God's country

We (Mrs. Rhymeswithplague and I) have just returned from a short vacation in one of the most beautiful places we have ever seen. God’s country. It could be almost anywhere, but the photo above happens to be the Hickory Nut Gorge section of Lake Lure in the mountains of western North Carolina. If I remember correctly, Sugarloaf Mountain is on the left, and Buffalo Mountain (also called The Lady of the Lake) is on the right. It is sunset and we are looking westward, in the direction of the city of Asheville. In the center, off in the distance, the tallest mountain is Mount Pisgah. The Old Testament has the original Mount Pisgah, which is also called Mount Nebo (see Deuteronomy 34:1). It is in the land of Moab (the modern country of Jordan) and is the place where God gave Moses a glimpse of The Promised Land.

In 1845, a man named William W. Walford wrote the words we know as the familiar hymn, “Sweet Hour of Prayer” and William B. Bradbury set it to music in 1861. The fourth verse of the hymn mentions Mount Pisgah. Here are all four verses of “Sweet Hour of Prayer”:


Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known.
In seasons of distress and grief,
My soul has often found relief
And oft escaped the tempter’s snare
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
The joys I feel, the bliss I share,
Of those whose anxious spirits burn
With strong desires for thy return!
With such I hasten to the place
Where God my Savior shows His face,
And gladly take my station there,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
Thy wings shall my petition bear
To Him whose truth and faithfulness
Engage the waiting soul to bless.
And since He bids me seek His face,
Believe His Word and trust His grace,
I’ll cast on Him my every care,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
May I thy consolation share,
Till, from Mount Pisgah’s lofty height,
I view my home and take my flight:
This robe of flesh I’ll drop and rise
To seize the everlasting prize;
And shout, while passing through the air,
“Farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer!”


Think of your favorite place on earth, the place that inspires you like no other, the place that makes you catch your breath. No matter where it is, it is only a shadow of The Promised Land. It could be western North Carolina; or Montana; or Banff in Canada; or Maui in Hawaii; or the Alps in Switzerland; or a starry sky at midnight; or amber fields of waving grain; or an endless white sand beach with clear, turquoise, tropical water; or your private place of prayer; or your family dinner table -- it could be anywhere. It is where, if you have eyes to see and ears to hear, God is giving you a glimpse of The Promised Land. If it is beautiful, if it makes you long for more, if it makes you wish it would never end, it is a special place. It is God's country.

Tuesday ramblings #2

It’s Tuesday again, so welcome to another edition of my Tuesday ramblings! By the time this post is published, Mrs. Rhymeswith-plague and I will have bid a temporary adieu to our hearth and home and comfy surroundings in North Georgia and gone on a little “mini” three-day vacation in beautiful western North Carolina. We are joining our oldest son’s family for a short visit during their longer stay at Lake Lure. I wrote this week’s ramblings in advance and scheduled them for Tuesday publication (first time I have done this) because I didn't know whether I’d have access to a computer while we were away. My home computer is a desktop, not a laptop, and not easily transported.

This morning I saw a bright yellow and black male goldfinch in my backyard; it was on the topmost branch of a Leland (or Leyland, apparently either is correct) cypress tree. It has been nearly five years since I last saw a goldfinch. We used to see lots of them at our feeders before we moved away from our woods and creek to where we live now, Little House By A Strip Mine. I’m kidding; I’m kidding (about the strip mine, not the goldfinches). We used to see cardinals and rock doves and bluejays and rufous-sided towhees and brown-headed cowbirds and red-winged blackbirds and brown thrashers (Georgia’s state bird) and Carolina chickadees and even an indigo bunting once. Now we see mostly mockingbirds and crows and an occasional passing flock of Canada geese (honking, of course). I miss the songbirds.

Speaking of Leland (or Leyland) cypresses, one of the ten that we planted five years ago along our back property line has died. It was about eight feet tall, not as tall as the others, and just lost the will to live, apparently. It went very fast. The other nine all appear to be just fine. The one on the far left is almost twice as tall as the others. We’ve treated them all the same; I can’t explain the difference in their growth. Someone suggested on one website that the drought in the Southeast has caused dehydration among the cypresses and the dehydration has caused (or allowed) canker disease in some trees.

Which brings me to foreign coins (don’t ask me how). I saw “D. G. Regina” on a Canadian coin and figured out all by myself that it was Latin for “Queen by the grace of God,” Dei Gratia being the phrase for which “D. G.” is the abbreviation and Regina meaning, of course, Queen. Then I saw a British (United Kingdom) coin with the abbreviation “Elizabeth II D. G. Reg. F. D.” on it, which threw me for a minute...


...until I remembered that the British monarch is also head of the Church of England (Anglican) and therefore is automatically fidei defensor, the defender of the faith. (It didn’t mean Fire Department after all.)

And speaking of Latin abbreviations, most of us know etc. (the abbreviation of et cetera, “and so forth”). And we know a couple of others like i.e. (the abbreviation of id est, “that is”) and e.g. (the abbreviation of exempli gratia, “for the sake of example”) that we usually manage to get confused. The first means something like “specifically” or “this is what I’m talking about.” The second means something like “here's one example out of many from which I might choose.” Please keep this in mind in your future writing! If you had to write research papers in the dear, dead days beyond recall you may also remember et al., ibid., op. cit., loc. cit., and q.v.. One that was used frequently in those bygone days that no one seems to use any more is D. V., the abbreviation of Deo volento, God willing.

As in next Tuesday, D.V., these ramblings will continue.

The “Hillsongization” of church music?

First came a wonderful essay called “The Slow Death of Congregational Singing” by Australian blogger Michael Raiter in April 2008 over at a blog called The Briefing. Then Michael Spencer, the Internet Monk (albeit a Baptist one), published what he called a “riff” on the article on his own blog, internetmonk.com. Each article sparked many intriguing, even provocative, comments that are also worth reading. Now Michael has singled out one comment by Tom Schwegel and posted it separately under the title “Why Contemporary Music Makes Congregational Singing So Difficult”, and it has spawned its own set of comments.

As a pianist and organist for many years, I find the subject fascinating, and I have my own opinions, of course. I’m not going to force you to read these articles and comments by posting them here, but I have included links to them so that if you are the least bit interested to know what others are thinking on the subject you can spend an entire afternoon reading lo, their many thoughts, if you like. And if you’re not the least bit interested, wait a little while and another post, God willing, will come along soon.

You're welcome.

Tusen tak,* Jeannelle!

A faithful reader whom I have dubbed Jeannelle of Iowa (somehow, saying that always reminds me of Eleanor of Aquitaine, the mother of Richard the Lion-Hearted--but I digress) recently added links on her blog to two stories of mine that Garrison Keillor was kind enough to publish on his Prairie Home Companion site a while back. I will thank her by recommending that you go check out her fascinating blog about farm life in Iowa, Midlife by Farmlight. Jeannelle milks a mean cow and drives a mean tractor and rakes a mean field of hay and finds some mean wildflowers. I should also mention that Jeannelle is the person who took the photographs of the stained glass windows that I included in my post, “From the ridiculous to the sublime” earlier this month.

If you want to read my stories, Jeannelle’s link to Florabelle Oxley is just before her post called “Hog Calling,” and her link to Silver is just after her post called “Calf Eyelashes.” I could have put the story links here on my own blog, but that would deprive you of discovering a lot of interesting things to read and see on Jeannelle’s blog. When you get over there and poke about, you may decide not to even bother (gasp! a split infinitive! horrors!) with my stories.

* Tusen tak is what Norwegians say when they thank someone. I’m not Norwegian, but the phrase conveys more accurately than English what I wanted to tell Jeannelle: “A thousand thanks.”

Mangia! Mangia! (The summer journey continues)

Last evening our choir rehearsal room was transformed into a cozy little Italian ristorante because this week’s announced destinations were “Rome and Venice.” Oddly, I saw no evidence of either Rome or Venice, but upon entering the dimly lit room I heard music playing (some guy on a CD singing in Italian) and noticed several tables covered in red-and-white checkered tablecloths (courtesy of Maggiano’s). It could have been somewhere in Tuscany somewhere or possibly Newark, New Jersey. Each table was lit by candles and included a beautiful centerpiece of ivy (courtesy of Tina H.). From along one wall, the food-laden tables called to us. There were several pans of excellent lasagna (homemade by Chaundra K.); breadsticks and salad, two kinds, with and without olives (courtesy of Olive Garden); and the piéce de resistance (oops, that’s French, not Italian) and my personal favorites, two desserts: tiramasu and an Italian cream cake (courtesy of Carolyn S.). I wore the only Italian thing I could find at our house, an orange shirt with a label that said Alfani (and the words “Made in India”).

Needless to say, a good time was had by all, and choir practice followed. Have you ever tried to sing on a full stomach? Fortunately, I was playing the piano.

Tuesday ramblings

No one has ever accused me of thinking in a straight line. My side of a conversation tends to cover a lot of territory but I try to tie all the loose ends together by the time I’'m finished. So I thought I might have a “Tuesday ramblings” post each week. If it doesn’t work out, forget I ever mentioned it. It will be our little secret. But since today is Tuesday, here goes:

Our oldest son has been out of town on business, so we met our daughter-in-law for lunch on Sunday at Ruby Tuesday -- that’s a restaurant -- and then we took our grandchildren Matthew (almost 12) and Ansley (just turned 8) home with us for a couple of days. We returned them to their mother safe and sound late yesterday afternoon, but not before playing a lot of games -- Mexican Train Dominoes, Skip-Bo, Scrabble (twice), even Chess (with Matthew while Ansley helped Nana make a wonderful new dessert called Death By Cream Cheese) -- and when we weren’t playing games we were laughing at Jethro’s antics and giving him doggie treats or going to Canton for shakes at Arby’s. We also squeezed in a drive to our other son’s house because he and his family are out of town also and asked us to feed Sharpie, their black Lab. On Monday morning we spent an hour and a half at the pool with Matthew and Ansley before the day turned into a scorching, sultry beast to be avoided at all costs. All in all, it was two days of making happy memories, for them and for us.

On a typical Monday morning, one of the first things I do after signing on to the computer is read The Writer’s Almanac, a whole week’s worth, Monday through Sunday, all at one sitting. Don't ask me why; it’s just something I do. You can do it too by typing writersalmanac dot publicradio dot org or if you don’t want to tire yourself typing in all those letters you can click on it over there in the sideband. The Writer’s Almanac might not be your cup of tea, but I enjoy it immensely and usually learn a few new things.

With Matthew and Ansley here this week, I didn’t get my weekly dose of The Writer’'s Almanac until today. One of the things I learned is that today is the birthday of author Tom Robbins, and clicking on his name took me to an extended interview with him and a photograph of him. His shock of red hair makes him look a lot like actor Timothy Busfield, and if you don’t know who Timothy Busfield is you never watched thirtysomethings or The West Wing or Field of Dreams. Or if you were watching, you weren’t paying attention. Tom Robbins is the guy who whote Jitterbug Perfume and Still-Life With Woodpecker and Even Cowgirls Get The Blues and Half Asleep In Frog’s Pajamas and Another Roadside Attraction and Villa Incognito and Skinny Legs And All and a bunch of other stuff besides. I have read only two of his books, and I enjoyed one and didn’t enjoy the other. So the jury, in this corner at least, is still out. I’m not really recommending him. But in the interview he said two things that struck me and I want to pass them along to you.

Here’s the first statement: “My view of the world is not that different from Kafka’s, really. The difference is that Kafka let it make him miserable and I refuse. Life is too short. My personal motto has always been: Joy in spite of everything. Not just mindless joy, but joy in spite of everything. Recognizing the inequities and the suffering and the corruption and all that but refusing to let it rain on my parade. And I advocate this to other people.”

That part about “joy in spite of everything” really resonated with me. It’s so easy to get depressed and down in the mouth and Lord knows there are plenty of reasons not to feel “up” all the time, but I think Tom Robbins is on to something important. It might even be Scriptural (think Philippians 4:4). Think about it: JOY IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING.

And here's the second statement: “At the end of every writing day I feel like I’ve been wrestling in radioactive quicksand with Xena the Warrior Princess and her five fat uncles.”

As a fledgling blogger, I know that feeling. Someone asked Flannery O’Connor one time how writing short stories differed from writing a novel. She replied that it was like coming out of a deep, dark forest only to be set upon by a pack of wolves. Tom Robbins. Flannery O’Connor. Writers. My kind of people. They understand.

Kalukalukahinahena ?!? No way!

In my last post, I told you about the “Around the World in Eighty Days” theme our choir is enjoying at this summer’s rehearsals. WarriorTeacher3, who knows me better than most of you, reminded me in a comment, “Don’t forget about the Hawaiian theme night you missed when you were in Alabama...something about a kalukalukahinahena ?!?”

What? Kalukalukahinahena ?!?

No, no, WarriorTeacher3, I sang you a song about a little grass shack in Kealakekua, Hawaii, where the humuhumunukunukuapua’a (pronounced HOO-moo-HOO-moo-NOO-koo-NOO-koo-AH-poo-AH-ah) go swimming by. Today I found the lyrics on the Internet, and here they are:

I want to go back to my little grass shack in Kealakekua, Hawaii,
I want to be with all the kanes and wahines that I used to know long ago;
I can hear the old guitars a-playing on the beach at Honaunau,
I can hear the old Hawaiians saying, “Komo mai no kaua i ka hale welakahao.”

It won’t be long till my ship will be sailing back to Kona,
A grand old place that’s always fair to see (yes, siree)
Well I’m just a little Hawaiian, a homesick island boy,
I want to go back to my fish and poi.
I want to go back to my little grass shack in Kealakekua, Hawaii,
Where the humuhumunukunukuapua’a go swimming by.
Where the humuhumunukunukuapua’a go swimming by.

According to my source, the song was written by Bill Cogswell, Tommy Harrison and Johnny Noble, and copyrighted in 1933. It was introduced in Kona, Hawaii, at the July 4th canoe races that year. Harrison gave the song to John Noble to publish, who revised the music to give it an almost new melody without changing Cogswell’s words. This was done to dispel the claim that others had written the song. Once published, the song became a smash hit. Noble turned over the royalties to the Sherman Clay Co. in San Francisco for $500.00 advance royalty, giving the credit to Cogswell and Harrison. Kealakekua is the bay where Captain Cook was killed in 1779. Honaunau is the ancient City of Refuge and Kona is the district where both are located on the Big Island.

And now you know, as Paul Harvey might say, the rest of the story, except that there’s more. The Disney people’s new High School Musical 2 contains a song about the humuhumunukunukuapua’a also, in which Ryan, Sharpay, and the girls sing this chorus:

Humuhumunukunukuapua’a
Makihiki malahini-who
Humuhumunukunukuapua’a
Ooh!
Hawana wakawakawakaniki pu pu pu.
wakawakawakaniki pu pu pu.
wakawakawakaniki pu...pu...pu!

Ahh...!!

If you can make sense out of that, may a large coconut that’s about to fall on your head be diverted by an expertly thrown pineapple. Oh, yes, one other thing. The scientific name of Hawaii’s official state fish, the humuhumnukunukuapua’a, is Rhinecanthus rectangulus according to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. It (the fish, not the encyclopedia) is also known as the Picasso triggerfish, and it looks like this: