that ended up reaping fruitful rewards.

Lastly, I'm trying to read one of the Unspoken Sermons by George MacDonald every couple nights.  They are so packed with beautiful, startling, revolutionary, revelatory, and awe-inspiring ideas -- I cannot digest more than one at a time.  I can barely digest the one.  This man was so anointed and Spirit-soaked; it just reminds me what a puny, measly, crummy little baby Christian I am.  But, you know, it reminds me in a good way -- how much "further up and further in" I have in store for me if I just stay faithful in my walk.  Yay!  I can see why C.S. Lewis chose George MacDonald as his spiritual guide in that marvelous book, The Great Divorce.  If Jack is anywhere done with the real George on the other side of the veil, I'm going to steal him away for a while myself.

Three By Christie

In my ongoing effort to make note of every book I read in 2012, I ought to write that I re-read three Agatha Christie novels last week.  I know: re-reading mysteries?  Doesn't that defeat the point?  But, Ms Christie wrote so many mysteries, so many of which I have read, and they are so skillful and so sly that I forget whodunnit after a few years.  So, I keep cycling though my mass markets, year-after-year.

There are actually only four of her mysteries whose denouements I can never forget: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Murder on the Orient Express, Murder on the Nile, and And Then There Were None.  If you've never read Agatha Christie, don't read Roger Ackroyd first (as I mistakenly did); but, do read it once you've met and fallen in love with Monsieur Poirot in other mysteries.  It is a humdinger.

The three I read last week were: Sparkling Cyanide, Why Didn't They Ask Evans?, and Murder is Easy.  Not much to note about them other than that Christie makes what must be such a difficult writing task look so darn easy.  And the crimes, even murder most foul, are so darn fun.  Dang Brits!  Why do Americans even try to write?

(That said: I know several American authors who write extraordinarily well.  You'd almost think they were British.  But, as a national whole, the Brits outclass us by sheer sparkling, spectacular volume of wit and skill with pen or quill.)

Review: Theology in Aisle Seven

Just submitted to Amazon:

What do a fenced-in backyard, a fraudulent E-bay transaction, a headless snake, and a bad case of laryngitis have in common?  Through the eyes and pen of author and songwriter Carolyn Arends, each becomes a spiritual signpost, pointing ever nearer to the mysteries of God.  Using these and myriad other everyday occurrences, Carolyn marks her path as skillfully as a sailor marks the stars. And, after reading this collection of columns, the only conclusion the reader can draw is that we are constantly standing on holy ground, and nothing and no one ought to be overlooked as ordinary in this grand adventure of Christian life.  

The title of the collection sort of sums up the thread binding each column to the others.  Theology in Aisle 7 refers to an experience in that hotbed of potentiality: the office supply store.  In Chapter 7, Letting Go of God: Trying to Organize a God who Transcends, Carolyn relates her purchase of a desktop file sorter (Organizational Supplies, Aisle 7) with her then recent decision to pursue a Masters in Theology.  She writes, “On the same day I bought my new organizer, I decided on a concentration in spiritual theology.  I’ve been longing for more structure, not only in my office but also in my faith.”

A friend teases her a little, asking whether a part of her was looking for more control in her course of studies in systematic theology.  No, Carolyn realizes, not part of her – all of her!  She writes again, “I really don’t like it when God behaves unpredictably, when he seems to be as much about mystery as about revelation, and when he refuses to fit into the slots I have labeled for him.”  She longs for a tidier faith, a PowerPoint presentation God, a concise, inarguable exposition of God’s will and man’s work.  Like anyone else who grapples with the Holy One, she is left strengthened in her weakness, knowing that, “We have a God who both transcends our messy lives and incarnates himself in them.  That reality is hard to organize, but it is the best news there is. . . .Praise God, there is not a thing in Aisle 7 – or in the universe – that can contain him.” 

The whole of this collection reminds me of a sermon I recently read by the extraordinary George MacDonald (Phantastes), wherein he writes about our desire to shove God into a clearly marked box and be done with Him: “Sad, indeed, would the matter be, if the Bible had told us everything God meant us to believe.  But herein is the Bible itself greatly wronged.  It nowhere lays claim to be regarded as the Word, the Way, the Truth.  The Bible leads us to Jesus, the inexhaustible, the ever unfolding Revelation of God.  It is Christ 'in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge,' not the Bible, save as leading to him.” (Unspoken Sermons, “The Higher Faith”) This is why, unless we wrestle daily in Spirit and Truth and find our hips dislodged and our hearts broken, we will never revel in spiritual renewal -- that wholeness of what God desires for us.  This collection is one way that Carolyn Arends offers us insight into her journey and encouragement on ours.

So, if you go looking for Theology in Aisle 7, what you’ll find instead is a meandering path of constant wonder where every footprint is filled with grace.  Do not be deceived by its switchbacks and unexpected turns; it has a defined destination that is no less than the very heart of God.  Happy travels!

P.S. Thanks to Flicka Spumoni for the heads-up on George MacDonald's Unspoken Sermons.  Wow!

Theology in Aisle Seven

Lucky us!  Carolyn Arends has a new book out!  Unfortunately, it's only available as an e-book right now.*  Also, it is a collection of her Christianity Today Magazine columns -- all of which I have already read.  But still!  A new book by Carolyn!  Of course, it's well worth getting. My favorite chapters are Chapter 2 -- Initiator: Come, Lord Jesus—oh, wait—he’s already here; Chapter 3 -- Merciful Victor: Why defeat at the hands of God is magnificent; Chapter 5 -- Benevolent Lawgiver: Why God’s law is good news; Chapter 13 -- Saying More Than We Can Say: The Arts; Chapter 24 -- Going Down Singing: The gift of mortality; and, especially, Chapter 25 -- Lessons from a Headless Snake: God’s coming victory.  They are truly all good, though.  Thought-provoking and encouraging and full of, um, fullness -- Spirit and Truth. 

So, go already!  Get it sent to your Kindle or Nook!  Read!  Enjoy!  And come back and let's talk about it!

*I just cannot get used to these new-fangled reading devices.  I bought her book for my Kindle and will happily re-read her columns on it, should I ever dig it out of my bedroom trunk and recharge it.

And Then There Were Three

We got our replacement duckling for the one that died when Princess Paula was shipped.  And with him came another duckling, just for kicks (and warmth during shipping).  So, now we have three ducklings.  Problem is, they grow incredibly quickly, and Princess P is two weeks older and about 3X bigger than the two boys.  So, they think she is Mama Duck and Sadie has been displaced from her maternal role.  This makes Sadie sad; but, the ducks seem happy.  They are having a hoot exploring the house together.  Here is a video of them wandering about, because ducks are cute (and messy and smelly).  I, for one, can hardly wait until they grow their feathers and wings and we can release them into our backyard to eat our slugs and terrorize the neighbors' dogs.

What If They Offered an IPO for a Silly Company, and Nobody Bought It?

About 70% of what is wrong with our economy can be summed up in Facebook's projected IPO of $38.  That would put the value of this cyber-concoction of dandelion fluff and jarred moonbeams at around $104 billion.  Uh-huh. 

I know lots of people like Facebook.  And that's fine.  But, what is it about Facebook that even remotely brings its value up to such an astronomical level?  The advertising potential?  Really?  Have you ever bought something you were not already going to buy because a "friend" "liked" it on Facebook?

And this is just my curmudgeonly, quasi-Luddite opinion, but about 75% of everything that is wrong with our culture can be summed up by the existence of Facebook at all.  The very phenomenon calls to my mind this lovely quote from a Wall Street Journal editorial on September 1, 2006: The therapeutic ethos of recent years has encouraged each of us to get every thought off our chest, lest we suffer from the ordeal of civility.  Engaging in face-to-face conversations, living within our communities, loving our neighbors as they are given to us from outside our control, measuring our words before we speak them -- these are the actions that civilize us, that build us up, that help us find common ground; emphatically not flinging posts at each other through cyberspace.

OK, leaping down from the soapbox now.  I mean, it's not that blogging is much better, truly.  But, it is more in depth and more about substance and thought than Facebook, I think.  Wherever your networking fancy takes you, go with God.  But, don't be surprised by the stupendous fall of Facebook in the near future.  It is a very silly company.

Book Notes: April 30 - May 15 (Alas, Au Reservoir, Lucia!)

In the introduction to the Knopf's Everyman Library edition of Sanditon and Other Stories (a collection of Jane Austen's juvenilia, fragments, and one complete epistolary novel), Peter Washington writes of Miss Austen's relatively new status as a major author -- one whose works have launched a thousand academically pretentious and dubiously premised critical theses.  He writes of readers such as I, "Dismayed by this assault, many old Janeites have staged a tactical retreat, instinctively turning for comfort to writers more likely to withstand academic appropriation -- Wodehouse, Angela Thirkell, E.F. Benson.  Benson is an interesting case, because he now has the status Austen used to enjoy.  He was a fine novelist with greater depths than one might suspect . . . but he is rightly favoured for his light touch, his dry humour, his caricatures, his lucid, lambent style, his old-maidishness, all the features that once belonged to 'Miss' Austen."  Oh heck yeah!  Mr. Washington had me at "light touch and dry humour."  I already knew I loved P.G. Wodehouse; now I had two more authors to discover.  E.F. Benson came first.

Do yourself a favour*: Read Benson's six novels that make up the Mapp & Lucia series.  Oh, they are so very, very good for whatever ails you. The first book I read (and I was lucky to have figured out how to read them in order, which is the best way) was Queen Lucia.  At first I was puzzled, as I did not really like the main character and was unsure how to view her going forward.  Then, all of a sudden, it hit me smack in the gob, and I was a confirmed Luciaphile in a heartbeat. Someone once, erroneously in my opinion, described Miss Austen's books as "exercises in regulated hatred."  They missed the fun, the sheer comic brilliance, of a master craftswoman who can laugh at "follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies" without ever losing that essential benevolence.  E.F. Benson is even easier to catch in the humour of it all, because his characters are so bald in their ambitions and transparent in their snobberies.  Everyone in the books knows what everyone else is up to, and watching these refined middle-class British suburbanites plot and scheme and maneuver is like watching a chess match between two masters with nothing important at stake other than prestige and eclat.

Lucia's Progress finds Lucia and Elizabeth Mapp at it again in Tilling -- that town by the sea.   If you do not know the characters, there is not much to tell you about them, other than that each disguises a near blood lust for the other's throat beneath a veneer of chilly, sarcastic civility that is utterly diverting.  [spoiler] The twisting and turning plot finishes up with Elizabeth put down quite soundly and Lucia rising to prominence as Mayor of Tilling.  Ta-da!

I took a break from E.F. Benson to read a type of book I generally like: The Book of the Dead: Lives of the Justly Famous and the Undeservedly Obscure by John Lloyd and John Mitchinson.  I haven't much to say about this one, other than that it was interesting enough for a pleasure read, but not as wittily written as I've come to expect from British writers.  Maybe I was too full of Benson yet to appreciate the two Johns fully.  But, I learned just enough about various characters who are currently dead but were once very much alive doing interesting things.  They grouped these dead into categories that might have surprised the subjects in their living years.  For instance, Freud, DaVinci and Byron had "bad starts in life."  Some people were grouped as monkey-keepers.  Other for their sexual proclivities.  All in all, a good beach read. 

But, it was soon back to Lucia & Mapp, this time for the final novel of the series, Trouble for Lucia.  Remember, you're still under spoiler alert.  Lucia is mayor of Tilling and appoints Elizabeth Mapp as her mayoress, just to keep her out of Lucia's hair.  And everything goes swimmingly for the new mayor, as her sworn-but-never-stated enemy Elizabeth grinds her (fake) teeth in frustration.  Hijinks ensue; prestige is won and lost by all; and it looks in the end as though Lucia may finally get her come-uppance and see Elizabeth Mapp triumph once and for all.  Does she?  I'll leave that spoiler out.  With one sigh of regret and another of satisfaction, I lay aside this final volume with a final "Au reservoir" to my beloved Tilling-and-Riseholme-ites.  I should think I'll be ready to read the lot again within a year or two.  They are definitely akin to Miss Austen in their re-readability as well as their immense fun.

* the extra 'u' in favour is to honour my beloved Brits; the extra 'u' in honour was for consistency

The World is Too Much With Us

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
          Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
          Little we see in Nature that is ours;
          We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
          The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
          The winds that will be howling at all hours,
          And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
          For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
          It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
          A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;                      
          So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
          Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
          Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
          Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
                                                            ~ William Wordsworth, 1806

Feels like that lately.  But, I've got a duckling sleeping on my lap and the sun is shining and I still see much in Nature that is mine.  So, adieu computer and bonjour glorious spring day!

Good Night, Wolf Boy

One small child can imagine monsters too big and black to get into any picture, and give them names too unearthly and cacophonous to have occurred in the cries of any lunatic. The child, to begin with, commonly likes horrors, and he continues to indulge in them even when he does not like them. . . .The fear does not come from fairy tales; the fear comes from the universe of the soul. ~G.K. Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles, "The Red Angel"

And to paraphrase from that same essay with a Sendakian nod: Fairy tales do not give a child his first idea of a bogey. What fairy tales give a child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of the bogey. The baby has known the wild things intimately ever since he had an imagination. What [this fairy tale] provides for him is a Max to tame all the wild things by staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once.

It would be the rare parent who has not to some degree committed to memory the smooth cadences of the text of Where the Wild Things Are.  It just flows so easily -- in the deceptively simple way of all great prose -- that a few times of reading it through will imprint it indelibly in the grey cells.  I used to have to read this book almost every day through the preschool years of two little girls.  I think I will have it (with maybe a few mistakes or mis-rememberings) memorized forever.  It is a lovely book; it is everything that a book of this sort ought to be.

I'm sure I've read and enjoyed others of his books over the years.  But, Where the Wild Things Are is such a triumph of children's literature, Maurice Sendak's eternal prominence in the genre was secured by that one offering.  And now, he is gone.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Sendak.

The Funniest Thing You've Never Seen (Yet)

We received our ducklings in the mail yesterday.  Sadly, one was dead in the box.  The other, our little girl, Princess Paula, is very, very, very much alive.  And, as she is an only duckling for now, she is quite dependent on constant human attention.  Sadie opened the carton, so she was the first person Princess saw, and she imprinted on Miss Sadie-Pants instantly.  Today, she has been following Sadie everywhere on her scrambling little webbed feet -- and it is the funniest and cutest thing I have ever seen.  The video I took does not do the preciousness of it all justice, but here it is anyway:

Miss Anne Thrope

Ana B Designs

Somedays, I kinda hate being a Christian.  Oh yeah.  Because some days I hate people, and I know I'm not technically allowed to do that, as a purported follower and lover of Christ.  But, goll durn it, people suck, don't they?  I mean, not us.  We're cool. Totally.  I mean other people.  L'enfer, c'est les autres.

Hell is other people.  People like those heinous May Day protesters yesterday who wrought havoc on beautiful downtown Seattle. No matter how much of a self-aggrieved ne'er-do-well loser you are, nothing gives you the right to assault private property.  Nothing. Idiots.

Hell is other people.  People like the guy who stole the check from my mailbox last week and then washed it and wrote a $250 debit to my checking account, causing me no end of grief in closing that account and opening a new one and all the attendant tsuris of that.

Hell is other people.  People like the guy who hacked my credit card number off the Internet in March.  Then, this gem of a fellow made some delightful charges to the thousands.  Thank goodness Citibank has a vigilant fraud department and a kind and understanding group of people to help. So, hell is not those nice Citibank people.  Take that 99%!

Hell is other people.  People like a certain neighbor who came over to bitch about our needles and leaves getting into her yard.  These come from trees that do not in any way hang onto her property.  What does she expect me to do about this?  Everybody in this Evergreen State has neighbors' and neighborhood trees depositing foliage into their domain.  Flicka says she was trying to get me to agree to go do her yard work for her.  No way, Jose.

Hell is other people.  People like the Compassion International "child" I sponsor, who turned 21 in March and is still on the program.  When I was 21, I had already lived away from home on my own for 3 years and was working full time and paying my own college tuition.  What gives?  All right, so a young lady in Ethiopia cannot really be hell for me.  How about heck?

But God is good, even though we people are so bad -- and I the worst offender of all.  And He has given me wonderful friendships with far better people than I in whom I find more than a glimpse of heaven.  So I am blessed.  And I'm going to keep repeating that to myself until it pierces my soul and drives me again to my knees with repentance and gratitude.  In the middle time, though, you will find me in the phone book under Thrope, Miss Anne.