naughtbutchrist's Xanga

My Kingdom for a Horse

Tue, 30 Oct 2007 01:00:46 GMT

"Hast thou given the horse strength? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper? the glory of his nostrils is terrible. He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword. The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield. He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage: neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet. He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting." - Job 39:19-26

What girl has not, at some point in her life, dreamed of owning a horse? Most girls around the age of 10 seem to go through a horse-crazy stage.

There was once a little girl who owned 40 model horses of all sizes, all named and given personalities, and spent hours playing with them. There was the appaloosa Trotter, the king of the horses, his albino wife, Maria, and their son, Aphalie. (It had to be spelled that way, you see, but it was actually pronounced "Applie."). There was Hollywood, the wicked palomino whose one goal in life was to usurp Trotter and turn the other horses against him. There was Rainbow, the giant plush horse with a mane and tail of every color, and his wife, Pintie, the fiesty little Pinto. Wildfire, the black stallion, was not entirely trustworthy, but ended up becoming a faithful subject of the king - and his wife was Evening Star, the palomino with jointed legs and batteries that were always dead. And there were a host of lesser characters of all shapes, colors and sizes - but I must not forget to mention Joey, who was a little plastic Confederate soldier who had lost his way from the rest of the other plastic soldiers and was kindly allowed to live with the horses. She and her brothers had wonderful times playing downstairs with those horses, acting out all kinds of dramas, from comic to tragic. When she wasn't playing with the model horses, the little girl pretended to be one - usually Trotter, or else a shining black horse like Black Beauty - and she did not just pretend, but was nearly convinced that she actually became a horse. She watched "National Velvet" and an old British TV series based on "Black Beauty," and loved the theme music to that show so much that her Daddy recorded it onto a tape for her so she could play it downstairs while she galloped through fields and leaped over fences and splashed across rivers.

As she grew a bit older, she stopped playing with her horses, and they were all packed away in Xerox boxes, worn and faded from their years of service. The little girl isn't a little girl anymore, but she still loves horses. In her neighborhood their is a farm with a beautiful black horse like Wildfire, and a stunning dapple like Meriweather, who married Hollywood. There is a fat little Shetland pony like Thunder, and two shining bays. They all stay in a white-fenced meadow with a little blue pond and yellow wildflowers, and a big red barn in the background, and the girl likes to slow down as she drives past them, and remembers how much she used to long to have one. And she is still convinced that there isn't an animal in the world as beautiful, graceful, or majestic as a fearless, giant horse, with a long mane, shimmering coat, thundering hooves, and deep, searching eyes.

Great Composers - in their own words

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 00:21:23 GMT

I have always found it fascinating to learn more about the great classical composers of the past. I like to know more about the differing worldviews behind each man's music - some were Christians (like Bach, Handel, Haydn, and Mendelssohn) , others - while probably not Christians - were profoundly influenced by a Christian worldview (Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Liszt and most other Romantic composers) - and others were anti-Christian (Debussy, Wagner, and many other late-Romantic, Impressionistic and Contemporary composers). One of my favorite things, however, is to find books containing the letters of the composers. It is one thing to read what someone who lived years after Beethoven's death has to say about him. It is another thing to read what his pupil, Carl Czerny, had to say about him. But it is yet another thing to read what he had to say about himself.

I am enthralled by how different all of the composers are - in writing style (and ability), and how their personalities come through in their letters. These books can be difficult to find. Until today, that is. My piano teacher directed me to an incredible website called Archives.org, which contains over 200,000 out-of-print books available for free download. Anyone owning old books with expired copyrights can scan them in and upload them to the archives, to make them available to others. Many of these books are no longer available anywhere. For instance, I was able to find the complete works of Stephen Charnock, as recommended by my piano teacher. Charnock was a scholarly Puritan whose profound work on the Attributes of God is considered by many to be the definitive work on that subject.

But back to the original topic. While I was in the archives, I decided to look for letters of the composers, and I found a wealth of them. I have, of course, scarcely read any, but what I have seen so far is enthralling. Their letters are, so much of the time, rather like their music. Mozart's letters are sparkling, witty, full of jokes and impish snobbery, intellectual, and precise. Beethoven's letters are half-and-half - some are full of pathos, drama, and intensity, while others are light-hearted and witty, recounting things like his experience with burning the soup he was cooking for his guests. His moods, generally, seemed to be rather extreme. Chopin's letters are pleasant, polite, generally cheerful, honest, disdainful of pathos and drama - refined and organized, like his music, but indicating some lack of confidence. Liszt's letters are far from lacking in confidence, and are gushing, wordy, foppish, flattering, and politely humble (but it is only out of politeness, one senses), but very kind and large-hearted towards everyone, and quick to bestow compliments upon others. Those are my impressions. I wanted to share a few samples of the letters with you - I am sure you will find them interesting. They make the composers seem like real people, instead of just those plastic busts that sit upon the piano and stare down with empty, expressionless faces.

I must say, my personal favorites are from Mozart, so for now I will copy and paste a few excerpts from his letters, and a couple of excerpts from Chopin. That will make this post quite long enough for the present. ;)

(Letter from Mozart to his sister, Nanerl, on January 26, 1770, when he was 14 years old)

"I REJOICE in my heart that you were so well amused at the sledging party you write to me about, and I wish you a thousand
opportunities of pleasure, so that you may pass your life merrily. But one thing vexes me, which is, that you allowed Herr
von Molk [an admirer of this pretty young girl of eighteen] to sigh and sentimentalize, and that you did not go with him in his 
sledge, that he might have upset you. What a lot of pocket-handkerchiefs he must have used that day to dry the tears he shed
for you! He no doubt, too, swallowed at least three ounces of cream of tartar to drive away the horrid evil humors in his body.
I know nothing new except that Herr Gellert, the Leipzig poet, [Footnote: Old Mozart prized Gellert's poems so highly, that on
one occasion he wrote to him expressing his admiration.] is dead, and has written no more poetry since his death."

(From another letter to his family in August of the same year)

I AM not only still alive, but in capital spirits. To-day I took
a fancy to ride a donkey, for such is the custom in Italy, so I
thought that I too must give it a trial. We have the honor to
associate with a certain Dominican who is considered a very pious
ascetic. I somehow don't quite think so, for he constantly takes
a cup of chocolate for breakfast, and immediately afterwards a
large glass of strong Spanish wine; and I have myself had the
privilege of dining with this holy man, when he drank a lot of
wine at dinner and a full glass of very strong wine afterwards,
two large slices of melons, some peaches and pears for dessert,
five cups of coffee, a whole plateful of nuts, and two dishes of
milk and lemons. This he may perhaps do out of bravado, but I
don't think so--at all events, it is far too much; and he eats a
great deal also at his afternoon collation.

(Letter from Mozart to his father, February 28 of 1778, when he was 21. His father had believed some false reports about him, and Wolfgang was seeking reconciliation.)

My last letters must have shown you HOW THINGS ARE, and WHAT I
REALLY MEANT. I do entreat of you never to allow the thought to
cross your mind that I can ever forget you, for I cannot bear
such an idea. My chief aim is, and always will be, to endeavor
that we may meet soon and happily, but we must have patience. You
know even better than I do that things often take a perverse
turn, but they will one day go straight--only patience! Let us
place our trust in God, who will never forsake us. I shall not be
found wanting; how can you possibly doubt me? Surely it concerns
me also to work with all my strength, that I may have the
pleasure and the happiness (the sooner the better, too) of
embracing from my heart my dearest and kindest father. But, lo
and behold! nothing in this world is wholly free from interested
motives. If war should break out in Bavaria, I do hope you will
come and join me at once. I place faith in three friends--and
they are powerful and invincible ones--namely, God, and your head
and mine. Our heads are, indeed, very different, but each in its
own way is good, serviceable, and useful; and in time I hope mine
may by degrees equal yours in that class of knowledge in which
you at present surpass me. Farewell! Be merry and of good cheer!
Remember that you have a son who never intentionally failed in
his filial duty towards you, and who will strive to become daily
more worthy of so good a father.

(Letter from Mozart to his cousin, February 28, 1778. The translators tried to preserve his love for rhyming and terrible punning. Prepare to groan.) ;)

You perhaps think or believe that I must be dead? Not at all! I
beg you will not think so, for how could I write so beautifully
if I were dead? Could such a thing be possible? I do not attempt
to make any excuses for my long silence, for you would not
believe me if I did. But truth is truth; I have had so much to do
that though I have had time to think of my cousin, I have had no
time to write to her, so I was obliged to let it alone. But at
last I have the honor to inquire how you are, and how you fare?
If we soon shall have a talk? If you write with a lump of chalk?
If I am sometimes in your mind? If to hang yourself you're
inclined? If you're angry with me, poor fool? If your wrath
begins to cool?--Oh! you are laughing! VICTORIA! I knew you could
not long resist me, and in your favor would enlist me. Yes! yes!
I know well how this is, though I'm in ten days off to Paris. If
you write to me from pity, do so soon from Augsburg city, so that
I may get your letter, which to me would be far better.

Now, before I conclude, which I must soon do because I am in
haste, (having just at this moment nothing to do,) and also have
no more room, as you see my paper is done, and I am very tired,
and my fingers tingling from writing so much, and lastly, even if
I had room, I don't know what I could say, except, indeed, a
story which I have a great mind to tell you. So listen! It is not
long since it happened, and in this very country too, where it
made a great sensation, for really it seemed almost incredible,
and, indeed, between ourselves, no one yet knows the result of
the affair. So, to be brief, about four miles from here--I can't
remember the name of the place, but it was either a village or a
hamlet, or something of that kind. Well, after all, it don't much
signify whether it was called Triebetrill or Burmsquick; there is
no doubt that it was some place or other. There a shepherd or
herdsman lived, who was pretty well advanced in years, but still
looked strong and robust; he was unmarried and well-to-do, and
lived happily. But before telling you the story, I must not
forget to say that this man had a most astounding voice when he
spoke; he terrified people when he spoke! Well! to make my tale
as short as possible, you must know that he had a dog called
Bellot, a very handsome large dog, white with black spots. Well!
this shepherd was going along with his sheep, for he had a flock
of eleven thousand under his care, and he had a staff in his
hand, with a pretty rose-colored topknot of ribbons, for he never
went out without his staff; such was his invariable custom. Now
to proceed; being tired, after having gone a couple of miles, he
sat down on a bank beside a river to rest. At last he fell
asleep, when he dreamt that he had lost all his sheep, and this
fear awoke him, but to his great joy he saw his flock close
beside him. At length he got up again and went on, but not for
long; indeed, half an hour could scarcely have elapsed, when he
came to a bridge which was very long, but with a parapet on both
sides to prevent any one falling into the river. Well; he looked
at his flock, and as he was obliged to cross the bridge, he began
to drive over his eleven thousand sheep. Now be so obliging as to
wait till the eleven thousand sheep are all safely across, and
then I will finish the story. I already told you that the result
is not yet known; I hope, however, that by the time I next write
to you, all the sheep will have crossed the bridge; but if not,
why should I care? So far as I am concerned, they might all have
stayed on this side. In the meantime you must accept the story so
far as it goes; what I really know to be true I have written, and
it is better to stop now than to tell you what is false, for in
that case you would probably have discredited the whole, whereas
now you will only disbelieve one half.

I must conclude, but don't think me rude; he who begins must
cease, or the world would have no peace...I
will or shall be, would, could, or should be--what?--A blockhead!
W. A. M.

-----------------------------------------------

(Letter from Chopin to a friend, May 15, 1826, when he was 16 years old.)
"Dear Johnny,
Don't expect to find in this letter the usual name-day compliments: those sentiments, expressions, protestations, apostrophes, touches of pathos and other similar nonsense, humbug and rubbish. Such things are all very well for those who, lacking real attachment, rely on trivialities. But when you've been bound to each other by eleven years of friendship, have counted together 132 months, seen the beginning of468 weeks, 3,960 days, 95,040 hours, 5,702,400 minutes and breathed through 342,144,000 seconds together, you don't need to be reminded
of each other or to write complimentary letters, since you could never set it all down on paper. Coming down to facts (I begin by talking about facts, chiefly to get the following off my chest) : Your Highness has not written to me for months. Why? What for? Cur? Warum? Pourquoi? 1 am very much annoyed, and if there is no improvement there will be trouble between us. I can't write so often, that's obvious; you know that I am working as hard as I can for my diploma, but the dog won't get his bone one often hears them say here that first-year students must keep their fingers off it."

(Letter from Chopin to his friend Titus Woyoechowski, March 27 of 1830, when Chopin was 20.)
Well then, my first concert, although it was sold out and there was not a box or seat to be had three days beforehand, did not make on the general public the impression I thought it would. The first Allegro of my concerto, which relatively few could grasp, called forth applause, but it seems to me that people felt they had to show interest ("Ah, something new!") and pretend to be connoisseurs. The Adagio and Rondo produced the greatest effect and exclamations of sincere admiration could be heard. But the Pot-pourri on Polish Airs [published as Op. 13] did not in my opinion fully achieve its aim. They applauded because they felt they must show at the end that they had not been bored. Kurpinski discovered fresh beauties in my concerto that evening, but Wiman admitted again that he doesn't know what people see in my first Allegro. Ernemann was completely satisfied, but Eisner regretted that the tone of my piano was too woolly and prevented the runs in the bass from being heard. That evening everybody up in the gallery and those standing at the side of the orchestra were satisfied, but the audience in the stalls complained about my playing too quietly and I would like to have been at "Cinderella's" [a Warsaw cafe] to hear the arguments that must have raged about me...All the same, I am surprised that the Adagio made such a general impression: wherever I go they speak ofnothing else. You have of course had all the newspapers, or at least the main ones, and you can confirm that everyone was delighted. Mile de Moriolles sent me a laurel wreath and today somebody else sent me a poem. Orlowski has written mazurkas and waltzes on themes from my concerto, and Sennewald, Brzezina's partner, has asked for my portrait [to have it
engraved and sold], but I could not allow that it would be going too far: I have no desire to see myself used for wrapping up butter, which is what happened to LeleweFs portrait."

Photo of the Quarter, And An Explanation Of My Absence

Tue, 23 Oct 2007 00:33:10 GMT

Some of you have likely been wondering the reason behind my lengthy absence from the blogosphere. In the past few weeks, I have been having trouble with tendonitis in my right arm. I haven't had this problem in several years, so I am grateful that I had such a long time without it. But for now, I'm having to limit my piano playing and computer use, to keep from further injury. I would appreciate your prayers for healing - and in the meanwhile, I will try to post occasional photos. I'm already improving a little bit, so I hope that I will be back to normal before much longer. =)

Pensive Adorability

When Will I Be Grown Up?

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 21:14:31 GMT

“Daddy,” whispered little brown Chester Bear one night, as he crawled into his bed in the bears’ snug little house.

“Yes, Chester,” said Daddy, as he tucked Chester tight under his warm red blanket that smelled like Mommy’s cedar chest and was soft as a goose feather.

“When will I be grown up?” asked Chester.

Daddy cleared his throat and it was a deep, growly “Hum!” And he sat down on the bed and the mattress sank down, and Chester rolled into Daddy’s strong, furry side.

“When, Daddy?” he asked again.

“Well,” said Daddy. “What do you think it means to be grown up?”

Chester wrinkled up his furry forehead and scratched his ear, because that’s what Daddy did when he was thinking. “Well,” he said slowly, and he played with the buttons on Daddy’s PJs, “I think you are grown up when you don’t have to do school anymore, and you can stay up as late as you want. And you can go out into the deep dark woods without someone holding your paw, and you don’t cry when you need a band-aid, and you like to eat brussels sprouts. And you don’t have to get spankings when you’re bad. And you don’t forget to cross your t’s when you write and say “thank you” when you go to a friend’s house, and you don’t spill your milk anymore.” Chester looked up at Daddy with sad brown eyes.

Daddy smiled. “And why do you want to be grown-up?”

Chester scratched his nose and traced the stripes on Daddy’s PJs with his stubby little claw. “Because I wish it didn’t take so long to learn how to read and to write. And because I don’t like brussels sprouts, or peas, or cabbage, or peanut butter sandwiches. And I always catch cold and you and Mommy never do. I don’t get to go to the big games and concerts. When I sing I sound all squeaky but you sound big and deep and strong. And I do bad things, like lying, and grown-ups never lie about whether they finished their math, or whether they ate all of their lima beans. And it’s hard to be the littlest, because today when me and Toby were supposed to take a bath, he locked me out of the bathroom and wouldn’t let anyone in, and I had to go around outside and climb in the window, and he had taken my favorite rubber ducky and wouldn’t let me have it.” And Toby sighed a deep, sad sigh.

Daddy smiled. “Chester Bear,” he said, “Growing-up does not happen all at once. When you grow up, you will still have much to learn, even though you will not be in school. You will have to learn harder things, like how to take care of a family on your own, and how to be brave when you want to be scared, and how to keep quiet when you want to say something angry. You still need to go to bed at night because you will still get tired. You may not cry when you scrape your knee, but sometimes things hurt inside, and your heart can feel like it needs a band-aid. And I still do not like brussels sprouts or lima beans or cabbage or peanut butter sandwiches, and sometimes I spill my coffee. And you may not get spanked anymore, but you will still do bad things and make mistakes and have to learn from them. Yes, when you grow up you will get to do many things that you cannot do now, and you will be big and strong. But that won’t be what makes you happy. You are little, and wish you were big. But many times grown-ups wish they were little. The best way for you to begin to grow up, little bear, is to learn to be happy as you are. When you are little, be glad, and when you are big, be glad. You asked when you will be grown-up. You will be grown-up when you learn to be happy in whatever place you are.”

“I will?” asked Chester Bear.

“Yes,” said Daddy. “And you will be more grown-up than many grown-ups, if you are happy just being a little bear.”

And he kissed Chester on his little black nose, and Chester smiled up at him and drifted off to sleep.

--------------------
© TC 2007

Summer at Pinehaven draws to a close...

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 21:11:29 GMT

The roses keep on blooming in their final late summer displays.

His first time mowing the lawn - all by himself.

Hello, Mr. Frog. (He was sunning in the side of our pool.)

We found a little Visitor in the marigolds.

Daddy's Birthday

Grilling out (and no, we did not make him grill on his birthday - this is another time.) ;)

Glow of the Tiki torches

Enjoying the grill's bounty.

Autumn-colored mums. You know, of the many things which give evolution difficulty, one thing that amazes me is the color-coordination of the seasons. Have you ever thought about how everything in the spring tends to bloom in pinks and purples and yellows...in the summer there is more red and green...and in the autumn, the leaves and the fall-blooming flowers are orange and deep yellow and rich red and burgundy and reddish-purples. What evolutionary advantage could color-coordination have? Or would God, in His wisdom, plan the coloration of each season of flowers to complement each other and their surroundings in the most beautiful way possible, for our enjoyment and His glory?

Budding beauty.

Playing with camera effects:

Planting spring's promise: daffodil bulbs.

The Story Which Insisted On Being a Poem

Sun, 07 Oct 2007 00:07:36 GMT

Once a little brown bird
Built a nest in a tree,
Growing safe in the heights
Of a great mountain’s lee.
It was safe from the rain
And warm in the snow,
And the rocks kept him safe
From the wind’s hardest blow,
While the trees all spread out like a quilt far below,
While the trees all spread out like a quilt far below.

While the autumn was warm,
The bird flew all around,
Eating fat, juicy berries
And seeds on the ground.
And he grew big and fat,
And his feathers stuck out,
Like a fluffy brown pillow
Stuffed full, plush and stout.
But the winter was coming,
And the birds always know,
When the autumn has ended,
And the leaves tumble low,
And the trees look like puffy white cotton below,
And the trees look like puffy white cotton below.

The winter was coming,
For the bird felt the chill
As he hunted for berries
In the cleft of the hill.
So he flew to his nest
In the safe little tree,
Growing safe in the heights
Of the great mountain’s lee.
And he cuddled within it
To stay safe and warm,
For the winter was coming
With great, snowy storms.
But the brown bird was home,
Safe from windstorm and snow,
And the trees still spread out like a quilt far below,
And the trees still spread out like a quilt far below.

For a long time he waited,
And his nest was still warm,
As he waited all still
For the first winter’s storm.
All the other birds waited,
And the wood creatures, too,
For all the wood creatures
And birds always knew
That the winter was coming,
And they must be warm
And fat and well-fed,
Before winter’s first storm.
And the brown bird looked out
In the autumn’s last glow
To see if the trees
Had been dusted with snow,
But the trees still spread out like a quilt far below,
But the trees still spread out like a quilt far below.

Still, the winter was coming,
And the leaves all grew cold,
And slowly turned loose
As the autumn grew old.
And they fell from the trees
With a soft rustling sound,
And the woods all grew quiet
And sleepy around,
For the winter was coming,
And the woods were asleep,
As the carpet of leaves
Grew thick and grew deep.
And the little brown bird,
With a soft little yawn
Looked out one gray morning,
Just after the dawn,
And his little brown eyes
Were lit up with a glow
As he looked at the valley
All covered in snow,
And the trees looked like puffy white cotton below,
And the trees looked like puffy white cotton below.

So the little brown bird
Stayed inside through the wind,
And, with friends, ventured out
When his tummy grew thin.
And when he was fed,
He went home to his tree,
All safe from the storms
In the great mountain’s lee.
So he stayed while the mountain
Was covered with snow,
And the woods were all sleepy
And quiet and low.
And he never flew far
‘Til the first buds of spring
Came peeping around
On the bare winter trees.
And the leaves in the valley
All started to grow
And the trees all spread out like a quilt far below,
And the trees all spread out like a quilt far below.

Expelled - Anti-Darwinist movie coming soon to a theater near you

Sat, 29 Sep 2007 17:47:11 GMT

For once in my life, I am linking to a new movie's site. As many of you know, I do not particularly care for new movies. But I read about this one on www.worldnetdaily.com and it actually sounds very interesting.

If you can believe it, the same people who marketed "The Passion of Christ," "Polar Express," and "Chronicles of Narnia" are marketing a new movie starring Ben Stein. It's called "Expelled." And it's about Darwinism and its rabid suppression of any alternate ideas - whether Creationism or the (largely) non-Christian counterpart, ID. Coming out in February of 2008.

Maybe there are still some people who can think out there. But if you read the comments in the blog section of the site, you will have to wonder. It's already getting quite a negative reaction. That sounds like a Very Good sign.

You should investigate for yourself.

Thoughts on Music from a Genius of Piano's Golden Age

Thu, 27 Sep 2007 20:51:32 GMT

“Let it be grandiose, but not pompous. Music must never sound pompous. It must sound noble, noble. That is the absolute character of music, is nobility, you see. Even popular music must be noble. Really. If it’s not noble then it’s not very good. It must always have the quality of nobility of music. You see, music is an art of emotion, of nobility, of dignity, of greatness, of love, of tenderness, all of that must be brought out in music, but never show-off pompousness. It is good for sometimes. Liszt liked to show what he can do. But Liszt wanted sometimes to show the technique. He would write things absolutely for the technical quality. But there is always music behind it – always. You play La Campanella and there is always music behind it; there is always a certain nobility, even if you show off.”

- Arthur Rubinstein

Excerpt from Edith Schaeffer's book, "What is a Family?"

Thu, 27 Sep 2007 10:51:11 GMT

What is a family? A family is a formation center for human relationships. The family is the place where the deep understanding that people are significant, important, worthwhile, and with a purpose in life, should be learned at an early age. The family is the place where children should learn that human beings have been made in the image of God and are therefore very special in the universe. In other words, one is not simply to sit with a set of sentences to teach by rote memory, while every action and example is denying the words...

Time can never be brought back, and like money, it is spent one way or another. Once spent it is gone - except for the memory. Time spent in yelling for what is not possible means it is lost for the use of what is possible. A principal thing to write in the notebook of our minds in the are of human relationships is: When people insist on perfection or nothing, they get nothing. When people insist on having what they daydream as a perfect relationship, they will end up having no relationship at all. When people waste the time they could have - by screaming for more - they will have no time at all. The waste of what could be, by demanding what cannot be, is something we all have lived through in certain periods of our lives, but which we need to put behind us with resolve.
Come to the Book of Proverbs: "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith" (15:17). "The heart of the wise teacheth his mouth, and addeth learning to his lips. Pleasant words are as an honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones" (16:23, 24). What a difference to the whole family, to other people with whome we are having contact - to all human relationships - are the words which come forth from us. We can give an ugly retort in answer to an ugly remark, but "A soft answer turneth away wrath (see 15:1) tells us what kind of result a pleasant answer will have. Proverbs gives teaching as to the kind of situation one can develop in the formation center for human relationships. Here we have a teaching situation, but a real-life situation at the same time. What opportunity to demonstrate what will happen. Right here, now, when can pleasant words be as an honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones? When it would be easy to speak unpleasant words. That is when the reality shows up...

"What can possibly be the far-reaching effect of one incident?" True, one time is not sufficient to finish the job, but a succession of "one times" add up, especially if there is no apology given, no verbalized recognition that you have been thoughtless and cruel. Neglected mothers and grandmothers may perhaps have been preparing for their own neglect by teaching over and over again that people's sensitive feelings, and people need of response is never as important as clean houses, schedcules, or rules and regulations.

One lesson I tried to teach my children from an early age, repeating over and over again the best explanation I could think of, in different ways at different times, was the fact that some things must never be said, no matter how hot the argument, no matter how angry one becomes, no matter how far one goes in feeling, "I don't care how much I hurt him {or her}." Some things are too much of a "luxury" ever to say. Some things are too great a price to pay for the momentary satisfaction of cutting the other person down. Some things are like throwing indelible ink on a costly work of art, or smashing a priceless statue just to make a strong point in an argument. Saying certain things is an expense beyond all reason. This is true for man, woman, and child. Proverbs says something in this direction which applies whether it is the mother or father, grandparents or aunts and uncles, children who are brothers and sisters, or cousins speaking to each other. "Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands...In the mouth of the foolish is a rod of pride: but the lips of the wise shall preserve them" (14:1, 3).

Making Butter with the Keepers Class

Mon, 24 Sep 2007 23:04:21 GMT

Ready to start!

First, we filled jars three-quarters full with rich, heavy cream. And then we shook them, and shook them, and shook them, and took off the lids to see if the cream was thickening, and put the lids back on, and shook them and shook them again.

First, it started to look like this:

And then, for those who persevered the longest, it finally began to look like this:

So we opened up the fresh, hot bread Hannah brought and spread it thick with our sweet, fresh butter that we made all by ourselves.

And it was so delicious, we ate it all up.