The World Undone

When I was about thirteen or fourteen I wrote a short story about a young shepherd boy who was one of the first people to see the newborn Jesus. It is titled "The King of Kings." I was very proud of it at the time. Now, years later when I read it, I smiled to myself. My descriptions of the angels and of the Holy Family are very simple and rather amusing: the angel that appears to the shepherds is "very beautiful and shiny," and I described Jesus as a baby with "a heavenly light about him and a sweet smile on his face." Perhaps this is not bad for a thirteen-year-old, but I would never write like that now. As I read the story, I realized some parts of it had promise, so I thought perhaps I would rewrite it.

I often get inspiration from the oddest things. Sometimes it is not too odd: a look someone gives someone else, a passage in a book, a scene in a movie, a dream I have. But sometimes it really is odd. For example, a few weeks ago I had inspiration for this revision of "The King of Kings." The boys I nanny were watching an animated cartoon called "The First Noel." It's rather goofy, but as soon as it came to the scene where the three kings visit Jesus I was struck with the wonder of it. Perhaps it was because I was seeing from the eyes of a child in a way. I really do not know, but I did know I had to work this wonder into a story.

These past few weeks as Christmas approached, I thought a lot, and still do, on the wonder of Christmas. Now that I am older, Christmas has more meaning to me than presents and pretty decorations. Most of all I have been dwelling on the fact that Christmas is about love. I ponder the love of Christ made man for love of us. The our God should become a helpless baby to free us from the shadow and darkness of death is a truly wonderful thing. I ponder the love of the Virgin Mary that she said yes to becoming God's mother. I ponder the love of Joseph, who accepted Jesus as his foster son and accepted the strangeness of his conception. That to me is sheer love. Saint Joseph is a man truly to be emulated. I can only hope that if I marry it will be to a man who has that much love, and that he will be a father to my children as Joseph was a father to Jesus. That is the most beautiful aspect of him in my opinion: that he was an unconditionally loving father to Jesus and an unconditionally loving husband to Mary. 

The love of Christmas is beautiful. It is joyful. It is humbling. I wanted to put all of these things into a story, and so I have done my best. I cannot say if I have truly done my thoughts and the beauty and joy of Christ's birth justice, but I hope I have come near. I hope you enjoy this story, and that you have a blessed Christmas filled with love and peace and joy.

The World Undone

By Clotilde Zehnder

It was one of those wonderfully yet savagely clear nights in midwinter, back when I was a boy of ten years. It was a night when the air hangs thick and cold and the sky is pitch black, broken only by the tiny pin-pricks of stars dotting its surface. It was my turn to guard the sheep for two hours. I was the youngest, so I got the shortest shift, but it was still long to me. I huddled in my sheepskin cloak, wrapping it as tightly as I could around me. It was the coldest night in my memory. I stamped my feet and sang softly to myself. I liked to make up songs just like my great namesake, King David. I only sang my songs quietly, when no one was listening. I was afraid my brothers would laugh at me should they hear my songs.

As I sang I watched the millions of stars in the pitch-black sky. No matter how many times I tried, I could never count them. I had a strange need to count them, to know how many there were. There was no explanation for this desire; I could not explain it even to myself. My brothers thought it strange. Even my brother Gideon, who understood such things, could not understand this desire.

My eyes moved from one star to another, then rested on one that seemed to burn a little brighter than the others. I had seen bright stars, and knew some burned brighter, but this one had a strange quality to it, a clear, golden sort of quality. As I watched, the star seemed to grow bigger. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. Perhaps I was getting sleepy. But though I rubbed my eyes hard, the star continued to grow bigger and brighter.

I began to feel frightened. I ran to shake my eldest brother awake. “Is it my turn already?” Beniah mumbled sleepily.

“Beniah, look!” I urged. My brother heard the fear in my voice and was instantly awake. “What, is the wolf pack returned?” he asked. The wolf packs sometimes roamed the hills and wreaked havoc on our flocks.

I shook my head and pointed dumbly at the star. Beniah took a look at it. “What am I supposed to see, David?” he asked.

I found my tongue enough to stammer, “That star. Is it not bigger, and brighter, than usual? And it grows bigger.”

Beniah shook his head impatiently. “You woke me to look at a star? I see nothing strange. You are imagining things again, little brother. Lie down and sleep; I will take the rest of your watch.”

There was nothing to do but obey. I lay down and pulled my sheepskin tightly around me. Perhaps my mind had been playing tricks with me. Already the star seemed smaller and less bright. I closed my eyes and soon began to feel drowsy.

I do not know how long I slept. Without warning I was jerked awake by a blinding light and my brothers’ voices crying out in wordless terror. I sat up, trembling all over. I could hardly see a thing for the light. It was a light unlike any I had ever seen before. It had an almost translucent quality and while it was pure white it was also every color that could ever exist. I thought perhaps I could touch it and let it run through my fingers like water.

As if in a dream I got up, letting my cloak fall to the ground behind me, and moved towards the light. No, I moved into the light and it wrapped around me like the cloak I had just abandoned. As if from a great distance I saw the huddled, shaking forms of my brothers on the ground. They were crying out to God to spare them. Their fear was palpable. It was the fear of the grave.

Yet though I was afraid, my fear propelled me on until I stood still, blinded and immobilized by the light. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth and my feet became heavy as rock. The light’s source was a fiery shape that I could not quite distinguish. Every time I thought it looked like something familiar it was unfamiliar without perceptibly changing. It was frightening, awesome, and glorious.

The fiery figure spoke, but it was not so much speech as knowledge that filled my mind. My brothers stopped their cries and were silent to hear the words. The words that filled my mind were not ordinary words. It was pure beauty, light that had taken verbal form.

“Fear not,” the light said. “Fear not, for behold, I bring thee good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. To thee this day a Savior has been born in the city of David your father. It is he of whom the prophets spoke, a savior who is Christ the Lord. He it is who shalt free thee from the darkness and the shadow of death. Go and find him, and this shall be a sign to thee: thou shalt find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger.”

The voice ceased, but the light grew in brilliance, and a thousand voices filled the air in song. “Glory to God in the highest!” the voices sang. It was the sweetest music I had ever heard.

The song faded away after a while, leaving the piercing black sky and a fragrant silence. We all stayed as we were for a while, my brothers cowering on the ground, and I standing rooted to the ground. At last my brothers stirred and I was able to move my limbs again. We looked at each other in wonder. Had it been only a dream?

Yet the words of the heavenly being – for such we now knew it to be – rang in our ears: “Go and find him.”

“Shall we search for this child?” my brother Acham asked.

“We shall,” Beniah agreed. “Come, my brothers; let us make haste.”

“What is to be done with the sheep?” Gideon asked.

“Perhaps one of us should stay,” Acham suggested, though not at all in a hopeful way.

Beniah nodded. “That would be wise. We will draw lots. David must stay as well.”

I protested, and Beniah said, “You are tired, David.”

“Please let me go,” I pleaded. “I am not tired.”

Beniah gave me a long look. “That is not true, David,” he said softly.

I hung my head. “Well, not very tired. Please let me go, Beniah. I know if have been called to see this king.”

Beniah looked at me again for a long while, then he said, “Very well. Now who will stay?”

Acham said he would stay. Acham was the silent one who seldom spoke and preferred his own bit of land to all else. The rest of us set off towards the east. We had not discussed it, but it seemed only right to follow the direction of the star. The star appeared again, shining more brightly than all the others. As we walked towards it, it grew larger, and somehow we knew we were going in the right direction.

We came at last to a cave a short distance from the town where we and other shepherds were wont to take shelter on stormy nights. There we were greeted by a strange sight. The star hung right above the cave in the clear night as if it had dropped out of the sky to touch it. It illuminated the cave inside and out in a soft, unearthly light.

We approached the entrance of the cave slowly, timidly. None of us knew what we would see. What we did see took our breath away. I could never have been prepared for the sight I saw in that humble, rough cave that cold midwinter night.

 There were animals sheltering in the cave: a cow, several sheep, and a donkey. All of them were standing about, watching. I had never seen dumb beasts watch in such a way before. The expressions on their faces were almost, dare I say, human. They were looking at three people to one side of the cave: a man, a woman, and a baby. My eyes took in the man first. He was an older, kindly-looking man, dressed in the garments of a town-dweller. He looked weary, and his clothes were stained with the dust of a long journey, yet in his eyes was such pride and such love. He could only be a father, one who loved his child with unconditional love. I had never known my father. He stood beside the woman and the child with a protective and loving air.

My eyes moved to the woman and stayed there for a long moment. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my short life, and somehow I knew that I would never again see such a beautiful woman as she. She was not only physically beautiful. No, she had an air about her of goodness, and kindness, and perfection. One could almost call it a scent. I was unaccustomed to such goodness and purity, and it left me breathless. There was no weariness about her as there would be with a woman who has just given birth. This woman had a radiance about her, a joy that was palpable, a love that was tangible. I had never known my mother. I had a strange feeling that this woman was my mother. She was dressed simply, but she had a queenliness about her that surpassed her clothing. I had an urge to bow down to her.

But it was the baby, the tiny baby lying in a bed of hay, that truly caught my gaze. I could not tear my eyes away from that baby. He was wrapped tightly in swaddling clothes like any other baby, and all I could see was his little face framed by a fluff of dark hair. This baby was not red and wrinkled like other new-born babies are. His skin was smooth, soft as a bird’s feather, and radiant. Not sparkling or shining radiance, but pure radiance, like the pure radiance of his mother, but more so. I was drawn towards the baby almost involuntarily.

Beniah reached out a hand to stop me, and I froze. The baby was calling me, but Beniah was both brother and father to me, and I always obeyed him. But the woman looked up and our eyes met. She smiled the most beautiful smile and beckoned to me. I felt Beniah let go of my arm, and I approached the manger.

I knelt down and looked at the baby. He looked into my eyes, and I was suddenly weak. I was undone. In the child’s eyes I saw such things as I will never be able to describe, even now I my old age, with the weight of life on my shoulders. Perhaps I saw heaven, and hell, and life, and death. And victory. My short life passed before my eyes in the eyes of that tiny child, and I felt light as bit of sheep’s wool borne aloft by the wind. This child knew my inmost and deepest thoughts. He knew every hair upon my head. He could number the stars.

Such an indescribable joy came over me that I began to sing. As the words drifted from my lips my brothers fell to their knees behind me.

“My soul cries out to thee, my Lord,

the lord of my longing and my salvation.

I have longed for thee, my Lord,

in the darkness of my soul,

in the iniquity of my heart.

Long have I waited, late I have wept

and cried to thee in my endless sorrow.

Thou hast come, oh Lord of my life;

and thou hast turned my tears to gold,

and my sighs to pearls of high degree.”

I cannot say from whence the words came, nor can I say I had those thoughts and desires before. Yet as soon as the words left my lips, I knew they were true thoughts and desires. I gazed upon the child, and he smiled at me. I recalled the words of the angel: “It is he of whom the prophets spoke. He it is who shalt free thee from the darkness and the shadow of death.” I knew that I would follow this tiny, helpless babe to the ends of the earth, to the grave and back. I knew I would die for this child.

Then I bowed my head and worshiped the child. His mother smiled with joy and outside the stillness of the night was broken by the sound of heavenly song.

It was the bleakest of midwinters when a baby brought the world to its knees.

The Handwriting of the Book

I have never had the best handwriting, nor have I always cared to have the best handwriting. I used to tell myself that it was the sign of a good writer to have messy handwriting. Yet Jane Austen had an impeccable hand, as did J.R.R. Tolkien. When I was in college I was so disgusted with my sloppy writing that I set about changing it. Recently I started working on my handwriting again, with good results.

I strongly believe that we need to bring back the art of handwriting. Today we don't care about nice handwriting because we have computers to do it all for us. Ah, the fallacy! Because we have computers we are losing the art of handwriting. So many people have bad handwriting now, and it is such a shame. Like the printed book, handwriting is becoming obsolete. But the printed book does something wonderful to the human brain. When we pick up a book, the brain begins to work hard. There is physicality in reading, just as in many sports and activities. Text is a tangible part of the physical world; the brain regards letters as physical in order to understand the intangible concepts of words and ideas. When we read, the brain goes through the motions of writing. 

The brain also regards written text as a landscape. Words are the mountains and valleys on a map surrounded by a border. Paper books have more obvious topography than onscreen text. A book has left and right pages, and corners with which we can orient ourselves. A reader can focus on a single page of a paper book without losing sight of the whole text. A reader can see where a page is in relation everything else in the book. There is also a thickness to the paper page, a rhythm in turning the pages, and a visible record of how far you have journeyed through the book. The brain is able to make a coherent mental map of the text. Paper books have a physical feeling of paper and words, and size, shape, and weight. For instance, we know War and Peace is a long book, and Heart of Darkness is a rather short book. People expect books to look, feel, and smell a certain way. (I know I do; I love to smell books.) When books have none of these aspects, reading becomes less enjoyable.

The digital reader, on the other hand, gives the brain far less of a work-out. The digital book is just a seamless stream of words. There is no map, no compass to guide the reader. It is difficult to see a passage in context with the rest of the book. A digital reader displays one, at most two, pages at a time, and then they are gone, leaving no trace. Studies have shown that people who read from a screen read slower, less accurately, and less comprehensively. Most people who really want to dig into a book and understand it will read a paper book. The digital book drains more mental resources, and it is harder to remember what you have read.

Handwriting has a similar effect on the brain. Writing requires the brain to be at work to form the shapes of the letters. Writing by hand differs from typing on a computer because it requires using strokes to create a letter, while typing is just selecting the whole letter by touching a key. The finger movements used in writing activate large regions of the brain that are involved in thinking, memory, and language. Again, there is physicality involved in writing a letter, a word, a page. People who handwrite more are shown to have better cognitive skills.

I have recently started writing my stories out by hand before typing them on the computer. I have never written poetry on a computer; there's something about poetry that needs to be written out by hand. Poetry is such a physical thing. I have found that handwriting my manuscripts helps me. True, it takes a lot longer, but it is so much more satisfactory, and there seems to be a direct link between the ideas in my head and what I write on paper. Something seems to get lost between by brain and the computer keyboard.

Please help me to save the dying art of handwriting. I encourage you to take some time and write something in your best hand throughout the day, whether it is your magnum opus, a letter to a friend, or simply your grocery list.

* Information on books, handwriting, and the brain taken from articles written by Phil Riebel and Scientific American.

In Truth and Time

To my father as he enters the ripe old age of fifty

“Veritatem dies aperit.” ­ ~ Seneca

The young man’s prayer at the dawn of the day

Is the old man’s prayer in the night.

The crying of joy, the song of delight,

Are the sorrows and tears of a life.

What are the tears at the end of an age,

And what are the sorrows of time

Beside the light that goes on through the dark

And burns all the brighter at night.

The dawn of day is a splendid thing,

A candle’s light in the dark.

But the men of old with their silver eyes

Go bravely into the night.

The song that once was wild and free,

And flew in the face of God

Is come to earth and burns in the heart

Of wisdom and courage and life.

The brightest of lights at the end of the day

Will burn into nothing but ash.

But the silver hearts of the men of the night

Will lead the path to the fray.

The song they sing will go on through the age

And light up the passage of time

Until it rests in the song of the young

And the hope of a new, brighter day.

On the Topic of My Sad and Sorry Negligence

I have been sadly negligent of my blog these past few months. Aside from posting about a Jane Austen book giveaway (from which I won a beautiful book on the life and times of the famous author), I have barely touched (in a rhetorical sense, of course) my blog. The other day my best friend called me out on it, requesting, nay, demanding, that I post something soon, because, to quote her, "It's looking pretty dead these days."

I realize that complaining on how I haven't touched my blog for some time is a pathetic way of starting up again, but I do have an excuse. Several, in fact. So here they are:

1. I moved

Yes, I moved. Really and truly moved. It was frightening, and exciting, and hard. (Try packing your whole life into several large suitcases.) I now live in a lovely little studio apartment on the outskirts of Manassas, Virginia. It is very far from my homeland of crazy, yet lovable, California. Fortunately, I have relatives just down the road, and my best friend Jen is coming to live with me. (I tell her I'm glad she's coming because it will keep me from being lonely, but really it's because she'll pay half of the rent.) 

I am enjoying Northern Virginia. I am not very fond of the city. I'm not very fond of cities in general; I guess I'll always be a small town girl. I'm not very fond of Virginia drivers, either. They're terribly bad at using their turn signals, and they have two very strange habits. One is if they're stopped at a red light, and are first in line, they'll gradually start inching up into the intersection. It's not going to get you there any faster, people. Also, when they stop at a light, they leave about one to two car-lengths between them and the car in front of them, and often start inching up during the red light. Consequently it's stop-and-go traffic at a red light. Really, people? The other thing that really bothers me is the roads. Whoever thought up the roads in Virginia as on drugs. They are nothing like the neat and tidy grid-based roads of California. They meander, they are never straight, and they get narrow in strange places. And of course there is the strange phenomenon of a road not going through an intersection. In Virginia, the road stops at the main intersection and becomes a different road on the other side. Why? I ask. You may ask the same question. No one really knows. It's the East Coast. And then there are always several roads of the same name that are not connected or even near each other in any way. It makes directions terribly hard to follow. I have been lost many times.

Yet, despite the terrible road systems and bad drivers, it is a beautiful place, Virginia. I love all the green trees and grass, and the wildness of it. Virginia landscape is not tame. There are beautiful and interesting houses everywhere. There is the history, as well. It gives me a thrill of delight every time I think that people walked this ground that I am walking hundreds of years ago. This is where the first Americans walked. This is where the great bloody war between the North and the South was fought. Right here. The soundtrack from Gettysburg swells in my head as I drive down Sudley Road, past the Manassas battlefield. One of these days I'll actually stop my car and walk that battlefield. Though really, wasn't all of Virginia a battlefield?

2. I have been job-hunting

All right, that isn't really an excuse, since not having a job gives me plenty of time to blog. 

3. I got a job

Not really an excuse either, since I haven't started my new job, or rather, jobs, yet. I am a teacher now! And here I was thinking that since it was so late in the summer I'd have to settle for a nanny or retail job. I'm not thrilled about the early mornings (school starts at 8 am), but it's only four days a week. I'll be able to recuperate on the last three days. Oh, and I'm also a violin teacher, and unlike California, I have a lot of students. People actually commit to things here. What a novel concept.

4. I joined the Manassas Symphony Orchestra

Okay, this isn't really a list of excuses any more. I think it's becoming a list of the exciting things that have happened to me since July 2014. Yes, I auditioned for MSO and am playing second violin. I haven't played second violin in a very long time, aside from a short stint in the Antelope Valley Symphony during the Rite of Spring. It's very different, but I'm enjoying it all the same. It's a very good group. We had our first concert last Sunday. Now let me ask, what is it about orchestra directors and bad jokes? And what is it about orchestra directors having at least one child that plays the cello? Maybe this is not such a widespread phenomenon as I think it is, but I do find it intriguing.

5. I've been, um, writing a lot

It's rather embarrassing to list this, since if I've been writing a lot, I should be posting a lot. My mind doesn't always work that way.

6. I discovered the Prince William County Library System

Now that is a good discovery. There are two large libraries right in Manassas! Please don't judge me when I say I have gone in and sniffed the books. It's a thing I do. The books in the PWC library system have a lovely smell, every single one of them. I'm not sure why. They also have a great "friends of the library" sale room, and you can fill a bag of books for $2. It really doesn't get any better than that.

So there are some excuses. Whether you take them or not is up to you. I really am going to try more to update my blog at least a few times a week. At least once a week.

Jane Austen Giveaway

I love Jane Austen, and have since I was a teenager. My parents have described me as a "Jane Austen type" of girl. I like to think that I will someday write as well as she does, and that I understand people and human nature the way that she does.

Now before you all get excited, I am not doing a giveaway. This blogger, however, is, and in my love of all things Austen I am entering the giveaway by posting about the giveaway. Clever, eh? If you love all things Austen like I do, consider entering this giveaway.

http://old-fashionedcharm.blogspot.com/2014/07/big-jane-austen-book-giveaway.html

To My Class - The Super Class of 2013

It has been one year since we graduated and said our goodbyes. Even though we are all in different places and doing different things, you all still hold a place in my heart. I can never forget my 32 brothers and sisters. I had a wonderful four years with you. You truly are super, every one of you, and I am so glad I got to spend that time with you.

The years are fleeing swiftly by,

And I, I cannot stop their flight,

As they soar by on colored wings

To where all time shall never end.

This world walks by on hurried feet,

The earth spins round on endless course.

Each day goes flying by and we

Cannot arrest the whirl of time.

One life is all we have to live,

One song to sing, one tale to tell,

And what we do is ours to say;

We hold the future in our hands.

We’ll make the best of here and now,

And when we’re done, on looking back,

We’ll show the world what we became

When holding life between our hands.

The years are fleeing swiftly by,

And I, I cannot stop their flight

But we shall sing, for joy is ours,

And life is ours to live and love.

In the Days of Dear Diary

The 20th century author Roger Martin du Gard writes, "I have never had the time or the (romantic) inclination to keep a diary. I regret it. If I could hold between my hands today, in black and white, all my past life since my fifteenth year, I'd have a better impression of having lived."

While these words are not strictly true for me, they do hold a ring of truth. Diaries and I haven't always gotten along. That's not to say that I don't enjoy writing diaries. The few that I have written I have enjoyed: the one when I was fourteen and had uncrushable crushes, and the one when I was a college freshman. Those were the only ones that lasted more than few months. I have also kept bits and snatches of diaries over the years. I am keeping one at present, in a manner of speaking.

Like du Gard, I regret not having kept more diaries. The trouble is, I am very bad at following through when I start writing a diary. I will faithfully write an entry every day for a few weeks, then it peters off into a few entries a week, then one, then an entry every few months. Perhaps it's because I'm a little lazy when it comes to writing down my feelings and my inmost thoughts. I'm also rather lazy about writing things out my hand.

And because I am a writer, I also have this thought in the back of my mind that someone is going to read my diary someday, so I make it boring and stylized, and write down too much information. Who would want to read that, much less write it? But the biggest thing, perhaps, that keeps me from writing a diary is the fact that my life is very boring and safe compared to those of the famous people that we read about. Anne Frank, Helene Berr, Mary Chesnut...I haven't lived through a war, or persecution. I live in quiet little Tehachapi. I went to college, and now I am looking for a job. It's not terribly exciting, at least not to the world. 

Then I remember that I am a writer, and for that very reason I need to write about myself, for myself only, not so that the world can read about my inmost thoughts but so that I can have a better grasp on myself. I recently read a book called Dear Mr. Knightly, by Katherine Reay. The main idea is that this girl, Samantha Moore, has been given a grant by an anonymous donor to attend a prestigious journalism school. Sam lives in a world of books. She has lived in the foster system most of her life, and the world has hurt her so many times that she retreats into her books. She knows all of the famous characters like old friends, and can put on their personae to match any situation. The trouble is, she doesn't have a voice of her own, a character of her own. She finds her own character by writing about real things, by stepping back from fiction and seeing real life.

The world hasn't hurt me. I haven't retreated into books, though I do read a lot. All the same, sometimes I feel like Samantha Moore. While Samantha expresses herself through her favorite characters, I express myself through my fictional characters. I don't see this as a bad thing, except in that my diary-writing suffers because of it. I'd much rather be writing about the thoughts and problems of fictional characters than my own thoughts and problems. They're so much easier to handle when they're not your own. Yet they are my own, in a way. Whenever I come up with an idea for a story, I live the characters' lives in my head, think what they think, say what they say. I've done this my whole life. It makes my characters real, and it allows me to express my thoughts and feelings. Because that's how I express myself. If a character has seen a beautiful sunset and is moved to lofty thoughts, it's because I have seen a sunset and am moved to lofty thoughts. If a character is happy or sad about something, it's because I am happy or sad about something. They're very often my feelings. My characters think the way I think, most of the time. They see things the way I see them, most of the time.


When I was a teenager in high school, I found an outlet for my diary-writing, or non-writing. I went through a Dear America phase. You know them: Voyage on the Great Titanic; When Will this Cruel War Be Over; The Winter of Red Snow. I used to love to read those books, and they became a model for my own writing for a time, perhaps because I could express my ideas and thoughts without actually expressing them. I started my own series of Dear America diaries, as well as the Foreign Diaries series, because I wanted to expand beyond America. Like my old plays, I look back at them and laugh. I certainly didn't experience first-hand what my characters did, but they are a good example of my ideas and thoughts at that time of my life. At that time, I knew nothing of the world except for what I read in books. I saw only lofty ideals, not caring to delve deeper into things. Wars were not struggles over human folly, but heroic endeavors. In general, I was a romantic.

My first Dear America diary was called When This Cruel War is Over. (Notice the re-arranging of the title of the Dear America book to avoid copyright issues?) This diary is set in the American Revolution, and is written by an American girl named Charlotte Marie Darrington. Charlotte lives in Philadelphia with her mother; her father and her brother Johnny are off fighting for the Americans. The year is 1777. In my usual melodramatic style of the time (I was fourteen), her father is killed, and her brother is missing in action, and on top of that, the Redcoats come to stay at her house.

This is where things get interesting. One of the Redcoats is a boy named Randall Emerson. Charlotte notes (and here note my fourteen-year-old ignorance of history) that Randall "has a very American name. Very American." I suppose Randall Emerson could have noted that Charlotte has a very British name. Oh, wait, he does:

Today at tea, R.E and I had and argument. This is how it came about: I asked R.E where he was born and he said he was born in England. I said, “Good” and he asked why. I told him that if he had been born in America, he would be a traitor to his country. Then he asked me where I was born, and I said, “In this very house.” He said he was surprised, as I had such an English name. I told him that he had a very American name. Then R.E asked me where my ancestors came from, but I said I didn’t know. Mama said quietly that they came from England. R.E turned to me. “You are a traitor,” he said. “Am not,” I retorted. “You are too,” R.E said. “England is your mother country, whether you like it or not.” “Perhaps,” I said, “but our mother does not love us anymore.” “A good answer!” Colonel Graham cried. R.E looked disgusted. “Very well,” he said, “but we will beat you soon, never fear, and all you Patriots will turn coat and be sensible.” For answer, I quoted Patrick Henry:

“Is life so dear, of peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!”

That is just the beginning of the Dear Diaries. After that came In Good Times and in Bad, the story of an opera singer who falls in love with another opera singer, and The Hart He Loves the Highlands, which is basically a ripoff of Outlaws of Ravenhurst, my favorite book at the time, only my version is about a girl and her twin brother, Maggie and Jamie. This one is very melodramatic. People die right and left, and Maggie's evil uncle kills off her parents, who are a lord and lady, and tries to take over the castle. Of course the children save the day. Oh, and there's a twist: at the end of the story you find out that they are not actually related!

          I must write quickly, for in a few minutes I must leave the castle, perhaps forever.
          Uncle Edwin has taken charge of Lochinver completely. He has outlawed Father William, and today he told Jamie he had to decide between these two things: to leave the Catholic Church and forever rule Lochinver, or to stay in the Church and be thrown into the dungeons. He said we had two hours to decide.
          Jamie stood up, and I have never been so proud of my brother before. “Uncle Edwin,” he said, “you may throw me into the dungeons, roast me alive, anything, but I will never leave the Catholic Church.”
          “I give you two hours to decide,” Uncle Edwin said.
          “Uncle Edwin, you are a traitor.” And Jamie turned and walked out, straight and tall. 

Yes, I was full of ideals, and not much subtlety.

As I got older, I got tired of writing fictional diaries, and I have not written another one since I was about seventeen. I'm glad now; that form is not my forte, and I don't enjoy it as much as I used to. Or maybe it's because I'm not very good at writing diaries in general. Perhaps one day I will write an autobiography, if I remember all of the things that happened to me. In the meantime, I have a diary to catch up on.

To Olivia and Emma

Today I lit a candle after Mass for Olivia and Emma, and as I touched the flickering flame to the wick, I thought about their two little souls, dancing before the throne of God. I remember them well from my four years at Wyoming Catholic College. I remember them playing with the other professors' children, laughing, dancing.

Life is such a delicate, precious thing, and it can go away so easily. Your life can change in a blink of an eye. All it takes is one stormy day...

On March 18, 2014, Olivia and Emma Lewis lost their lives in a tragic automobile accident. They died peacefully and painlessly in their parents' arms. They were six and three years old. When I think of the pain their parents and their remaining sister, Vivian, are going through, my heart aches. Parents should not have to bury their children. It is not right. But God called them, and they went. We cannot know why. At times like this, faith is hard, but comforting at the same time. They are happy, those two beautiful little girls. I think of Olivia and Emma singing and dancing before the throne of God. The thought doesn't make my tears any less, but it gives some comfort.

A friend recently said, "Would our grief be too great to bear if others, here and in heaven, did not bear the sorrow with us? So, in what little I can offer at this time, I offer up my tears and sorrow in hopes that it helps them with their own." In his novel, "Cry, the Beloved Country," Alan Paton writes, "There is a woman wailing, and an old man crying...but no one calls for silence...for who can stop the heart from breaking?" No, we cannot stop the heart from breaking. And so I pray that even though their hearts are breaking, the Lewis family will peace and consolation through the tears and heartbreak of their friends.

There are no words to express the sorrow we all feel at the deaths of these little girls, but I want to honor Olivia and Emma in the best way I know, and that is through words. I hope that when people read these words, they will think of and pray for those two little girls who were taken so soon from us, and pray for them, and for their grieving family.

Lord, grant them peace. Grant them strength and consolation.

They said that I was beautiful,

They held my hand, and when I fell

They carried me and held me close

Until my tears had gone away.

They loved me more than words can tell,

They loved my smiles, loved my tears;
They loved each part of me.

They held me in their loving arms,

And kissed my quiet brow.

They told me I was beautiful,

And bowed their heads and wept...

The light flowed from his burning heart;

My soul flew lightly as a breath

Of wind to meet my only love.

He knows that I am beautiful,

He holds my hand, and when I fall,

He gives me life when life has gone,

And holds me in his heart.

He loves me more than words can tell,

He loves my being, loves my soul,

And loves me in eternity.

I danced before the throne of heaven,

And all the angels bowed their heads

To hear my voice raised up in song
And see my beauty bright.

And still I dance, and still I sing,

And I am more than beautiful.

When Love Hangs Dying

Today was the first time in four years that I wore my ashes out in the world. The first time ever, really. Being at college, I wore my ashes in a largely Catholic community. But today, I am in the world. I work in a secular business. I don't live in a little college town where half of the population is Catholic college students. 

Today three people were reminded it was Ash Wednesday when they saw my ashes. It's a good feeling, knowing that you're being a witness to your faith by even the simple act of wearing ashes on your forehead as you work and shop. It gets you over that initial awkwardness of having a black smudge on your face. (How many priests have you known who actually make a real cross?) I was glad to wear that black smudge all day. Some people just looked at me, but some people asked questions, and some people remembered it was Ash Wednesday, and the beginning of Lent.

We can't change everyone's hearts, can we? But if we can just get one person to think, and remember...

In the spirit of Lent, I would like to share this poem I wrote at the beginning of my Senior year in college, just about a year ago. It was the fourth year of the excellent Theology course at WCC, and my head was full of so many beautiful truths, and what can I do when my head is full of beautiful truths? Every year I fall in love all over again with the Passion of Christ, because no greater love have I seen. This is my attempt at trying to explain it.

Night falls, and gently on the sleeping world,

Down falls a deadly hush and softly clothes

The world in sightless, darkened, empty dream

And drowns the spark of light that dwelt within.

The heavens groan and cry aloud in pain,

Their agony now falling on deaf ears

As they lean down to touch the place wherein

Incarnate glory came to dying earth.

Where is he now? When did he go from here?

He stood here once; his glory cloaked us round,

Enfolding us within his gentle arms

And called us from our dead and silent sleep.

But yet midday we saw him in this place,

His head bowed down in crown of angry hate,

His body torn and mangled, clothed in blood,

His eyes forever closed in sleepless death.

We saw no beauty in his dying face,

No spark of life to light his death-cold eyes.

Ignoble death had robbed him in its wake

And settled on his mangled, bloody corpse.

Yet as I gazed, his beauty smote my heart,

And burned to take my life and make it his.

Ah, here no greater beauty have I seen

When love hangs dying on the blood-red tree.

Lock and Key

When I was young and daring,

I let my heart fly free,

And wore it in my laughing eyes

For all the world to see.

To each and every passer-by

I let it dance and sing,

And to each soul that lent its love

It joyfully took wing.

When once my eyes beheld him,

My heart leapt to its feet

And ran to him with burning fire

And pulsing, glowing beat.

He held it for a moment,

Then threw it to the ground,

And trampled it with callous care

And killed its every sound.

They told me, “Lock your heart up,

And throw away the key.

There it will heel, and never feel

The world’s cruel, poisoned stings.”

I picked it bleeding off the ground

And hid it in my breast,

And vowed I’d never let it go,

Nor see its love transgressed.

Yet though I kept it hidden,

And vowed love was no more,

Your song tore down the iron walls

And battered in the door.

Your music healed my throbbing soul

And soothed love’s wounded source.

For still to love, though all is lost,

Is life, and life’s own course.

This Land

There is always music for those who have the ears to hear

The land was our legacy. My grandfather had saved and saved until he could buy it. He had worked his fingers to the bone so that the Pellyn family would have a legacy, something it could pass on from father to son, generation after generation, as long as our line continued, and then some more. Today, as I stood on the hill overlooking our two-storey house, the land belonged to my father. In some unconceivable future the land would belong to me. That was the way it was. That was how it had been with my father. Some things did not change. Some things remain constant. But then some do change.

Once my grandfather had stood on this hill, and looked with delight over all the land that was to be his. My father had played on this hill, and thought about the land that was to be his. Today, as I stood on the hill and looked out over the densely wooded land that was someday to be mine, I felt trapped. The sky was endless above me. Below me the land stretched out as far as I could see, but still I felt trapped, unable to move. My father loved the land almost as much as he loved his wife and children. The land was part of what made him who he was, almost as much as being a husband and father made him who he was. He was happiest when he was working his land, immersed in the beauty and splendor of it. He enjoyed working the long hours, clearing the trees where they needed to be cleared and in their place planting new vegetation, food to feed a family of six, and selling the excess wood and vegetables. But I did not love it. While I worked with my father I was longing for something different. While I worked in the untamed beauty around me I longed for the tamed world. I longed for the big cities with their reaching buildings, their museums, their libraries, their music.

My father once said to me, “Son, if you stand still and listen long enough with the right ears, you will hear that there is music in the world, no matter where you are. You just have to have the ears to hear it.” My father loved music almost as much as I did. But I could not hear the music of the land. I could not hear the music my father heard and delighted in. For him that was enough, but I needed more.

I heard my sister Nora call. “Hugh! Hugh, it’s time for dinner!” I pretended I didn’t hear for a few minutes and didn’t answer. I wanted a few more minutes to be alone. I knew what was going to happen when I walked down the hill and into the house. I delayed it as long as possible.

“Hugh!” My sister’s voice was closer. I waited until she walked up the hill to me. “Hugh,” she said, “I’ve been calling you. It’s time for dinner.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m coming.”

“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” Nora came to stand beside me and looked over the land. When I didn’t answer she looked at me closely. Nora was always the favorite of my three sisters. I think she understood me more than the rest of my family. But not even to her had I told my secret desire. Even Nora wouldn’t understand.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about a lot of things.”

“Away by yourself, it seems,” Nora said. “Dad’s furious.”

“I know.” I sighed. “Come on, Nora, we’d better go down, or he’ll be even more furious.” We raced down the hill and into the back door of the house. My father was not a hard man, but he placed great importance on duty. It was our duty to work, and it was our duty to be on time.

The rest of my family was already sitting around the table. We slipped into our places as Dad gave me a stern glance and began to say grace. I folded my hands and tried to concentrate on the words of the prayer.

“Amen,” we all chorused. We drew in our chairs, and Mother began to serve the food. My father did not say anything as she passed the plates around. Clare began talking about something one of her friends had told her. I did not listen. I looked down at my plate as I shoveled roast into my mouth.

Clare could talk forever if the occasion arose. But finally her story was finished. I knew Dad would not say anything even then. When any of us was in trouble, Dad never spoke of it at the dinner table. When he wanted to bring it up, he would bring it up after dinner, in his library. Dad liked dinner to be pleasant. He and Mother and the girls talked all during dinner. I didn’t say much unless anyone addressed me.

We had chocolate cake for dessert. When Sophie had cleared the dishes away Dad stood up and looked down the table at me. “Hugh, come to the library with me, please,” he said.

I got up and followed him to the library. The library faced the west, and the sun was setting, casting a warm light in the room. It was the perfect time to sit in the window seat with a book, but I knew Dad hadn’t called me into the library to read a book.

Dad sat in one of the big chairs and looked up at me. “Where were you all afternoon?” he asked.

I looked at a book above his head. Galileo’s Discoveries and Opinions. “Down by the river,” I said to the book.

“Doing what?” was Dad’s next question.

“Nothing in particular. Thinking.”

In my peripheral vision I could see my father run his hands through his hair. “Why weren’t you helping me?”

I shrugged. “I wanted to think.”

Dad’s hand came down on the arm of the chair with a thump that made me start. His voice was angry as he said, “Hugh, I waited for a whole hour for you. Your sisters went looking for you. I needed help, and you were off by yourself thinking.”

“I thought you liked people to think,” I mumbled to Galileo.

“Not when there’s work to be done,” Dad said, still angry. I heard him take a deep breath, and then he went on more quietly. “Hugh, now that you’ve graduated from high school, I need your help even more. This land is going to be yours someday, but right now it belongs to all of us, and I expect you to help with the work. You need to learn about it, understand it, and know it.”

Something in me snapped then, and I began to yell. “I don’t want the land,” I stormed. “I don’t want it at all. I hate it. I don’t ever want to see it again, much less work it. I don’t care if it was grandpa’s dream. I don’t care if it’s our legacy. Our damn legacy can go to hell!”

I stopped then, not because I was finished, but because Dad had slapped me across the face. It startled me and made me shut up.

“Hugh, calm down,” Dad said, surprisingly calm himself, considering my outburst. “If you have something to say to me, say it in a respectful way.”

I took a deep breath. “Dad, I don’t want the land. I’ve never wanted it.”

Dad sat down again, crossed his legs, and looked at me. “Hugh, this land is our legacy. It is very important to me, and it should be to you as well. My father bought the land so that I, and you and your children, would have a chance at something.”

I let my breath out in a loud puff. “I know Grandpa bought this land to give you a chance, and you love it. But I don’t love it like you do. I don’t want your chance. You had your chance, so why can’t I have mine?”

“What do you want?”

“I – I want anything that’s not this. I want the big buildings, the cities, the music. There’s so much in the cities that I can’t have here. I want to live in the city, maybe study music, or art. I just want to see what the world is like.”

Dad nodded slowly. “I see,” he said, and his voice was very sad. “Funny, because I came here to get away from all of that.” He sighed. “Well, I suppose we don’t all love the same things, but I just can’t…” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ll have to think about this,” he told me. “You may go now.”

I went out. I knew what the outcome would be. Dad would never let me have what I wanted, because to him the land was the most important thing, and he would see that I remained on it, working on it until the day I died. That was the way it was. I went into the living room and began to play on the big grand piano. It was my mother’s piano, and she had brought it with her when she married Dad. It was she who had taught me and my sisters to play. She loved music.

As I was playing, Mother came in and sat beside me on the piano bench. When I had finished the piece I was playing, she said, “I just talked with your father. He told me what you said to him.”

I looked down at the piano keys and played a few notes with my forefinger.  “Oh,” I said.

Mother touched the keys gently. “You know, Hugh, I was going to be a concert pianist,” she said.

I looked up at her. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you?”

“Well, I met your father, and he was, and still is, everything to me. Being a concert pianist suddenly wasn’t important. What was important was building a life with him, a life where we could raise our children in love and beauty.”

“But isn’t music important?”

Mother nodded. “It is, Hugh, it is. But music is one of those things that is important no matter where it happens, no matter who plays it. I realized I didn’t need to be a famous pianist to do what I loved. I love playing for my family and teaching people how to play just as much, if not better, than playing in front of great audiences. Music should be shared, but it should also be shared in love. I’ve never been happier playing for my family, and teaching you how to play.”

I picked out the first bar of Fur Elise. “But Mother, I don’t have that. I want to do something different. I don’t want to do what Dad does. I don’t know why he can’t see that. All he can think about is the land.”

“Hugh, honey,” Mother said, “that’s not true. He loves you, and he wants what’s best for you. I do, too.”

“And you think what’s best for me is to stay here and never see anything besides our land and the town. That’s not very much.”

“It’s more than you think it is. There’s something about this land that makes me feel more alive. It makes me love what I do even more.”

I shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t do that to me. All it makes me do is want to leave.”

Mother got up and dropped a kiss on my head. “Someday you’ll understand,” she told me. “Someday you’ll see what I see.”

I didn’t think so, but I didn’t say so. I began to play Fur Elise as Mother went out. The music calmed me, and I felt much better as I went to join the rest of my family as they gathered in the living room.

The next evening I was reading in the living room when Clare came skipping in and told me Dad wanted to talk to me in the library. I put down my book with a feeling of dread and went to the library. Dad was standing by the window when I came in. “Hugh,” he said, “sit down. I want to talk to you.”

We sat in the big antique arm chairs. Dad cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” he began. “I talked to your mother as well. Are you really serious about wanting to go away?”

I nodded. “I am.”

“I see. Well, we’ve come to a decision. I want you to do what you love, and I don’t want to hold you to something that will make you unhappy. But there is something to be said for doing your duty.”

I held my breath. What was Dad getting to?

Dad went on. “We’ve decided that you may go away and do what you want to do in the city.”

I jumped up, elated. “Thank you, Dad!” I cried.

My father held up his hand, and I sat down again. “There is one condition,” he said to me. “The condition is that you stay here and work on the land for six months. If by the end of the six months you still want to go, you may, with my blessing. But while you are here, you must put everything into your work. Do I have your word?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I promise.”

Dad held out his hand, and we shook solemnly. “Thank you, Dad,” I said again. As I went out of the library, I thought about my promise. “If you still want to go,” Dad had said to me. Of course I would still want to go! There was no doubt about that.

I kept my word to my father. As the days went by, I did what he told me. I worked beside him every day, doing what he loved, and I did not complain. I hated it, but I did not complain. The land meant nothing to me, and it was only long hours of work, for nothing, it seemed. I got no joy out of it. I would watch my father as he straightened up from his work, ran his hand across his forehead, looking out over his land with such joy in his eyes. There was peace in his eyes. He really was happy. It was as if he were listening to a beautiful symphony, or sitting beside my mother of an evening as she played the piano. No matter how hard I listened, I could not hear what he heard. I could not hear his symphony.

Sometimes when we worked, my father would tell me stories of when he was young, or when my grandfather was young. I had never known my grandfather; he died just after I was born. Grandpa had had many adventures in his youth. He had travelled the world until he came to this valley, and knew that was where he was going to settle down. He worked hard to buy the land, and in a few years he had saved up enough. Then he built the house, married Grandma, and proceeded to produce and raise a family of seven: one boy, my father, and six girls. Having one son and many daughters ran in the family. Many times I found myself wishing boys ran in the family. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about taking over the land. I often wished I could have known my grandfather. Perhaps then I could understand what he wanted for my father, and for me. But there was no way to ask him that. All I had to go on was what my father said, and at the moment we weren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye on certain matters.

One day as we were working, my father stopped to take a breath. He leaned on his shovel and pushed his hat back from his face. He looked all around him, and said, almost as if he were talking to himself and not to me, “I always feel so much closer to my father when I’m out here working. It’s as if he’s here working with me.”

At that moment I got a bit of a glimpse of my father. He was my father; he’d been there as long as I could remember, and before. By working the land with his father, he had created a bond with him. We could not have that bond, I realized sadly, because I did not love the land as he did. To me the land was a place to live, a ground to walk on, earth to give me food, trees to shade me from the sun and keep me warm in the winter. To my father, it was something different, something to be loved. But I could not see it, and I could not love it.

My father was not one to give up without a fight. Nor was he one to go back on his word. Thus it was that he tried his hardest to bring me to love the land, but in the end, when he realized he could not, he agreed that I might go away. I did not like to see the hurt in his eyes, but I was determined to make a new life for myself. I began to pack my bags.

Then Dad got sick. We didn’t know what it was, or exactly how it happened. He was fine that morning, and went out to work as usual. At lunch he was tired, but seemed well enough. When dinner-time came, he did not appear. Mother sent me to look for him. He’d said he would be clearing some trees that day, so I went to the grove, calling his name. There was no answer, and I searched around until I found him, lying on the ground, unconscious. I ran back to get help, and Mother and I carried him back to the house.

The doctor could not name his sickness. He had never seen anything like it before, he said – the fever, the weakness, the constant fainting. He told Dad to stay in bed, and not to set foot out of it until he was better. He left, saying he’d be back in the morning.

In the morning Dad seemed a little better. He did not have a fever, but his legs were unaccountably weak, and he could not walk. The doctor decided it was some kind of stress on his body, and prescribed him a month of inactivity. Dad of course was upset. How was he to work? Even after a month, he would hardly be strong enough to continue to work as before. There would be no money. A whole month without money would set us back terribly, even though we were careful.

No one told me I could not go away to school, but the thought was there, nagging, in the back of my mind. I pushed it away at first, but as I lay in bed at night, it came to me again, and I knew what I must do. I did not like it, but I must do it. There was no other way.

The next morning I announced to my family that I would not be going to school. I was going to stay and do Dad’s work until he was able to do it himself. Mother begged me not to throw away my dream; she could manage. I knew she knew that was not true. Finally she kissed me and told me I was a good boy.

Dad was quiet for a long time when I told him. Finally he said, “You are sure of this?”

I nodded.

“We had a deal.”

“I know, Dad. But I can’t let the family suffer while I am off doing what I want. I’m going to stay. You’ll be back to work in a few more months.”

“And by then, you will have missed the entrance date,” Dad said. “You will have to wait another whole year. I don’t want you to do that.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m going to stay.”

Dad smiled at me and grasped my hand. “Thank you, son.”

Again I worked. I worked so hard that I thought my back would break in half. Every night I sat with my father and told him what I had done, and he told me what I should do in the morning. Then I would go to bed and sleep heavily until it was time to get up and do it all over again. I had never worked so hard in my life. I wondered how my father stood it. No wonder his body had given out temporarily.

One afternoon I was so tired I put down my shovel and law down on the grass for a moment. The ground under me was cool and soft as I closed my eyes. My whole body ached, and for a while all I could focus on was my discomfort. But then I relaxed a little, and I began to listen, and I heard sounds. There was a bird. And there was the wind sighing through the trees. The creaking of the trees. The sounds blended in my head. I do not know if it came to me just at that moment, or if it had been there all the time, and I had just ignored it. I understood how my father saw the land. He did not see it as work, or merely ground under his feet. To him it was not just a place to live. It was a place to love. It was alive, and it was beautiful. It was music, and I could hear it as it played around me. There was nothing more beautiful, not any music made by man, not any human voice. Dad had once said something that had always puzzled me. He said that the world was God’s love. I hadn’t understood it then, but now I knew what it meant. As the birds sang to me and I felt the ground under me whisper to me, I understood.

I stood up and looked around me, and I saw the land as my father saw it. I understood my father as I never had before. He worked hard to make it thrive, and because of that he loved it. I hadn’t wanted to make it thrive, and I had hated it. This land was mine. It would always be mine, because I loved it. It was my legacy, and suddenly that legacy was no longer a burden but a gift. I knew then that whatever I did next, wherever I went, I would always come back. This was my land. And that was music enough for me.