Jupiter's great red spot

A Great Red Spot

Last week, our school’s headmaster, Rev. Andy Richard, shared a recording of Gustav Holst’s “Jupiter” from The Planets. (You can watch and listen to it here and check out Mount Hope Lutheran School here.) It’s a lovely, lively, moving piece, and the powerful canticle “We Praise You and Acknowledge You, O God” in our Lutheran Service Book takes its tune from “Jupiter,” making it yet more poignant for me.

In an interesting coincidence, I found the above picture of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot a day or so after listening to the music. I don’t know much about our planets, though I find them fascinating, and I wondered about this picturesque yet subtly menacing spot that stands out in so many pictures of Jupiter.

Jupiter’s Great Red Spot from New Old Stock Photo

It turns out that the Great Red Spot, as it’s known, has been around for at least 150 years, but it’s probably older–even much older–than that. Its wind speeds range between 270 to 425 miles per hour, horrifically faster than the winds of Earth’s worst hurricanes and tornadoes. This storm is also twice the size of our planet (yes, you read that right). Suffice it to say, the great red spot is a storm beyond our comprehension, even with science and technology enabling us to study it. (You can read more about it here.)

And this brings me to the great change Earth has experienced in the last few weeks, with shutdowns and stay-at-home orders emptying our streets and schools and social lives. We’re not sure what to do with the giant pandemic storm that is COVID-19, beyond the protocols recommended by infectious disease and public health specialists. At least in America, we didn’t have living memory of quarantine up until about yesterday. And because we’re human, we inevitably thought that because we had no memory of something, and because we have science and technology, whatever those terms imply, we no longer had a communal fear of deadly plagues.

Our illusion has been shattered. It as though we awoke to find ourselves looking at a picture of a planet, mesmerized by a great red spot, one that we’d forgotten existed and suddenly noticed again. For the threat has always been with us, though we have mostly seen it in small and individual circumstances–a hospice bed, a coffin by a fresh-dug hole. Yet this threat is real, and it will never disappear until the world ends. I don’t mean coronavirus specifically, though who knows? Maybe this particular pestilence is a sign of the end times. What I do mean are the threats, the signs of death, that come for us all. We have become so talented at ignoring these, and removing them from our daily lives, that now confronted with death on a massive scale, we hardly know what to do.

Thankfully, we as Christians know just what to do. We turn to the only One who can help us in our illnesses and fear, our anxieties and our deathbeds. “Behold, I am doing a new thing,” says the One who created the world. “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert” (Isaiah 43:19). God is not afraid of storms. He has already weathered the worst. He whose hands and side and feet bear great red spots turns them to us not to frighten us, but to comfort us. “Behold, I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5). As Lent wanes, we look forward yet again to commemorating the greatest sacrifice ever made and the hope it brought us–Christ’s death and resurrection. “You who have made me see many troubles and calamities will revive me again,” we repeat with the Psalmist. “From the depths of the earth You will bring me up again” (Psalm 71:20). No spot, or storm, will triumph in the end.

You, Christ, are King of glory, the everlasting Son,

Yet You, with boundless love, sought to rescue ev’ry one:

You laid aside Your glory, were born of virgin’s womb,

Were crucified for us and were placed into a tomb;

Then by Your resurrection You won for us reprieve–

You opened heaven’s kingdom to all who would believe.

You sit in splendid glory, enthroned at God’s right hand,

Upholding earth and heaven by forces You command.

We know that You will come as our Judge that final day,

So help Your servants You have redeemed by blood, we pray;

May we with saints be numbered where praises never end,

In glory everlasting. Amen, O Lord, amen!

“We Praise You and Acknowledge You, O God” LSB v.3 & 4.

On Flickering, Real Hope

On May 4, 1917, crowds near Queenstown, Ireland, saw the thin masts of ships approaching on a calm sea from the west. Such sights weren’t unfamiliar on that popular seafaring lane. But these ships were special. They included six American destroyers, coming to aid their British allies in the first World War.

By most historical accounts, the ships themselves represented a modest, even small, American contribution to what was a dire naval situation in Britain. Thanks to the efficacy of German submarines like U-20, which nearly two years earlier and in the same waters had famously sunk the vast ocean liner Lusitania, the British fleet was on the brink of losing the seas and, in turn, the war. But here came the Mary Rose, a British destroyer, escorting the Americans into the harbor teeming with civilian boats. The Rose signaled, “Welcome to the American colors.” Bernard Gribble painted a portrait of the historic sight which was commissioned by the American Secretary of the Navy, a man named Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

The portrait was entitled “The Return of the Mayflower.”

The Return of the Mayflower by Bernard Gribble.

Reading about this history recently got me thinking about hope and help and the most vital things for which we wait. Sometimes our hopes are ephemeral–wordless longings for things which we can’t articulate, or deep desires for things we know to be, in this mortal world, impossible. And yet hope is a beacon, a light to which we turn, a promise that change is coming, no matter how flickeringly small that promise might be.

We have just celebrated another Thanksgiving, a time in which we express our gratitude for the blessings in our lives and which links us to generations of other Americans who have gone before us. Our children read books on the voyage of the Mayflower, that fabled ship of Pilgrims, bravely seeking out a new world in which to practice their faith without fear of persecution. Such early American history is colored today by competing narratives of unrelenting persecution and loss versus truly positive historic precedents of liberty. The most accurate and true histories, even that which inspires, always includes nuance and, inevitably, sinners and sin.

Our forebears–and they include countless individuals and groups–in America were certainly not perfect, and yet we can learn from them. American involvement in World War I is colored by the still ongoing controversy of British intelligence knowledge of the threats to the Lusitania and other ships bearing American passengers, as written about so lucidly in Erik Larson’s Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania. A beautiful painting can’t change that. But paintings, and nuanced stories, can still show us examples of hope and help, inspiring events that remind us that even in dire situations, vehicles of real promise can exist.

Too much of our current culture believes individual desire itself to be an ultimate goal, whether that desire means self-harm in the form of changing genders to blasting apart families in the name of sexual or other self-fulfillment. This is not an endorsement of such self-obsessed destructive desires. These desires descend rabbit holes of hara-kiri fantasy, where wreckage is creation and self is all. Instead, real hope places trust in what is truly good for us. And what is good? What do we most need? We need to know who we are here in time and there in eternity, to know whom God has created us to be and how He saves us from the temporal death that awaits us all until His second coming. We need to know that we are real, broken people, and that He promises real help.

Tomorrow begins the season of Advent, in which we once again look away from ourselves to the hope, Christ, promised to us. The only God who speaks and fulfills His promises reminds us this in the beautiful opening passage of the book of John, which tells us who God is and what He promises us.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness about the light, that all might believe through him. He was not the light, but came to bear witness about the light.

The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. 

John 1:1-14, English Standard Version.

True hope is a vehicle to the real, tangible help that comes. And so we Christians look to see our special, only hope, Christ Jesus, Who comes and has come and will come, and to wait for His return.

Blessed Advent.

Ephemeral Daylily Flowers and Extra Days

Flanking the sidewalk down the steps from our front porch are two giant daylily patches. They’ve been there for years–we’re not sure how long, as they predated our arrival to this house several years ago. They’re hearty and require next to no care, and in the last week or so, their bright yellow buds have begun opening, revealing spectacularly vivid, sunny flowers. Our daylilies don’t last long. “How long?” you ask. I’ll let Wikipedia explain.

Daylilies are perennial plants, whose name alludes to the flowers which typically last no more than 24 hours (about a day or so). The flowers of most species open in early morning and wither during the following night, possibly replaced by another one on the same scape (flower stalk) the next day. Some species are night-blooming. Daylilies are not commonly used as cut flowers for formal flower arranging, yet they make good cut flowers otherwise as new flowers continue to open on cut stems over several days. … The daylily is generally referred to as “the perfect perennial” by gardeners, due to its brilliant colors, ability to tolerate drought and frost and to thrive in many different climate zones, and generally low maintenance. It is a vigorous perennial that lasts for many years in a garden, with very little care and adapts to many different soil and light conditions. Daylilies have a relatively short blooming period, depending on the type. Some will bloom in early spring while others wait until the summer or even autumn. Most daylily plants bloom for 1 through 5 weeks, although some bloom twice in one season (“rebloomers)”.

As I read about these plants whose flowers I love for the brief time they bloom, I can’t help but think about our son, Christian. He, too, is blooming for as much time as God gives him.

This morning, Jon and I went again for an ultrasound to see if he was still with us. Dr. S, filling in for Dr. M for a week, dimmed the lights and we watched the ultrasound screen glow. Christian’s heart beat steadily, if a little more weakly. It slowed, almost to a crawl. Then it sped up again. “Some of these little guys are really tough,” she said. We talked about the weekend, and what would happen if I needed some piece of mind, or if my symptoms pointed to labor. We left and came home, bringing the bag I’d packed just in case we’d needed to go to the hospital instead–for an induction, and for a final physical goodbye to our little boy. But here we were again, coming home from yet another appointment, and Christian was still with us.

Jon and I walked up the front walk, and I saw the daylilies, blooming away, heedless of the cloudy sky. Seeing them comforted me, and they reminded me of Jesus’ words.

“Consider the lilies of the field , how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.”

Matthew 6:28b-33.

While we wait for Christian’s death, we acknowledge the hard, exhausting toil of waiting. It is not easy to watch someone, even–or maybe especially–a little one, slip quietly toward death. But our anxieties are covered. “Who will help with the kids?” “Am I going into labor?” “What will we have for supper?” “Can we get a photographer from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep to come when I’m in the hospital delivering Christian, even if he’s not twenty weeks yet?” “Do the boys have any clean clothes?” “What should we say to our kids about Christian?” “Where are your shoes? We need to leave for swimming lessons now!” “When will we know?”

All of our questions are answered. Sometimes immediately, sometimes not. It can be hard to wait. But our Heavenly Father knows what we need, when we need it. He already knows what will happen, and how. And He has taken care of the most important thing. He has arrayed us, and Christian, with His eternal glory. Even Solomon, that great and wise king, was not arrayed like our simple flowers. And how much more does God love us than these simple, sunny blooms? Infinitely more.

So as much as we can, we wait with trust and quiet thankfulness for the beauty He has given us in these extra days. May you be able to cherish His gifts to you, too.

The Magnitude of Motherhood

A week or so before the birth of our first child, I suddenly realized that I no longer feared labor. Let me clarify: while I held apprehensions about the intense birthing I’d never experienced, my thoughts had turned less to that one-time event and more to what came after. In short, I realized that the birth of our child would only last hours, perhaps days at the most. But our child would be ours to cherish and support for the rest of his or her life. While labor approached, so did lives—my life as a mother, my husband’s life as a father, our life together as a family, all wrapped up in our very needy, physical, helpless child, whose own life ex utero would begin shortly.  The dwarfing, sobering reality of what would soon happen—the beginning of the rest of all of our lives—and the all-consuming magnitude of motherhood made my previously fraught ruminations on labor and delivery seem short-sighted and small.

Nearly eleven years later, and five more babies later, motherhood is no less gigantic to me. If anything, the frivolous has become smaller and the significant weightier. My clueless confidence has long since been refined, over and over again, to humility at the sheer ridiculous responsibility motherhood requires of women. It is ridiculous responsibility not because it is silly, but because it is impossible. There’s no possible way I can mother my children well, and in just the right ways, all the days of their childhood lives, or even, God willing, into their adult years.  

G.K. Chesterton, the famous British commentarian, understood this. In What’s Wrong with the World, he spoke to the baffling characterization of motherhood as trivial. Instead, Chesterton articulated, in words we can still appreciate, the immeasurable magnitude of motherhood.

Babies need not to be taught a trade, but to be introduced to a world. To put the matter shortly, woman is generally shut up in a house with a human being at the time when he asks all the questions that there are, and some that there aren’t. It would be odd if she retained any of the narrowness of a specialist. Now if anyone says that this duty of general enlightenment (even when freed from modern rules and hours, and exercised more spontaneously by a more protected person) is in itself too exacting and oppressive, I can understand the view. I can only answer that our race has thought it worth while to cast this burden on women in order to keep common-sense in the world. But when people begin to talk about this domestic duty as not merely difficult but trivial and dreary, I simply give up the question. For I cannot with the utmost energy of imagination conceive what they mean.

When domesticity, for instance, is called drudgery, all the difficulty arises from a double meaning in the word. If drudgery only means dreadfully hard work, I admit the woman drudges in the home, as a man might drudge at the Cathedral of Amiens or drudge behind a gun at Trafalgar. But if it means that the hard work is more heavy because it is trifling, colorless and of small import to the soul, then as I say, I give it up; I do not know what the words mean. To be Queen Elizabeth within a definite area, deciding sales, banquets, labors and holidays; to be Whiteley within a certain area, providing toys, boots, sheets, cakes. and books, to be Aristotle within a certain area, teaching morals, manners, theology, and hygiene; I can understand how this might exhaust the mind, but I cannot imagine how it could narrow it. How can it be a large career to tell other people’s children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one’s own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman’s function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness.

Yes, indeed. Pity us mothers. Have mercy and compassion and empathy for the magnitude of our roles. Forgive our pride and self-importance and negligence and whining, understanding our sinful responses to motherhood and our sins within our vocations with the best possible construction: on our hearts are written the searing, impossible, gigantic responsibilities of lives, lives which we know we don’t and can’t maintain or keep perfectly. We are both exalted by our gifts and flattened by their hugeness. Remember us in your prayers, and commend us to the only One who ever did, does, and can handle giving us worlds, both created and spiritual, and making them well and perfect for us.

On Dust and Time in Churches: Notre Dame and Holy Week

Thou hast a house on high erect 

Framed by that mighty Architect,

With glory richly furnished, 

Stands permanent though this be fled.

“Verses upon the Burning of our House, 10 July 1666” by Anne Bradstreet.

Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris has burned this Holy Week. The world watched the flickering heat lick and then consume the roof of the eight-hundred-year-old church, then, horrified, witnessed the spire falling. In our secular, postmodern world, why did the sight of flames devouring an old building, particularly a church, move so many? What are we to learn from this?


A view of Notre Dame from the rear, with the Eiffel Tower framed between the two towers. Photo by Colin Schmitt from Pexels.

The historic value of Notre Dame, of course, explains part of our grief. Anyone who cherishes the study of the past and the relics, holy or otherwise, that mark it knows the incalculable worth of a Gothic structure like Notre Dame. Though the cathedral will be rebuilt, no amount of money, however philanthropically gifted, and no amount of architectural purity can replace what has been lost. Preservationists across the globe will be further disheartened to learn that part of the rebuilding will include a design contest rather than a reconstruction of what previously stood. I shudder to think of the result.

But Christians grieve over the loss of Notre Dame for more than its historical design and consequence. More than one commentator has noted the symbolic significance of the burning cathedral, from “The End of Christendom” to “Hope in the Ruins” (to mention just two takes). Those of us who notice the increased secularization of our culture, and the emptying and closing of our churches, know that the fire represents what has been happening to many churches, only the burn and smoke and destruction has more often been slow and subtle than fast and noticeable.

Thibault Camus/AP Photo in Business Insider.

Stratford Caldecott, in his lovely and timeless book Beauty for Truth’s Sake: On the Re-enchantment of Education (Beauty for Truth’s Sake: On the Re-enchantment of Education""” target=”_blank” rel=”noreferrer noopener” aria-label=”affiliate link (opens in a new tab)”>affiliate link), writes that

The transcendence of time by eternity, and by Christ as the incarnation of eternity in time, is suggested by the stability and durability of the church. An effective church building is a manifestation of tradition, and tradition is more than just the dead accumulation of custom; it is a living organism that overcomes time and death by a process of continual regeneration and gradual creative development. The church building, if it achieves permanence simply by resisting change and being preserved over centuries, might be no more than a museum or monument. But if it is built to last and is sustained from within by a community of worshippers then its permanence becomes a true reflection of eternity.

Pages 101-102.

Photo by Ashley Elena from Pexels.

Caldecott rightly emphasizes the importance of devout worshippers. Too many of our churches have become merely museums and monuments (or even condos or bars or nightclubs), empty of people confessing Christ. The living organism of a community of faithful believers gathering around His Word and Sacrament has long been tepid or absent at too many Christian churches, even great, old ones like Notre Dame. This is why even Lutherans like me are sad at the news this week. Burning churches bespeak of both lost holy places and lost souls.

Joshua Gibbs noted this ecumenical mourning of Notre Dame in the Circe Institute “The Cedar Room” blog this week. “The loss of Notre Dame, or huge portions of it, stings even the Protestant and Orthodox Christian because cathedrals are physical manifestations that worship is one of the human things,” he wrote. “Cathedrals are silent arguments and wordless syllogisms which make it easier to believe. … Yes, Christianity will go on. No, no one died. Nonetheless, a very old and very good thing which testified to the power of piety and the sanity of beauty has been irreparably marred.” We cannot take for granted either our faith or the witness of our faith through physical materials of wood and stone when we see smoldering ruins, ash and dust that remind of us of Earth’s mortality and our own.

Which brings me to Holy Week. We began this Lent with Ash Wednesday, our somber reflection with King Solomon that from dust we are formed, and to dust we shall return (Ecclesiastes 3:19-20). This week we remember how our incarnate Lord, God made flesh, gave and gives His body and blood to us, and how He suffered crucifixion before He died. As we think about the burning of Notre Dame, let us also meditate upon its “Gothic floorplan [which] echoed the form of Christ’s human body on the Cross, and the distance between heaven and earth… in vertical elongation” (Caldecott 104). We must go to our own churches to hear and receive the Truth embodied in Christ, that though time will inevitably take its toll on us, moving us inexorably to the dust, we know that earthly death is not our end because it was not His end. An Architect and His mortal yet immortal Son remain our permanent hope.

The Truth His Delight

It’s funny how God works through His Word at just the right time to address specific sins and crosses. Take lying, for instance.

Today, the first Sunday in Lent, we heard how the devil tempted Jesus in the wilderness (Matthew 4:1-11). Of course, any references to the wilderness pique my interest, and I listened closely. I wondered about one of our middle sons, though, who rarely seems to be paying attention in church.

“Again, the devil took Him to a very high mountain and showed Him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory,” read my husband, the pastor. “And he said to Him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.'” Our son, eyes wandering and fingers twiddling, leaned over to me at this point and whispered, “That’s dumb. The kingdoms already belonged to Jesus.”

An insight indeed. Not only was I reminded that children often listen when they seem to be doing anything but; I also realized that the devil never, ever stops telling lies. His lies can be compelling and seem to address true needs, like offering bread to a Man who has miraculously gone without food or drink for forty days and who is, in admirable understatement, “hungry.” His lies can also be completely ridiculous, like telling Jesus, the Son of the Father who created all things and thus already possessed them all, that if He just bows down before him, the devil will give Him…what He already had.

The truth is, though, that the devil will continue to lie to us the way he lied to our Savior because we fall prey to his lies. We dumb, selfish, idiotic fools all have something we crave, and when the right words come along, we can believe almost anything, despite how ridiculous it might be. Sunday morning buffet is so delicious, and I’m hungry; I can go to church some other time. The tax man is so swamped and busy; he won’t notice if I fudge a few numbers on my return. My colleague at work is bright and good-looking; I can be close with him, and my husband won’t even notice. And so on.

One of our children has made a habit lately of lying. It’s been a difficult lesson to learn, for him and for us, seeing how lies–all of them–affect others and relationships, and how we understand the truth. It’s been important for him to learn that there are both temporal consequences to lying, like staying in from recess to complete homework he previously claimed he had finished, as well as spiritual consequences. Broken trust is not renewed overnight. Lies told about small things betray, at best, a lack of understanding to the gravity of untruths. At worst, they betray a rejection that lies hurt both the teller and the receiver of the lie. Lies imprison the teller and ostracize the receiver. They are like worms that, if unchecked, can ruin an apple, leaving only rot behind.

In Bible class after service today, we continued studying in the book of Proverbs, including many verses that referred to both fools and the wise, lying and the truth. “Truthful lips endure forever, but a lying tongue is but for a moment,” reads Proverbs 12:19. “Deceit is in the heart of those who devise evil, but those who plan peace have joy,” exhorts Proverbs 12:20. “Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are His delight,” goes Proverbs 12:22.

We know, we know, we all say. This is old news to us believers. And then we all slide on that greasy rail down the wide path, telling others and ourselves little white deceptions that show us just how susceptible we are to the Father of Lies. Even when the lies are dumb, we tell them, and hang on.

A lamb to remind us of the Truth that sets us free.

Near the end of Bible class, I noticed a small plastic lamb that our youngest had been playing with. There’s nothing particular about it, except I saw ink scribbles all over it. The scribbles had not been there before the class. After simple questions failed to unearth the truth, some moms had to interrogate the likely scribblers. Blanket denials resulted, until one mom said, “Even if it wasn’t you, but you know something that can reveal the truth, you need to speak up.” Then my son opened his mouth and shared the truth.

As sinners, we lie because we fail to see the big picture, the ultimate good that God desires for us. We lie because in the blink of a moment, we think we will get something good for ourselves, whether it’s bread, kingdoms, or avoiding punishment. In that instant, we are blind to the beauty of the Truth, the only Truth that can set us free from our slavery to sin and lies.

Telling the truth is hard. It can mean hunger, and loneliness, and punishment. But God knows what is best. His Word endures forever, and He wants us to be His forever, too. When the lies come easily, we can cling to Christ, who, emaciated and exhausted, told the devil, “Be gone, Satan! For it is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God and Him only shall you serve.'” In His weakness, the Lamb who died for us, we have strength, and we can tell the truth, too.

October, Outside In

The Professor happened to come home earlier than usual one bright October afternoon. He left the walk and cut across the turf, intending to enter by the open French window, but he paused a moment outside to admire the scene within. The drawing-room was full of autumn flowers, dahlias and wild asters and goldenrod. The red-gold sunlight lay in bright puddles on the thick blue carpet, made hazy aureoles about the stuffed blue chairs. There was, in the room, as he looked through the window, a rich, intense effect of autumn, something that presented October much more sharply and sweetly to him than the coloured maples and the aster-bordered paths by which he had come home. It struck him that the seasons sometimes gain by being brought into the house, just as they gain by being brought into painting, and into poetry. The hand, fastidious and bold, which selected and placed–it was that which made the difference. In Nature there is no selection.

The Professor’s House

Willa Cather

I am no interior design expert. Both my gross lack of training and a requisite extravagance of funds for such a pursuit—for it is a pursuit—make it impossible. Nevertheless, I enjoy the approach and the duration of seasons, the newness of each timely arrival and its very familiarity. So I try to make the most of what we have to, as Cather wrote, bring the seasons into the house.

It is a joy to make the most of what I have to make our home attractive. While I constantly struggle to complete even the basic chores every day, the cleaning and tidying that never cease, I have learned to take some time each season to pull out silk flowers, arrange bouquets,  and rotate small mementos and dishes to make our home timely. We follow the Church calendar and lectionary, and our days are measured by months and intervals, clocks and wall charts. The little efforts I make, then, to echo the outdoors and its cyclical changes within our walls seem a requisite, respectful nod to our connection to the world outside.

I use hand-me-downs and gifts, flowers and pumpkins and candles collected over many years of end-of-season sales and random $5 Hobby Lobby and Walmart buys.  A boutonniere from an October wedding years ago. A fall birthday surprise from a dear friend. Is it kitschy and nostalgic? Sure. Nothing we own would look like much, or is much, on its own. But together, some vivid autumn colors and varied textures in simple objects can change what we see in our kitchen and living room every day. They can remind us, in visual ways, of time passing and of the importance of cherishing each day, of being thankful for beauty in every season.

A mason jar; some butcher block paper; a bit of ribbon. Small favors, but an autumn gain nonetheless.  

Poor Man’s Wealth

The burdens and fatigues of this life necessitate rest. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” the old saying goes, and we understand this—the sluggish, glassy-eyed stupor of the overtired.

It’s been years since we’ve taken time off that hasn’t involved professional education or funerals, so we are taking a much-needed rest. Rest can involve many relaxing pastimes, like reading and taking walks and swinging on a porch swing in the warm summer air with an icy drink nearby. But let’s face it: for parents of small children, sometimes the absolute best rest is straight-up sleep. And while we do not dream of an enchanting Stella, as the narrator speaks  of in the following sonnet, our rest is enticing enough all by itself.

Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low. 
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease 
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw: 
O make in me those civil wars to cease; 
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head: 
And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
~ Sir Philip Sidney, Sonnet 39

An Essential Summer Read-Aloud: The Thirteen Clocks

Affectionados of classical education have long embraced the good, the true and the beautiful as transcendent virtues. That is, we understand them as qualities of God, worthy to be sought after and emulated. It’s no accident that seeking after such things often involves the written word. After all, Christ is the Incarnate Word, and we are made in His image.

Good Lutherans know that “Faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the Word of Christ” (Romans 10:17).  John the Baptizer famously witnessed of Christ by leaping in his mother’s womb (Luke 1:39-40). So, too, wisdom comes through hearing. Our children have been listening since before they were born, and we hope to continue to edify both their faith and their wisdom as they grow, as well as our own.

Now comes the point–and, perhaps, answers to your muddled questions about the book pictured above. “What,” you might be thinking, “has a rather ridiculous book by James Thurber to do with the good, the true, and the beautiful?” It’s true that The Thirteen Clocks, first published in 1950, is ridiculous. It is also fantastic, strange, hilarious, and–to borrow a phrase from the book–“the only one there ever was.”

I had never read The Thirteen Clocks until several years ago, after reading of it in an interview an author gave about the best read-alouds for children (and, not coincidentally, adults. The best books are always good for everyone).  My children first heard it while sitting in a tent at a muggy, buggy campground in Minnesota. They were enraptured by this story, with the evil Duke who thought he had killed Time; with the breathtakingly beautiful Princess Saralinda; with the prince-turned-minstrel Xingu; with the wholly original Golux, who forgets things and makes things happen, especially on an impossible quest. It’s been a family favorite ever since.

One of the book’s joys is that it is written in prose, but reads like poetry. You won’t fully experience this unless you specifically hear the words. Try reading it out loud:

Once upon a time, in a gloomy castle on a lonely hill, where there were thirteen clocks that wouldn’t go, there lived a cold, aggressive Duke, and his niece, the Princess Saralinda. She was warm in every wind and weather, but he was always cold. His hands were as cold as his smile and almost as cold as his heart. He wore gloves when he was asleep, and he wore gloves when he was awake, which made it difficult for him to pick up pins or coins or the kernels of nuts, or to tear the wings from nightingales. He was six feet four, and forty-six, and even colder than he thought he was.

This book is incredibly fun to read and to read out loud. We’re starting it again this week, and it’s already as popular as the first time around. The words are lovely, intricate and finely crafted together, and the story tells an age-old one of daring rescue and of justice–that is, good and evil receive their due. What better way to understand wisdom?

For commenters: what are some of your favorite books for reading aloud and why?