This morning as I drove carpool, it was raining at a steady pace. By the time I exited the expressway, it was sleeting. On the way home, the rain had turned to snow. By the time I got to work, we had white-out conditions, and by the time our staff meeting ended, it was snowing sideways. That's pretty much the gamut of wintry weather, all in the course of a few hours.
Drew is in seventh heaven (whatever that means). He has been disgusted with the lack of snow in the various places we have lived. Sunday he even shoveled off the steps of the building without being asked, without grumbling (maybe I should stick a few bags of trash out there in hopes he will cart them to the dumpster!). I am happy for him though I can't say I share his enthusiasm.
Snow is pretty under the right circumstances. I love to see it sparkle underneath a blue sky on a sunny day. I appreciate the 'picture postcard' look of a New England town in a fresh blanket of snow. I enjoy a good snowball fight as much as the next. I used to do some snowshoeing in the woods when the snow was just the right depth to support without inhibiting progress.
But I have to say I get a bit concerned when the snow is driving sideways past the building and shows no sign of letting up. I stood in the Fireside Reading Room gazing out over the parking lot as the last rays of the sun slid west over the edge of the mountain. My car below is buried in a few inches of snow, and edged with a thin coat of glistening ice. How I appreciate the architect who included the fireplace in the plans for this building! I believe I will take my laptop and work by the crackling gas flame for awhile (I'm not too spoiled, but I am eating it up!).
Perhaps I can take a bit of the Brrrr out of the evening. Now if I could just figure out what to replace it with.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The Perfect Rose(s)
There is a old Advent carol called "There is No Rose of Such Virtue" which has been set by any number of composers from Dunstable to Britten. The text is intriguing:
1. There is no rose of such virtue, As is the rose that bare Jesu; Alleluia.
2. For in this rose contained was Heaven and earth in little space; Res miranda. (wonderful thing)
3. By that rose we may well see That he is God in persons three, Pari forma. (equal in form)
4. The angels sungen the shepherds to: Gloria in excelsis deo: Gaudeamus. (Glory to God in the highest, Let Us rejoice)
5. Leave we all this worldly mirth, And follow we this joyful birth; Transeamus. (let us follow)
6. Alleluia, res miranda,Pares forma, gaudeamus, Transeamus.
An interesting metaphor of which I was reminded at end of Compline this evening. Pre-service was a concert of German lieder sung by a promising young baritone, a nice preface to the evening's offering. As I sat entranced in the candlelit cathedral, I was ever so conscious of the prayer ascending to heaven, and of others' meditations, my own on behalf of the two women I am interceding for concerning their cancer. Especially on my heart tonight was the newly ordained pastor just diagnosed with lung cancer.
As I sat praying, I could hear the pelting rain striking the roof above me. Strange how this icy rain, a bear to deal with outside (especially on top of the inches of snow), created a comforting sound inside. What is there about the patter of rain on the roof that brings a sense of comfort and quietness? It felt as if my prayers were rising and God's tears were falling, His heart as broken as mine about the pervasive suffering that surrounds us.
At end of compline (sung mostly in English this evening), we all sat, reticent to leave, to face the unkind elements outside. We watched as the priests extinguished the candles starting with the ones above the altar, circling around the music stands on the platform. Finally, one brave person stood, and the rest of us followed down the hall to the parlor where there were refreshments and a chance to meet the performers and the soloist (and the amazing pianist who accompanied him!).
My friend, with whom I rode, greeted friends and students, making introductions, giving conversation topics a start. I finally tired of standing and retired to a corner near a neglected little piano. I sighed, happy to be able to still hear the rain, grateful for the sweet punch and teacake, taking in the many conversations buzzing here and there about the grand old room, as ancient and filled with grandeur as the sanctuary itself.
At last, I turned my head toward the credenza by the door and saw a crystal vase filled with a dozen perfect pink roses, their faces more widely opened than I thought possible. "They must be artificial," I thought. "They are too perfect to be real." But as I gazed at their deep blush of color, their gentle arch of stem, I realized that I could sense rose fragrance. Did they spray them with rose water?
I nonchalantly wandered over, reached out as inconspicuously as I could, and touched a petal. It was real! The whole bouquet was soft and warm and real. I bent and inhaled fully. The gentle fragrance caressed my face. As if they knew they were being admired, they shifted ever so slightly so that I could clearly see all twelve of them both in reality and in reflection in the ornate mirror that hung on the wall over the credenza.
The room receded from my awareness. I wanted to pick them up and hug them they were so beautiful. I marveled over and over at how perfect they were, how wide and open the petals, how none of them were decaying, how sweet the smell without being overpowering. A moment of incredible beauty, and no one in the room was even remotely aware of it. People were starting to leave, wrapping coats about them and shivering at the thought of going outside where the rain was pummeling the ground in all seriousness, threatening to start a flood.
I lingered, hating to take my eyes off the roses, mindful of that English carol, mindful of how beautiful Jesus is, how the world does not always notice His beauty, does not realize how fragrant His love for them. I am doubly blessed.
1. There is no rose of such virtue, As is the rose that bare Jesu; Alleluia.
2. For in this rose contained was Heaven and earth in little space; Res miranda. (wonderful thing)
3. By that rose we may well see That he is God in persons three, Pari forma. (equal in form)
4. The angels sungen the shepherds to: Gloria in excelsis deo: Gaudeamus. (Glory to God in the highest, Let Us rejoice)
5. Leave we all this worldly mirth, And follow we this joyful birth; Transeamus. (let us follow)
6. Alleluia, res miranda,Pares forma, gaudeamus, Transeamus.
An interesting metaphor of which I was reminded at end of Compline this evening. Pre-service was a concert of German lieder sung by a promising young baritone, a nice preface to the evening's offering. As I sat entranced in the candlelit cathedral, I was ever so conscious of the prayer ascending to heaven, and of others' meditations, my own on behalf of the two women I am interceding for concerning their cancer. Especially on my heart tonight was the newly ordained pastor just diagnosed with lung cancer.
As I sat praying, I could hear the pelting rain striking the roof above me. Strange how this icy rain, a bear to deal with outside (especially on top of the inches of snow), created a comforting sound inside. What is there about the patter of rain on the roof that brings a sense of comfort and quietness? It felt as if my prayers were rising and God's tears were falling, His heart as broken as mine about the pervasive suffering that surrounds us.
At end of compline (sung mostly in English this evening), we all sat, reticent to leave, to face the unkind elements outside. We watched as the priests extinguished the candles starting with the ones above the altar, circling around the music stands on the platform. Finally, one brave person stood, and the rest of us followed down the hall to the parlor where there were refreshments and a chance to meet the performers and the soloist (and the amazing pianist who accompanied him!).
My friend, with whom I rode, greeted friends and students, making introductions, giving conversation topics a start. I finally tired of standing and retired to a corner near a neglected little piano. I sighed, happy to be able to still hear the rain, grateful for the sweet punch and teacake, taking in the many conversations buzzing here and there about the grand old room, as ancient and filled with grandeur as the sanctuary itself.
At last, I turned my head toward the credenza by the door and saw a crystal vase filled with a dozen perfect pink roses, their faces more widely opened than I thought possible. "They must be artificial," I thought. "They are too perfect to be real." But as I gazed at their deep blush of color, their gentle arch of stem, I realized that I could sense rose fragrance. Did they spray them with rose water?
I nonchalantly wandered over, reached out as inconspicuously as I could, and touched a petal. It was real! The whole bouquet was soft and warm and real. I bent and inhaled fully. The gentle fragrance caressed my face. As if they knew they were being admired, they shifted ever so slightly so that I could clearly see all twelve of them both in reality and in reflection in the ornate mirror that hung on the wall over the credenza.
The room receded from my awareness. I wanted to pick them up and hug them they were so beautiful. I marveled over and over at how perfect they were, how wide and open the petals, how none of them were decaying, how sweet the smell without being overpowering. A moment of incredible beauty, and no one in the room was even remotely aware of it. People were starting to leave, wrapping coats about them and shivering at the thought of going outside where the rain was pummeling the ground in all seriousness, threatening to start a flood.
I lingered, hating to take my eyes off the roses, mindful of that English carol, mindful of how beautiful Jesus is, how the world does not always notice His beauty, does not realize how fragrant His love for them. I am doubly blessed.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Angels Dancing
Advent begins. How to mark the moment? One of my friends meets me for coffee and conversation, and treats me to a dance concert held at Charles Finney School. It was liturgical dance representing the birth, death and resurrection of Christ. I have never attended such a presentation, wasn't sure what to expect. Many dance companies were participating, each one telling their part of the story in their own way, to their own music.
What a wonderful variety of colors, costumes, ages and stages of dancers, types of music. We entered the small auditorium, and selected seats in the balcony so we would be able to see everything. There was a buzzing excitement in the room as dancers tiptoed about, holding hushed conversations with family and friends in the hall. The place was packed, and we were glad to have arrived early to avoid ending up standing in the back.
The lights dimmed, the narrator stepped to the microphone, and the story began. Between each group, a reading of Scripture (to give the dancers time to exit and the next group to set up) and to thread the presentations together along the continuum of the life and purpose of Christ, our light in a dark world. There was ballet, tap, interpretive dance, modern dance - so many choreographies, so many ideas, so many ways to pour the love of God into the air. The youngest dancers were darling, cute, coy; the oldest confident, secure, graceful.
During one song about Mary, about what she had to endure, while the piano gently felt the emotions and the lush warmth of the singer brought clarity to the text, the troupe dancing suddenly moved in such a way that it brought tears to my eyes. How can I describe it? First, these young ladies clothed in dark blue, floating frocks (neither the youngest nor the oldest dancing), danced apart. They moved in the same way, their arms lifting, their feet turning, swirling in unison (or mostly so), going through the same motions, but separated by space. It was nice, yes.
But at one point, the words spoke of Mary needing help, needing support, of God holding on to her, bearing her up. And the dancers came together to help one who wavered, to support one in the center who was falling, caressing her, lifting her arms, keeping her safe. Words can't convey the intensity of those motions, the impact they had. Is that not what Christians do for each other? Do they not see one going through difficulties, and suddenly rush to their aid, unbidden except by the word of God, to support, to uphold, to comfort, to just be there when the going gets tough?
At least, that's how its supposed to be. I thought of the roughest places in my cancer treatment. Yes, it was like that. People came to help me, to support me, to lift up my hands, to pray for me, to just be with me. I didn't ask, but they heard the whisper of God, and they came. Many of them did not know me. They heard, and they came.
Today I heard of a young pastor just ordained. Just pronounced sick with late stage lung cancer. Not a smoker. No reason for that. She may be wavering, she may feel as if she is falling. Regardless, she needs the words of Christ, the comfort of God. I ask God if I can go. Let me have some small part in bringing comfort through music, through prayer, let me be used of God to bring cups of cool water to this thirsty sister, to be the arms of Christ. She will be my second one to minister to if I am allowed.
Tears roll down my cheek, and I try to be discreet in wiping them away. I do not wish my friend to think something is wrong (not that she would). I am deeply touched with honor and humility that God would allow me to be used in some small way. Will He? Will He let me? Can I be one of the dancers glide across life's stage in order to hold up a hand, to stand beside, to help?
I have always wanted to dance. Let this be the moment I begin.
What a wonderful variety of colors, costumes, ages and stages of dancers, types of music. We entered the small auditorium, and selected seats in the balcony so we would be able to see everything. There was a buzzing excitement in the room as dancers tiptoed about, holding hushed conversations with family and friends in the hall. The place was packed, and we were glad to have arrived early to avoid ending up standing in the back.
The lights dimmed, the narrator stepped to the microphone, and the story began. Between each group, a reading of Scripture (to give the dancers time to exit and the next group to set up) and to thread the presentations together along the continuum of the life and purpose of Christ, our light in a dark world. There was ballet, tap, interpretive dance, modern dance - so many choreographies, so many ideas, so many ways to pour the love of God into the air. The youngest dancers were darling, cute, coy; the oldest confident, secure, graceful.
During one song about Mary, about what she had to endure, while the piano gently felt the emotions and the lush warmth of the singer brought clarity to the text, the troupe dancing suddenly moved in such a way that it brought tears to my eyes. How can I describe it? First, these young ladies clothed in dark blue, floating frocks (neither the youngest nor the oldest dancing), danced apart. They moved in the same way, their arms lifting, their feet turning, swirling in unison (or mostly so), going through the same motions, but separated by space. It was nice, yes.
But at one point, the words spoke of Mary needing help, needing support, of God holding on to her, bearing her up. And the dancers came together to help one who wavered, to support one in the center who was falling, caressing her, lifting her arms, keeping her safe. Words can't convey the intensity of those motions, the impact they had. Is that not what Christians do for each other? Do they not see one going through difficulties, and suddenly rush to their aid, unbidden except by the word of God, to support, to uphold, to comfort, to just be there when the going gets tough?
At least, that's how its supposed to be. I thought of the roughest places in my cancer treatment. Yes, it was like that. People came to help me, to support me, to lift up my hands, to pray for me, to just be with me. I didn't ask, but they heard the whisper of God, and they came. Many of them did not know me. They heard, and they came.
Today I heard of a young pastor just ordained. Just pronounced sick with late stage lung cancer. Not a smoker. No reason for that. She may be wavering, she may feel as if she is falling. Regardless, she needs the words of Christ, the comfort of God. I ask God if I can go. Let me have some small part in bringing comfort through music, through prayer, let me be used of God to bring cups of cool water to this thirsty sister, to be the arms of Christ. She will be my second one to minister to if I am allowed.
Tears roll down my cheek, and I try to be discreet in wiping them away. I do not wish my friend to think something is wrong (not that she would). I am deeply touched with honor and humility that God would allow me to be used in some small way. Will He? Will He let me? Can I be one of the dancers glide across life's stage in order to hold up a hand, to stand beside, to help?
I have always wanted to dance. Let this be the moment I begin.
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