"If" by Rudyard Kipling

"If" by Rudyard Kipling (c1895)

If you can keep your head when all about you 
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;   
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;   
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

About Auden's Night Mail

Night Mail was commissioned for the United Kingdom’s documentary film of the same name which Auden was working on in 1936. It was determined by the producers that a spoken word poem would increase the film’s dramatic impact. They were right as the poem not only worked very well for the film, it quickly became one of the best loved of all Auden’s poems. 

And if you'd like to watch that original 24-minute documentary, do so right here.

Night Mail by W.H. Auden

This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shoveling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens, her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers’ declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston’s or Crawford’s.

Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

Yes, Shakespeare's Henry VI Is Worth Your Time -- Even Part One

Henry VI, especially Part One of the trilogy, is often described as one of the weakest plays of William Shakespeare (aka Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford) but I find it full of drama, pathos, and plenty of life lessons. 

Indeed, this play presents the heroic courage and steadfastness of John Talbot (1st Earl of Shrewsbury); the savage, mystic, even eerie, character of Joan of Arc; the very beginning of the conflict between the houses of York and Lancaster that will lead eventually to the War of the Roses; the brave loyalty of John’s son; the utter failure of the seductive trap laid by the Countess of Auvergne for Talbot; the self-serving egos of both York and Somerset which result in the defeat of the English and the noble death of Talbot. 

All this and more are there in Henry VI Part 1 and I always find it a real treat to read.

Along the way this time I collected a few of my favorite quotations from the play:

“Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?”
(Said by Talbot, Act I, Scene V)

“Well, let them practice and converse with spirits.
God is our fortress, in whose conquering name
Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.”
(Said by Talbot, Act II, Scene I)

“Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone.”
(Said by Bedford, Act II, Scene II)

“Civil dissension is a viperous worm
That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.”
(Said by King Henry, Act III, Scene I)

“Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,
For things that are not to be remedied.”
(Said by Joan La Pucelle -- Joan of Arc -- Act III, Scene III)

“Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men, 
when for so slight and frivolous a cause

such factious emulations shall arise!”

(Said by King Henry, Act IV, Scene I)

“’Tis much when scepters are in children's hands,
But more when envy breeds unkind division; 
There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.”
(Said by King Henry, Act IV, Scene I)

“The fraud of England, not the force of France,
Hath now entrapped the noble-minded Talbot.
Never to England shall he bear his life, 
But dies betrayed to fortune by your strife.”
(Said by King Henry, Act IV, Scene IV)

“Here on my knee I beg mortality,
Rather than life preserved with infamy.”
(Said by Talbot's son John, Act IV, Scene V)

“Of all base passions, fear is most accursed.”
(Said by Joan La Pucelle -- Joan of Arc -- Act IV, Scene II)

Running After One's Hat...for 49 Years

It was in the spring of 1973 that I was browsing through The Antiquariam, a used book store in the Old Market section of downtown Omaha, when I discovered a somewhat battered, orangish copy of what was soon to become a life-changing book. I had experienced a few such encounters with books before this, notably Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov (which influenced my conversion to Christianity) and, in later years, Henry Ironside's Commentary on Ephesians, C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters and Mere Christianity, Francis Schaeffer's The Church at the End of the 20th Century and A Christian Manifesto.

But the book I picked up at The Antiquarium was unique in several points. For instance, it served to introduce me to a writer who was remarkably talented in many genres. Indeed, this particular book showcased the writer's skill in poetry, essays, journalism, literary criticism, and short stories. There was an especially arresting quality about the writer's perspective as well. He looked at the same things that others did but from a different angle, one that illuminated and made memorable the truth of the thing. And finally, he was a master wordsmith who wrote in a style that liberally used metaphor, symbol, paradox, and humor -- and yet one which produced an analysis of even complex matters that was clear as glass. 

And I'd better add this. The writer was an absolute delight to read! Fascinating, provocative, convincing, inspiring, and, like I said, quite funny. Even when he was making the most serious of moral exhortations, he was able to do so with mirth, wit, and a charming confidence.

The writer I'm speaking of is G.K.Chesterton and the book I found there in the stacks was The Man Who Was Chesterton, a marvelous sampling of his incomparable work. That book would end up changing my life by introducing me to a writer who would become a life-long inspiration and friend.

Not bad for three dollars.

But before I knew of those GKC books and poems that would become treasured reading for me down through the years (The Man Who Was Thursday, Manalive, "Lepanto", Orthodoxy, the Father Brown stories, Heretics, The Napoleon of Notting Hill, The Thing, The Club of Queer Trades, "The House of Christmas," "The Donkey," the numerous collections of essays, and much more), I was first drawn in through reading just one enchanting essay while standing in the dark stall of that Old Market book shop. 

That essay was called "On Running After One's Hat" and it was for that essay alone that I bought the book and began my adventure.

By the way, if you're interested, that very essay, "On Running After One's Hat," can be read on-line right here. Go ahead; do it! And I hope that it stimulates and delights you like it did me those many years ago.

Dante's Comedy: The Adventure Renewed

Yesterday Claire and I finished our latest Hillsdale College online course, a very engaging 10-lecture series by Stephen Smith on Dante's Comedy. It was the 6th Hillsdale course we have completed and certainly one of our favorites. Now, with the lectures finished, we will be re-reading the trilogy itself: Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise.  

Claire I have read these classic poetics works but it has been many, many years ago -- me in high school and the both of us in the very first year of the Notting Hill Napoleons. But after going through Dr. Smith's lectures, we're very eager to take this amazing journey with Dante again. 

Also exciting is that our previous excursions in the Comedy were with the texts translated from the ancient Italian by John Ciardi in the 1950s. This time around, we've ordered old copies of the translations made by none other than Dorothy Sayers. 

Anyone interested in taking the trip with us? If so, let us know...and may I suggest that a great preview would be that Hillsdale course.

"A Morning Prayer for Christmas Day" (Robert Louis Stevenson)

O God, our loving Father, help us

Rightly to remember the birth of Jesus,

That we may share in the song of the

Angels, the gladness of the shepherds

And the worship of the wise men.

Close the door of hate and open the

Door of love all over the world.

Deliver us from evil by the blessing

That Christ brings, and teach us

To be merry with clear hearts.

May the Christmas morning make us happy

To be thy children and the Christmas

Evening bring us to our beds with

Grateful thoughts, forgiving, and

Forgiven, for Jesus' sake. 

Amen.

“And Let This Feeble Body Fail”

Life on this poor, problematic planet will not last.

There couldn't be a truth more obvious. And yet men constantly seek distraction from honestly facing the fact of their death as well as such other hard realities as pain, grief, desperation, injustice, and deep longing.

However, for the Christian; that is, the person who has received the gift of salvation via the substitutionary atonement of Jesus Christ's death on the cross, there is a joyful confidence that this planet is not our final destination.

Here is how Charles Wesley described this assured expectation in a funeral hymn written in 1759.

And Let This Feeble Body Fail

And let this feeble body fail,

And let it droop and die;

My soul shall quit the mournful vale,

And soar to worlds on high;

Shall join the disembodied saints,

And find its long sought rest,

That only bliss for which it pants,

In my Redeemer’s breast.

In hope of that immortal crown

I now the cross sustain,

And gladly wander up and down,

And smile at toil and pain:

I suffer out my threescore years,

Till my Deliverer come,

And wipe away His servant’s tears,

And take His exile home.

O what hath Jesus bought for me!

Before my ravished eyes

Rivers of life divine I see,

And trees of paradise:

I see a world of spirits bright,

Who taste the pleasures there;

They all are robed in spotless white,

And conquering palms they bear.

O what are all my sufferings here,

If, Lord, Thou count me meet

With that enraptured host to appear,

And worship at Thy feet!

Give joy or grief, give ease or pain,

Take life or friends away,

But let me find them all again

In that eternal day.

“On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness”

“On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness”

(Arthur Guiterman)

The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls

Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just

Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,

Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,

And I don't feel so well myself.

Arthur Guiterman (1871 -1943) was an editor of the Woman's Home Companion and the Literary Digest, a co-founder the Poetry Society of America, and a delightful poet whose work was published in over a dozen collections including Betel Nuts: What They Say In Hindustan (1907), The Laughing Muse (1915), and Gaily the Troubadour (1936). In the next few days I’ll share a few more of my favorite Guiterman poems.

"On Going Home for Christmas"

Here's one of my favorite Christmas poems.

“On Going Home for Christmas”
(Edgar Guest)

He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair;
He never guessed they'd miss him, or he'd surely have been there;
He couldn't see his mother or the lump that filled her throat,
Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note;
And he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb,
Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn't come.

He little knew the gladness that his presence would have made,
And the joy it would have given, or he never would have stayed.
He didn't know how hungry had the little mother grown
Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own.
He didn't guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day
Or he never would have written that he couldn't get away.
He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink,
And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't stop to think

How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be
There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to see.
He didn't think about it - I'll not say he didn't care.
He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely have been there.

Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you'll be there?
Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care?
Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad?
If you're not I hope there'll never come a time you'll wish you had.
Just sit down and write a letter - it will make their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness - if you'll tell them that you'll come.

Chesterton's Wild Knight

Here's a stirring poem for prophets, warriors, and all others who love justice enough to fight for it.

The Wild Knight
(G.K. Chesterton)

 The wasting thistle whitens on my crest,
The barren grasses blow upon my spear,
A green, pale pennon: blazon of wild faith
And love of fruitless things: yea, of my love,
Among the golden loves of all the knights,
Alone: most hopeless, sweet, and blasphemous,
The love of God:
        I hear the crumbling creeds
Like cliffs washed down by water, change, and pass;
I hear a noise of words, age after age,
A new cold wind that blows across the plains,
And all the shrines stand empty; and to me
All these are nothing: priests and schools may doubt
Who never have believed; but I have loved.
Ah friends, I know it passing well, the love
Wherewith I love; it shall not bring to me
Return or hire or any pleasant thing—
Ay, I have tried it: Ay, I know its roots.
Earthquake and plague have burst on it in vain
And rolled back shattered—
        Babbling neophytes!
Blind, startled fools—think you I know it not?
Think you to teach me?  Know I not His ways?
Strange-visaged blunders, mystic cruelties.
All! all! I know Him, for I love Him. Go!

So, with the wan waste grasses on my spear,
I ride for ever, seeking after God.
My hair grows whiter than my thistle plume,
And all my limbs are loose; but in my eyes
The star of an unconquerable praise:
For in my soul one hope for ever sings,
That at the next white corner of a road
My eyes may look on Him....
        Hush—I shall know
The place when it is found: a twisted path
Under a twisted pear-tree—this I saw
In the first dream I had ere I was born,
Wherein He spoke....
        But the grey clouds come down
In hail upon the icy plains: I ride,
Burning forever in consuming fire.

Catching Up on My Reading

Before we head out to Branson for a couple of weeks -- momentous days that will include a 4-day family reunion with all my siblings and their spouses as well as a working vacation for Claire and I afterwards, I thought I’d clear the decks here at The Book Den with a quick review of books read since my last catch up post (August 10). I do so with pleasure because there were several that I recommend.

The first on the list is one of those very old mysteries that I love to download from Kindle. And I love to download them because 1) I love reading old books. 2) Many of these old books are out of print and otherwise unobtainable. And 3) Many of these Kindle editions are completely free! Can’t beat that. In this latest case, the old book was actually an early 20th century collection of short stories by British writer Thomas W. Hanshew entitled Cleek, The Master Detective.  Great stuff. (Recommended.)

Next up was A Light in the Window, Jan Karon’s second book in the Mitford series of novels that Claire loves so much. I’m beginning to love these books too. In fact, I hope to read another (or two) down in Branson. (Highly recommended.)

I went on a bit of a Shakespeare run in August and early September with six of the Bard’s great plays: “Antony & Cleopatra,” “Measure for Measure,” “Julius Caesar,” and then all three plays in the “Henry VI” trilogy.  This is truly superb literature from one of the most original, most insightful, and most skilled of writers. (Highly recommended.)

A theological work of value was Jeremiah: Prophet of Judgment by Irving L. Jensen.

I enjoyed (for the most part) a free Kindle book of poetry dealing primarily with domestic life from Christopher Morley. It was called Chimneysmoke.

I re-read and, in some cases, listened to an audio rendition of the G.K. Chesterton short stories, The Innocence of Fr. Brown. (Recommended.)

I thrilled my way through two rousing G.A. Henry adventure novels: Held Fast For England: A Tale of the Siege of Gibraltar and St. George for England. (Recommended, especially the first title.)

In anticipation of meeting Shun Lee Fong, I read his book of short essays, The Saints & the Poets. I enjoyed it very much. Indeed, here’s what I wrote in an Amazon review of his book: The Saints and the Poets is an engaging collection of short, charmingly personal, and ultimately inspiring essays. Fong writes as an artist to artists and yet the life lessons he presents can be easily understood and practically embraced by any reader. Those lessons deal with such topics as creativity, vision, relationships, responsibility, and faith. All relevant matters certainly. And, along the way, there is humility, wit, humor, and sage advice. I'm pretty sure other readers will respond to The Saints and the Poets as I did; namely, to hope Mr. Fong soon follows with a second volume. (Obviously, I recommend it.)

And finally, our September selection for the Notting Hill Napoleons was The Frozen Hours by Jeff Shaara, a detailed historical novel of one of the key campaigns in the Korean War. Fascinating, gripping, maddening, and very somber reading but quite worth the effort. (Recommended.)

“St. Barnabas” by Christina Rossetti

“Now when we had discovered Cyprus, we left it on the left hand.” (Acts 21: 3)

“We sailed under Cyprus, because the winds were contrary.” (Acts 27: 4)

St. Barnabas, with John his sister's son,
  Set sail for Cyprus; leaving in their wake
  That chosen Vessel, who for Jesus' sake
Proclaimed the Gentiles and the Jews at one.
Divided while united, each must run
  His mighty course not hell should overtake;
  And pressing toward the mark must own the ache
Of love, and sigh for heaven not yet begun.
For saints in life-long exile yearn to touch
  Warm human hands, and commune face to face;
  But these we know not ever met again:
Yet once St. Paul at distance overmuch
  Just sighted Cyprus; and once more in vain
  Neared it and passed;--not there his landing-place.

The painting (“The Deliverance of St. Paul and St. Barnabas”) is by French artist Claude-Guy Hallé (1652-1736).

Doctor Zhivago Revisited

“This year marks the 60th anniversary of the publication of Boris Pasternak’s famous novel, Doctor Zhivago. Problems with Russian censorship meant it was first published by the Italian publisher, Feltrinelli; the English translation followed in 1958, which was the year I first encountered it, aged twelve. This was the year that Pasternak was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, an event given an ominous dimension when he was forced by the Russian authorities to either renounce the prize or be exiled. Pasternak, for whom to live outside his homeland would have been unthinkable, chose the first option. Expelled from the Writers Union, he died, disgraced, in 1960...”

Read the rest of Francis Phillips' Mercator article, Doctor Zhivago at 60: A Spiritual Masterpiece right here.

A Palm Sunday Reflection, GKC's "The Donkey"

"The Donkey" (G.K. Chesterton)

When fishes flew and forests walked 

And figs grew upon thorn, 

Some moment when the moon was blood 

Then surely I was born; 

With monstrous head and sickening cry 

And ears like errant wings, 

The devil's walking parody 

On all four-footed things. 

The tattered outlaw of the earth, 

Of ancient crooked will; 

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, 

I keep my secret still. 

Fools! For I also had my hour; 

One far fierce hour and sweet: 

There was a shout about my ears, 

And palms before my feet. 

Two Poems By Bill Coker

Bill Coker, husband and dad, newly retired teacher, musician and composer, intercessor and worship leader, pro-lifer and missions supporter, poet and a well-balanced connoisseur of life...is also a longtime member of the Notting Hill Napoleonsa and, Claire and I are really pleased to say, a good friend.

Here's a couple of Bill's poems that I think you'll find most provocative.

SUNDAY BEST

I had read all about triumphal entries
with garments—precious garments
in days before washers or dry cleaners—
strewn like palm branches on the road
for a borrowed burro to soil,
but when I saw him striding
smiling towards me with open arms,
saw blood on his forehead, his side,
his hands, my heart leapt at the thought
of what this blood could do—would do—
to my navy blazer, my white shirt, my striped tie,
and I balked, lowered my eyes
and watched dust settle
over the shine
of my wing-tip shoes.

BEIGE AND BLUE

“Ann would’ve loved this,” you say,
as we drive from the cemetery, flanked
by close-cropped bean fields and snaggled
corn stalks still dazed by the late harvest.

“Beige was her favorite color.” Our dust
catches up with us at the stop sign and rolls
on through. Above the shoulders of the highway,
prairie grass whispers to weathered fence posts

and cattail-filled ditches. A linen cloud
stretches in long folds like a shroud cast aside.
The sun is a honeycomb spreading
warm, sweet light along the horizon.

Beneath the deepening sky, we pull out,
turning toward the river where another
dawn will come to sparkle the waters.
“Beige,” you repeat. “Beige and blue.”

Bill Coker’s "Sunday Morning at the Bed and Breakfast"

Bill Coker plays many tunes – and all of them well. He is a teacher, songwriter, musician, troubadour, poet, avid student of history and folklore, worship leader, intercessor, member of the Notting Hill Napoleons and, most important of all, a devoted husband and dad.

The following poem was written on the Sunday morning of our last NHN autumn retreat at the Whispering Pines Bed and Breakfast down in Nebraska City. Though, like all poetry, it uses references of an esoteric nature, I’m sure you’ll find it almost as moving as we who know intimately the references did. For instance, it’s an old response to failed jokes that “I guess you had to be there.” But, that’s not true with quality poets like Bill Coker. Yes, they certainly give the reader a desire to have been there (that’s the magic) but the poem's rhythm, images and keen observations are treasures in themselves too. Here it is with a photo taken by the Whispering Pines' innkeeper, Jeanna Stavas.

SUNDAY MORNING AT THE BED AND BREAKFAST

The book club has retreated, leaving only echoes—
footsteps on the stairs, laughter in the rooms.
Scents of orange and pecan, ham and maple linger,
mingling with kitchen clinks of china and crystal.
Outside, a yellow-shafted flicker flits over
to sit atop a bare bur oak, as pines lean
toward second-storey windows.
They are whispering descriptions of the Dickensian
characters who have played their parts here
during this hundred-thirty-year run.
The flicker pauses, cocks her head to listen,
then taps away again, taking notes.

A Post-Christmas Challenge

"The Week After" by Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)

Thou that diest, Thou that never diest,
Thy day of birth has come and gone again,
Heaven has sung Hosanna in the Highest!
And Earth has sung Peace and Goodwill to men!

And some have feasted, and still more have fasted,
But in the week that now has slipped behind
The movement was a warm one while it lasted,
And the hearts of men were willing to be kind.

Oh, keep that movement warm, not only now
But in the weeks that still beyond us lie!
Oh, keep that movement constant in us, Thou
That ever diest, and wilt never die.

("The Week After" published in Come Christmas, 1927)

Mary's Burden

Mary's Burden
by Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)

My Baby, my Burden,
Tomorrow the morn
I shall go lighter
And you will be born.

I shall go lighter,
But heavier too
For seeing the burden
That falls upon you.

The burden of love,
The burden of pain,
I'll see you bear both
Among men once again.

Tomorrow you'll bear it
Your burden alone,
Tonight you've no burden
That is not my own

My Baby, my Burden,
Tomorrow the morn
I shall go lighter
And you will be born.

("Mary's Burden" written in 1920)

December Literary Meetings 2008: GK Chesterton, the Toy Theater and Christmas Poetry

I will present in the post just after this one a quick description of the second of our two December book club gatherings, the meeting of the Notting Hill Napoleons and our discussion of the short stories of O. Henry.

But earlier in that same week, we had a terrific time with our beloved little group of Chestertonians at the annual Christmas party of the Omaha Chesterton Society. Indeed, the OCS affair, complete with a toy theater production, carols performed on a dulcimer, the reading of Advent-themed poetry, and the coolest Christmas tree cake ever, was definitely the more festive of the two.

The group was small (Dick and Mary Ann, Kathy, Sister Rita Jane, Quint and Carol, Bill and Karin, Chet, and Claire and I) but perhaps that added to the intimate warmth of the evening. So did the beautiful decorations put up by the retired nuns there at Mercy Villa.

The "official program" for the evening began with a presentation for our toy theater, "A Tale of Three Trees." Carol had suggested the idea, found a basic copy of the story (which I reworked pretty extensively), made the figures for the story and gave us our respective duties in the production. It went well -- a minimalist "cast" and actions, clever sound effects and flashlight lighting, a gentle musical accompaniment, and a simple but moving story of God's sovereignty and grace.

(By the way, you can read our version of the story right here.)

Bill then played a couple of extra numbers on his dulcimer (a great Christmasy instrument, isn't it?) and Chet shared insights about the Latin traditions of Las Posadas. Then we got down to the literary gems. They included Quint reading Pasternak's "Christmas Star;" Kathy reading poems and prose selections from a really neat book, Advent and Christmas: Wisdom From G. K. Chesterton; and Sister Rita Jane reciting from memory a couple of poems she used with the elementary school kids she used to teach. Those two were "A Prayer for Little Things" (I think by Eleanor Farjeon) and "Hiding" by Dorothy Keeley Aldis.

There was also Bill's reading of Gerald Manley Hopkins' "May Magnificat" and Karin's reading of Bill's own poem, "Christmas Star." Claire read GKC's "House of Christmas" and I read a couple by Leslie Norris, "The Shepherd's Dog" and "Camels of the Kings."

It was a gentle, profound and thoroughly enjoyable way to spend a Christmastime evening. And I sincerely wish that all of our Book Den visitors have at least a couple of like-spirited experiences in their celebrations this year.

Another Side of Christmas

Christmas is a holiday which certainly evokes fond memories and the most lovely and endearing of sentiments. But not for all. For some it can prompt, as this poem by Nicholas Gordon movingly describes, intense feelings of sorrow (perhaps even bitterness) for what one has lost.

"No Christmas for My Children"
by Nicholas Gordon

No Christmas for my children,
No husband for my bed,
No money for tomorrow,
No place to lay my head,
No tree with mounds of presents,
No ornaments or lights,
No smiles on Christmas morning,
No feast on Christmas night,

No toys to ease the boredom
Of hours before closed doors,
No family celebrations,
No trips to crowded stores,

No fireplace, no Santa,
No games aglow with friends,
No fire but feeble fury
As Christmas slowly ends.

For me I have no pity,
My sorrow stronger proves,
Because for my sweet children
I've nothing but my love.

This poem is a strong reminder that this season of delight and goodwill isn't experienced as such by everyone. Therefore, our Christmas felicitations should be extended far beyond those who come to fellowship at our own Yuletide fires. Indeed, we should make special efforts to spread Christmas cheer with the elderly and "long term lonely" in our community, those who might be feeling, in Gordon's words, "no fire but feeble fury."