Why I practice Lent

Today is the first day in the Lenten season, called Ash Wednesday. My denomination doesn't officially observe this this sacrament, but some members of my church do, and so do I. I don't remember when I first started doing this. I do remember a conversation with my mother about religious rituals, which ended by her saying, "You can observe it if you want, on your own." So I do.

I want to make it clear that this ritual is a personal choice, and not a requirement. Paul said, in Romans 14: "5 One person considers one day more sacred than another; another considers every day alike. Each of them should be fully convinced in their own mind. 6 Whoever regards one day as special does so to the Lord. Whoever eats meat does so to the Lord, for they give thanks to God; and whoever abstains does so to the Lord and gives thanks to God. 7 For none of us lives for ourselves alone, and none of us dies for ourselves alone. 8 If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord. 9 For this very reason, Christ died and returned to life so that he might be the Lord of both the dead and the living.
10 You, then, why do you judge your brother or sister? Or why do you treat them with contempt? For we will all stand before God’s judgment seat. 11 It is written:

“‘As surely as I live,’ says the Lord,

‘every knee will bow before me;
    every tongue will acknowledge God.’”

12 So then, each of us will give an account of ourselves to God.

13 Therefore let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister. 14 I am convinced, being fully persuaded in the Lord Jesus, that nothing is unclean in itself. But if anyone regards something as unclean, then for that person it is unclean. 15 If your brother or sister is distressed because of what you eat, you are no longer acting in love. Do not by your eating destroy someone for whom Christ died. 16 Therefore do not let what you know is good be spoken of as evil. 17 For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit, 18 because anyone who serves Christ in this way is pleasing to God and receives human approval.
19 Let us therefore make every effort to do what leads to peace and to mutual edification. 20 Do not destroy the work of God for the sake of food. All food is clean, but it is wrong for a person to eat anything that causes someone else to stumble. 21 It is better not to eat meat or drink wine or to do anything else that will cause your brother or sister to fall.
22 So whatever you believe about these things keep between yourself and God. Blessed is the one who does not condemnhimself by what he approves. 23 But whoever has doubts is condemned if they eat, because their eating is not from faith; and everything that does not come from faith is sin.

Previously in chapter 12, Paul adjures, "1 Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God--this is your spiritual act of worship. 2  Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is--his good, pleasing, and perfect will. 3 For by the grace given me I say to everyone of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgement, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you." 

So. What do these huge passages of Scripture have to do with Lent, an old and, some would say, out-dated relic of ritualism? For me it has to do with a line from Lewis' The Last Battle: "Further up and further in!" My goal is to be near to the heart of God, as He is near to me. And He has made it clear to me that the way up begins with what Nouwen called "the descending road." If I seek His heart, I must first lay my life at His feet. If I seek His praise, I must be open to His discipline. If I desire to be called by His name, I must drink His cup. So once a year, for 46 days, I humble myself, apply some self-discipline, and make a concerted effort to be His servant, so that I may be called His daughter. Jesus fasted once for forty days and forty nights. What's it to me if He asks me to give up one thing for forty-six days a year?

Girl's Best Friend

I lost my dog yesterday. She was 18 and lived a long life, and she was my best friend. I wrote this poem a couple of weeks ago about her.

Girl's Best Friend

I miss the heavy electricity
of your body against my knees,
the way your heart goes "tha-thrum"
and mine sings "ba-bum!"

Mom says it's hard to watch you go "downhill,"
but what she means is that it's hard to watch you die.

First you couldn't come downstairs to sleep with me,
so I came up and slept by you.
Then you couldn't sit with me on the couch,
so I come down to the floor to sit with you.
Now your feeble legs are unsteady,
and I think you've lost weight on purpose
because they wouldn't support you anymore.
You weave from side to side.
You don't answer when you're called
and I feel so selfish for making you
live in this terrifying darkness.

But all I have done this year is grieve
and the world seems so harsh
when I think about it without you in it.
No one wagging at me, or meeting me at the door.
No fur to cry into, no doggie kisses anymore.
But this is the world I must get used to
because I don't want you to hurt anymore.

Cookie Monster: Origins

Long ago, in a galaxy far far away, there was a cookie-loving zombie alien. One day, he ate all the cookies in his solar system. (Teenagers, what can I say?) So he asked his mom where he could get more. "There are a whole bunch on Earth," she said. "But you have to have their money to get them, and you can get their money by getting a job."
"Okay, cool. See you this afternoonllenium." So he borrowed the spaceship (bet he didn't return it with a full gas tank, the punk) and came to Earth. He landed in New York City. The people had delicious-looking brains, but they were puny. The cookies, on the other hand, were ginormous compared to the ones he was used to. He really really wanted some.
He saw a sign outside a cookie store that said, "Help wanted: Monster needed for children's TV show."
So he went inside and asked what he had to do. When he found out all he had to do was eat cookies as fast and messily as possible, and sometimes sing, he signed on the dotted line immediately. When he was done for the day, he called his mom (and used up all the roaming-galaxy minutes). "Mom!" he said excitedly. "I got a job - and all I have to do is eat cookies!"
"That's great, Alistair," she said. "Who are you with, what are you doing after work, and when are you bringing my ship back?! I have a meeting next millennium and I can't be late!"
"All right, all right. Let me just work a couple more years and I'll be home."
"Fine, but you have to finish your schoolwork when you get back," his mom said.
So Alistair Cookie Monster continued to live on Earth and eat cookies instead of brains, because they're really more delicious anyways.

Spring and Fall

 by Gerard Manley Hopkins

 to a young child

Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Click on this to view the site where I copied the poem

Having experienced a different kind of loss recently, I find myself just as sad over something just as trivial as falling leaves. There is a physical sensation of dry mouth and choking, as though I had inhaled a cloud of dust. But the emotions are what define grief: denial, anger, bargaining, sadness, acceptance. I recently lost my full-time job, through no fault except corporate greed, and since I knew there was no talking my way out of this one, I seem to have skipped the bargaining stage. The most difficult part has not necessarily been dealing with reality, since my reality appears to be improving as a result. The most difficult part has been answering the same concerned questions over and over and over, ad nauseum. I don't mind answering those people whom I know actually care, but even their queries still exhaust me. What are you going to do? Where are you working now? Or the worst, from complete strangers: Are you losing your job? Though there were clear signs all over the store stating that we were closing and this was a liquidation sale. Keeping patience and gracefully answering were at times mutually exclusive. I finally just started telling the strange public, "I'm sorry, I don't feel comfortable discussing my personal life with people I don't know." The etiquette of privacy seems to have been lost somewhere in the technological evolution of a cell phone in every hand and a Facebook profile of every person. Only a quiet rage against the injustice of it all has allowed me to bare my heart here. Before I sink back into my relative, comfortable anonymity, let me just say this to those of you who really care: a hug speaks a thousand appropriate words, and I will never turn one down.

A video about 29 for the 29th of February! This song cracks me up. And Marc Cohn is a fabulous singer. Enjoy!

I Sing the Poet American: Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes and the Harlem Renaissance

James Mercer Langston Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri, in 1902.  He acquired his interest in literature mainly from his grandmother, who introduced him to people like Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, and took him to hear Booker T. Washington.  As a boy, Langston's favorite book was The Souls of Black Folk, by W.E.B. Du Bois.

Hughes attended high school at Central High in Cleveland, where he studied and read many works from various black authors, including Paul Lawrence Dunbar and Carl Sandburg.  After high school, on his way to south to visit his father, Hughes wrote "The Negro Speaks of Rivers," which was printed in The Crisis in 1921.

Langston Hughes first entered Harlem attending Columbia University.  After only a few weeks in Harlem, the sights, sounds, dance, music, and intellectual life of the people around him inspired Langston in everything he wanted to do with his life.  In fact, he eventually quit school to write more.  Hughes's poetry absorbed the rhythms of blues and jazz and the dialect of African American speech he heard around him.  His works continued to become a big success, especially in The Crisis.

After only one year at Colombia, Hughes decided to leave.  He did not want to become a mining engineer, as his father had wished, and felt that he was cheating his father out of money.  So he got a job on a ship, and once he realized it wasn=t going anywhere, he left and got another job on a ship sailing for Africa.  He didn=t stay there long, having been rejected by the Africans. This incident hurt him deeply, and he said, A[Africa] was the only place in the world where I=ve been called a white man.  They looked at my copper-brown skin and straight black hair,...except a little curlyCand they said: >YouCwhite man.=@ He left soon after and went to home to New York.  For a few days Hughes enjoyed rare time spent with his family, and then the sea began to call again.  He was hired on a freighter making regular runs between New York and Holland.  He quit the ship at Rotterdam and fulfilled a wish to see Paris.  Desperate for money, he got a job at a nightclub as a busboy, but didn=t like it much because he was expected to break up fights, of which there were many, as it turned out that it mostly served ladies of the night and their patrons, and there was a lot of professional jealousy.  Hughes found another job as a waiter, and continued writing poetry.  The next spring he met a young lady named Anne(alias Mary) Coussey, and quickly fell in love.  But her father, believing that she was considering marriage, cut off her allowance and demanded her return to London.  Later that summer, he went on to Italy, where he wrote and published through Alain Locke the renowned AI, Too.@ 

In November he went home to New York on a ship that allowed him passage as a workaway without pay. When the ship docked, he had twenty-five cents.  He took the subway to Harlem.

The Harlem that Hughes loved was an exciting place.  During the Renaissance, intellectual dialogue, literary and artistic creation, blues and jazz, dance and musical theater came together and flowered as never before.  There were all black musicals, dance clubs, jazz clubs, and night clubs catered to the whites.

The end of the Harlem Renaissance came as a very unpleasant surprise to some, but not to Hughes.  "I was there," he would later write of Harlem during the Renaissance.  After the end of the Renaissance, Hughes went on to publish dozens of poems, several novels, two volumes of autobiography, and several volumes of nonfiction for young people.  Through his simple stories, Hughes revealed his own great sense of humor and proved by example that one reason that black people have survived so long is their ability to

laugh.  Langston Hughes had a large impact on the Harlem Renaissance, and many black writers today honor his name with deep respect. He forever established free verse as a major part of poetry.  Langston Hughes died in Harlem in 1967.

                                                                         I, Too

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I=ll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody=ll dare

Say to me,

AEat in the kitchen,@

Then.

Besides,

They=ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamedB

I, too, am America.

                                                   The Poetry of Langston Hughes

Much of Hughes= poetry is concerned with black poeple and being black.  As a black man, he was well aware of the exclusion of his race from the American dream. This poem illustrates his hope of the elimination of Jim Crow laws.  Throughout his life, Hughes expressed distaste for these laws, and wouldn=t attend places that had them.  For example, never once did he set foot in the renowned Cotton Club.  He refused to be put on display for whites, blacks, or any other color.  He said, AWe younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame.  If white people are pleased we are glad.  If they are not, it doesn=t matter...If colored people are pleased we are glad.  If they are not, their displeasure doesn=t matter either.@

This poem is of the obvious influence of Walt Whitman, who, unlike Hughes, celebrated the individual rather than a group or race. Hughes greatly admired Whitman, and once wrote his friend Walter White, AI=ve been invited to read my poems a Walt Whitman=s House in Camden on March 1^st.  Invitation came from Walt Whitman Foundation, and because I admire his work so much it seems a great honor for me to read my humble poems in the house where he lived and worked....@

                                                                   Bibliography

1.                  Caroling Dusk. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1927. Countee Cullen.

2.                  Faith Berry. Langston Hughes: Before and Beyond Harlem. New Jersey: Wing Books, 1992.

3.                  Raymond Smith, Arnold Rampersad. Langston Hughes: Modern Critical Views.  New York: Chelsea House Publishers, 1989. Harold Bloom.

A Sestina

I wrote this when I was 16. Find out how to write a sestina here and read another one here.

Child of Woe

by Grace

A Tuesday's child followed a mountain

up a strong hill and down the next butterfly.

Her Wednesday sister hears the birds

and her tears begin to fall to the stars.

She is remembering the dear Sunday's flower

that melted last week during Thursday's rain.

Monday's butterfly died in the rain

and the Wednesday sister cries up the mountain.

The Tuesday's child has grown a flower,

and Sunday's angel sees a butterfly.

Can Friday's daughter lift them to the stars

 so the poor Wednesday sister hears the birds?

The stars can't hear Tuesday's birds,

So on Wednesday there will come soft rains.

Friday's daughter wants to love the stars,

but can't forgive them for burning her mountain.

So Tuesday's uncle comforts the wee butterfly

and from her tears of healing grows a flower.

But the daughter doesn't believe that the uncle's flower

will stay with her forever.  So while the caged bird sings,

The robin outside will love the butterfly.

And even though Tuesday's child never saw the rain,

Softly will tomorrow come to climb her mountain.

Then, freely, we see Orion's belt among the stars.

Yet Wednesday's sister will not see the stars.

And tho' her father brings her many flowers,

all the love in the world cannot move the mountain

of her sorrow, and she no longer hears the birds.

Gently on the roof, the drumming of the rain

lulls us to sleep while we dream of butterflies.

But while we dream, the butterfly

is lightly borne on the wind to the stars.

Even little Wednesday is quiet in the rain

so that Sunday's angel may, too, grow a flower

and see the sun rise while hearing the birds

sing, for it is, after all, Tuesday's mountain.

So up the mountain the butterfly twirls,

while the birds sing out to the stars

and Wednesday's flower blooms in the soft rains.

A Po-em

Cemetery

Names in stone, like ducks in a row

only here does time pass so slow

almost touching death, but I feel no fear

time

passes slowly here

I dream of a garden with roses so red

and thoughts of lemon drops dance in my head.

Walking swiftly on a path so brief

in this garden, you’re only a leaf

stately oaks and tall, grand pines

are what adorn the garden of my mind

can you say you were worth your leaf,

walking swiftly on a path very brief

names in stone

my ducks in a row

everywhere, time passes slow

touching death, everywhen, fear

time passes quickly

 here

I was worth my leaf–

were you worth yours?

Or would you like to rewind
 Time?

Headphones

This music video always cheers me up when I'm down. I like the happy tones, the bright colors, and Britt Nicole's encouraging smile. And her sparkly headphones!

What's your favorite music video? Post a link!

Catty or What Happens When A Witch Gives A Dragon A Cold

This is a monologue that I wrote for a playwriting class in college. Enjoy.

A dragon, looking weary, makes its way up a mountain. It stops half-way up and a grinning princess appears. She helps it into the cave and puts it to bed. The dragon says, with a stuffed nose, AStob laughig at be! I can burn you idto a crisby brincess, you kdow.@ It hacks up a hairball. AOkay, so I=b still a liddle sick.@ The dragon sniffs. AId=s dot by fault dat damned witch was stobbed id the middle of the bloody road. Those stupid broobs should be made of somethig less flabbable thad wood, especiallyB@its tone becomes snobbyB Aif they thik they should be able to share the air with the fire-breathers. Idiot witch brigade. More like bitch brigade, if you ask be. Those silly diddies are worse thad you air-headed bridcesses. All that ridiculous magic, and cauldrods, and brewig - id=s doe wonder the forest is such a bess these days. Thigs were bedder back whed Barion the Fierce was id charge of thigs. And thed that dummy George had to go and slay him - made a regular bess of it, too. Now there=s talk of cadodizing the bastard. I never heard a more hare-braid idea id by life!@ The dragon has gotten worked up; it tries to blow fire on a coat rack and meows with smoke instead. It sneezes again; fluff comes out of its nostrils and the princess giggles loudly. AShud ub! Or I=ll scratch you. I haven=t lost by claws, thak Zeus. Hadd me a tissue. Thaks.

ADard, I wish we had some chamomile tea. Be a dear for once and get me some. And watch out for the hairballs id the trash; I=b not sure if I=b contagious or dot. I hate these stupid cat-colds. It=s worse than the flu. First your dose gets stuffy, and you start blowing out fluff. Then you get the cough, and hack up hairballs. If it gets really bad, you can=t even breathe fire - you meow and smoke. Dabn the witch that idvedted this stupid magic cold!

ABut the witch that gave me this? I got her back. When she gets home, she=ll find a little boy and girl at her house, and she=ll try to lock up the boy, but the girl will push her idto the oven, and she=ll burd up. Took me forever to convince them that she couldn=t eat human children. She=s a candy-witch; she can only eat sugar. But no, those silly things were sure that they would be there for dinner.@ The dragon sneezes; the princess hands it tea. AThak you dear. Oh, I got you that frog you wanted. It=s id the black chest next to the golden goblet and scarab beetle. I got them from the oddest man - he had a towel on his head. Tasted kinda sandy. Said his name was somethig like >Aladdid,= but those foreigners - one can never be sure one is prodoudcig it right. You just wait, someday those towel-headed creatures are going to cause trouble. Babbling about >Allah= and >jihad= B sounds like a good excuse for a war. >Towel= starts with >T= and that stands for >trouble.=

The dragon has finished its tea. AI=b goig to go lie down, dear. Take good care of your frog, I don=t want himb to catch by cold. These magic enchantments tend to bind to one another. You don=t want a prince who meows, do you? The princess shakes her head Ano.@

AG=night, dear. Don=t scare him too badly.@ The dragon lays down to sleep, and the princess blows out a few candles and leaves the room in darkness.

The Rainbow Connection

 I think rainbows are completely amazing. Maybe it's because they're so rare (I haven't seen one in quite some time) or because there aren't many places in nature where all the colors of the spectrum converge, I just think they're precious somehow. Maybe that's where the legend of the pot 'o' gold came from. Or because it's the only time in history that God used a recurring natural phenomenon to sign, as it were, His covenant with humanity. We shall never be wiped out again by a flood. Want to read the story of the rainbow covenant?

I love that story. God did what He had to do to satisfy justice, and the He put a promise in the sky. It's a promise to find another way to bring holiness to the world, to provide a way for His people to dwell with Him in righteousness. I believe that the rainbow was a promise of the cross, and now it  is a reminder of the cross. God so loved the world that rather than give them over to their sinful desires, He sent His only begotton Son that whosoever believed in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.

Did you know that a complete rainbow is a circle? It never ends. And almost every civilization in recorded history has had a flood story in their religion. This covenant is for everyone, just like the covenant of the cross.

Here's some more information about rainbows, if you're interested. Have you seen a rainbow lately?

When Peace Like a River...

"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." --John 14:27, KJV

This is my absolute favorite Bible verse of all time! I first heard it in this version during a Luci Swindoll talk. And she said it with such a soothing tone that I can still hear it in my head whenever I'm upset.

What's your favorite Bible verse?

Grace's Book of Necessary Quotations

"Never say 'bad' when you could say 'potentially dangerous.'" -Grace, after Hope changed "bad" to "potentially dangerous"

"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." -J.R.R. Tolkien

"Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule." -Stephen King

"Faith, you do look like Cinderella. It's a little creepy." -Grace

"I never saw a purple cow, I hope I never do." -Tory

"I can't live without my Budweiser." -Grandma

"Hey dog, whatcha doin? Dog stuff? Okay, cool." -Steven

"Nobody loves you. Go back to bed." -Me, to the dog

*Hope does something uncouth at dinner*
Mom: "I hope you have better manners than that when you have children." *Mom dips a finger in the butter and licks it off.*

Grace to Nana, on Mom's uncouth behavior: "Did you not teach her any manners, or did they just not stick?"
Nana: "She came like that."

"Once there was a magical elf who lived in a rainbow tree/ He lived downstairs from a flatulent dwarf who constantly had to pee/ One day the elf could take no more/ so he went to bang on the rude dwarf's door/ and what do you know, they suddenly both were marrrrried." --"Elliot"

"The giraffes taste the same as the elephants. That's messed up." --"Boog"

"Not only does beauty fade, but it leaves a record on the face as to what became of it." --Elbert Hubbard

"That's not even real water! It's Star-2-O!" --Sam

*Gracie is distracted by a shiny jewelry department*
Darlene: "You're like a racoon!"

"Never go to bed angry. Stay up and plot your revenge." --seen somewhere

"What happens in the basement, stays in the basement. ...That sounded really bad." -Faith

"In some things it is better to receive than give. Massage is one of them." - Al Michaels

"WD-40 and duct tape are the only tools you need in life. If it's not loose and should be, use the WD-40. If it's loose and shouldn't be, use the duct tape." -seen somewhere

"We have ... a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man.... It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us—but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above."
--Edgar Allan Poe

Grace: You're eating ketchup with your late stew? Were you raised by wolves?
Tory: I don't know, is Daddy a wolf?
Hope: Well, he does have a lot of facial hair.

"There's no such thing as natural beauty." - Steel Magnolias

Faith: I want to watch an exciting movie. Daredevil, Star Wars, Batman Begins,  um....
Mom: How about Mary Poppins?

"The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. " -Mark Twain

"The ability to quote is a serviceable substitute for wit." --Somerset Maugham

Off the Cuff

How many times have you said, "Once upon a time..." and made up a story right then? I enjoy doing this occasionally. The result is often silly, usually to make a point, and always ends with the room exploding with laughter. My most recent creation:

"Once upon another time, there were children in Ethiopia who were starving because there was a war in their country. So the mothers in the United States threatened to send their children's dinners and desserts to the children in Ethiopia if their children refused to eat. Because of course you know that what the children in Ethiopia needed was dessert."

The finicky eater who was forced to be the audience of this story was my youngest sister, Tory. She was refusing to eat a slice of potato out of the Yankee Pot Roast our mother had made. For God only knows what reason, she decided that the potatoes were icky. After the story, she ate half of it.

So, spontaneously combusted stories. Discuss.

Inaugural Address

My name is Grace. I am awfully glad I have not been elected President. Washington did a much better job than I ever would. His inaugural address is certainly better than mine would be. And while I'm sure that the position is stimulating, I am quite content with the pace of my own life.

Now let me introduce myself. I was born in 1983, my favorite color is blue, my favorite food is cookies, and my favorite crochet hook is the red Boye G/6 that my Nana taught me to crochet with. I have three younger sisters, Hope, Faith, and Victory. I have been a reader almost all my life and a writer almost as long. The first story I remember writing was at age 8 in third grade. It was about the family farm and had something to do with grasshoppers, as I had been impressed with the abundance of them when we visited the land. Not long before, my mother had read to Hope and I about Laura Ingalls Wilder's youth in On the Banks of Plum Creek. Laura's locusts were in my mind also.

The first book I remember reading by myself was an I Can Read book called Little Bear by Elsa Holmelund Minarik. I still savor the simplicity of children's literature, and the sweetness of the conversations that Little Bear had with Mother Bear. There is no wonder about why my first completed manuscript was a children's picture book. I am still trying to get an agent to sell that book, but while I wait, I write. And work. And read. And crochet.