Dear Dana,

I hereby publicly confess,
Despite my dear husband’s confidence in my prowess,
In Google for that quote did I look—
Not in the pages of one of my books.

Since I’m waxing rather poetic this evening, and my strength is waning after time at the park today with my family, picnicking and playing baseball, I’ll give you a poem I found tonight (browsing through a site with online books, not Google this time!) by John Crowe Ransom. I think some of you will be both touched and amused by it, especially Dana, who likes cooking so well. If you find this poem to your “taste,” there’s more where that came from.

Noonday Grace

MY good old father tucked his head,
(His face the color of gingerbread)
Over the table my mother had spread,
And folded his leathery hands and said:

“We thank thee, Lord, for this thy grace,
And all thy bounties to the race;
Turn not away from us thy face
Till we come to our final resting-place.”

These were the words of the old elect,
Or others to the same effect.

I love my father’s piety,
I know he’s grateful as can be,
A man that’s nearly seventy
And past his taste for cookery.
But I am not so old as he,
And when I see in front of me
Things that I like uncommonly,

(Cornfield beans my specialty,
When every pod spills two or three),
Then I forget the thou and thee
And pray with total fervency:

Thank you, good Lord, for dinner-time!
Gladly I come from the sweat and grime
To play in your Christian pantomime.

I wash the black dust from my face,
I sit again in a Christian’s place,
I hear the ancient Christian’s grace.

My thanks for clean fresh napkin first,
With faint red stain where the fruit-jar burst.

Thanks for a platter with kind blue roses,
For mother’s centerpiece and posies,
A touch of art right under our noses.

Mother, I’ll thank you for tumbler now
Of morning’s milk from our Jersey cow.

And father, thanks for a generous yam,
And a helping of home-cured country ham,
(He knows how fond of it I am.)

For none can cure them as can he,
And he won’t tell his recipe,
But God was behind it, it seems to me.

Thank God who made the garden grow,
Who took upon himself to know
That we loved vegetables so.
I served his plan with rake and hoe,
And mother, boiling, baking, slow
To her favorite tune of Old Black Joe,
Predestined many an age ago.

Pearly corn still on the cob,
My teeth are aching for that job.

Tomatoes, one would fill a dish,
Potatoes, mealy as one could wish.

Cornfield beans and cucumbers,
And yellow yams for sweeteners.

Pickles between for stepping-stones,
And plenty of cornmeal bread in pones.

Sunday the preacher droned a lot
About a certain whether or not:

Is God the universal friend,
And if men pray can he attend
To each man’s individual end?

They pray for individual things,
Give thanks for little happenings,
But isn’t his sweep of mighty wings
Meant more for businesses of kings
Than pulling small men’s petty strings?

He’s infinite, and all of that,
The setting sun his habitat,
The heavens they hold by his fiat,
The glorious year that God begat;
And what is creeping man to that,
O preacher, valiant democrat?

“The greatest of all, his sympathy,
His kindness, reaching down to me.”

Like mother, he finds it his greatest joy
To have big dinners for his boy.

She understands him like a book,
In fact, he helps my mother cook,
And slips to the dining-room door to look;

And when we are at our noon-day meal,
He laughs to think how fine we feel.

An extra fork is by my plate,
I nearly noticed it too late!

Mother, you’re keeping a secret back!
I see the pie-pan through the crack,
Incrusted thick in gold and black.

There’s no telling what that secret pair
Have cooked for me in the kitchen there,

There’s no telling what that pie can be,
But tell me that it’s blackberry!

As long as I keep topside the sod,
I’ll love you always, mother and God.

Baby Braveheart has developed an affinity for ABC books. He knows which shelf they are on, and he likes to bring them to us to read, while he tries to croon the ABC song in his flat little voice, mostly saying, “C, C, C, Ceeee.”

The little prairie pups all got baseball mitts and a new bat and ball. We are pretty literate in this family, except in the area of sports, so tomorrow we hope to have a picnic and teach the poor things a few of the rules of baseball (such as, “Do not knock any of your brother’s teeth out with the bat.”) If we ever get to meet the Rollins family, we don’t want them to be totally shocked by our pitiful knowledge of their favorite sport. I’m afraid we probably won’t be delving into any sports team trivia, though. I was the scorekeeper for the baseball team in junior high, so I know the basics. But I throw like a girl. Daddy will have to be the pitcher.

The muffin mixes worked on their needlework skills (two embroidering, one embellishing clothing with beads) while I read a riveting story to the assembled crowd in our new library. Later, the oldest muffin mix made a trip to Costco with Dad, using the shopping list she had made, to buy most of the groceries for the next month. She and Daddy split the list and raced to see who could finish first. Oldest Muffin Mix won. She also learned to ignore the advances of young men at stop lights. Daddy is learning that he wants to find a muffin mix-sized bag to hide her in. She has been perusing the Shakespearean insults poster to find a suitable retort for the future (”I think he hath not so much brain as ear wax.”)

Some of our new library…see the Shakespeare quotes on the end of the last shelf?

Prairie pups and the muffin mixes who stayed home folded the laundry mountain for the day. I discussed compost piles with the prairie pups, who think the idea sounds “thrilling,” and they can’t wait to “dig in” with the telescopic trowels I purchased for them yesterday. Middle Muffin Mix did an outstanding job making the homemade salami and olive pizza this evening, while youngest Muffin Mix put together the accompanying salad of Romaine lettuce and red cabbage.

Benjamin worked with Steve on his thinking-on-his-feet skills this evening, doing a mock interview in preparation for a real interview tomorrow for a scholarship for flying lessons from a local airplane club. He and Steve have been members for a few months, and Ben is really interested in getting his pilot’s license. Steve has had lots of experience interviewing people, so he had plenty of good advice, but blonde sister, who paid close attention, also had some astute observations to offer her brother. She will be a great helpmeet someday.

Would you let this guy behind the wheel of an airplane?

Pieter did stuff, you can ask him about it. I sent him some links to some online books about being a Christian journalist, so I guess I’m still homeschooling him, and I’ll hopefully be doing that until I can’t see the screen anymore . Last night he regaled us with stories about the discussion in his journalism class about ethics. He was pretty disgusted with the praise heaped upon Hunter S. Thompson by some of the students, though more disgusted with the praise being lavished by some Christian bloggers. He is also getting fed up with the way some Christians he has talked with are so enamored with being relevant that there is not a perverse movie they don’t love, including the latest demonic flick starring Keanu Reeves (if I only had a penny—or three if I was Molly—for every time I heard someone defend a bad movie because it’s about “good vs. evil.”)

Art, like morality, consists in drawing the line somewhere. ~G.K. Chesterton

Kendra asked me in the comments if I had had the drawing for the prizes for those who donated to help Azanou during my blog party on Monday. Well, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet, but since she was so insistent, I figured I’d better get on the ball. This will be my only post tonight since I expended my limited energy running errands this afternoon, something I haven’t been able to do by myself for a few weeks. I even baked bread today! Those prayers for energy must be helping; keep it up.

Pieter drew the names out of a hat in a very scientific manner. Here are the winners:

Third Prize: A copy of The Hope Chest: A Legacy of Love, written by my friend Rebekah Wilson goes to Miz Booshay! Hooray! I can guarantee that she will love this book.

Second Prize: A $25 gift certificate to my online bookstore (or to use at my local store, since they are not too far from me) goes to the Pop Family! I know they love books, and I’m sure they will find something they enjoy.

First Prize: I firmly believe in Providence, not cosmic karma, but considering that she was so anxious to know about the winners, it’s very funny that Kendra is the winner of the $50 coupon to Bookcloseouts.

I’ll be emailing all the winners with the news. Thanks again to all who helped Azanou. The information for mailing donations to the Blacks will be in my sidebar through Saturday.

“That’s Barry’s pond,” said Matthew.

“Oh, I don’t like that name, either. I shall call it—let me see—the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?”

Matthew ruminated.

“Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds.”

I don’t think Anne and Matthew had quite the same definition of the word “thrill.” But this made me think about the Thrills we are constantly seeking, rather than finding the thrill in simple daily pleasures. We always want another mountaintop moment.

Are you…

• Disappointed that your child is not a star on the debate team?
• Running from class to class to make sure your children don’t miss out on their opportunity to shine in sports, music, art, etc.?
• Dissatisfied with your home after looking at decorating magazines and drooling over the color-coordinated furniture and expensive knick-knacks?
• Wishing your husband would be more like that conference speaker/author whom you know never forgets to put down the toilet seat, never leaves his dirty socks on the floor, always helps with the dishes and oversees all the homeschooling?
• Longing to travel to exotic locations and unhappy with the daily routine?

Then you should…

• Grab your child and hug him and praise him for what a good job he does remembering to feed the dog every day.
• Stay home and read lots of good books together, let your children make a mess with markers and finger paints, go outside and throw a ball together and crack open the hymn books for a family sing-a-long.
• Brighten things up with some cheerful paint, but brighten it even more with your contented spirit, being thankful for the warm, dry and cozy place you have to make a home for your family. Read Hidden Art by Edith Schaeffer for the best homekeeping tips.
• Fix your husband his favorite dinner, turn on some romantic music in your room after sending the children to bed, and have a candlelight picnic there, to express your gratefulness to your hubby for how he works so hard to provide for and protect you and your children.
• Take your family to the closest zoo (or other nearby field trip destination) and bring pizza home for dinner. That covers the exotic and you get a bit of Italy thrown in, too. When you return from your journey, click your heels and repeat after Dorothy, “There’s no place like home.”

I just picked a few random items from personal experience with discontentment. We all forget the magic of everyday life when we keep looking over the fence at that bright green Astroturf. Remember the scene in Gone With the Wind when Scarlett’s father gives her a handful of dirt and says, “Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O’Hara, that Tara, that land doesn’t mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin’ for, worth fightin’ for, worth dyin’ for, because it’s the only thing that lasts?” We need to pry our eyes off the fence which beckons and focus on that which lasts.

Cindy wrote about that which lasts: our children. She penned an eloquent essay about the privilege of motherhood, and she has given me permission to add it to the articles on my site (which I will do later this week). After you read it, watch this video (link from Miz Booshay) which tastefully shows the joy of a baby’s home birth.

Though we all have some Anne in us, wanting things to be other than they are, maybe we can learn more from Matthew’s down-to-earth wisdom, and find quiet joy in faithfully embracing the daily calling of home and family.

In Orwellian fashion, proponents of the “right-to-die” movement emphasize their compassion and humanity in relieving the suffering of those who want to die with dignity rather than suffer pain or humiliation in a so-called vegetative state.

This article notes that death by starvation, often decided by doctors and family members and not based on a patient’s wishes, is increasing in the United States. Some have no compunctions against using the chilling oxymoron “mercy killing.” Though Oregon (my former home state) legalized physician-assisted suicide, other states don’t yet have a formal legal policy to allow such acts. Still, “forced exits” are becoming more common. A bill was just introduced into my state’s legislature, AB 654, allowing physician-assisted murder just as in Oregon. I’m sure other states will soon follow, especially if Terri is allowed to die.

Let’s not believe the lie that death by starvation is a peaceful and humane process. I don’t want to give the impression that lethal injections, such as those legitimately given to condemned prisoners, are any better—any murder of an innocent person is horrific. But let’s be aware of what is in store for Terri and any other person deemed inconvenient to society, when they are not allowed food and water. According to Dr. William Burke, a St. Louis neurologist, this is the process:

A conscious person would feel it (dehydration) just as you and I would. They will go into seizures. Their skin cracks, their tongue cracks, their lips crack. They may have nosebleeds because of the drying of the mucous membranes, and heaving and vomiting might ensue because of the drying out of the stomach lining. They feel the pangs of hunger and thirst. Imagine going one day without a glass of water. Death by dehydration takes ten to fourteen days. It is an extremely agonizing death.

The French revolutionaries using Madame Guillotine had more compassion. At least that death was quick and relatively painless. As Pastor Bret has said, our nation seems to have been drinking deeply from the Jacobin well. It’s no surprise that death has become an accepted answer to solving sticky problems. Well, as Condoleezza Rice recently told the French, trying to get them back on the team, “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!” It’s our new national motto.

Wouldn’t it be great if our prolife president would use his influence to speak out against this travesty? Perhaps we should be emailing him, too.