The glories of classical music

For your listening — and viewing — enjoyment!

 

In the bleak midwinter

I “discovered” this hymn this Christmas season.  It became my new favorite.  The melody is lovely.  Enjoy.

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, 

In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

 

Our God, heav’n cannot hold him, nor earth sustain;

 Heav’n and earth shall welcome him when he comes to reign: 

In the bleak midwinter a stable-place sufficed

The Lord God incarnate, Jesus Christ.

 

Angels and archangels may have gather’d there,

Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;

But his mother only, in her maiden bliss,

Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

 

What can I give him, poor as I am? 

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

If I were a wise man, I would do my part;

Yet what I can I give him, give my heart.

 

It’s beginning to look a lot like. . .Advent?

I’ve noticed over the last several years that people in my hometown are eager to put up their holiday displays and lights early — so eager, in fact, that they barely get the Halloween lights and cobwebs down before the requisite red-and-green variety is up and flashing.  The inflated jack-o-lanterns are quickly replaced by inflated Nativities (eewww!), and the candy corn that once filled bowls is now surely replaced by those cheery red-and-green M&M’s.  (On a side note:  My first reaction to these premature displays is the question, “What happened to Thanksgiving?”, — I mean, can’t some enterprising manufacturer come up with an inflatable cornucopia? — but since this post is about Christmas, or more specifically Advent, I’ll leave that subject to another post, another day.) 

For the last few years, since we purposely drifted away from the evangelical church over to the liturgical/sacramental realm, we’ve been making a slow transition into following the liturgical calendar more consciously.  The easiest change initially was observing Lent; everybody knows about Lent!  That’s where you give up something (just for a while), right?  Sort of. . .

Approaching the Christmas holidays was somewhat different, however.  Let’s face it; while  the rest of the world is decorating, caroling, shopping, partying and baking, we lit/sac types are busy. . .with. . .uh, wait a minute. . .I’ll think of it.  Oh, yes, we’re busy with minor-key hymns and Advent readings, none of which has anything to do with sleighbells or reindeer or decking the halls or any of the other secular trappings that so symbolize today’s American Christmas.  Don’t get me wrong.  I like many of those trappings; they are cheery and happy and MERRY!  But just not now, not yet.

Advent observes not only the promise of the Messiah’s birth; it anticipates His second coming.  But it also mirrors that period of time BEFORE He came, a time of darkness in the world, a waiting for Light, for Salvation.  So the tone of Advent is not one of celebration, but of soberness, reflection, self-examination.  The lighting of first one candle in the Advent wreath, and the adding of subsequent candles, one each week leading up to Christmas Day, symbolize the growing anticipation of the Messiah’s appearance and the Light coming into the world.  And then, on that glorious Day of Christmas, the white candle is lighted, and the Celebration begins!   

Now, here I have to confess that, in the midst of the Advent season, my mind is also looking ahead to Christmas and the things I have to do to get myself and my family ready for those twelve days of celebration.  And I also confess that, by the end of the day, I’m spent and sometimes can hardly think of nothing else but climbing the stairs and falling into bed, let alone gathering everybody around the Advent wreath for a reading and our chosen “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”.  We fall short sometimes of our intended goal of a nightly reading (last night I consoled myself with the thought that we went to church in the morning, so we’ll pick up again tonight.)  Even (especially?) my failings teach me and reinforce the truth that it is God’s grace and mercy that save me, not my paltry efforts at religion.  Praise God that He is merciful and patient and that He loved me (us all!) enough to send His Son to be the Light of the world!  

      

 

Grace and Victory

And [the Lord] said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.”  Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may dwell in me.        (2 Corinthians 12:9)

For this perishable must put on the imperishable, and this mortal must put on immortality.  But when this perishable will have put on the imperishable, and this mortal will have put on immortality, then will come about the saying that is written, “Death is swallowed up in victory.  O Death, where is your victory?  O Death, where is your sting?”  The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law; but thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.       (1 Corinthians 15:53-57)

Eleven years ago today, we delivered a stillborn child (at 5 months gestation.)  As this year, it was the end of Thanksgiving weekend.  I  was aware on Friday of that weekend that I couldn’t remember feeling her move since the day before Thanksgiving.  At first I just brushed the thought of trouble away, blaming it on being too busy to notice.  But by Saturday morning, I was certain that something was terribly wrong, and a trip to the hospital and my doctor’s ultrasound test confirmed my fears.  Dr. Parnell handled the situation with tenderness and respect.  Soon after, I was admitted to the hospital and we began the process of inducing to deliver.

The next morning, Sunday, the baby was delivered, and Dr. Parnell gently laid her on my bed.  He explained that the umbilical cord had strangled her.  And then he showed us her left hand.  It wasn’t as fully-formed as the right, which led him to speculate about other more hidden problems.  This was not an attempt to present this event as a blessing of being spared the care and keeping of a less-than-perfect child; he was simply giving us the whole picture.  I’ve always appreciated his candor and respect.   He and the nurse left us with her for a while.  We both held her:  she was so small, barely past the length of my hand.  Then we parted with her, and I was taken to a room to recover and spend the night.  I went home the next day, not with a baby in my arms, but with a little blue satin-covered box which contained mementos of our experience.  It seemed odd and sad at the time, but a few times over the years, having that box has been a comfort.

Blessings abounded in the days and weeks that followed:  the goodness of family and friends, the support of church family, the generosity of people with real answers to material needs (a burial plot given to us by my dear Aunt Dorothy; a headstone given by my sister Amy) and the very real comfort of coming home that first day to children who, even at their young ages, somehow knew how to treat me and love me and need me (some credit here may go to Grandmommy, who took care of them during those days I was absent.)  I was very grateful for our littlest one, Bess, who was just barely two years of age.  What a comfort and a joy to hold her!

Because we believed (and still do believe) that an unborn child is fully human, created in the image of God, Brian and I knew that we needed to plan a funeral, and that we needed to name the baby.  Thinking of the verses above gave us her name:  Victoria Grace.  We’ve never shortened her name, as we did those of our other children.  We’ve always called her by the full appellation.  It seems necessary and right:  it says something about her short life here, about our response to her death, and most importantly, about God in the midst of it all.  His grace IS sufficient, and He has proven that to me many times over the years.  I look forward to meeting Victoria Grace someday, when and where there is NO death but only life eternal.

 

                                                                                                                             

 

27 years ago. . .

We sang the above duet (sung here by Placido Domingo & John Denver) at our wedding.

Friday, November 20th was my 27th wedding anniversary.  I played the organ for a wedding at our little church late in the afternoon, and then my husband, Brian, took me out to eat dinner.  That is a rare event — our celebrating our anniversary together — on the exact date.  With Brian’s seasonal job with the opera, he’s usually otherwise engaged either in rehearsal or performance.  The dinner was nice — it was at a local Italian place which we usually choose (when we can afford it!) for such an occasion.  But the most enjoyable thing about the entire evening was that we talked.  To some that may sound odd — but if you’ve been married for any significant length of time, you probably know what I’m talking about.  Life can encroach on a relationship:  you get busy with jobs, housework, kids, other people’s needs.  The distractions are too numerous to mention.  So when you do get time to sit down and really discuss things (past, present & future) you take notice.  And it was very satisfying and gratifying to think that, after all these years, after all the interruptions and delays, we can still talk.  And we actually like each other, and we enjoy each other’s company!  What an anniversary gift that was!

Happy Anniversary, Brian.  You have been a wonderful husband, lover and friend.  You still look at me as though I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, and in those instances, I AM the most beautiful woman in the world.  And I love you for that.  I love you for working so very hard all these years to provide for your family, and that you do it willingly and without grumbling (usually!)

As we toasted the other evening, here’s to 27 more!

Lisa

 

My apologies

To anyone who might be interested, please accept my apologies for the delay in continuing my “9/12 March” series. In mid-October, my entire family fell ill with the flu (swine-strain or not, we all felt a bit piggish!) I ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, and I find that it is taking more time than I expected to feel fully human again. I do want to finish my series — it was a wonderful experience. Please bear with me. . .

 

Day 3 (part 1): The march

O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties above the fruited plain!  America!  America!  God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.

O beautiful for pilgrim feet, whose stern, impassioned stress A thoroughfare for freedom beat across the wilderness!  America!  America!  God mend thine ev’ry flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law.

Second in a series on the 9/12 March on Washington, D.C. 

We awoke early on Saturday, September 12th, (in spite of extreme sleep deprivation) showered, dressed and hurried downstairs to catch breakfast before it was put away.  As is often the case with my family, we lingered too long over coffee (we were “viztin’ “), talking about our expectations of the day and the logistics of finding parking so that we could make it to Freedom Plaza to join the march.  Finally on the road to our destination, traffic proved to be frustratingly slow for our purposes, and there was a growing awareness that we were going to be late to the march.  Upon passing some road construction that we jokingly declared was a left-wing conspiracy to keep “the wrong people” out of D.C., speed picked up and we made it to the downtown area just about the time the march was to commence.  Amy dropped all of us off at the corner of 7th and Something; Ben hopped out, grabbed Grandmommy’s wheelchair from the back of the van and quickly began assembling (while I tried to help, all the while thinking, “Why didn’t we think of this earlier?”).  That done, we proceeded down 7th towards Pennsylvania Avenue as Amy drove away to look for parking. We’d agreed to stay in touch by cellphone to meet up with her along the way.

As we approached the moving crowd, which was walking with purpose but in no obvious hurry, I became aware of how quiet they all were.  Yes, there were people talking, very much like thousands of your closest friends and neighbors taking that daily morning walk.  There were the ”barkers” who’d planted themselves on the sidewalks left and right of the street; some marchers wore backpacks with portable PA systems in them, chanting their own grievances against the Obama administration or Congress.  As we moved toward the Capitol Building, I was keenly aware of the people around me, trying to take it all in.  Prior to the trip, I’d warned my kids that I wasn’t sure what we might witness in D.C., that we might see the gamut from normal, well-behaved people to real nuts who just like to be in the fray (no matter what “the fray” is about!)  But here we were, in the midst of smiling, genial folks, relatively quiet, all moving deliberately toward one purpose.  I was more than a little relieved and very excited to be there.  

There were the more enterprising ones, hawking their wares in the street–things like small U.S. flags; buttons and bumper stickers with various clever slogans; the ever-popular “Don’t Tread On Me” flags.  And there were others just handing out cards and flyers with websites of organizations and candidates for Congress who were “in the fight.”

All the time we were marching and listening and observing, we were very aware that Amy hadn’t caught up with us yet.  Several cell phone calls later, informing her that we just couldn’t wait at our appointed meeting place as well as giving her landmarks, she caught up with us.   

I paused along the way, just taking in the sights and sounds.  I took a few pictures (one of my favorites is my family in the middle of the street with marchers on either side and behind, with the Capitol in the distance.)  I thought of the people who, generations before, either by foot or horseback or carriage or Model T, had made their way up and down this historic avenue.  At times, it was more than a little surreal to be walking the same path.  And like those before us, we were sure of our purpose if not the outcome.

We finally reached the Capitol.  Well, when I say we reached it, I mean that we’d gone as far as we could–the crowd before us loomed large.  In the distance, we could hear that the rally was starting up.  Though there was a PA system in use, as well as a large screen, we couldn’t understand the speakers on the stage.  Our only clue usually that something was happening on stage was the wave of sound that would travel back through the crowd to us.

We all stood in line (for maybe 30-45 minutes?) to use the necessary, not knowing the next time we’d see one.  Bess, my 12-year-old, affectionately (& facetiously) dubbed the port-a-potties “potpourri,” vowing to never visit one again.  

There were blockades set up to control numbers going in and out of the Capitol grounds.  Making our way to the first one, we stood for a while to try to listen to the various speakers.  But I wanted to get closer, and I wasn’t satisfied with being relegated to the ”outskirts” of this event.  So I began to slowly move closer, closer until I caught up with Amy, who was doing the same.  We two, being the occasionally pushy people that we are, did a little exploring and found an opening through the temporary fence, where it seemed people were coming and going.  Making sure we had everybody in tow, we finally reached our destination–the Capitol proper.

Third installment, “Day 3 (part 2):  The rally,” coming soon. . .

     

 

Reflections on 9/12/09: A march to revolution

(l-r) Sam, Lisa, Kate, Bess, Amy, Mama & Ben in D.C. on 9/12/09

Just a week ago, my children and I were hurriedly making our way to all the memorials and monuments that we could before exhaustion caught up with us.  We’d spent that day participating in the 9/12 March on Washington, D.C., organized by such groups as FreedomWorks and the various tea parties across the country.  These are just some of my impressions of the trip, the event, the day and the place.

We started from home about 5:00 the morning of 9/10, excited about the trip and especially the march and rally scheduled for the 12th.  That first day was long and exhausting, with many restroom and coffee stops along the way (there were 7 of us!), until we finally pulled into our hotel in Knoxville, TN late on the night of the 10th.  We hauled our luggage to the second floor, three of us took showers and we fell into bed, thankful for a place to finally stretch our cramped legs. 

Morning came way too early; the other four of us showered, dressed, and we ran downstairs to the dining room to eat a decent breakfast before getting back on the road.  We’d made 2/3 of our trip the day before, so this day, the 11th, seemed a little more relaxed.  We finished our drive through Tennessee and got to beautiful Virginia.  Now I am a Texan through and through; I love my state and think that we have some beautiful and diverse landscape.  But since childhood, I’ve seen pictures of Virginia and thought it had to be one of the most beautiful places on earth.  Reality did not disappoint.  As we traveled northeast on Hwy. 81, with the Appalachians on the left and the Blue Ridge Mountains on the right, there were little communities tucked into valleys between small, green hills–frame houses and brick ones, the largest buildings usually being the white, steeple-crowned churches.  I began to notice that even the farmland seemed manicured, well-cared for, with barns and silos dotting the landscape.  As the sun was setting behind us, the passing scenes looked even more beautiful.  It was the stuff of picture postcards and calendars.

We finally reached Washington, D.C. around 8 p.m. the evening of the 11th.  My sister, Amy, who’d been to D.C. many years before, suggested we drive into the city to try to locate Freedom Plaza where the march would begin the next day.  We found our way to Constitution Avenue and quickly recognized the more familiar monuments:  the Washington and the Lincoln Memorial.  The reality of where we were and who had been there before us seemed to hit us all simultaneously, and the kids and I just let out a howl!  The strange dichotomy of our situation crossed my mind:  the protest against our present government that we’d come to take part in and the celebratory shouts that we’d reached this place where great men of vision, those who’d established our government, had once walked.  It was an amazing and memorable introduction to Washington.

Second installment coming. . .

 

Van Gogh: tortured soul, brilliant artist

Since my sixth grade year, when we had to learn about a select list of artists and their works, I have been drawn to the art of Vincent Van Gogh. I think I was fascinated that someone so sad, so lost could produce such beautiful images. And then, in my high school years, along came Don McLean with this haunting tribute to Van Gogh. Just wanted to share. . .

 

The Murder of a Killer

The Sunday morning shooting of abortionist George Tiller in Wichita, Kansas has sparked a new discussion of abortion, but for the wrong reasons. There are those who will shift the focus from the right-or-wrong of abortion to the unlawful killing of a doctor (who lawfully killed tens of thousands of babies.) I ran across this piece by Doug Phillips of  Vision Forum Ministries (see link below.)  I have nothing to disagree with concerning Mr. Phillips’ take on this event, and very little to add, except that the likes of Dr. Tiller seem chillingly similar to a certain “Angel of Death” at Auschwitz, whose “experiments” were state-sanctioned.  I don’t think it’s stretching things to believe that, at one point early in his life and career, Josef Mengele was interested in medicine that would help his people.  And I think it’s safe to say that one day he crossed a line, that he rationalized ”the end justified the means.”  Can any reasonable and sane person point to Mengele’s practices during WW II and say any of it was good?

http://www.visionforumministries.org/issues/life/george_tiller_is_dead_for_whom.aspx