As The Ruin Falls

Inevitably, C.S. Lewis has the perfect words...

As The Ruin Falls

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.

I never had a selfless thought since I was born.

I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:

I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,

I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:

I talk of love - a scholar's parrot may talk Greek -

But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.

I see the chasm. And everything you are was making

My heart into a bridge by which I might get back

From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains

You give me are more precious than all other gains.

Uncommon Grace

I finished this day another novel by Walter Wangerin Jr.: Saint Julian a novel retelling of the life of the legendary saint. Two others I have read, The Book of the Dun Cow and its sequel and have cried at every one. Wangerin's books feel to me like a thick fog and their resolutions always arrive so quietly and crushingly that I am unprepared and fall to tears.

Julian reads between the hiccups of his sobs: "Misericordia Dei. The mercy of God."

"Lordling," the Almoner sings dovelike now: "Heavenly mercy never left thee. Here it hath lain" ---placing the flat of his hand upon Julian's caven chest---"and here it lieth still above thine heart, waiting, waiting for thee so to fail thyself that nothing is left but mercy."

"But what shall I do?" he says. He begs this. It is the very supplication which has tormented him all these latter years; aye, but this time he begs and does not answer it himself. For now he knows he has no answer, and so his begging is pure.

Julian heaves his wounded body to its knees. He places his hands together. Face to face with the Almoner, he is the supplicant, pleading: "But what shall I do? How shall I live my miserable life?"

The Almoner... takes hold of Julian's hands, and one by one he kisses the tips of the fingers, singing, "Ten servants to join the hosts of Heaven."

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy."

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #12

This is the final section of Diary of an Old Soul. I read it four times last month and nothing stirred me.

But today... today I am weary of soul and ol' George felt it too. A few weeks of walking the same path, of climbing the same dry hills has left me feeling empty. Empty of purpose and empty of joy. There's only so many times you can pick up the same toy or wash the same dish or fold the same shirt before it begins to take on the hues of insanity. This high calling starts to feel like chains to my flesh, my pride demands recognition and I start looking for escape.

I don't want to run to idols. My God is jealous for my love. He doesn't ask me to love the dishes or the laundry or the endless movement of things through my home; My God wants me to love Him. He's not created me for glamour or fame; I was created to serve right here. And He pours out to overflowing the hope and the joy and the self-less love that my self-full heart needs.

1.
I AM a little weary of my life--
Not thy life, blessed Father! Or the blood
Too slowly laves the coral shores of thought,
Or I am weary of weariness and strife.
Open my soul-gates to thy living flood;
I ask not larger heart-throbs, vigour-fraught,
I pray thy presence, with strong patience rife.

2.
I will what thou will'st--only keep me sure
That thou art willing; call to me now and then.
So, ceasing to enjoy, I shall endure
With perfect patience--willing beyond my ken
Beyond my love, beyond my thinking scope;
Willing to be because thy will is pure;
Willing thy will beyond all bounds of hope.

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #10

Re-rebuke. Living, active, dividing, judging sword...

Good intentions have never been enough. My own self-discipline, limping from poor choices, cannot pull me up. Grace alone will get me through this day. George understands...

6.
From sleep I wake, and wake to think of thee.
But wherefore not with sudden glorious glee?
Why burst not gracious on me heaven and earth
In all the splendour of a new-day-birth?
Why hangs a cloud betwixt my lord and me?
The moment that my eyes the morning greet,
My soul should panting rush to clasp thy father-feet

10.
With every morn my life afresh must break
The crust of self, gathered about me fresh;
That thy wind-spirit may rush in and shake
The darkness out of me, and rend the mesh
The spider-devils spin out of the flesh--
Eager to net the soul before it wake,
That it may slumberous lie, and listen to the snake.

Watch ye, for ye know not when the master of the house cometh, at even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning; lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping.
Mark 13:35, 36

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #9

George and I seem to always be in kahoots. Here are a few stanzas from the September section of Diary of an Old Soul that reiterate my recent spiritual waywardness:

6.
Thou hungerest not, thou thirstest not enough.
Thou art a temporizing thing, mean heart.
Down-drawn, thou pick'st up straws and wretched stuff,
Stooping as if the world's floor were the chart
Of the long way thy lazy feet must tread.
Thou dreamest of the crown hung o'er thy head--
But that is safe--thou gatherest hairs and fluff!

26.
I see a little child whose eager hands
Search the thick stream that drains the crowded street
For possible things hid in its current slow.
Near by, behind him, a great palace stands,
Where kings might welcome nobles to their feet.
Soft sounds, sweet scents, fair sights there only go--
There the child's father lives, but the child does not know.

27.
On, eager, hungry, busy-seeking child,
Rise up, turn round, run in, run up the stair.
Far in a chamber from rude noise exiled,
Thy father sits, pondering how thou dost fare.
The mighty man will clasp thee to his breast:
Will kiss thee, stroke the tangles of thy hair,
And lap thee warm in fold on fold of lovely rest.

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #8

7.
In holy things may be unholy greed.
Thou giv'st a glimpse of many a lovely thing,
Not to be stored for use in any mind,
But only for the present spiritual need.
The holiest bread, if hoarded, soon will breed
the mammon-moth, the having-pride, I find.
'Tis momently thy heart gives out heart-quickening.

This stanza from the August section of MacDonald's 'Book of Strife' (Diary of an Old Soul) reiterated a conviction that has come to me in many forms over the last few months. I have found that I have paralysis of analysis that I am a Hoarder of holy things.

I love reading and I love learning; these are gifts that God has given to me. But in the end all that I have read and all that I have learned will cry out against me if I don't use it for God's purposes NOW. It's time to 'get out of the huddle' and seek out 'desperation beyond meditation.' Put down my book about prayer and pray. Put down my book about poverty, go without something, and give my savings to the poor. Put down my book about being a good wife or mother and be a good wife and mother. Put down my book of timeless adventure and live my own adventure.

There is safety in my books and in the hidden turnings of my mind and there is a deep part of me that rightly delights in being part of The Great Conversation of mankind. But the Lord has promised to be my Safety and Delight; the knowledge and reflection of my books are simply a taste of eternity.

O my Saviour, help me. I am so slow to learn, so prone to forget, so weak to climb; I am in the foothills when I should be on the heights;

I am pained by my graceless heart, my prayerless days, my poverty of love, my sloth in the heavenly race, my sullied conscience, my wasted hours, my unspent opportunities.

I am blind while light shines around me: take the scales from my eyes, grind to dust the evil heart of unbelief.

Make it my chiefest joy to study thee, meditate on thee, gaze on thee, sit like Mary at thy feet, lean like John on they breast, appeal like Peter to thy love, count like Paul all things dung.

Give me increase and progress in grace so that there may be more decision in my character, more vigour in my purposes, more elevation in my life, more fervour in my devotion, more constancy in my zeal.

As I have position in the world, keep me from making the world my position; may I never seek in the creature what can be found only in the Creator; let not faith cease from seeking thee until it vanishes into sight.

Ride forth in me, thou king of kings and lord of lords, that I may live victoriously, and in victory attain my end.

(from The Valley of Vision: A Collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions by Arthur Bennett -- thanks Jen!)

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #7

This month has been super busy. The Hubs was on vacation for two weeks so we attempted to live it up. There were three weddings, a graduation party, a baby shower, a retreat, and a family reunion. This was all in addition to the routine activities of our home (meals, laundry, cleaning, learning) and our weekly activities like Tae Kwon Do, visits with family and friends, gardening, game nights, and ministry.

In the midst of all this, I have found some special time with God, but it's not been the moment by moment practice of His presence that I hoped it might be. So my prayer this week matches this stanza from Diary of an Old Soul, July:

29.
O master, my desires to work, to know,
To be aware that I do live and grow--
All restless wish for anything not thee,
I yield, and on thy altar offer me.
Let me no more from out thy presence go,
But keep me waiting watchful for thy will--
Even while I do it, waiting watchful still.

I have been blessed by all that I've been able to share in these last few weeks. Here's some pictures of my favorite moments:

We took Chase to see Silver Lake sand dunes, one of our all-time favorite places to visit. At the beginning of this post is a picture of our feet in Lake Michigan from the same trip.

Of course there were games to play. This one (Bootlegger) didn't pan out too well, but it was fun to push around the little trucks with the machine-gun-toting mobsters in them.

My dear friend's wedding was a perfectly lovely event.

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #6

These last couple of weeks have been spiritually busy. It seems that God has our family on a pretty sharp learning curve this season. Times like these are hard, but in the end I'm always amazed at the way God brings us through. I'm trying my best to be open to His work in me. Some of George's lines from the June section speak about the circumstances God uses to draw us to himself. Someone has said, "God doesn't waste anything." I hope that I don't either.

16.
How many helps thou giv'st to those would learn!
To some sore pain, to others a sinking heart;
To some weariness worse than any smart;
To some a haunting, fearing, blind concern;
Madness to some; to some the shaking dart
Of hideous death still following as they turn;
To some a hunger that will not depart.

17.
To some thou giv'st a deep unrest--a scorn
Of all they are or see upon the earth;
A gaze, at dusky night and clearing morn,
As a land of emptiness and dearth;
To some a bitter sorrow; to some the sting
Of love misprized--of sick abandoning;
To some a frozen heart, oh, worse than anything!

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #5

We attended a funeral today. The officiating pastor was authentic and inspiring. He challenged us to live a life filled with love. I understand that love cannot be lived out without people near me, in my life, stepping on my toes, catching my tears, seeing my mistakes, seeing me unmasked. But I am selfish. I want to be safe, comfortable, admired, self-sufficient, independent, and free to do what I'd like. Lord, help me root this out of my life. I want to choose love, as messy as it may be.

27.

So bound in selfishness am I, so chained,
I know it must be glorious to be free
But know not what, full-fraught, the word doth mean.
By loss on loss I have severely gained
Wisdom enough my slavery to see;
But liberty, pure, absolute, serene,
No free-est visioned slave has ever seen.

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #4

A series of disobediences has led me to a dry spell in my walk with God. He invited and I declined, so I was left thirsty and weary. Here are a couple of stanzas from the April section of "Diary of An Old Soul" that spur me on:

10.
Might I but scatter interfering things--
Questions and doubts, distrusts and anxious pride,
And in thy garment, as under gathering wings,
Nestle obedient to thy loving side,
Easy it were to love thee. But when thou
Send'st me to think and labour from thee wide,
Love falls to asking many a why and how.

11.
Easier it were, but poorer were the love.
Lord, I would have me love thee from the deeps--
Of troubled thought, of pain, of weariness.
Through seething wastes below, billows above,
My soul should rise in eager, hungering leaps;
Thorugh thorny thicks, through sands unstable press--
Out of my dream to him who slumbers not nor sleeps.

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #3

I read though the March section of "Diary of an Old Soul" twice yesterday. The second stanza reminded me of the flowers and buds that are peeking out all over in my yard and also of the many, many natural treasures that we found on our trip to Texas this last week.

2.
Gloriously wasteful, O my Lord, art thou!
Sunset faints after sunset into the night,
Splendorously dying from thy window-sill--
For ever. Sad our poverty doth bow
Before the riches of thy making might:
Sweep from thy space thy systems at thy will--
In thee the sun sets every sunset still.

There are so many beautiful things going on around us that we don't see! I am enthralled by a God who creates and sustains such vast beauty, most of which is enjoyed by Him alone. Thank you, Lord, for your creation!

Here's a sunset we enjoyed in Texas. The photo doesn't do it justice.

This is a wildflower that we found near the Brazos River in Waxo, Texas. This was my favorite.

We found this spiky beast in an overgrown field at my Great Aunt Jean's in Mississippi.

These lovely flowers unfolded near our porch recently.
They seem to be slowly migrating to our back yard.

These are blossoms on a bush in our back yard. They don't last long at all.

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #2

On Sunday, during my coffee shop time, I read the second section (February) of "Diary of and Old Soul". It fit right in with the many other lines of thought I was entertaining that day: suffering, emotional healing, walls, and mystery. As I glance over the poem again for this post, something new has grabbed my attention. This morning, with a great number of tasks before me, I allowed myself to feel anxious and irritable. I didn't enjoy my children or our our school time. I knew that I was making the choice to stay in that ugly attitude, too. God kept nudging me, "Come here. Wake up. Fall Down. Be at rest." I fought him. I wish I wouldn't do that.

Here are the stanzas that are speaking to my heart now:

14.
My soul must unawares have sunk awry.
Some care, poor eagerness, ambition of work,
Some old offence that unforgiving did lurk,
Or some self-gratulation, soft and sly--
Something not thy sweet will, nor the good part,
While the home-guard looked out, stirred up the old murk,
And so I gloomed away from thee, my Heart.

15.
Therefore I make provision, ere I begin
To do the thing thou givest me to do,
Praying, -- Lord, wake me oftener, lest I sin.
Amidst my work, open thine eyes on me,
That I may wake and laugh, and know and see
Then with healed heart afresh catch up the clue,
And singing drop into my work anew.

Medicin, gueris-toi toi-meme

As we were considering our curriculum choices for next year, I tried to get Chase excited at the prospect of learning French. He seems generally interested in words and languages, so I don't think that he'll put up too much of a fight. It will fit nicely alongside our Latin and Greek curriculum.

During our conversation, the thought occurred to me that I should continue to study languages as well. I've learned Latin and Greek with Chase for the last couple of years (though I do need to practice my Greek writing more) and I remember a bit of the French that I studied so many years ago through high school and college, but I need something more. That's where the title of this post comes in: Medicin, gueris-toi, toi-meme. That's roughly the French equivalent of "practice what you preach" (and oddly enough, Jesus' words in Luke 4:23). If I'm going to expect Chase to work hard at languages, I should expect the same from myself.

So I've begun reading a small French novel called Une Vie by Guy de Maupassant. I've only read two pages thus far. It takes me a while because my brain has had to relearn French literary syntax and because I need to stop and look up so many words in the dictionary! It's been fun though. I'm sure that I'll be dreaming in French soon.

I made a little green journal for my word lists and revelations. I feel very 'green' with my handmade, recycled-paper notebook. I'm planning to read each page out loud to Chase as I go along so he can get an 'ear' for the language. I'm so glad that God gave me a child that loves words as much as I do, and the opportunity to stay home and enjoy them together.

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald

I've always been intrigued by the quotes I see from George MacDonald. I almost bought one of his books online once - but hesitated over the checkout button long enough to convince myself that I shouldn't make the purchase. I recently stumbled over a stanza from his long poetic work "The Diary of an Old Soul" and was inspired once again to read something he's penned. After a bit of research I discovered that "The Diary of an Old Soul" is available free online.

The work is divided into sections by month, so I read the January section during my coffee shop time on Sunday. Here's the lines that I loved the most:

25.
Not in my fancy now I search to find thee;
Not in its loftiest forms would shape or bind thee;
I cry to one whom I can never know,
Filling me with an infinite overflow;
Not to a shape that dwells in my heart,
Clothed in perfection love and truth assigned thee,
But to the God thou knowest that thou art.

26.
Not, Lord, because I have done well or ill;
Not that my mind looks up to thee clear-eyed;
Not that it struggles in fast cerements tied;
Not that I need the daily sorer still;
Not that I wretched, wander from thy will;
Not now for any cause to thee I cry,
But this, that thou art thou, and here am I.

Can we be friends with a dragon?

Yesterday, I finished reading a short book to Chase called The Reluctant Dragon by Kenneth Graham. It was written in 1938. We've been studying medieval life, and this book was suggested in our history curriculum. We enjoyed the book immensely. There was a battle scene between a dragon and St. George that Chase really liked and the language made me laugh.

The story is about a dragon who isn't very interested in acting like a typical dragon. He'd rather sit around and compose sonnets. He becomes friendly with a bookwormish boy who warns him that the townsfolk nearby won't really like him. When St. George comes to town to fight the dragon, the boy becomes a manager of the whole affair, arranging a meeting between the saint and the dragon and encouraging them to put on a mock battle. St. George pretends to take out the dragon and then walks him into town where the dragon enjoys a banquet and enters society. The book finishes with the saint, the dragon, and the boy walking off singing together.

Last night I recalled a book I read a year or so ago about children's literature. I can't remember what it was called, but it posed the argument that if you're trying to teach your child a Christ-centered worldview through literature, you need to be aware of story lines that make evil friendly and tamable. In the Bible, Satan is portrayed as a serpent and throughout history the figure of the dragon has represented pure evil. I can't think of anything today that still holds such a strict connotation of evil. The many dragons that frequent stories these days have all been tamed (think Eragon or Dragon Rider). It seems like people have been writing dragons into this role for a while.

As I was thinking through this all last night, my thought train led me to a conversation that I recently had with Chase in which he asked, "Can't we become friends with Satan?" By this he was asking, not if he could be evil, but if we could make Satan good. Chase has followed many story lines in his seven and half years, and perhaps there has been some confusion about how to treat the bad guy. I told him that there can be no compromise with evil. We can't pretend to fight our dragons and then bring them into society. We need to slay them. We need our St. Georges to be dragon-fighters. Chase needs to be a dragon-fighter.

There are still great stories available, though. Just today we bought the book Saint George and the Dragon by Margaret Hodges. This is a great version of the old, old tale, full with an ugly, evil dragon and a brave, selfless knight. Chase was really interested in the battle scene. Maybe we'll look for some fencing lessons...

Poetry

I was perusing a book of verse the other day and found this little gem by Elizabeth Barret Browning:

Grief

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death--
Most like monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

I have always been attracted to poetry, though I can't pinpoint why. Perhaps it's because the best poets have such mastery over language and an ability to create a scene in my head and emotions in my heart with simple strings of letters. Perhaps that's why there are so many sections of the Bible that are written in poetic form (if you speak the original language of scripture): God knows how to get to our hearts.

I recently heard a saying: "If it's true, it's not new." Poets have long expressed things we've all thought or said in much more graceful tones. If I could take an historical survey of poetry, I would see that there's nothing I've felt or experienced that's new or exceptional. That's a comforting fact, given that our culture tends to favor the solo position. We're not often encouraged to share our deepest thoughts, unless we're in a controlled setting with some sort of expert. So consider this poem an expose on my grief. Elizabeth Barret Browing, who lost her brother, I think, understood my grieving tendency and she captured it in those beautiful words.

My suggestion for you is to find yourself a book of great poetry and read some OUT LOUD. Connect yourself to the long line of men and women who shared their hearts and minds with others. Let me know what you find!

Russian Novels

I was up really late last night reading The Brothers Karamozov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. This novel has stolen a great deal of my sleep this last week. I'm now within 150 pages of the end so I can hardly bear to put it down.

The Brothers Karamozov is the fourth Russian novel that I've picked up (that I can recall). I've also read Crime and Punishment (also by Dostoevsky) and War and Peace and Anna Karenina, both by Leo Tolstoy. I've found that the story lines of these novels are small (excepting War and Peace) and sometimes very slow, but both Dostoevsky and Tolstoy are masters at creating the inner worlds of their characters. The men and women of these novels are so complex, so human, and often very surprising. I fall in love with them quickly, even some of the 'bad guys'. I don't want the novels to end. I get attached to their lives and I crave more story, much like someone who can't wait to watch the next episode of their favorite TV show.

A funny thing about the Dostoevsky novels is that it takes so stinkin' long to get to the main event of the story! The plot lines of Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamozov pivot on a murder and the resolution of guilt and punishment, but you have to read for a long time before you get to them (about 400 pages in The Brothers Karamozov!). It's always been worth the work for me. That's what's held my attention these last five nights: the characters have such depth of passion and motivation. It's not as simple as "he's guilty and she's not".

The Brothers Karamozov is more than a story. It's also a treatise on psychology, philosophy and religion. It's amazing. Does anyone write like this anymore?