A Christian Craftsman

                                            

If you exited I-81 and drove on Stoney Creek Road towards Edinburg, VA you would be forgiven for not noticing his garage, a non-descript two-bay one with its back wall built on the bank of Stoney Creek. Its plain and  hidden presence defined him, but not his work.

For years I lived in the Shenandoah Valley before I noticed the two-word sign stating the presence of his garage. An entrance door next to the two bay doors opened to a small, cluttered office from where he operated the garage. Opposite the door sat his desk on which his computer competed for space with parts catalogues and his ever-present coffee cup. The well-used coffee maker sat on a shelf behind him– always ready to serve anyone who asked. One or two chairs sat for the customers who wanted to wait and read the Daily, but since he was always between shop and computer, it was best to stay moving with him. That way you could gather information about the problem with you car and if you sat you may miss a comment of his about life and its challenges. For instance,  had his son not told me once when I asked where his father was, I never would have known of the prostate cancer. He was, his son told me,  just doing what must be done with another challenge of life. His strong faith gave him that type of serenity, even in the face of cancer.

He and his son worked in the bays making repairs, and the father had the confidence to hire a young high school graduate to help with the work of their busy garage. He believed in the boy, but he also trusted his son and himself to be teachers of what vocational school had left out of the boy’s education. The novice is now a mechanic, and like all of us, he benefitted from time spent with the master of engines and life.

No television was mounted on a wall, but one had a display of his grandchildren in 4-H competition at the county fair.  A hall tree in the corner behind the door was full of hanging, clean uniforms for the three workers.  However, the office was warm and inviting if you wanted function over form. It was designed for work and conversation. If you wanted glitter, you would have been better served elsewhere.

An educator, not a mechanic, I know enough of my cars to  know when I needed someone like him.  Whenever I called for an appointment, he would get me in quickly if I sounded frantic, but if not he would ask, “Can you come over at….” making it sound as if I were doing him a favor by coming by. Every time he serviced a car of mine, I went away feeling great about the work but most of all about the conversation we had shared. It also seemed that any vehicle could be repaired there. Once when I went,  a large John Deere tractor was parked in front of one of the doors. Too large to fit in one of the bays, it was being repaired outside.  But no matter, good, honest work could be performed anywhere.

He and I are almost identical ages, close to three-quarters of a century old. But I never called him by his given first name. For a multitude of reasons, Mr. seemed the best address for him. It was a deference that I made out of respect for such a Christian and craftsman. As our relationship grew, he came to accept my referring to him as Mr., and it was an unspoken understanding between two older men.

It’s been over three years since we moved from the Shenandoah Valley, but I still can see him behind his cluttered desk checking his computer to order a part. I still hear the gentleness in his voice and its belief that if he does not know how to correct a problem in a car, his son  will sort it out and find the solution. His confidence was not arrogance, but belief in something larger than himself.

A few days ago a friend told me of his being in Winchester Hospital with COVID-19. This morning, January 25, 2021 at appropriately 7 AM he died as his wife and two children loved him. We all did.

Ernest Hemingway defined courage as “Grace under pressure.” That is him: A life full of grace, love, and wisdom. He was one of the best of us.

Oh, if only

                                              

Two recent readings of mine have clashed: Who Killed Homer? and The 1776 Report. Who Killed Homer?,  an examination of the demise of the study of classical education, was published in 1998 and the report, commissioned by President Trump,  was released on January 18, 2021. I admit to being late to the killing of Homer, but the premise of the book still resonates, and is in some ways more relevant now than twenty years ago. The authors, Victor Davis Hanson and John Heath,  use many examples of Greek literature to support their argument for the importance of Greek Classics in today’s educational system. One example that I especially enjoyed is their examination of the Antigone as one illustration for the importance of reading such literature today. In short, the book is a good argument for the academy to return to the study of classical literature and language and rid itself of the many “feel good” courses that offer little, if any, stress and questionable value.

Earlier this morning while reading The 1776 Report, the enclosed section grabbed my attention:

 “    The Misuse of History

History tells the story of how our country has succeeded—and at times failed—in living up to the standard of right and wrong. Our task as citizens in a national community is to live—and it is the task of teachers to teach—so as to keep our community in line with our principles.

The purpose of genuine, liberal education is to come to know what it means to be free. Education seeks knowledge of the nature of things, especially of human nature and of the universe as a whole. Man is that special part of the universe that seeks to know where we stand within it. We wonder about its origins. The human person is driven by a yearning for self-knowledge, seeking to understand the essential nature and purpose of his or her life and what it means to carry that life out in relationship with others. The surest guides for this quest to understand freedom and human nature are the timeless works of philosophy, political thought, literature, history, oratory, and art that civilization has produced. Contrary to what is sometimes claimed, these works are not terribly difficult to identify: they are marked by their foundational and permanent character and their ability to transcend the time and landscape of their creation. No honest, intelligent surveyor of human civilization could deny the unique brilliance of Homer or Plato, Dante or Shakespeare ,Washington or Lincoln, Melville or Hawthorne.”(my italics)

The 1776 Report is forty-five pages long and it argues for our educational system to be honest and accurate about our history in order to celebrate America. It wants our educational system to be one that engenders an examination of human nature so as to see and understand the commonality of us all.  Thus, I quote the long section above in order to be objective, but it is  the italicized words that caused me to think of Who Killed Homer?

            Hanson is a committee member for the Report, and I imagine that he argued for many of the names listed above. That excites me, and I agree with him. Yet, I wonder how  many of our students in today’s academy read or have read Macbeth, the Republic, The Odyssey or The Iliad, the Gettysburg Address, or The Scarlet Letter?

            The Report is a rebuttal to many of today’s educational philosophies and practices. However, within its pages are some fine recommendations, such as having our students read and study such literature as listed above. To read the work, not a summary; to discuss it with peers and teachers; to examination it in writing; to justify it for our world. The reading list is a good beginning to help us all become better educated citizens.

            In the section on the Antigone, Davis and Hart write: “If we put aside for a moment the Antigone as great literature and examine the nuts and bolts of its underlying assumptions about man and culture, the play can be as revealing from the values it presumes as from the tensions it raises and the ideas it challenges.”

            I fine many problems with the 1776 report, one being its accuracy in such statement as that President Washington freed all his slaves. However, most publications offer some good and the 1776 report has its own. Its suggestions for reading is an example. Therefore, our students will benefit from our requiring them to  read and understand  A Letter from the Birmingham Jail  while viewing it against Civil Disobedience.

Oh, if only we required such study of our students and ourselves.

Our Kitchen Window

                                             

The small mill house in south central North Carolina had a large kitchen that was the hub of our lives. We cooked there, watched television there, ate there, napped there, too. The clunky oil stove ensured warmth in that room, so during the cold days we huddled there. The south wall held the large cabinet with its sink, which was a white porcelain one that was part drainboard. Above the sink was a double window that looked over our back yard and the chinaberry tree that grew next to the back alley. I spent hours in that tree, climbing and exploring it and life–a haven of sorts for a boy. But it is that window facing south that is etched in my memory.

Not much snow fell in that part of the world, but one year during the mid to late 1950’s, when I was ten or twelve years old, a southern, wet snow arrived. No school was one benefit, but also the snow offered a  chance to earn some money by shoveling walkways.

Putting on as much clothing as possible and grabbing some old shocks to use as gloves, I told my mother that I was going to my friend Michael’s house because he had shovels we could use to move snow. Having her approval to go, I ignored her other command: Not to let my small, white dog go with me.

Sergeant was a medium sized mixed breed. He and I travelled streets together and played in our back yard. He was all a  growing boy needed on such a day, so off we trampled to Mike’s house, only two streets away. Sergeant played as we navigated the deep snow, and Mike was outside waiting for me. Giving me a shovel, he suggested we go to the house opposite his as our first potential customer. Sergeant came along, but as we began shoveling the walkway, he lost interest in our labor and explored for something of more interest. Intent on the work and the excitement of earning some money, I forgot him until I heard his painful yelp. Looking down Chestnut Street, I saw his body lying in the middle of tracks in the snow showing where an oil truck had just passed.

Michael got a small wagon for me to use to take Sergeant home.  I pulled the wagon holding my mangled dog across ruts and slush, wishing so much for the load to lighten. As I neared our house, I looked up to see my mother standing on the porch. She did not scold me but helped me bury Sergeant behind the garage. I built a cross from discarded lumber, painted it a green, and mis-spelled his name when I wrote it in white.

The day that had begun so promising now turned dark. Even the white snow seemed dirty to me. All of it my fault for not obeying my mother. But the grief of that day was only the beginning. For the next two or three days, until the southern sun melted the snow, I would stand at the kitchen window looking out towards the chinaberry tree. All around it were paw-prints of Sergeant’s in the snow, a cruel reminder of my disobedience and lack of responsibility.

Rick Bragg describes some memory as being like a “dark room full of razor blades.” That window is my darkened room. For days I saw Sergeant’s  pawprints which told of my mistake and the price he had paid for my mistakes. Even years later, if I looked out that window toward where the chinaberry tree had stood, my failure to Sergeant would arrive like a darkened room.

Just a kitchen window looking south, but a window revealing a costly shortcoming and lesson learned.

“What is Truth?”

   

The above question posed by Pontius Pilate to Jesus is well known and often used to counter or support various points of view.  However, when we examine the actions of Pilate concerning the “trial” of Jesus before he asked his famous question, we see that Pilate knew: The charges of the Jews against Jesus were lies and knew that Jesus was innocent; he was deeply impressed with Jesus; and that he did not want to condemn Him to death (even though he did). Pilate tries various means to remove himself from the “trial”, and in John 18:38 we are told how Pilate poses his question to Jesus “Pilate said unto him, What is truth? And when he had said this, he went out again unto the Jews and saith unto them, I find in him no fault at all.” How Pilate later acquiesced to the crowd is well known, but just examine his action after he asked that question of Jesus. John tells us that Pilate asked the question, then without waiting for an answer, he leaves Jesus to address the crowd.

Jesus’ answer to Pilate will never be known, and we can only offer conjectures. However, what I want to question is the action of Pilate as he asks such a question from a man that he admittedly admired. Also, we can only guess at why Pilate did not wait for an answer to his question. Was it his well-known arrogance? Was he cynical? John does not offer any information, but for us during the times we face today, we can draw at least one conclusion from Pilate’s action.

Truth! Yours, mine, theirs? While we may be presented with various thoughts, only one truth can exist. To quote Senator Moynihan , “You are entitled to your opinion, but not your facts.”  

As mentioned, Pilate was impressed with Jesus and looked forward to meeting him and talking with him, which he did. Conversation and debate are healthy. Questions directed to ourselves and others force reconsideration of a particular stance, and may lead to new or stronger positions. Yet, here is a Roman governor who fails to take advantage of an opportunity to learn from Jesus. Pilate asks the question but does not wait around for the answer. What did he miss? What does his exit cost us? We will never know, but we can learn from Pilate one important fact.

If we are genuine when asking a question, we will stay to hear the answer. Pilate did not, and my guess is he was using his power against Jesus, allowing his arrogance to over-ride his judgement. At that moment he was in charge and wanted all to know it. He asked an honest question and missed the answer.

Truth is an absolute. We cannot survive as Christians if we all have our individual truths. We may have different opinions, but we cannot all have our individual truth. For example, it is a list of Ten Commandments, not ten suggestions. Also, we may have opinions regarding the action of Pilate, but we cannot deny his decision to murder Jesus.

Ask questions of each other, knowing that “iron sharpens iron.” But hang around to hear the answer. It matters.

Forgiving the Traitor-revised

      

Since the terrorist’s attack on Capitol Hill and the subsequent calls for reconciliation in order to save our democracy, I have been thinking of Lewes Smedes and the five common mistakes, according to him,  people often make in the process of forgiving.

It seems to me that we Christians are often confused about forgiveness I think that the present, volatile, political climate we find ourselves in is one that can lead us astray regarding how we treat our fellow citizens and how forgiveness comes into play. But we all know that to move forward requires forgiveness of people like Senator Kennedy and Richard Barnett. Our secular laws will deal with terrorists such as Barnett, the man from Arkansas who posed in Speaker Pelosi’s office. The voters of Louisiana will commend or condemn Senator Kennedy when he comes up for re-election. But we as a nation must “move on” in order to heal our nation; yet the process of moving on cannot happen until all terrorists and their enablers ask for forgiveness and are forgiven by the majority of Americans who are appalled by what happened at our People’s House.

Smedes first tells us that to forgive someone does not mean we excuse their transgression. The lawless and their supporters who attacked the Capitol must be told how damaging and unlawful their attack was.

To forgive, Smedes says, is not to tolerate. The believers in conspiracy theories have legal avenues in which to express their opinions. Any such action as that on January 06 will be met by force, and lethal force  may be used if necessary to maintain order.

Smedes warns us that to forgive will not give immediate results. The storming of the Capitol was not a spontaneous event, but one building since November 03, if not before. Thus, to mend that scar will take time and patience on all our parts.

Smede tells us that to forgive does not mean the one forgiving must run to the forgiven and tell him or her of the forgiveness. The burden is on the transgressor, and in the case of the attack on our democracy, there are many insurgents who need to ask for forgiveness.

Finally, Smedes warns us that to forgive someone does not mean we must return to the same relationship we had before. Since the Capitol transgression was so deep and costly and deadly, our relationship with Senators Graham and McConnell and the Barnetts of the mob will never return to what it was before. However, they must be forgiven. But does that mean we forget?

As an American, who voted for President Trump in 2016, I have increasingly watched in horror as he grew into a Frankenstein of our making. I have been sickened by his enablers like Senator Graham while wishing for more like Senator Romney. Now, the words and deeds that so many tolerated and excused and encouraged have erupted. The pus from so many lies has spilled out and violated our democracy.

As Senator Graham said the night of January 6, “Enough is enough.” We must, as a nation, “move on”; and to accomplish that healing, forgiveness for the rebellious mob and its president is required. But our relationship with them can never be what it was before. They and their enablers must never be trusted and their racist lies finally wiped from our midst.

We cannot “move on” until the traitors, like the Prodigal Son, admits the wrong and asks for forgiveness.

Forgiving the Traitor

Since the terrorist’s attack on Capitol Hill and the many calls for reconciliation in order to save our democracy, I have been thinking of Lewes Smedes and the five common mistakes, according to him,  people often make in the process of forgiving.

It seems to me that we Christians are often confused about forgiveness I think that the present, volatile, political climate we find ourselves in is one that can lead us astray regarding how we treat our fellow citizens and how forgiveness comes into play. But we all know that to move forward requires forgiveness of people like Senator Kennedy and Richard Barnett. Our secular laws will deal with terrorists such as Barnett, the man from Arkansas who posed in Speaker Pelosi’s office. The voters of Louisiana will commend or condemn Senator Kennedy when he comes up for re-election. But we as a nation must “move on” in order to heal our nation; yet the process of moving on cannot happen until all terrorists and their enablers ask for forgiveness and are forgiven by the majority of Americans who are appalled by what happened at our People’s House.

Smedes first tells us that to forgive someone does not mean we excuse their transgression. The lawless and their supporters who attacked the Capitol must be told how damaging and unlawful their attack was.

To forgive, Smedes says, is not to tolerate. The believers in conspiracy theories have legal avenues in which to express their opinions. Any such action as that on January 06 will be met by force, and lethal force  may be used if necessary to maintain order.

Smedes warns us that to forgive will not give immediate results. The storming of the Capitol was not a spontaneous event, but one building since November 03, if not before. Thus, to mend that scar will take time and patience on all our parts.

Smede tells us that to forgive does not mean  the one forgiving must run to the forgiven and tell him or her. The burden is on the transgressor, and in the case of the attack on our democracy, there are many who need to ask for forgiveness.

Finally, Smedes warns us that to forgive someone does not mean we must return to the same relationship we had before. Since the transgression was so deep and costly and deadly, our relationship with Senators Graham and McConnell and the Barnetts of the mob will never return to what it was before. However, they must be forgiven. But does that mean we forget?

As an American, who voted for President Trump in 2016, I have increasingly watched in horror as he grew into a Frankenstein of our making. I have been sickened by his enablers like Senator Graham while wishing for more like Senator Romney. Now, the words and deeds that so many tolerated and excused and encouraged have erupted. The pus from so many lies has spilled out and violated our democracy.

As Senator Graham said the night of January 06, “Enough is enough.” We must, as a nation, “move on”; and to accomplish that healing, forgiveness for the rebellious mob and its president is required. But our relationship with them can never be what it was.

My Water Closet

       

If it is true that our experiences, especially those at an early age, help shape us, then my early experiences without adequate plumbing may have “warped me in the cradle”. However, that is understandable because my early years were spent using an outhouse that sat at the end of our deep, sloping back yard. At night we used a “slop jar”, a porcelain receptable best left to the imagination. A weekly bath was taken sitting in a Number 2 Washtub, which required even a young child to sit with heels tucked next to buttocks. However, that changed when I was about ten years old because (somehow)  my mother moved us to a mill house near the plant where she worked. It had three bedrooms, a kitchen where an oil heater held court, a living room, and one indoor bathroom. All of this space shared by our mother, her four daughters, and two sons. From that point on, I never returned to an outhouse, unless camping on the Appalachian Trail.

About 1870 wealthier home owners began installing indoor toilets. Prior to that, the term bathroom was quite literal—it was a room where a bathtub was located for the sole purpose of bathing. However, soon rooms were added to homes to house the new indoor plumbing, the toilet. Some houses can still be seen that have the appendage-like structures added to accommodate the new and more sanitary system for waste disposal. The new,  indoor convenience was called many things-a water closet, a bathroom, a toilet, a lavatory, or one of many other term or terms.  But no matter what it is called, the new, indoor convenience is a much better way of taking care of a certain necessities we all share. A user of outhouses and make-do bathtubs on a kitchen floor, I have a great appreciation for indoor plumbing, but I cringe at the lack of privacy the modern home lavatory offers.

All the houses I have lived in, prior to the present one, were older houses that had dated bathrooms remolded over the years by various owners. The Victorian farmhouse my wife and I moved from three years ago had no original indoor plumbing, so creativity ruled as indoor plumbing was added by various owners. We even built a new bathroom in the corner of a large, upstairs bedroom. However, the house on Lake Norman where we presently live is the most recently built. Its master bathroom is as large as the bedroom my brother and I shared in the mill house.

Like all modern master baths, ours has a walk-in closet, a vanity with two sinks, a shower, a bathtub, and an alcove just  large enough for a toilet. It is designed for two people to prepare for their work day, to get up and not have to wait until space is available. There is space for two people to do whatever is necessary while sharing the room: Brushing teeth is possible because of two sinks; one can shave while the other applies lip gloss or whatever; one can bathe while the other showers or the shower is large enough for both at once; the walk-in closet is large enough for both to choose the day’s clothes; and that alcove offers false privacy for bodily functions. The modern, master bath facilitates individual convenience for the up-to-date working couples. However, privacy is debatable.

I love my wife, Mary Ann. I like her. Yet something about the mystique in our relationship is lost when she and I use our  individual sinks at the same time. Brushing of teeth is noisy, messy, and deeply personal. A person’s tooth hygiene should be shared with only his or her dentist, not spouse or lover or best friend. I do not want her watching me shave or see her remove make-up. Some functions are best when left to be done in private, especially that which takes place in that uninviting alcove.

I have heard bathrooms called “reading rooms” and that is for some folks an accurate phrase. Such a bathroom likely will have a rack of some type next to the toilet which holds magazines, newspapers, and other reading materials. Such a toilet space is equipped for a personal, leisurely experience. However, the spiteful toilet alcoves in the modern master bath prohibit any such relaxation because they offer no room for a receptable of reading material. The user is forced to remember to carry something to read to the reading room. But the entire design of the modern master bath is to discourage relaxation and encouraging a rush from one activity to another.

I do not pine for “the old days” when a long walk was required to attend to certain functions. Nor do I miss the Number 2 Washtub. However, I  do wish designers of new homes would encourage a domestic pace unlike that required by the world at large. Such a designed home will offer a place for respite, not more angst.

Share the Load

                                              

Here we are again! Our news is full of reviews of the past year. We have reviews of “the best” of many parts of our lives. Lists of “the best” books, movies, photographs, and more are being written about. And the end of year 2020, the one of the COVID-19 pandemic, is being rightfully celebrated more than usual. But that is not going to correct the misery of 2020.

As I type these words, two grey squirrels are in our back garden under the dogwood tree. One is under the birdfeeder searching for fallen black sunflower seeds. The other runs up the trunk of the tree, rushes down,  rolls in the mulch, sits erect, jumps about and turns somersaults, then pauses to eat a morsel before repeating its acrobatic routine. The one is acting as we expect a squirrel to act while the other’s conduct causes a mix of questions or even concern. Is the flipping squirrel rabid? Is it simply happy to be out and alive? Why is it acting in such an unusual manner while the other acts so normal? The answer is that it has parasites which are causing irritation and itch. It is trying, in its only way, to relieve its discomfort. Unfortunately, it cannot come in to our veterinarian’s hospital to have the parasites eradicated and the awful itch cured. An animal in the wild, it will continue living as it is with the parasites and their itch continuing to be a part of its life.

We are much like that squirrel with the parasites. While it is understandable that we celebrate the end of this awful year,  we will continue to live with the cause of so many of our problems such as massive deaths, a poor economy, and loss of social contacts until we fully contain  the virus. The vaccines are to be celebrated and taken when made available. However, until then we should continue to do what our school children are instructed to do. It’s that simple, and it must be done, and done by all of us. If we do not, we will be like that squirrel living as best as possible with its parasites as it tries to  run, bounce, and scratch its way from them.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is Proverbs 27:17 in which it is written that “Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.” That is wisdom for any person, and it seems especially good in our time. We need to sharpen each other by sharing this load we have. It is not a time to squabble and move apart. Let us be the iron that our neighbor needs instead of being the squirrel under the feeder carrying on as usual while the other suffers its misery.

Just a Paperback Copy

One advantage for me during the pandemic is that there is more time for reading. While it is true that I, as a retired person, did  not have the pressures of a job and young family before the pandemic, there was time for outside activities, such as church and meals in restaurants. The pandemic has caused those activities and others to be curtailed, so more reading has filled the slot.

One day this past week, I decided to re-read A Month in the Country, the delightful and powerful novel by J.L. Carr. The author states in the foreword that he was trying to write  “a rural idyll along the lines of Thomas Hardy’s Under the Greenwood Tree.” Carr accomplishes that and more in his story of Tom Birkin’s brief time in a remote Yorkshire village after the Great War as he restores a church painting depicting the apocalypse and his own re-healing seen through his eyes years hence.

In 2000 or so a fellow teacher recommended Carr’s short novel, and since then I have read it several times, given copies as gifts to fellow teachers and friends, and even owned a signed first edition. However, I gave that copy to my friend Druin who lives near Oxford, England. I had introduced Druin to Carr one summer while working in Pembroke College, and he is the one who pilfered my copy of The First Saturday in May, Carr’s nostalgic remembrance of a cricket match in 1936. Over the years, every time I mentioned First Saturday, Druin admitted his taking of the book while refusing to return it; so when my wife and I visited him and his family in 2010, I decided since he had one he might as well have the other, so I gave him my signed first edition of Month-one pilfered, one gifted.

Another friend that I shared Carr with was Joy, a lady and poet who I worked with at NCS for ten years. She was quite a literary person who enjoyed a strong poem, a well-crafted story, and chocolate. She was my best editor until her death, at age 90, in January 2020. (I often think that her death from heart failure was a foretelling of the dreadful year to follow.) Years ago I had introduced Joy and Druin via email and read many of their literary discussions with awe. One, a writer in Northwest DC and the other in Oxford, England, both sharing their delight in writers such as Carr and many more. Druin and I enjoyed Joy’s pleasure when she received, unannounced, a copy of Druin’s latest book, The Shape of Things to Come.

Now here I was removing the thin paperback from a bookshelf before I settled in to read a bit before the urge to nap took control. But I quickly became puzzled  by what I saw on the insider page when I opened the book,  However, the puzzlement soon evolved into a pleasing appreciation for life’s unannounced moments.  In the upper right-hand corner was a pasted label with Joy’s full name and address. A neat, diagonal line crossed through the label and below it in Joy’s neat hand was written: “From Roger B. 2/14/01” but below that line was written: “To Roger B. 9/23/15.” I had given her this copy of Month not long after I had “discovered” it, and she returned it for some reason fourteen years later. I flipped through the book and noticed pencil highlights that I had made during some reading but stuck between pages 22 and 23 was a bright colored piece of paper on which Joy had written these words from the novel: “And, at such a time, for a few of us there will always be a tugging at the heart, knowing a precious moment gone and we not there.”

I am writing this on Christmas Eve afternoon and wondering at how good literature and good friends intertwine in our lives. This past year, such a difficult one that has been full of toil and trouble and death, is also the one of Joy’s death. But the lines she copied onto that sheet of paper tell much about her and all of us. James, the brother of Jesus,  writes, “For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

I did not nap, but instead placed Joy’s copy of Month beside my signed copy of Carr’s What Hetty Did in the glass bookcase. No longer will the small paperback sit on the shelf for reading copies.  Once in her last year, Joy told me that she was having too much fun living to die. That was all! No fear of death. No tugs of her heart.  Just a recognition and appreciation for life’s “precious moments.”

BC:AD

                                       By U.A. Fanthrope

            This was the moment when Before

            Turned into After, and the future’s

Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

            This was the moment when nothing

               Happened. Only dull peace

            Sprawled boringly over the earth.

This was the moment when even energetic Romans

            could find nothing better to do

than counting heads in remote provinces.

            And this was the moment

when a few farm workers and three

members of an obscure Persian sect

walked haphazard by starlight straight

            into the Kingdom of Heaven.