Now Playing: Arcangelo Corelli, "Concerto grosso in G Major, Op. 6, No. 8, 'fatto per la notte di Natale'." (Thank you Aunt Lisa and Uncle Kirk!)

The holidays always present one with a long list of things to be accomplished. I found myself at last coming to the end of my list today. I woke up this morning deliciously rested. I showered and was downstairs just in time to hop in the car with my mother and Stephen, who were driving out to visit my grandmother. We picked up a sack of books for her at the library on our way to her house. We stayed at her house until about eleven o'clock. Stephen and I got her humidifier working while she and my mother chatted away. Ross had posted my grandmother a box of chocolate chocolate chip cookies, and she shared them with Stephen and me while my mother worked on finishing a basket.

Back at home, I attempted to sew a fabric cover for my Bible. It didn't go too well. We ate lunch when Laura came back from MTC, watching a little bit of Prince Caspian while we ate, and after we finished eating, I went back to my sewing. That didn't last long, though. I finally gave up and went upstairs.

At three o'clock, I drove out to the Aspen coffee shop in Fountain Square mall, on the west side of town, to meet Pastor and Mrs. Parnell, Sarah, and Elizabeth. The afternoon was glorious, one of those midwinter days given as a sudden gift: clear skies, warm sunshine, still air, a haze hanging over the pale and brown fields. Mary and Will were sitting at a separate table, reading respectively a comic book and a Redwall book. I joined Pastor and Mrs. P, Sarah, and Elizabeth at their table.

The sunshine was hot and low through the western windows when we said good-bye.

The Parnells went home, but Elizabeth, Sarah, and I decided to go for a walk. We walked fast, down the sidewalk along the road, under the bridge, and up the other side, along the bridge, and back along the narrow winding street that branches off the main road. We walked down to the park at the end of the street, and beyond the park into the woods. Huge tall pecan trees reared overhead, long branches like coral fronds patterning the sky. We scrambled down the soft red embankment into the gully where the creek runs. The winter has been dry, so although the banks were muddy, the creek itself was low. We walked along the bank, our feet sliding in the deep loam and scuffing through drifts of silver leaves. We threw big branches into the water to see how deep it was. I saw a hawk flying away through the trees. A woodpecker shouted at us from a tree high up on the bank above. We stopped by mutual consent at the foot of a big pecan tree with its roots protruding from the red soil, and our conversation died away.

Silence. We must have stood together without speaking for quite awhile. An airplane buzzed through the sky, invisible, and its noise died away. It was evening. To our right, down the creek, the sunshine slanted through a gap in the west bank, glowing rich gold on the facing bank. The pecan trees reared overhead, patterning every part of the still blue sky. The light was ruddy on their trunks, and still sky and still trees and golden earth were reflected perfectly in the water. Tiny winds that none of us could feel ruffled the still face of the creek, endless variation and vibration of overhanging trees, grey and gold and pale blue sky stretching away into amber water, the pale white moon behind the pecan trees reflected opalescent behind the branches in the water.

Someone slipped, or someone coughed or stirred, and we laughed and turned and scrambled up the bank again, talking as we ran through deep drifts of dead white winter grass. The hawk soared ahead of us over the evening sky. Low in the west bars of cloud, grey on top, were being burned orange and gold below. We walked back along the bridge, under the road, and along the road on the other side, laughing about old age. Flocks of geese flew overhead, undulating against the sky, lilting bronze and gold wings.

I drove Elizabeth home. Ben and Greg were bouncing on the trampoline in the Fishers' back yard. I drove home listening to the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe soundtrack. The sunset was beautiful, aquamarine sky behind still trees. When I got home, my father was just coming outside to search The Tank for Philip's missing keys. I stood quietly, watching the sky while he looked. The sky was even quieter blue, Jupiter bright white in the west and the moon bright white overhead, with that peculiar pale winter clearness.

Inside, Bridget and Laura were practicing "What Child Is This", Bridget trying to learn it on her harp while Laura picked out the chords on the piano. Bridget ate tea with us. Chili tonight. After tea, at seven o'clock, Philip, Laura, Stephen, and I drove down to the Parnells' house for college Bible study. When we reached the Parnells' house, we found the street outside their house all parked up. Inside, everyone was just finishing tea. A lot of people had come: Jonathan and Logan, the Darnabys, the Spitler girls except Susannah, Elizabeth, Anna. The study tonight was from the Spiritual Disciplines book that the team to Airdrie always does, tonight the chapter on silence and solitude.

After the study, I went over to talk to Leah. Elizabeth joined Leah and me. We talked about traveling, about silly things we'd done as kids, about our siblings, about Dinah and Donald, the Darnabys' kids. Chat, chat, chat. Said good-bye to Anna when she left for work at nine; said good-bye to Sarah when her sisters pulled her away. Elizabeth complained about having to drive home in the big van all by herself, so Laura and I happily hopped in with her, and she drove the two of us back to our house on her way home. The streets were so empty that she joked about driving on the left side and not using her blinker--I told her about the time when Emmaline and I were driving back to Coleraine after our LOTR marathon and Emmaline had decided to drive on the right side of the road to see if it made me feel more at home...! Elizabeth laughed and laughed at me.

The house was quiet, everyone having left already. My mother was writing e-mails in the study with Sandy curled up on her lap. Philip, Laura, and I said good-night to her. I went up to my room to write this entry. Laura popped in to say good-night and to inform me, as she does every night, with a high-pitched giggle, that bedbugs are real. She seems to derive a great deal of delight from imparting this knowledge to me.

Listening to Corelli. I somehow never get tired of this music. Baroque music is, I suppose, far more enjoyable for the musician playing it than for the audience in most cases. Romantic stuff is more interesting to the audience, plenty of emotion and drama, perfect for crowd-pleasing. But Baroque music, particularly Vivaldi and Corelli, has such joi de vivre, and then of course Bach with the endless variations that draw the listener further and further into a world of complex interlocking harmonies. This is nearly the last track of the CD I have, though, so I shall be away to sleep soon.