The Dreaded Task

The basement weighs on my heart; some times more than others. And as cluttered as this looks, it's one of the better sections of the basement. Boxes, baskets, stuffed animals, old National Geographics, plastic grocery bags holding who-knows-what is bad enough. I wouldn't dare step back and show you a wide angle view.

I keep thinking I need to get the rest of the house in better order before I tackle the basement. But I think this is just an excuse to avoid it entirely.

I read this verse recently, and was nudged yet again that I need to begin my basement project. Maybe tackling the basement should be a winter chore after Christmas.

Some background before the verse: When the exiles return from Babylon and rebuild the wall, Nehemiah realizes that there aren't enough people to defend the city. He devises a plan to bring some people from the tribes of Benjamin and Judah to settle in Jerusalem. Nehemiah calls for genealogical records and makes a census of sorts, counting all of the various tribes of people.

During this census, there were six families who could not prove that they were descended from Israel:

They searched for their family records, but they could not find them and so were excluded from the priesthood as unclean. Nehemiah 7: 64

Now, this should make me want to get myself in gear!

"Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing"

The past few weeks, I have been humming this hymn as it pops into my mind. The author of the words, Robert Robinson (1735-1790), was an English pastor, first in the Methodist church, and then in the Baptist church.

Although hymnals print the name of John Wyeth (1770-1858) in the spot reserved for the composer of the music, he was actually an American printer and publisher who compiled songs others had written. It doesn't appear that he had musical or theological training, but he had a large collection of printed music. His tunebooks; Repository of Sacred Music (1810) and Repository of Sacred Music, Part Second (1813); may have been the result of a good business move rather than inspired by any religious convictions.

Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I’ll begin;
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.

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.

O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.


(Fort Hunter Mansion in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, above. It was built in 1814 by Capt. Archibald McAlister, about the time that Wyeth was printing his songbooks in the same town. It was named for the 18th century fort constructed near the site.)

"For All the Saints"

The words to this hymn were written by Englishman William How (1823-1897). An Anglican minister, he was appointed bishop of Wakefield in 1889. There has been a church in Wakefield for over 1000 years, something that's a bit difficult for us Americans to grasp. The Cathedral of All Saints in Wakefield, England, erected a marble memorial to How.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the music was composed by a fellow Englishman, Ralph Vaughn Williams (1872-1958).


"For All the Saints"

For all the saints, who from their labors rest,
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy Name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress and their Might;
Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well fought fight;
Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true Light.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For the Apostles’ glorious company,
Who bearing forth the Cross o’er land and sea,
Shook all the mighty world, we sing to Thee:
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For the Evangelists, by whose blest word,
Like fourfold streams, the garden of the Lord,
Is fair and fruitful, be Thy Name adored.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For Martyrs, who with rapture kindled eye,
Saw the bright crown descending from the sky,
And seeing, grasped it, Thee we glorify.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

O blest communion, fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
All are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
And hearts are brave, again, and arms are strong.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

The golden evening brightens in the west;
Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest;
Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day;
The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
The King of glory passes on His way.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
And singing to Father, Son and Holy Ghost:
Alleluia, Alleluia!

(Photo of the spire of Wakefield Cathedral, formerly Cathedral of All Saints, comes from this website.)

Ora et Labora

Or perhaps more aptly titled, "Pray and Shovel." While clearing some of the Global Warming off our driveway this morning, I was privileged to pray for my friend, Kim, who is in surgery.

It's quite a nice combination actually. Not surgery and breast cancer. Although if the surgery's successful, it's a good combination, I suppose. But praying and shoveling, being the good combination. It's so quiet and peaceful outside. Perfect conditions for praying.

My son came out for a while to help. He's so tall in his snow boots. My little man isn't so little anymore!

We still have a bit of the Climate Change falling from the sky, and it's been going on now for about 36 hours straight. Funny. We often have flowers blooming when the candy beggars show up on the 31st.

May God bless Kim and her family this day.

(View from the back door this morning.)

By His Stripes

But He was wounded for our transgressions,
He was bruised for our iniquities;
The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,
And by His stripes we are healed.

Isaiah 53: 5 NKJV

The time for me to leave the abbey came. I had loved reading my Bible and studying it. Spending 30 minutes on one verse is a luxury I seldom take. I had walked a lot and spent time talking with my dear friend who was there too.

It's always difficult for me to leave. So I walked the road from the Retreat House to the Chapel one last time. Already late in heading for home, I chastised myself for being so foolish as to walk. 'I should have driven and saved myself some time,' I thought to myself. But there's something about walking that road and thinking as you go.

I entered the vacant chapel and sat in a back pew to pray, thanking God for the time there, asking for safe travel, and readying myself for the patience I would need as I returned home to a busy life.

I studied the shadows on the chapel wall. Usually stripes connote a jail cell or prison garb. Instead, His stripes and His blood deliver us from such a sentence. The bright red window above the crucifix creates a pool of red on the Chapel floor when the morning sun hits it just right. And although I much prefer an empty cross in a church, the juxtaposition of symbols was powerful on this early evening, and I didn't mind it this time.

By His stripes we ARE healed.

"Crown Him With Many Crowns"

The words to this hymn were written by Matthew Bridges (1800-1894) and then more verses were added by Godfrey Thring (1823-1903). Both men were Anglicans from Britain (although Bridges converted to Catholicism in 1848). Thring was ordained in the Anglican church and wrote many volumes of hymns. His brother wrote of Thring's many hymns, "As long as the Eng­lish lang­uage lasts, sun­dry of your hymns will be read and sung…and ma­ny a soul of God’s crea­tures will thrill at your words. What more can a man want? [Y]ou live on the lips of the Church."

Crown Him With Many Crowns

Crown Him with many crowns, the Lamb upon His throne.
Hark! How the heavenly anthem drowns all music but its own.
Awake, my soul, and sing of Him who died for thee,
And hail Him as thy matchless King through all eternity.

Crown Him the virgin’s Son, the God incarnate born,
Whose arm those crimson trophies won which now His brow adorn;
Fruit of the mystic rose, as of that rose the stem;
The root whence mercy ever flows, the Babe of Bethlehem.

Crown Him the Son of God, before the worlds began,
And ye who tread where He hath trod, crown Him the Son of Man;
Who every grief hath known that wrings the human breast,
And takes and bears them for His own, that all in Him may rest.

Crown Him the Lord of life, who triumphed over the grave,
And rose victorious in the strife for those He came to save.
His glories now we sing, who died, and rose on high,
Who died eternal life to bring, and lives that death may die.

Crown Him the Lord of peace, whose power a scepter sways
From pole to pole, that wars may cease, and all be prayer and praise.
His reign shall know no end, and round His piercèd feet
Fair flowers of paradise extend their fragrance ever sweet.

Crown Him the Lord of love, behold His hands and side,
Those wounds, yet visible above, in beauty glorified.
No angel in the sky can fully bear that sight,
But downward bends his burning eye at mysteries so bright.

Crown Him the Lord of Heaven, enthroned in worlds above,
Crown Him the King to Whom is given the wondrous name of Love.
Crown Him with many crowns, as thrones before Him fall;
Crown Him, ye kings, with many crowns, for He is King of all.

Crown Him the Lord of lords, who over all doth reign,
Who once on earth, the incarnate Word, for ransomed sinners slain,
Now lives in realms of light, where saints with angels sing
Their songs before Him day and night, their God, Redeemer, King.

Crown Him the Lord of years, the Potentate of time,
Creator of the rolling spheres, ineffably sublime.
All hail, Redeemer, hail! For Thou has died for me;
Thy praise and glory shall not fail throughout eternity.

(Photo of Wells Cathedral, where Thring served, is from the Cornell University Library's Photostream.)

The Gift of Time

Being at the abbey gave me time. Time to read and study. Time to compare and study three translations. Time to allow the desire to dig deep really take root.



It gave me time to jot down my thoughts. Time to read and reread, meditate upon verses, study, and write down thoughts that God brought to mind as I studied scripture.

If I could but carve out, daily, that precious gift of unhurried time in my own life back at home.

(The view from the desk in my room at the abbey Retreat House.)

Thus Have They Loved to Wander

Thus saith the Lord unto this people, Thus have they loved to wander,
they have not refrained their feet, therefore the Lord doth not accept them;
He will now remember their iniquity, and visit their sins.

Then said the Lord unto me, Pray not for this people for their good.

When they fast, I will not hear their cry; and when they offer burnt offering and an oblation, I will not accept them: but I will consume them by the sword, and by the famine, and by the pestilence.

Jeremiah 14: 10-12 KJV

This cow wandered onto the gravel road that runs through the abbey site. There were other places with better grazing, but he stayed here with two other cows for quite some time.

How often we stray from greener pastures. How different our lives would be if we would but graze where the Lord has provided what we need.

As I read Jeremiah I think that God seems to have turned His back on our country, just as He turned His back on Judah. For my children's sakes, I plead like Abraham, asking God to spare us for the sake of even ten righteous men.

WWGWD?

What Would George Washington Do?

I don't think he'd push for government run health care. Or Cash for Clunkers.

Maybe this will help you to feel a little better about our current congress.

"From the least to the greatest,
all are greedy for gain;
prophets and priests alike,
all practice deceit.
They dress the wound of my people
as though it were not serious.
'Peace, peace,' they say,
when there is no peace.
Are they ashamed of their loathsome conduct?
No, they have no shame at all'
they do not even know how to blush.
So they will fall among the fallen;
they will be brought down when I punish them."

Jeremiah 6: 13-15 NIV

Chant and Time

I'm listening to "How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place" from the German Requiem by Johannes Brahms (1833-1897). It nearly moves me to uncontrollable tears each time I hear it, so beautiful is the writing. So, while I wouldn't want a diet of only Gregorian Chant, I do enjoy listening to the sisters of the abbey sing.

This excerpt from Music of Silence helps me understand why. Author David Steindl-Rast, a Benedictine monk, strives to show how to "incorporate the sacred meaning of monastic life into our everyday lives."

Saturated with information but often bereft of meaning, we feel caught in a never-ending swirl of duties and demands, things to finish, things to put right. Yet as we dart anxiously from one activity to the next, we sense that there is more to life than our worldly agendas.

Our uneasiness and our frantic scrambling are caused by our distorted sense of time, which seems to be continually running out. Western culture reinforces this misconception of time as a limited commodity: We are always meeting deadlines; we are always short on time, we are always running out of time.

Chant music, on the other hand, evokes a different relationship to time, one in which time, while precious, isn't scarce. The pure, serene, yet soaring sounds of the chant remind us that there is another way to live in this noisy, distracted world, and this way is not as out of reach as it might seem.

Blog to Try

My husband stumbled onto this blog. I haven't read much, but a quick perusal looks interesting. You may want to try it, too.

Theology in Verse

(This picture of the church doors comes from the blog.)

Hay and Humbleness

"Monks, like those who farm or fish according to seasons and tides, are especially attuned to the language nature speaks, and they tend to have a healthy and realistic humility regarding their own control over the events of life."
Kathleen Norris

I was walking down the 3/4 mile road from the retreatants' house to the Abbey Chapel and there they were. Two hay bales on the road, with remnants of a third in the ditch. A closer inspection showed tractor marks in the gravel road, at angles that made it appear someone had tried turning around on the road.

The bales had not been there when we walked back from Sext (Midday Prayer). But they were there a few hours later, and there they stayed until at least mid-morning the next day.

When I first saw them, along with the road sign "SLOW DOWN," I thought of a funny caption. "Yes, even nuns make mistakes." But, at Vespers (Evening Prayer), I watched the sisters diligently chanting the Psalms, and thought of how at least one of the nuns in front of me knew about the hay in the road, and knew the bales needed to be moved. I scanned the nuns on each side of the chapel, each one looking as calm as the next. The sister who was responsible for moving the bales didn't skip Vespers to work on the hay. She knew that it would get done in due time. Her job now was to worship God. She had a "healthy and realistic humility" regarding her control over the events in her life.

That's one of the lessons I am always reminded of at the Abbey: slow down and keep your priorities in order. Don't put off praising God because of the errant hay bales of life.

Dewy-Feather'd Sleep

Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep.

John Milton (1608-1674)
from Il Penseroso

While preparing dinner in the kitchen, I heard a buzzing that was loud enough to be detected, despite the radio playing. The buzzing was insistent enough to make me peek through the blinds, which were drawn to keep the sun's afternoon heat at bay.

Was it a wasp or a bee? I silently planned to check on it later. Dinner seemed the more important thing to attend to at the moment.

Later didn't come soon enough.

The next morning, I spied the forgotten bee on the window sill. Well, not actually on the window sill. That would have been more poetic. Instead, she was in the metal track in which the window slides. She had spent her last moments of life valiantly trying to return to the hive with her hard-won sustenance. I couldn't bear to see her there. A life all used up, without getting to return home. So I took her outside and lay her in a bed of golden flower petals. This seemed a more fitting resting place for one so driven to obey God's command for her life.

How often have I hurridly dismissed someone's plea for help, and thought, "Later..."?
Lord, help me to be mindful of hurts, burdens, and pleas.

"My Shepherd Is the Lord My God"

An unknown writer paraphrased Psalm 23 into a rhyming poem, suitable for singing. These words were put to the music of English composer, Thomas Tallis (1505-1585). Tallis, a church organist, com­posed Ro­man Ca­tho­lic li­tur­gic­al works in La­tin. Although he re­mained a Ca­tho­lic, Tallis composed music for the Anglican church, as well. He was one of the first com­pos­ers of Anglican sa­cred mu­sic to write in Eng­lish.

My Shepherd Is the Lord My God

My Shepherd is the Lord my God;
What can I want beside?
He leads me where green pastures are,
And where cool waters hide.

He will refresh my soul again,
When I am faint and sore,
And guide my step for His Name’s sake,
In right paths evermore.

Though I should walk the vale of death,
I should not know a fear.
Thy rod and staff they comfort me:
Thou, Lord, art ever near.

A table Thou hast spread for me
In presence of my foes;
Thou dost anoint my head with oil,
My cup, Lord, overflows.

Thy goodness and Thy mercy, Lord,
Will surely follow me,
And in Thy house forevermore
My dwelling place shall be.

(The link above will take you to the melody, as well as the printed words. I am unable to locate a source for the painting of Tallis, above. Variations of this painting seems to be the only rendering we have of him. It appears that the painting was modeled after an etching of Tallis.)

Motes and Beams

Excerpts from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas a Kempis
Book 1 Chapter 14
On Avoiding Rash Judgment

In judging others a man laboureth in vain;
he often erreth, and easily falleth into sin;
but in judging and examining himself
he always laboureth to good purpose.

"Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye
and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?"
Matthew 7:3 (NIV)

"And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye,
but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?"
Matthew 7:3 (KJV)

The King James version likens our sin to a beam, not merely a plank. I picture a lodgepole pine tree; not some puny 2" X 4" board.

We have a tree trunk in our eye! Several, actually. And we love to fret and complain about the speck in our brother's eye.

Dear Lord, help me not to unfairly judge others. Help me not to grumble in my mind over little petty things whilst ignoring my own faults.

(Photo taken by my son on the Texas Gulf coast. Notice that you can see lots of beams, but nary a mote.)