Now Playing: Felix Mendelssohn, "Violin Concerto in E Minor - Allegro Appassionato - Andante."

The world this evening was really beautiful. Clear, cool skies, and the north breeze had died down so that the air was perfectly still. Scents hung on it. We walked down a long arcade under locust trees, their pendent white flowers heavy overhead, filling the air with scent. In the meadow above the lake, Indian paintbrush was coming up among blue-eyed grass, scarlet against vivid green and purple, like erupting fireworks.

Down the path by the lake, masses of honeysuckle were flowering under cottonwood trees. Their smell was purely sweet, naked, overpowering. A long water moccasin whipped out of the creek and up the bank as we crossed the bridge. In the meadow again, trumpet vine crowning sumac made the bushes blaze as red again as they were last fall.

Spring, this spring, has a beauty that attacks the mind. Beds and beds of purple and white irises bloomed in green dusk. A miniature Versailles, petals fountained from upright stems. The tops of the trees were still sunlit, yellow-green against pale blue sky, slashed with a male cardinal’s line of flight.

In these days I catch my breath when I remember that this world was made for us in Christ. Yes, for the glory of God. Yes, to display His creative power. But not without observers and participants. We talked last week about Psalm 8 and the incredible truth that God made the world as a home for us--He displays His glory here in a unique way, uniquely suited to be enjoyed and praised by humans.

I cannot believe that the beauty in this world is a product of evolution, that my visceral response to a green field full of flowers is a distilled form of some primordial grazing instinct. Humanity depends so much on our ability to create and appreciate art when we see it, and we see it every moment as we are surrounded by the greatest piece of performance art ever made.

Praise God that He is a God of pleasure, rhythm, beauty, fruitfulness, and peace.

Now Playing: Not much.

Top hits from last week:

Finished The Once and Future King by T.H. White. Delightful book. Looking behind the scenes, definitely postmodern, but it's a masterful retelling of Arthurian legend. Humorous but not too irreverent, poignant but not sentimental.

On Monday who should eat lunch at the restaurant where I work but Apollo Ohno! Of all people! Didn't recognize him until he was walking out, at which point I thought, "Hmm, I wonder where I've seen that guy before." Then a very excited customer scurried up to me at the register, agog because they'd gotten him to autograph a napkin.

We now have plants to go in the garden: zinnias, marigolds, bell peppers, banana peppers, basil, thornless blackberry, and something called a pincushion plant, maybe? It has blue flowers, anyway, and is a replacement for the bachelor's buttons that I'd set my heart on, but which apparently don't come as baby plants, only as seeds. It's quite pretty, but the garden will have to dry out some before we can plant anything.

Visited my grandmother on Saturday to talk about mysteries, quilting, and politics.

A possum ran across our back porch yesterday morning, which infuriated the cats, as one would imagine.

And now I've started Aeschylus's Oresteia, as a change of pace...!

Now Playing: Howard Shore, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers soundtrack, "The Black Gate Is Closed."

Yesterday evening I finished For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway. Up front: this piece of literature would be R-rated for those of you who don't like language, sex, and violence. Hemingway's use of the objectionable elements in his narrative isn't necessarily gratuitous, but it's not exactly a light read either.

Set in the Spanish Civil War in the 1900s, For Whom the Bell Tolls focuses not so much on war itself as on everyday life. However, although the war may not occupy the novel's foreground, its pressure forces into startling clarity the tiny details of human existence: smells, sounds, moods, tastes. The novel's characters live in an intensified reality, a reality that exacts every particle of their attention. One of the themes is perfectly summed up in Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress":

"Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life...."

Facing the transience of life due to the pressure of war, Hemingway's characters experience as much of life as they can, both pleasure and pain. Indeed, experience, not faith, is at the heart of the novel. In the final scenes, as two of the main characters say good-bye, the dialogue echoes that of John 17, where Christ prays that He will be in His disciples and they in Him. Hemingway reverses this prayer: the character promising an eternal presence with his beloved has been a liar throughout the novel.

Although the novel may be a critique of faith in some ways, in other ways it beautifully captures the transient pleasures of human existence. Hemingway's narrative style permits moments of intense narrative clarity and powerfully realistic depictions of changes in human emotion. At any given point in the novel, the characters function as a photographically accurate microcosm of humanity.

The startling accuracy of Hemingway's style, coupled with a poignant foreshortening of human life against the backdrop of war, make the book a worthwhile read.

Now Playing: Tenth Avenue North, "Love Is Here."

Normally I'd avoid this sort of post, but today was good enough that it could bear repeating. Background information: As of last night, I was certain that I'd be going to Michigan in September.

This morning I went to the gym for the first time in awhile. Since my membership runs out at the end of May, I've made a pact to go to the gym three times a week; we'll see if it happens. Not that I don't want to, but it's difficult to find the time. Today I listened to the second sermon on Ruth in a series by Pastor D, which finished with the idea that though our lives may appear to be tangled and confused now, soon we will look at them and see God's love clearly emerging from the mess.

It was a lovely morning, warm, sunny, with the promise of strong wind later in the day from the south. Exercise definitely helped morale. I went to work at half ten, and, in an odd coincidence, we had a very slow lunch rush--Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays are generally quite busy.

After work I had time to take a shower and was just toweling myself off when Sarah rang. She came over at about ten past three, and we drove my family's minivan down to the Ys' house. Sarah had the idea that we should volunteer to play aunt this afternoon so that Stephanie could have some time to herself.

Stephanie warned me that Raychel and Joseph were hyper because they'd heard we were coming, and she wasn't exaggerating. As we pulled up next to the kerb, we were greeted by two extremely enthusiastic children, jumping up and down and throwing maple seeds in the air. They dragged us into the back yard to see their "tree house" (under a juniper tree) while Stephanie got Renee up from her nap. Then it was sandals and sunscreen all round, and the kids piled into the minivan.

We drove over to Boomer Lake--just across the street, really, but "the street" happens to be a highway, and I didn't feel like trying to scamper across it with three small children. We went to the playground and spent most of our time there. Some thoughtful person had poured an empty concrete slab near the playground, so Raychel and Joseph drew with chalk, and I told Raychel part of her favorite story (involving a river of lemonade and chocolate bushes). Photos are here.

We kicked a soccer ball around, swung on the swings, and climbed on the playground equipment. Renee and Joseph climbed up the slide. Joseph wanted to walk to the bridge, so we walked over to the bridge and spent quite awhile watching the ducks. A couple of guys threw some bread into the water, and we watched the ducks eat. Joseph poked at spiderwebs with a toy. Raychel dropped her flip-flop into the lake by accident. Renee squealed whenever anyone walking a dog went past.

Then it was back to the playground for snacks: grapes and lemonade. The wind was so strong that it threatened to blow the cups away, even when they were full of liquid. The kids played on the playground. Renee decided that her favorite thing in the world was to go across the monkey bars with me holding her by the hips, then for me to roar at her in order to scare her into going down the slide. "Again! Again!" So it was again and again, and Raychel joined in the fun. The child has quite a squeal when roared at (upon request)!

Drenched in wind and sunshine, we drove back to the Ys house at about five o'clock. Somehow the kids had managed to keep all their energy, and Stephanie immediately had chaos on her hands all over again. We said good-bye and went back to my house. Sarah left. I changed clothes for going out to tea tonight: it's my grandmother's birthday.

My parents and I went out to my grandmother's house, picked her up, and drove her over to Freddie Paul's, a steakhouse on the east side of town. It was quite a pleasant evening. My grandfather told us stories about his experiences in World War II, and the adults talked about family, gardening, politics....

Outside, the sun began to set. We were home by about eight o'clock. My father and I had the last in a series of long discussions about grad school. Hours and hours we've spent talking.

Now Playing: Kate Rusby, "Underneath the Stars", "The White Cockade".

This is the post for old favorites. Kate Rusby reminds me of warm afternoons and beautiful summer evenings in highschool, hanging out with the girls. And this week I read another old favorite, The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis. Lewis's work is an excellent discussion of human love, even a redemptive discussion:

     "William Morris wrote a poem called 'Love Is Enough' and someone is said to have reviewed it briefly in the words 'It isn't.'... The natural loves are not self-sufficient. Something else, at first vaguely described as 'decency and common sense,' but later revealed as goodness, and finally as the whole Christian life in one particular relation, must come to the help of the mere feeling if the feeling is to be kept sweet."

I begin with this quotation from the last chapter of the book since this theme pervades Lewis's discussion of liking and loves for the sub-human, affection, friendship, and Eros. Though each of these human loves are good and necessary parts of human life, none of them is complete in and of itself. As he discusses these four kinds of love, Lewis wisely warns against the pitfalls inherent in each. Need-Love and Gift-Love can result in atrocities: witness patriotism and the injustices perpetrated in its name. Affection can become predatory, requiring the Beloved to satisfy the insatiable desires of the Lover. Friendship can become snobbery, which ignores the outside world and leads groups of friends to become blind to their flaws. Eros, one of the most powerful loves experienced by human beings, is capricious, a drive that can lead to mere foolishness or, worse, to a demonic obsession.

On the other hand, Lewis also portrays the beauties of each of these human loves. His favorite phrase is "The highest cannot stand without the lowest," and so his honest, often humorous approach to the human loves is wonderfully balanced. He neither idealizes nor degrades. Although he acknowledges the dangers of these loves, he also points out their beauty and dignity. The liking for the sub-human enables our appreciation of nature, which, as Lewis points out in his final chapter, can at least point us toward an appreciation of God Himself. Affection is the glue of family life. Friendship spurs us on to become totally immersed in something other than ourselves--an ideal, an interest, a truth--through the lens of other humans. Eros, of course, mirrors to us the relationship between Christ and His people most powerfully.

Yet none of these loves is complete without the final love: Charity. This is the love of God, the divine love that "desires simply what is best for the beloved."This is the love that supersedes all other loves, that demands a terribly total allegiance from us, that enables us to give ourselves to God while reveling in our total helplessness without Him. This is the love that enables us to love others, that enables us to be vulnerable to heartbreak and exhaustion. This is the love that redeems all our earthly loves, that transports them into eternal life. Lewis's last paragraphs are among the most beautiful:

      "When we see the face of God we shall know that we have always known it. He has been a party to, has made, sustained, and moved moment by moment within, all our earthly experiences of innocent love. All that was true love in them was, even on earth, far more His than ours, and ours only because His. In Heaven there will be no anguish and no duty of turning away from our earthly Beloveds. First, because we shall have turned already; from the portraits to the Original, from the rivulets to the Fountain, from the creatures He made lovable to Love Himself. But secondly, because we shall find them all in Him. By loving Him more than them we shall love them more than we now do."

Now Playing: More Romantic piano music. Laura is sitting across from me, studying for Piano Literature.

My weekend consisted of some of the very most "traditional" activities available to our family. Philip came back last night in honor of Easter, so for twenty-four hours we're all under the same roof again, and what ensues is no one's responsibility.... Laura, my mother, and I went to the opening of the Farmer's Market today, "traditional" activity number one. When we got home, my mother cut Philip's hair, and he made exactly the same face as he's making in an old photo from at least fifteen years ago on the same occasion. He also pushed me into the mud in my socks...!

And my father made chili con queso for lunch, and after lunch Laura and I made challah bread, an activity that ended up taking most of the afternoon. My parents also did yard work; we went on a walk around the lake; Philip and Stephen played basketball, and my father finished out the day by barbecuing chicken. Laura has been banging on the piano; she, Philip, and I have been wrestling while Stephen watches and laughs at us; Annie has been going berserk with a paper bag.... The Ns At Home! 

The post wouldn't be complete without some photos of our lovely challah, fresh out of the oven.

The link to the recipe is: http://confessionsoftart.blogspot.com/2010/02/challah.html if anyone is interested.

Now Playing: Copious Romantic piano music by Liszt and Chopin thanks to Laura.

I now have a grand total of four books to review, in part reflective of the fact that I spent the last week traveling. Last Wednesday I flew to Detroit, Michigan, to visit the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. After an intense two days of meeting professors and current students, I returned to Tulsa, and flew out again on the following Monday to Indianapolis. I stayed overnight in Bloomington in order to meet faculty and students at Indiana University before flying back to Tulsa. On Wednesday I visited friends in Tulsa and picked up Laura from the airport since she's coming back for Easter break.

Thanks to six flights over as many days, I managed to read three books, starting with Life of the Beloved by Henri Nouwen. Tara suggested this one. It's a devotional book really, written in an extremely simple style, refreshing in contrast to the cerebral style of most Reformed authors. Since Nouwen is a Catholic priest, though, I didn't agree with everything he said: he tended to be pluralistic in his philosophy. That caveat aside, I deeply appreciated his emphasis on the love of God for the believer. His theory is that we cannot love others properly until we understand that we are the Beloved of God.

The book hinges on four words that Nouwen uses to explore this concept. Beginning with the word "Chosen", Nouwen discusses our position as those who have been loved by God before time began. He draws on some of the richest language in Scripture to support this idea, and the verses he uses are some of the most fruitful for meditation. I ended up with a page-long list of verses about the love of God for His people--incredibly comforting, particularly if you're reading them alone in a hotel in a strange city with a big decision ahead of you!

The second book I read on my trip was I, Claudius by Robert Graves. This is the first book in a two-part autobiography of Claudius, one of the early Roman emperors. It focuses on the years of Claudius's life before his reign and deals mostly with the intrigue of the emperors who precede him. Graves somehow manages to capture the Latin style perfectly. I've never been able to define Latin style, but it has a distinct quality. Partly it's the language's forcefulness, partly a tendency on the part of Latin authors to digress.

Since I took a course on Roman imperial history last spring, I had a deeper appreciation for this book. I've always been fascinated by Classical history, but until that course the timeline I had in my head was quite muddled. Thanks to that course, when I read this book I actually understood who the major players were and when things were happening in relation to each other. The strength of Graves's retelling is the first-person perspective of a figure who is at first inconspicuous and then vital to his contemporaries. This permits an engaging aura of authenticity to the intrigues.

On the flight back from Indianapolis, I read and finished Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen. I must say that I enjoyed this book less than I thought I would. Parts of it are very funny, with typical Austen humour, but other parts feel rather overworked. The book lacks the snarkiness of Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, and, more importantly, the stark social commentary. Although Austen's trademark sarcasm and social reporting are both present, they're less stringent than in her other works. As a result, though I could still appreciate Austen's parody of Gothic literature, I wouldn't necessarily reread the book.

Finally, over this weekend I read The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo. I must say that of the four books I read this week, The Tale of Despereaux was one of my favorites. I could quote Missy on this one since she's the one who made me read it in the first place! The story itself is lovely--unusually thoughtful for a children's book, using cliches creatively. I really liked DiCamillo's narrative style. She pauses occasionally to explain words and concepts in simple, lucid prose. She speaks directly to her readers, inviting them to enter into the story.

But perhaps what I liked best were the themes in the story: love, hope, forgiveness. DiCamillo explains them on the level of action as well as in her trademark pauses so that her audience can grasp these ideas not only as abstractions but also as realities that shape people's lives. Most beautiful of all are DiCamillo's opening and closing words: "The world is dark, and light is precious...." Without sentimentality she conveys the preciousness of hope in a broken world, hope that saves.