I’ve had to leave town again rather unexpectedly, in order to attend a funeral. Consequently, I’m not able to post anything substantial at this time, but will leave you with a thought from MacDonald as you enjoy the way the spring looks from your corner of the world.
It’s good to be home again, and after over two weeks of living out of the trunk of a van, good to have bookshelves and clean sheets and a kitchen and a familiar, well-loved schedule.
I returned from my travels to find that one of my poems won the grand prize in the 2013 Utmost Christian Writers contest, which was a happy thing to come home to. The Cave is based loosely off of Plato’s immortalized Allegory of the Cave, and, of course, on the song.
THE CAVE
“They see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another…”
(–Plato, Allegory of the Cave)
With what words shall I vindicate
me and mine and the cavern of iniquity?
With what words shall I clean the dark?
How shall I scour, scrub, rub out our
history? Hide our harsh hands, our harvests
of little stilled hearts? How shall I still the ticking
of the endless red
drip?
Can mere contrition cover him, her,
and the craven cattle-cars? – the
clutter running over the railways,
the great graves saturated with
scarlet statistics and buttermilk-white
bones?
For what cause do I seek to absolve you,
me, and the multitude of urchins? – the
spiny, flesh-hungry urchins, the gamin
who want your coat, and your shirt too,
your age-old running shoes, your
spring-crisp greenbacks,
and the heart right out of your
heaving breast? For what cause am I
pleading clemency towards us?
In among these blood-stalactites, these
clammy walls, these many waters,
we have surely made ourselves at home.
Under the valley of the shadow
of death where we are catching
coin-cold fish in the silent sea, the
grave stone ceiling stretches over
us like a stiff sanction and we have
put an end to our roving ways,
our malcontent, our fuzzy dreams
of swan-tall, wind-billowed vessels.
To what end are we all clamoring our
confessions, apostrophizing, apologizing
for our crimson prosperity, as though
we are dreaming still, as though we once
expected someplace wider and are still
wistful for that?
Into this den of thieves
came the world’s great lover,
laden with honey-sweet hope
and wedding invitations.
How did we say no?
#1. From the beautiful Starkindler album, this glad celebration of Psalm 23, in light of the good things that have come.
#2. The opening Spring. Like this: 
#3. Recuerdo, testifying to the way that love makes everything an adventure after all….
RECUERDO
[by Edna St. Vincent Millay]
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
Photo: moss sporophytes at Caddo Lake
Yesterday was the seventh time that my house has welcomed the New Year with the sounds of the battle at the gates of Minas Tirith thundering in the living room. Yes, we watch The Lord of the Rings trilogy into the morning of every New Year’s Day. We have done it on two continents and in three houses and always heralded the event with much jubilation and adrenaline and hype and this is a practice that has blessed my life in probably more ways than I even know.
My history with Tolkien and his colossal epic goes back about nine years, to when I read the books at the age of twelve, along with my sister, and came away from watching The Fellowship of the Ring to find that the whole world felt different. And the world has never been quite the same since.
At first it was the sheer wonder of the story and the way that it opened doors on a world unlike and apart from this one – a fairytale of cosmic proportions. We were children, and our own world was still such a small place to us. The stories were bigger and told of a bigger world. We wanted to incorporate that world into every area of our own. We played the movie soundtracks day and night and read and reread the books. We crafted costumes and wore them unashamedly. At 6:00 AM on cold mornings we slipped out to the woods alone to walk among graceful, imaginary elves and ambush orcs. Also, we worked hard to construct a place where we could convey our experience to the world. It was all just a little ridiculous – in a delicious and enchanting way.
Later, though, those things began to change. We began to grow up and to grow into this poor, old, glory-haunted world. It was not that our love for the stories grew less, but that the love morphed into a different thing, a deeper, stronger, realer thing. We no longer loved Middle-Earth because it was set apart from and better than the world we happen to inhabit. We began to love it because it is the world we inhabit. Just as Tolkien always intended it to be. And we must inhabit it more and more and more.
As I keep growing up, walking more erect, putting away more of the childish things, I find I love these stories deeper in my marrow every year. Every year I find something new to marvel at, and every year this fictional world has something new to tell me about this very real world, every year this fictional war seems to have even greater bearing on this very real war that is closing in on every side. Every year the stories seem just a little more like truth.
“Our life is no dream, but it should and will perhaps become one,” wrote the German poet Novalis. This sentence has been utter nonsense to me for most of my life. This year, though, I wish to shake the man’s hand quite heartily and congratulate him on his good sense in making such an admirable statement.
The thing about The Lord of the Rings (so I thought, last night, when we were just a few minutes into the first movie) is that it takes place in a world that looks very like the way the real world really looks.
For instance, Tolkien has crafted some people who are very much enamored of the light and of the truth and of beauty. They have strong power at their disposal, because the Ruler listens to them. We have such people in our own world also, and it is to be hoped that we are all aspiring to be among them, but – alas! – to my eyes and to your eyes they don’t all walk with a steady and measured tread and silver in their hair and a tangible grace seeping from their fingertips.
Perhaps, however, they do walk this way in the eyes of God. And the view from the eyes of God is the only definition of reality. Perhaps Tolkien was attempting to force this reality onto our own sight. Perhaps his intention was to fashion a world where the realest things are visible. Whether he thought of it in those terms or not, in some measure, at least, he succeeded in doing that very thing.
I believe it is this that makes these stories like a dream we are waking into, like a reality that is realer than all of the real around us.
In some circles it seems that New Year’s resolutions are going out of style. A number of very intelligent and godly people are writing about how they are not writing out any New Year’s resolutions this year. We are all going to stumble some this year, is part of their reasoning. We are all going to crash headlong in the dirt and fail to keep our promises and look back disappointed at the end of 2013. The important thing is to keep going forward, to keep growing stronger, to keep growing closer to Christ, to keep growing up. They have a point there.
I have been naming my new years since 2008. It is a sort of open-ended New Year’s resolution, like a flag-planting before a battle. There was the Year of Great Awakening first, and the Year of Victory came close on its heels. There was the Year of Glory after that and behind it the Year of Prayer and Shadowfeet. There was the year of Adoration. There has been a host of spectacular titles in my history.
But the only words that really matter are the ones we really live, and mostly my years have not been overwhelming successes but have been a series of little awakenings, a process of growing up, of coming to understand things, and coming to accept the fact that I cannot understand everything. And while growing up is a miracle all in its own right, it is not wrong to be dissatisfied with this sort of life, to insist on pressing in harder and to keep making promises, even though we are far too small and too frail to see them through.
We serve a God of grand promises and great expectations and the issue of our frailty is not a hindrance to Him. Indeed, it is almost a requirement.
“God creates out of nothing, so until a man is nothing, God can make nothing out of him,” wrote Martin Luther. How much of our disappointed history is a result of the fact that we are not little enough, not helpless enough, that we must become less if Jesus is to become great?
It is all too easy to fall prey to the temptation to expect less of God, to make His promises less than they are, to forget that we who are lowly and uninitiated and powerless Halflings have been summoned to walk like Elven queens and princes, trailing glory and holding authority on our tongues. But sometimes the source of our doubting is our refusal to accept that we are those impotent and childish little hobbits, that it is only His grace which can pour out of our fingers, roll off our tongues, lift our eyes.
For this reason I am not afraid to name another year by another splendid and lavish title, to declare again that great glory shall be worked out of my days. Because the title I have chosen this year is one which I hope lowers me into the place where I belong, which invites Him to occupy preeminence.
I have named my new year The Year of Abiding.
To abide is to dwell, and I wish to abide this year, and forever after, in some things which are easily forgotten, and which the epic of The Rings always underscores with brilliance. I wish to abide in the clear and present knowledge of the war that is all around, to abide in the royalty that has been gifted to me, to abide in the dream that is realer than the world itself, the dream that is coming true.
I will not do all of these things all the time, however much I wish it at this moment. I will be stopping short sometimes in thick woods and owning myself thoroughly lost. I will be falling sometimes into puddles, lakes, and quarries. I will be sometimes huddling in a forlorn heap and saying no, I am done with this. When these things come about,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Such is my own prayer for the year we are just stepping into, like the carol over the cradle of the Christ,
Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay
close by me forever, and love me, I pray.
But it means something else also. The abidan, gebidan words in Old English carried a meaning of waiting, of remaining behind. To abide is to wait. And so the supplication of abide with me is a prayer that cries
stay with me, live with me, OH! might you please wait with me?
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know fully, even as I am fully known. (-1 Corinthians 13:12)
