Letter from an Anglican to her Catholic and Orthodox Brethren:

 

As a high church Anglican, I watch the American province of my church fall apart with horror. I grieve for it everyday. And yet, when I hear the mainline Protestant denominations mocking us, it hurts. When I hear my Catholic and Orthodox brothers and sisters using my church as a term of derision, it wounds to the core of my being.

 

I am writing this, not knowing it any of you will see it, to ask you to please stop chiding us, and start praying for us. How can we mend if you who have remained strong do not pray for us?

 

We want to be unified again. We want to be strong. We want to be one with you, but right now, we cannot. Are we to be blamed because we will not give up our church for lost? Adding schism to heresy helps no-one but the Enemy. We love our church, its history, ethos, and traditons; we want to bring these things to you as gifts, not as burdens to be disposed of. There is still so much good in the Anglican Communion as a whole: more good than bad, in fact.

 

We love the Sacraments, and it wounds us that we cannot share in them with you at this time; at the same time, we acknowledge that the differences between us are real, and not to be dismissed lightly in the name of superficial unity. We do, howeve,r have one Lord, one Faith, and one Baptist, one Sacrament of Body and Blood, one apostolic priesthood. We are your brothers, though we have been apart for so long. We are of the same Body.

 

Hang on to us in your prayers; do not forget us. We love deeply, hope greatly, and believe strongly; pray for us. Help us to keep believing, and to remain where God has put us as salt and light. Stop laughing at our troubles, and try to love us again.

 

Remember us always to God.

 

 

This is an old story of mine; I'm still working on it, and have nevergotten it right. Maybe it needs to be put into verse, or maybe just images. I'm not quite sure. But here is the latest version of the story, based on the 5 wise virgins and 5 foolish virgins from Matthew.

 

 

 

Rachel had looked forward to this day for as long as she could remember. The wedding day. Not hers, of course: no one had ever sought her out, but the wedding for her best friend. His family had lived next door to Rachel's for as long as she could remember. They'd played in the dusty streets as children; she'd heard him talk about his wedding day for many years. "When I come for my bride, it will be the happiest day in the world," he boasted, "and everyone in town will be there to help me celebrate. Rachel, you'll be sure to come too, right?" She'd promised she would, with all the faith her 9-year-old heart could muster.

The day came when he left, riding off on his father's donkey, to begin to build the house for his bride. When asked--as he often was--who was the lucky girl he'd chosen, his face would break into a huge smile. "She's the most beautiful girl in the world. And when we are married, everyone will see."

Some people expected Rachel to be sad that she was not the bride herself, but she wasn't. "I could never be a bride for him," she confided to her sister. "I'm not nearly good enough for him, and he needs the very best." Her heart ached for him sometimes, but she remembered his generosity and openness, and resolved to give up her friend, so that he might be happy with his bride and family.

Finally, the day of the wedding arrived. Rachel and her four sisters packed their lamps, their oil, and set out towards the house where the marriage party was expected to arrive. The day passed quietly, everyone hushed with expectation. As night drew near, Rachel and her sisters lit their lamps, determined to be awake when the groom arrived. The night dragged on, the stars lifting themselves above the horizon; Rachel sat in the quiet of the night, simply waiting to see the lights of the party coming down the road. In the darkest part of the night, over the horizon, she finally saw a faint glow. It came up the road, and resolved itself into the lights of the party; she could even hear the laughter and shouts of the groom as he made his way to the house. "Quickly!" Rachel shook her sisters into alertness; they began to rummage hurriedly for the small jars of oil for their lamps. A series of quiet wails arose from across the crowded courtyard. Rachel looked over to see a group of girls, lamps sputtering and flickering. "Does anyone have any oil? Our lamps are about to go out!" Rachel's sisters all shook their heads; no-one had thought of bringing more than she needed for her own lamp.

As the procession wound around the house and entered the gates, Rachel hurried across the courtyard and knelt beside the most distraught of the girls. "Here," she whispered, pouring most of her oil into the girl's lamp. "Quickly now, or you'll miss the party!" The girl leapt to her feet with a shy smile and ran inside to join the party. Rachel got up, but as she ran, her own lamp flickered, guttered, and then went out. Looking up, Rachel saw the gates of the house close, and the courtyard was plunged into complete darkness. Only the faintest hint of song leaked through the stone walls and into the silence outside.

Rachel fell to her knees on the hard stones and wept. She had never felt so dark and cold as she did now, shut out from the joy of the wedding feast. What seemed like hours later, she felt a touch on her shoulders, and looked up to see the groom standing there, smiling down at her. "Get up, Rachel, it's time to go in to the feast."

"But...but...I have no light, I cannot go."

He laughed then, eyes alit and dancing. " How can you say that you have no light? Look!"

He pullled her hands away from her face, and as she looked down, she saw a warm light, like a live coal, burning in her heart. The light grew and brightened, casting its glow on the cold pavement of the courtyard.

"Arise, and come away, Rachel. The winter is past, the rains are gone. Come in to the Feast."

As she rose numbly to her feet, he took her hand, and opened the doors, and she stepped into the light, the Bride coming home at last.

 

When feeling rather down in the dumps, standing on a hill in the midst of a rain/windstorm will do wonders for perking you up.

 

Guess how I spent my lunch break today? More on this later....

Cemetery Crawling

Yesterday, I took a half-day off work and went "cemetery crawling" with Father David, my priest. We've both found that there are precious few people in the world who enjoy walking through cemeteries, looking at the tombstones and memorials. Fortunately, I was brought up wandering through old cemeteries, so I'm used to it, and love it.

We actually started off the day, after a long drive down the freeway, at Cotter's Church Supplies. This was a huge store full of just about everything needed for a liturgical church. We were there to look at travelling Mass kits and albs; but while Father David did serious shopping, I wandered over to the art/icon section. I saw one of my favorite paintings there, Dali's The Sacrament of the Last Supper. It's a lovely painting, but I question its appropriateness for church use. I'm still not quite sure why it was there. Same with his depiction of The Christ of St. John of the Cross. But below the questionable artwork, they had a table full of icons.

It's no secret that I love icons. I'm inexpressibly glad that the 7th Council affirmed their use by the faithful. They had most of the standard icons: the Holy Face, the Sweet-Kissing Virgin, Archangel Michael; but they had another icon that I've only seen once---I keep a small version in my purse--the Nymphios(Bridegroom). This is a depiction of Christ with his robe and crown of thorns from the Passion, but he does not sad or beaten. Instead, he holds his head high, and stands with dignity. In this image, Christ is the Bridegroom, and His Passion is His wedding feast.

I love this odd little picture. I'm glad I have a copy of it. Most girls carry a picture of someone they love in their purse; I think that He is probably going to be the only Bridegroom in my life, and so to remeber that--and to learn to love Him better--I carry the icon.

When Fr.David moved over to look at the albs, I started browsing through the vestments, and made a discovery: Modern vestments are REALLY BORING. They tend to be made of cheaper, plain cloth, with abstract designs woved or printed onto them. I found one or two stoles that were of brocade, and a few that had good images embroidered into them, but most were excruciatingly boring (or worse, politcally correct and ugly). Fr. David pointed out that at least when the old-fashioned stuff is out of style, it's cheaper to buy! It seems that truth and beauty go together; when you give up one, you forfeit the other. We must hold firm to both, or risk being both wrong and ugly.

The high points of the trip came after we left the store, and found the cemeteries. The first was Rosedale, just a short drive from Cotter's. You drive along a red brick wall to the entrance, then pass through old iron gates. The gravestones are mostly old, and many are carved and engraved in distinct designs. The ground is a little uneven, so the stones are all pointing slightly different directions, like the masts of ships in a dock. The first grave we stopped at was Hattie McDaniel; the famous African-American actress from Gone With the Wind. Her stone was very simple and plain, without even a date of death on it. Then we walked down the little path to the grave of a lady that Father David knew; he'd been there for her graveside service 18 years ago, but had never been back. It took us a little searching to find the stone, but finally we saw the one we were looking for: Mabel Klint.

After reading a prayer from the BOCP, we stood for a moment, looking at what is probably the only memorial to a saintly lady; I noticed a small spider crawling across the stone. For some reason, that spider was....well, not comforting per se, but...I guess I felt content as I watched it. No matter what I do, whether I follow God with all my heart or fail in every attempt, this is how I will be someday. There will be spiders that crawl across the stone on my grave too...and it's a good thing. I will join the other saints--God willing and God helping--and no-one will remember me. And it is good.

After leaving Rosedale, we consulted the maps and plotted a course to bring us to Holy Cross cemetery, where the Catholic author and film producer Myles Connolly is buried. Connolly is most famous for his book, Mr. Blue, but also worked in Hollywood. In fact, one of his other books, Dan England and the Noonday Devil, was more influential to me than Mr. Blue. Holy Cross is much more organized than Rosedale, and it is pretty, but it just doesn't have the character of Rosedale. The gravestones were all flat and set flush into the hillsides, the lawns were perfectly groomed; again, very nice, but not as...real. Myles Connolly is buried, with his wife, just behind a large statue of the Virgin and Child. It's a very simple stone, with their names and important dates on it. I wondered, while standing there, if anyone else ever comes by to pay their respects. Visiting gravesites isn't done much anymore, except as a tourist attraction. Once they're buried, we forget. And we, in our turn, are forgotten.

I think this is part of why I visit the Hortons every month. I don't want them to be forgotten; as long as I come visit, someone knows their stories, someone remembers what they did, and someone is grateful. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to pass that on to someone else, and they will remember. But even if no-one remembers, and all that the Hortons did is forgotten, it will still stand, and God will remember. And so with me, and so with Blessed Sacrament, and so with the world.

"In the soundless awe and wonder, words fall short to hope again. How beautiful, how vast Your love is, new forever, world without an end."

Selah, Amen.

If anyone is interested, here's a great fruit salad recipe:

 

Apples

Pears

Raisins

Handful of chopped pecans

Carton of Trader Joe's Fig Yogurt.

 

Yum.........

Ok, so hopefully this blogging by email thing will work for me; I hate not being able to blog. I really like this function; it lets me blog at work!

 

Not much going on today; my shoulder hurts like the dickens whenever I move it. I was sitting on the couch the other night, and when I attempted to get up, my foot snagged on some loose piping on the couch cushion, and I hit the floor pretty hard. I'm grateful that I didn't hit my head, but my shoulder is still having issues from that fall!

 

I wish I knew why I'm so irate today. I think it's just the whole "I never get to be anywhere quiet" thing; people talk to me all day long at work, then I come home to more noise (usually at least 4 people, often 6, in a little bitty 2-room apartment) and it's NEVER QUIET. I think it's getting to me, so I'm going to try going quiet places after work, instead of heading straight home. It's sad that I can't get any peace and quiet at home, but be that as it may.....

Testing, testing...

 

How I love Blogger

Letting me post by email

This is fantastic

Meditations on a sunset

I love sunsets. I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't like them. I remember sitting up on the roof of my house, realizing for the first time how the sunset turns all the houses and trees to gold for a few minutes before the glory fades. And here, where the sunset lingers longer, I love to watch the windows of the houses reflect the glorious final rays of the daylight.
After you watch sunsets for a while, you begin to notice something: if you turn your back to the sun, everything seems full of light. If you face the sun, everything around you is dark.

If you stand with your back firmly to the light, everything around you will reflect the light back, flaming signposts to direct your attention back to the sun. Every created thing tries to reflect the sun, in a desperate attempt to get you to turn around and look into the light; but all too often, we want to look at the reflection in the trees, and grass, and houses, and people, rather than at the light itself.

But when we turn to the light, everything else is dark, and we stand in shadows. We cannot see the glory reflected in anything, and the light itself burns our eyes, so we squint and our eyes well with tears. The world that was so beautiful becomes a valley of the shadow, and we can hardly bear it. But then we lift our eyes to the sun and all the other things fade away. We stand transfixed by the light, souls straining to fly away into the west.

At that final sunset, the trees will shout with the green gold of their leaves, the mountains will boom with the glory of God, and the houses will all burn with the flames of the sun, calling us all to turn towards the light. If we love too much the light of the world, and refuse to turn to the Light, we will go down into the final darkness. But if we lose the glories of this world to turn into the light, all around us will become enveloped in that glorious light, that will have the glories of the sunset, and all the promise of the dawn.

Weird.....

Today I was paging through the archives at http://holywhapping.blogspot.com, a very funny and insightful blog, when I ran across...

http://holywhapping.blogspot.com/2005_09_01_holywhapping_archive.html#112610548636290652

Them referencing a Quizilla quiz that I made.

*cue Twilight Zone music*

Boy did I fool THEM!

You Are Incredibly Logical

Move over Spock - you're the new master of logic You think rationally, clearly, and quickly. A seasoned problem solver, your mind is like a computer!

How Logical Are You?

Lent is almost upon us, and you can smell the anticipation in the air. Oh, no, sorry, that's not anticipation, it's just pancakes.

I don't know if anybody else ever looks forward to Lent, but I do. Sure, the novelty wears off by the second week of it, and it's difficult and uncomfortable. But it's also a nice quiet time, a time of resting and preparing, of thinking and praying. It's nice to be coerced into being quiet and simple for a few weeks. We all benefit from it, even if we don't like it.

So, go to confession tonight, eat some pancakes, and get ready to fast!

I can't believe this.

In my effort to eat more healthy stuff, I've been shopping at Trader Joe's lately. Their stuff is better, cheaper, and tastier than it's grocery store counterparts.

So today, I brought hummus and pita to work with me. As a snack. And I'm enjoying it. This is disturbing.

At least I still hate soy.

Jo March

Josephine March, from Little Women, is a tomboy who loves writing, acting, and her family. She dreams of seeing the world and publishing her book.

Which Classic Heroine are You?

Huzzah, I LOVE Jo!

Meant to post this in early January, but forgot, of course.

Years ago, when I was a kid at First Baptist Church in Hereford, I remember on church service on the first Sunday of the New Year. Our best soprano sang a song that went to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, but with different words. The pastor dedicated it to all the people from the congregation who'd died the year before, reading their names out to the assembly. I've always remembered the song, memorized it, and sing it with regularity, especially when thinking of those who have passed.

So, this year, I'll post the song again.

For (not all of these have died in the past year, but they're the ones I always remember in prayers of the people at church) : Jim Hampton, Janelle Debris, Irene Pearcey, Gene Ledbetter, Richard Omondi.

It singeth low in every heart,
We hear it each and all:
A song of those who answer not,
However we may call.
They throng the silence of the breast,
We see them as of yore:
The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet
Who walk with us no more.

'Tis hard to pick the burden up
When these have laid it down;
They brightened every joy of life,
They softened every frown.
But oh, 'tis good to think of them
When we are troubled sore;
Thanks be to God that such have been
Though they are here no more.

More homelike seems the vast unknown
Since they have entered there,
'Tis not so hard to follow them
However they may fare.
They cannot be where God is not,
On any sea or shore:
What e'er betides, Thy love abides,
Our God, forevermore.

Shamelessly stolen from: http://ryandunssj.blogspot.com/

[A is for apparitions - your favorite]: Medjugorje

[B is for Bible - the one you read most often]: NASB, but I have a severe weakness for the Vulgate. Everything sounds better in Latin.

[C is for Charism - the one you would most like to have]: discernment

[D is for Doctor of the Church - your favorite]: Therese of Lisieux!

[E is for Essential Prayer - What’s yours?]: The Jesus Prayer "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have mercy on me, a sinner."

[F is for Favorite Hymn]: St. Patrick's Breastplate, and Nearer My God To Thee

[G is for Gospel - your favorite author?]: John

[H is for Holy Communion - How would you describe it, using one word?]: Consummation

[I is for Inspiration - When do you feel most inspired by God?]: When I'm doing anything artistic

[J is for Jesus - When did you first meet Him?]: Hmmmm.....don't remember. I got saved when I was about 9, but that certainly wasn't my first encounter.

[K is for Kindness - Which saint or person has most inspired you by their kindness?]: Mother Teresa

[L is for liturgical year - your favorite time in the liturgical cycle?]: Holy Week

[M is for Mary, the Mother of God - Your favorite term of endearment for her]: Mother of Sorrows, and Stella Maris

[N is for New Testament - Your favorite passage]: The part about "to him who overcomes, i will give some of the holy manna, and a white stone with a new name." From Revelations.

[O is for Old Testament - Your favorite Book here]: Job.

[P is for Psalms - your favorite]: 116 "Blessed in the eyes of the Lord is the death of His holy ones."

[Q is for quote - saint quote]: "Sufferings gladly borne for others convert more people than sermons.” Therese of Lisieux (Also, her delightfully childlike "I choose them all!")

[R is for rosary - your favorite mysteries]: The Sorrowful

[S is for Saint - the one you turn to in time of need - not including the Blessed Virgin Mary]: Therese of Lisieux. She gave me a flower once!

[T is for Tradition - your favorite Catholic tradition]: Hmmmmmm.....Not actually being Catholic (Anglo-Catholic Anglican), I'm not sure, but within my own tradition I'd say the colors associated with the different seasons of the ecclesiastical year.

[U is for university - Which Catholic University have you attended or are currently attending?]: None: not actually Catholic! *sheepish*

[V is for Virtue - the one you wish you had]: moderation

[W is for Way of the Cross - Which station can you most relate to?]: Veronica Wipes Jesus' Face

[X is for Xaverian Brothers - Do you know who they are?]: nope

[Y is for your favorite Catholic musician]: Caedmon!

[Z is for Zeal for the faith]: amen!

Meditations on Mud (Caves)

Meditation 1: This is actually an entry from my journal while on the trip. It's better with the random little drawing that goes with it, and the formatting is as close to the original as I could get it. Anyway....

into the deep dark of the caves
away from the sun from warmth from life
twisting body bent by the contortions ofthe
cave eating dust and drinking dark
choking on both of them
the occasional glimpse of light
envying those who walk
forever under the sky
and never in the dark
feet trip and slip
dislodged by the same
dust that grinds
between your teeth
weeping but tears
turn into mud
not the mud
that restored
the sight of
the blind but
the mud that
hardens and
imprisons the
mud that is
the cave echoes
scatter bouncing
into nothingness
you begin to forget
the sky and the
sun in the long dark
but wait
to eyes accustomed to shadow the faint light is unbearable will
you turn away into the familiar dark no you decide even if the sun
burns me to ash and the sky press down on me with the weight
of the world i will seek the light scrambling upward hands scraping
through dust and stones you suddenly find your outstretched hand
grasped and pulled up into the light we were watching you they say
you look down and see the ground full of holes beneath you
kneeling down you peer into one and in the gloom you see
another struggling its alright you yell we're here waiting for
you you stand up in the sunlight the dust of the cave still on
your shoulders and look out across the valley the dust shines like
alabaster and the scattered stones gleam like diamonds in the light.


Meditation 2

I admit, I'm prone to seeing life in terms of metaphor. Or, at any rate, expanding random everyday occurances into views on life.

This being the case, here's one thought from the trip.

Fr. David lead the trip, and since he was the only one who'd been to the mud caves, we relied on his guidance. (I'm sure you can see where the metaphor is going already)

But there were two moments that really stood out to me:

The first was in the caves themselves: I had only a candle for light, which was great, but occasionally didn't give quite enough light. So Fr. David was quite often stopping and shining a light in my path to keep me from tripping (I'll let you draw the obvious metaphor)

The other time was outside the caves, when we were all scrambling down the sides of the hills. I slipped on the loose rocks and sand, and almost slid down (it wouldn't have been a bad fall-just a few feet-but still uncomfortable). Fr. David planted his foot right under mine and kept me from slipping.

By now you've figured out the thoughts running through my mind: this is part of the ministry of priests, to shine light into the darkness, and to help those who are slipping into sin. Again, obvious. But a cool image of it, nonetheless.

Meditation 3. Fire on the Mountain

Being in the desert tends to make one think of the imagery and story of the Exodus and the wandering in the wilderness. I love the deserts and high plains; their beauty is subtle, fierce, and wild. The Anza-Borrego was no different, nor was the arroyo in which we were camping. We saw the hills and sand first by moonlight; the hills looked cold and raw, like mountains on some distant planet. The moon shone so brightly it cast shadows on the ground. And God was in the night.

In the warm morning sunlight, the hills looked hot and dusty, as millions of days under the glare of the sun turned everything to fine sand. The scraggly bushes poked forth leaves in varying degrees of verdancy, and God was in the day.

There was no guiding cloud, no pillar of fire by night. But God burned in every leaf on the bush and on the peak of every hill.

The Trip

I've been curious about the Mud Caves of the Anza-Borrego Desert for years, but never been there. I started to get really excited the closer we got; I love the high plains and the desert--they have this wild, subtle beauty that takes practice to see.

We got there late, after dark, but the moonlight was so bright we could walk around without difficulty. In fact, I'm glad I saw the hills by moonlight first: it looked like the surface of a distant planet, with ragged hills and stardust spilling down the little valleys. (it was used as the setting for part of the planet Mars in the Starman series; one of the authors was our guide on the trip)

We set up camp and decided to visit one cave before it got too late. We walked a few yards down the road to Plunge Pool, and entered the cave. There weren't enough flashlights to go around, so I got to use a candle instead. Which is great, because I like candles better; I love the dancing flames and the warm light. The cave winds for a few narrow yards before widening out into a cavern, with a skylight 30 feet up. At night, it was completely dark; we put out all our lights, and talked in the dark for a long time. Then we lit our lights, and went back to camp.

We cooked dinner (hot dogs!!) and I discovered that you can, in fact, roast a strawberry over a campfire: it's very good, though you have to be careful, since the fruit gets VERY hot. Fr. David had brought some square handmade peppermint marshmallows, and we toasted a few of those, too. Brian entertained us all by telling a story, enjoying our laughter before realizing that we were laughing more at the charcoal he'd inadvertently rubbed all over his face than at the story. Fr. David brought out The Mad Scientists' Club ---a book that has long been a favorite of mine--and read "The Voice in the Chimney". By the time the story was over, we were all stamping our feet trying to warm up, and shivering.

Everyone froze during the night, except maybe Ashley, who said she was warm. That day was spent clambering around the caves, getting covered in dust, sand, and various scrapes. More on this part in the meditations post. I had enormous amounts of fun finding bits of mica in the rocks and dust on top of the caves, and exploring the great textures left in the mud.

We went back to camp and ate lunch (hot dog sandwiches! A coyote or something had made off with our hot dog buns in the night) then headed out to a few more caves. Brian scared us all by attempting to climb down a cliff wall to another cave opening, but gave up when he saw that it was just too dangerous.

In another cave, we came up into the light in a small hollow. We all sat down to rest, and Ashley and I lay down on a rock, propped our feet up on the far wall, and looked up at the darkening sky. The moon was up, and a jet soared by overhead, leaving a pink trail behind it. We headed back down, and walked back to camp; dinner was chili, with onions and sourdough bread. Fr. David read us "The Strange Sea Monster of Strawberry Lake," my favorite of the m ad Scientists Club stories.


The moon was bright and clear again, and we did some climbing that night by its light on the nearby hills. Ashley and I sat ourselves on top of the hill that overlooked the campsite, and lay on our backs to look at the moon; we even saw a shooting star! I think two bats flew overhead, too.

We all slept warmer that night, and slept well. I woke up briefly in the middle of the night, after the moon had set; the starlight was bright enough to see by! Not as well as the moonlight, but enough.

We got up that morning; I did some drawing and writing, several of the others went for walks. Brian finished up the last chapter of the first Starman book. We packed up camp and headed up to Ghost Mountain, home to writer Marshall South in the 1930's. It's a mile-long trek uphill to get to the ruins of the adobe house, but well worth it. We had Mass in the middle of the ruins, and then headed back down the hill, and headed back towards home. I, unfortunately, got rather carsick, and didn't fell at all well. When we stopped for lunch (my first meal of the day, at 3 pm!) at the Wynola Pizza Express, I could hardly choke down three pieces of my mushroom pizza (which was sad, because it was excellent pizza; I highly recommend the restaurant!) When we got back in the car, Ashley suggested that we read the Gospel of John on the way home: Erin and I took turns reading, while Ashley drove. Due to a bit of a jam on the 91, we actually got to finish the whole book! We dropped Erin off, and drove back to the church, loaded my stuff into my car, and the trip was over!

Mud caves!

Ok, there will be two posts on the recent trips to the Mud Caves: the first one, just a recounting of my favorite times; the second, a meditation of some things from the weekend.

Prayer needed

Hey all, I could really use your prayers right now. Due largely to sleeping on really bad mattresses of late (amongst other things), my back hurts very badly most of the time. It started off with just the occasional pain in the lower right back, but now it's spread to the whole of my lower back and upper legs. It's almost constant pain anytime I'm standing, and anytime I switch positions. Fortunately, I sit down for most of the day at work, but it's definately getting worse. Please pray that I can afford to see a doctor soon, and that I deal with the pain well (instead of being grouchy, which is what I do most of the time. Sigh.)

Love Story

You ever watch those great movies or wonderful old stories? You know, the kind where the great prince is serving as a gardener in the princess' palace, or as a stableboy, or an accountant, or something, and you know the two of them just have to get together, but the princess can't see the true worth of the guy trimming the verge?

I love those stories. They're so....well, so true.

Archetypally, at any rate.

Think about it: we're all living this fairy tale. The soul (which I shall refer to in the feminine case, as that's traditional and works better for the analogy) is a princess, living her life, concerned with all the things of the world. But in the garden, a prince waits: dressed in humble garb, with quiet honesty and integrity. Will she notice Him? Will she cease being drawn into the petty intrigue of the court, and give herself to the Prince, before it's too late?

This is a story that the angels themselves watch with bated breath. The Prince of Peace, king of the cosmos, becomes man, and sets aside His glory. He woos the soul, never by force or showy glamour, but with a fiery love and passion. Will she notice? Will she stop being drawn aside into other affections? Will she stop toying with Him, and finally be His? Or will she spurn Him, and chase after the wind?

"O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above."