I. Recently Reading
Arnobius-The Seven Books of Arnobius Against the Heathen
You just can't publish books with titles like "Against the Heathen" anymore. Too bad, although I don't think Arnobius would have had much success in the modern world anyway. His arguments are all carefully directed against the paganism of the early fourth century. They hold some interest as cultural signposts of his time, and I came away from his text with the impression that he was a careful thinker and widely-read, but not particularly philosophical--his arguments are the sorts you might find in tractarian literature against the "evils of our time." The question was raised in the prefatory notes to his section whether he might not have been a Christian at all--just a sympathetic pagan who thought very little of the Greco-Roman religions. This would seem to agree with the noticeable absence of any positively argued Christian philosophy. Thus ends my tour through Volume VI of the Ante-Nicene Fathers. I need something else to put in my "religious reading" category when I get back home, and am thinking about exploring some Niebuhr? Post-20th century Christians need to be conversant with Niebuhr, right? I'm welcome to other suggestions.
Redwall, by Brian Jacques
Cluny the Scourge is coming! I had fun re-reading this for the first time in years. I don't remember the books being so violent when I read them as child, which hopefully means that some of it went right over my head. There are so many characters! Even in the third part of the novel, you're still meeting new characters who have time to develop, play a role in the story, and find a fitting place at the end. James isn't ready to hear these books read aloud yet, but I'll look forward to introducing him in the next few years.
Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
My only experience with Little Women was seeing the high school adaptation C&B were in. (I think this made me predisposed to like Professor Bhaer.) I didn't love the book--and I can't say that I'm in any hurry to read any of the sequels. The best part was the first third, and even if the girls were a little unrealistically distinct they were delightful characters. What happened to Laurie in the second and third books? He's up and down, but when he "grows up" it happens in about two chapters and he's completely unrecognizable? Charming parts, though, and it's understandably a classic.
II. Preachy Advice
We've had several pairs of friends get engaged in the last few months, and J and I are just weeks away from our 8th anniversary. This means we are one year closer to officially becoming one of Those Couples that dispenses unasked for advice upon all of our soon-to-be married friends. (And don't worry, recently engaged friends...when you get pregnant in a few years we'll be ready and willing to share unsolicited birth-horror stories as well.)
Seriously, it isn't ever our place to prescribe universal solutions based on our own limited experience. But the fragility of marital happiness has been on my mind quite a bit recently...it's hard to think of anything else in my life that can gloom up your whole life so entirely when it's going poorly or warm up and beautify everything else in your life when it's going well. It's a slippery venture to share with another human being a bank account, a kitchen sink, a child, a bed, a laundry machine, a bathroom, a calendar, and a mortgage. Here's what I know after 8 years...
1) Listening is an extremely underrated skill. Not only listening, but listening without immediately coming up answers/retorts. Not just listening to the other person's words, but having the creative capacity to put yourself truly in their place and imagine what's prompting what they are saying to you. Not merely hearing, but listening with active interest and questions in mind to further draw out and better understand what the other person has to say. In any argument, listening with a listening spirit instead of an argumentative spirit tends to immediately cool down the disagreement.
2) It's incredibly helpful to know how the other person perceives the world to be. This isn't important for the purposes of correcting or sorting out how the real world actually works--how many times the average couple actually gets out per month, how much the average pair of shoes costs, how many nights a week a young person in a new job stays and works late--but it's important because it gives you access to the lenses through which your spouse sees the world habitually. The real facts aren't nearly as important as the subtle impressions, because it's the subtle impressions that reinforce a sense of injustice, uneasiness, or displeasure.
3) Generosity begets generosity. If all of your marital interactions take the form of negotiations, bad compromises, and swaps, chances are your next disagreement will quickly fall into a negotiation. You'll stake out territory, use battle tactics, and set aside to yourself (whether you admit it or not) some standard by which you might "win" the dispute, or at least avoid losing it. If you consistently choose to act generously (or charitably or graciously, whatever you want to call it), even if you really lose out on something from time to time, chances are your spouse will be much more inclined to be generous towards you. Not only that, but acting generously gets easier with practice, and everyone feels better afterwards.
III. Style Points
I'm already thinking about winter in Western New York, and I've decided that our house needs more color throughout. I'm welcome to suggestions from any and all parties, but here are some ideas:
1) Scarves, hats, and mittens. There's no need for plain black gloves, except maybe when I'm on my way to a concert and wearing my tux. But even then, wouldn't it be more fun to have bright red gloves? Also, I wouldn't lose them as easily.
2) Area rugs. Because they'll make the floor pop and you won't be stepping barefoot onto cold hardwood
3) Food. This will be the year of purple cabbage, oranges, lemons, limes, and anything else that isn't plain brown or gray or off white.
4) Phone case. Julie has a pink one, I would take suggestions for something new as well.
5) Window ornaments. Christmas stickers, ceramic pots, plastic flowers, anything to get a little color.
6) Underwear. Tis' the season. Although, to be honest, 'tis always the season.
7) Coffee mugs. The privilege of winter is that you'll never enjoy a hot cup of coffee so much as when you come in from shoveling the driveway. Why not have it be in a fun mug?
8) Kid's artwork. We already have all the materials, we already have the blank walls. I think we need to devote a whole wall to his bright scribbles. (On the paper, of course, not the wall)
9) Blankets and sheets. Not something neon, of course, because you have to be able to get to sleep once you turn the lights out. But something fun.
10) Children. I probably can't wear bright orange to rehearsal, but James can look like a traffic cone all day long and no one will say boo. Plus, he already pretends to be a traffic cone.
Showing posts with label Marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marriage. Show all posts
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Teeth and Pencils
I've decided to start flossing more. I even put a reminder in my phone for 10 PM, in case I happen to forget when I'm brushing my teeth for bed. I'm realizing that I only have one set of teeth, and as someone who will be turning thirty very shortly I perhaps ought to do a slightly better job taking care of them. I even thought about buying some antiseptic mouthwash the other day when I was checking out at Wegmans. I looked at it and thought, "Who do I know that uses mouthwash? I don't think anyone in my family keeps it in their bathrooms, and I'm pretty sure J's family doesn't use it either...hmm. What are the benefits?" And then I felt old, and decided that I should definitely start flossing more regularly.
I was scolded pretty severely the last time I went in for a dental cleaning. (And they wonder why I don't come in more often.) The hygienist (who spoke in a discomfortingly thick Russian accent) also made snide remarks about how badly I needed orthodontic work, and I pleaded "professional trumpet player" to quiet her. She made me promise to floss more regularly, and I made a concerted effort for about a month, two houses ago. Then I was back on the maybe-once-a-month schedule for two years, until last Saturday. As of Saturday, I've been flossing every day, except for last night, because I was already really comfortable in bed and it was kind of cold out when the alarm went off in my phone and reminded me.
I scheduled James' first ever trip to the dentist for next week, and he sounded genuinely excited when I told him where he was going. (This will be the only time we ever get that reaction.) On the upside, though, he might get a cool prize. I remember getting a certain type of mechanical pencil that I'm not even quite sure how to describe out of the dentist's prize box. It came pre-loaded with individual leaded tops that you screwed in from the top (or bottom) end of the pencil, which you used to write. Then you would use the pencil until the lead ran out, unscrew the used-up tip, and screw a new one in.
Mechanical pencils were a great source of moral trial to me as a young child. I never was tempted to steal anything so badly as a nice-looking mechanical pencil. They were infinitely more satisfying to write with than the standard yellow number two pencils that required constant resharpening and tended to smudge all over the papers. I don't know if anyone else thought of them this way, but I regarded them as a status symbol of wealth and advantage as well. I treasured a mechanical pencil whenever I managed to acquire one, and if I thought I had an opportunity to pick one up off a desk or in the hallway that wouldn't be missed it was always an enormous struggle of will to leave it where it lay and be content with the smudgy yellow pencil in my pocket.
Nowadays I am morally. When my trumpet students come and forget their mechanical pencils on my stand, I don't even think about tossing them in my case and requisitioning them for myself. The same goes for pencils found at rehearsal, at church, and at school. I've ceased to respect them as private property and will stop at nothing to acquire them for my own gain. Part of this is J's fault.
I love my wife and hold her in enormous personal respect. In addition to being smart and beautiful, I think she's one of the most fair-minded and wise people I know. But she is a dirty thief when it comes to my mechanical pencils. If I leave a pencil out on my desk and she needs one for teaching or making a list, she doesn't even think about taking it. And then it disappears into her flute bag or purse, and it's never seen again. I've tried to hide my pencils behind books or in the secret crevasses of my desk, but she either finds them there or I hide them so well that I no longer know where they are either. If we're at Target and I try to toss a new package of mechanical pencils in the cart she'll look at me and say, "Didn't you just buy a bunch of those?" And the answer is that I did, but that someone who I dearly love has stolen them all and I only have one left.
I've confronted her about this in the past, including this morning. Her answers vary, and this morning it was "don't you usually write with a pen anyway?" This is true, and it's another luxury of adult life, that I can buy myself gel pens. But I use pencils to write in my books, and especially to mark up my music. I just ordered a big new pack of mechanical pencils from Amazon, and already several of them are gone. J took two this morning, and James was eagerly expressing how much he'd like to draw with them. I need to find some way to protect them before they've all disappeared. I've even attempted to develop a conscious habit of walking around with the pencils in my mouth, holding them between my well-flossed teeth, as a deterrent for those who would attempt to steal them from me.
But it doesn't work. Even my youngest is stealing my pencils. I don't begrudge them to him, though. He also is having teeth problems, in the form of a little white nub that's keeping him awake and sitting up with me instead of taking his nap.
I was scolded pretty severely the last time I went in for a dental cleaning. (And they wonder why I don't come in more often.) The hygienist (who spoke in a discomfortingly thick Russian accent) also made snide remarks about how badly I needed orthodontic work, and I pleaded "professional trumpet player" to quiet her. She made me promise to floss more regularly, and I made a concerted effort for about a month, two houses ago. Then I was back on the maybe-once-a-month schedule for two years, until last Saturday. As of Saturday, I've been flossing every day, except for last night, because I was already really comfortable in bed and it was kind of cold out when the alarm went off in my phone and reminded me.
I scheduled James' first ever trip to the dentist for next week, and he sounded genuinely excited when I told him where he was going. (This will be the only time we ever get that reaction.) On the upside, though, he might get a cool prize. I remember getting a certain type of mechanical pencil that I'm not even quite sure how to describe out of the dentist's prize box. It came pre-loaded with individual leaded tops that you screwed in from the top (or bottom) end of the pencil, which you used to write. Then you would use the pencil until the lead ran out, unscrew the used-up tip, and screw a new one in.
Mechanical pencils were a great source of moral trial to me as a young child. I never was tempted to steal anything so badly as a nice-looking mechanical pencil. They were infinitely more satisfying to write with than the standard yellow number two pencils that required constant resharpening and tended to smudge all over the papers. I don't know if anyone else thought of them this way, but I regarded them as a status symbol of wealth and advantage as well. I treasured a mechanical pencil whenever I managed to acquire one, and if I thought I had an opportunity to pick one up off a desk or in the hallway that wouldn't be missed it was always an enormous struggle of will to leave it where it lay and be content with the smudgy yellow pencil in my pocket.
Nowadays I am morally. When my trumpet students come and forget their mechanical pencils on my stand, I don't even think about tossing them in my case and requisitioning them for myself. The same goes for pencils found at rehearsal, at church, and at school. I've ceased to respect them as private property and will stop at nothing to acquire them for my own gain. Part of this is J's fault.
I love my wife and hold her in enormous personal respect. In addition to being smart and beautiful, I think she's one of the most fair-minded and wise people I know. But she is a dirty thief when it comes to my mechanical pencils. If I leave a pencil out on my desk and she needs one for teaching or making a list, she doesn't even think about taking it. And then it disappears into her flute bag or purse, and it's never seen again. I've tried to hide my pencils behind books or in the secret crevasses of my desk, but she either finds them there or I hide them so well that I no longer know where they are either. If we're at Target and I try to toss a new package of mechanical pencils in the cart she'll look at me and say, "Didn't you just buy a bunch of those?" And the answer is that I did, but that someone who I dearly love has stolen them all and I only have one left.
I've confronted her about this in the past, including this morning. Her answers vary, and this morning it was "don't you usually write with a pen anyway?" This is true, and it's another luxury of adult life, that I can buy myself gel pens. But I use pencils to write in my books, and especially to mark up my music. I just ordered a big new pack of mechanical pencils from Amazon, and already several of them are gone. J took two this morning, and James was eagerly expressing how much he'd like to draw with them. I need to find some way to protect them before they've all disappeared. I've even attempted to develop a conscious habit of walking around with the pencils in my mouth, holding them between my well-flossed teeth, as a deterrent for those who would attempt to steal them from me.
But it doesn't work. Even my youngest is stealing my pencils. I don't begrudge them to him, though. He also is having teeth problems, in the form of a little white nub that's keeping him awake and sitting up with me instead of taking his nap.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Another Pizza Catastrophe
I am not a stupid person. I need to remind everyone before they read any further that at one point in my life I was offered a full ride to Yale. I am tolerably humorous and an excellent speller, and my total ignorance of the culinary arts ought not to reflect poorly on the arts in which I am competent.
Everything started with my attempt to practice in the kitchen while also being the lone set of eyes on James. It did not go well. Two of my mutes have dents in them, James knocked over all the music on my stand, bonked his head on my stand, stole my metronome, and dropped my B-flat trumpet on the floor, the third valve of which no longer works. By the time dinner came around he was in full-fledged mischief mode.
"James," I said "I don't think either of us want to eat minestrone soup."
I knew that James didn't want to eat minestrone soup. J made it last night, and he turned his nose up at it all night long. I ate mine because it was hot and good, and according to J, minestrone is one of my favorites. Except actually it isn't. I asked her last night what inspired her to make minestrone and she said "Because you love minestrone! Isn't this one of your favorite things that your mother makes?"
In her defense, "minestrone" does sound an awful lot like "chicken wings."
But I didn't say anything to her, because once you've been married for a number of years you learn that it's not a good idea to tell your wife that you aren't interested in whatever it is that she just spent the last hour and half preparing over a hot stove while looking after your hurricane-force son so that you can practice upstairs in your bathrobe. (Hint to newly married husbands: It's much better to tell her by letting her find out that you've written about it on the internet without saying anything at all to her.)
So there was leftover minestrone in the fridge, and James had stopped hurling books off of the bookshelves long enough to confirm to me that he was interested in what I was saying if there was some chance it might be about food.
"James, I think we both want a pizza, don't we?"
He nodded.
I should have stopped here. I should have remembered what happened the last time that I was home alone with James on a Saturday afternoon while J was at church and decided that I absolutely had to have a pizza even though I'd have to make the whole thing on my own from scratch with no help.
I thought through my situation. I knew that there was cheese in the freezer, and I knew that there was leftover sauce in the fridge. I would just need to come up with some sort of dough. It was already five o'clock, so it was definitely too late to attempt dough in the bread machine--besides, I wasn't eager to try that again after my last experience. What about flatbread pizza? I had flatbread pizza several times over the summer, and I thought it was very good. I looked through some recipes on my phone, and eventually switched to the idea of a "pita" pizza. The dough only called for four ingredients, and the internet guaranteed that it would be ready to eat in 20 minutes...that sounded great! It sounded just as good as those "one simple tricks that can reduce your car insurance to $.37 a day."
Meanwhile, James had tipped a glass of water all over the kitchen counter. I cleaned him up, mopped up the mess, moved away the chair that he'd pushed to the counter and told him to occupy himself in some non-destructive way while I made us a pizza.
To make a long story short, the dough ended up being a disgusting sticky mess about the consistency of Elmer's glue, only less tasty, that didn't knead, roll, cut, or do anything except stick and ooze to everything it touched. About ten minutes into the attempt I gave up on trying to roll out pitas and just dumped the remaining goo into a frying pan, washed my hands, and removed James from his perch on the chair that he'd scooched over the refrigerator, from which he'd removed every single magnet and picture and thrown it on the kitchen floor.
I managed to turn the goo into the world's ugliest pancake, and set James up in his high chair with green beans. I sprayed a pan, and stretched out the pancake as best I could, then went to retrieve the sauce and cheese. And when I pulled out the sauce, I found out it was leftover quinoa spaghetti, and not pizza sauce. Thankfully there was cheese in the freezer, so at that point I had ugly pancake with cheese on top.
In six years of marriage I am yet to figure out J's system of freezer storage. Every month she neatly packs our freezer full of groceries, and it shuts without any trouble. If I open the freezer and remove an item, I can put that item back in the exact same spot it came from only seconds earlier, and it either won't fit (how is this possible, since I was removing ice cream sandwiches from the container?) or multiple other items will shift and collapse, and then refuse to go back into their spots. So J, if you do decide to come home after reading this blog, be careful when you open the freezer. I only just managed to slam the door shut in time, and I'm quite certain that the next person who opens the door is going to take a bag of frozen peas to the foot.
I was feeling rather defeated as I waited for the oven to preheat. I was also feeling rather hungry, so I had a bowl of leftover minestrone soup. It was exceedingly delicious, and much healthier than pizza. James, who still thought he was going to get real pizza when I was finished, continued to express his excitement at end result. When the oven preheated I had no idea how long to bake a pizza that size, so I started with six minutes and then kept on adding an extra minute or two until the cheese looked brown. James was so excited when I took it out. I cut him off a few pieces, blew on them to cool them off, and gave him one. He chewed it thoughtfully, and then I asked him if he wanted another.
That means "I think you should eat it instead."
I did, and it tasted like undercooked Elmer's glue with cheese on top.
So here's what I propose: This blog is a national resource, often receiving extravagant praise from top critics. I've even heard that my regular entries are "the best thing on the internet since this." I'm asking you, if you're reading this, to support my blogging by donating gift cards to local pizzerias. All gift cards can be sent to "Fabricor Consonvs Pizza Drive" at 749 Washington Street, Spencerport, NY 14559. If you benefit from this blog in any way, please consider supporting it by making a one time gift card donation. And not only do we need one time donations, but we are looking for sustaining members of Fabricor Consonvs who would be willing to get us pizza on a regular basis. Whether it's weekly, biweekly, or even just once a month, your effort will be felt and truly appreciated. I'd also like to make you aware, if you're reading this, that for a limited time we have a matching gift. There is a generous and anonymous almost-two-year old who has pledged that he will eat just as much pizza as I do for at least the next sixteen years, so don't wait...send in your pizza pledges today.
Because seriously, James was really disappointed tonight.
Everything started with my attempt to practice in the kitchen while also being the lone set of eyes on James. It did not go well. Two of my mutes have dents in them, James knocked over all the music on my stand, bonked his head on my stand, stole my metronome, and dropped my B-flat trumpet on the floor, the third valve of which no longer works. By the time dinner came around he was in full-fledged mischief mode.
"James," I said "I don't think either of us want to eat minestrone soup."
I knew that James didn't want to eat minestrone soup. J made it last night, and he turned his nose up at it all night long. I ate mine because it was hot and good, and according to J, minestrone is one of my favorites. Except actually it isn't. I asked her last night what inspired her to make minestrone and she said "Because you love minestrone! Isn't this one of your favorite things that your mother makes?"
In her defense, "minestrone" does sound an awful lot like "chicken wings."
But I didn't say anything to her, because once you've been married for a number of years you learn that it's not a good idea to tell your wife that you aren't interested in whatever it is that she just spent the last hour and half preparing over a hot stove while looking after your hurricane-force son so that you can practice upstairs in your bathrobe. (Hint to newly married husbands: It's much better to tell her by letting her find out that you've written about it on the internet without saying anything at all to her.)
So there was leftover minestrone in the fridge, and James had stopped hurling books off of the bookshelves long enough to confirm to me that he was interested in what I was saying if there was some chance it might be about food.
"James, I think we both want a pizza, don't we?"
He nodded.
I should have stopped here. I should have remembered what happened the last time that I was home alone with James on a Saturday afternoon while J was at church and decided that I absolutely had to have a pizza even though I'd have to make the whole thing on my own from scratch with no help.
I thought through my situation. I knew that there was cheese in the freezer, and I knew that there was leftover sauce in the fridge. I would just need to come up with some sort of dough. It was already five o'clock, so it was definitely too late to attempt dough in the bread machine--besides, I wasn't eager to try that again after my last experience. What about flatbread pizza? I had flatbread pizza several times over the summer, and I thought it was very good. I looked through some recipes on my phone, and eventually switched to the idea of a "pita" pizza. The dough only called for four ingredients, and the internet guaranteed that it would be ready to eat in 20 minutes...that sounded great! It sounded just as good as those "one simple tricks that can reduce your car insurance to $.37 a day."
Meanwhile, James had tipped a glass of water all over the kitchen counter. I cleaned him up, mopped up the mess, moved away the chair that he'd pushed to the counter and told him to occupy himself in some non-destructive way while I made us a pizza.
To make a long story short, the dough ended up being a disgusting sticky mess about the consistency of Elmer's glue, only less tasty, that didn't knead, roll, cut, or do anything except stick and ooze to everything it touched. About ten minutes into the attempt I gave up on trying to roll out pitas and just dumped the remaining goo into a frying pan, washed my hands, and removed James from his perch on the chair that he'd scooched over the refrigerator, from which he'd removed every single magnet and picture and thrown it on the kitchen floor.
I managed to turn the goo into the world's ugliest pancake, and set James up in his high chair with green beans. I sprayed a pan, and stretched out the pancake as best I could, then went to retrieve the sauce and cheese. And when I pulled out the sauce, I found out it was leftover quinoa spaghetti, and not pizza sauce. Thankfully there was cheese in the freezer, so at that point I had ugly pancake with cheese on top.
In six years of marriage I am yet to figure out J's system of freezer storage. Every month she neatly packs our freezer full of groceries, and it shuts without any trouble. If I open the freezer and remove an item, I can put that item back in the exact same spot it came from only seconds earlier, and it either won't fit (how is this possible, since I was removing ice cream sandwiches from the container?) or multiple other items will shift and collapse, and then refuse to go back into their spots. So J, if you do decide to come home after reading this blog, be careful when you open the freezer. I only just managed to slam the door shut in time, and I'm quite certain that the next person who opens the door is going to take a bag of frozen peas to the foot.
I was feeling rather defeated as I waited for the oven to preheat. I was also feeling rather hungry, so I had a bowl of leftover minestrone soup. It was exceedingly delicious, and much healthier than pizza. James, who still thought he was going to get real pizza when I was finished, continued to express his excitement at end result. When the oven preheated I had no idea how long to bake a pizza that size, so I started with six minutes and then kept on adding an extra minute or two until the cheese looked brown. James was so excited when I took it out. I cut him off a few pieces, blew on them to cool them off, and gave him one. He chewed it thoughtfully, and then I asked him if he wanted another.
That means "I think you should eat it instead."
I did, and it tasted like undercooked Elmer's glue with cheese on top.
So here's what I propose: This blog is a national resource, often receiving extravagant praise from top critics. I've even heard that my regular entries are "the best thing on the internet since this." I'm asking you, if you're reading this, to support my blogging by donating gift cards to local pizzerias. All gift cards can be sent to "Fabricor Consonvs Pizza Drive" at 749 Washington Street, Spencerport, NY 14559. If you benefit from this blog in any way, please consider supporting it by making a one time gift card donation. And not only do we need one time donations, but we are looking for sustaining members of Fabricor Consonvs who would be willing to get us pizza on a regular basis. Whether it's weekly, biweekly, or even just once a month, your effort will be felt and truly appreciated. I'd also like to make you aware, if you're reading this, that for a limited time we have a matching gift. There is a generous and anonymous almost-two-year old who has pledged that he will eat just as much pizza as I do for at least the next sixteen years, so don't wait...send in your pizza pledges today.
Because seriously, James was really disappointed tonight.
Friday, May 27, 2011
An Epithalamion
We married off Calvus and Beka last weekend, and I thought the ceremony was beautiful. I, of course, couldn't possibly tell you much of why the ceremony was beautiful, just as I probably couldn't tell you any meaningful details about the bride's dress. (Ask, for example, J about the bride's dress; she'll tell you it was imperially-wasted with a silk faberge edging and a curville running down the back, a slight off-pearl smitching, and a high princess cut; I will tell you it was white.) I would, however, have enough sense to say that the ceremony and reception were wonderful and/or beautiful. I would never commit the sacrilege of saying that they were ordinary. (Here meaning, the sort of the ceremony and reception that most people have at weddings.) Now, in one sense, the ceremony and reception that we had last weekend were very much like thousands of other ceremonies and receptions; in some senses they were markedly different, which I'll get to in a moment; but even if last weekend's festivities were identically cloned from one hundred other couples, there would be no justifiable way for anyone to call them "ordinary." There are no ordinary weddings. There are no more ordinary weddings than there are ordinary symphonies. In fact, the most memorable and evocative symphonies (terms used here instead of the misleading word "unique") follow inflexibly strict guidelines. Beethoven wrote nine (or at least eight) pieces of orchestral music that follow a long patterned and imitated scheme; and I would argue to dueling with any man who would be so irreverent as to call them ordinary. Calvus and Bekah also followed a long patterned and imitated scheme. There were bridesmaids, ministers (despite the danger of having more than one), solemn music, dances, and cake (pie) cutting. And it was no more ordinary than the whole idea of marriage is ordinary.
If someone was unable to accept the trappings of the ceremony were somehow special, there will be no denying that those involved are quite something. To start, looking at the bride and groom from the back of the church, you would notice how many of those in attendance were there to support them both. I can't ever recall attending a wedding in which so many of the bride's family remembered the groom's first name. (Their DJ struggled with his last name, but I believe this was unrelated.) Nor had I ever seen a reception in which so many of the groom's family not only knew of the bride, but knew here deeply and personally; indeed, if they weren't Calvus' relatives, they would have come as Beka's guests! This is, I believe, a small taste of what ye olde community life used to be like. In a book I intend to review shortly (this means, according to my intentions, within two blog entries; according to my recent history, this may mean up to two weeks) called I Kissed Dating Good-Bye, the author discusses the importance of community involvement in a dating relationship. This, along with every other question raised in that book, Calvus and Beka answered resoundingly.
I've recently been reading N.T. Wright's volume on the historical Jesus, and have realized how foolish it is for me (or anyone else) to say of someone "he is like Jesus" without bothering about the necessary historical work to find out what Jesus might have actually been like. When used thus irresponsibly, all it means is "I like this person" or "I think he is good." But Calvus, if I understand even a fraction of who Jesus is, makes a striking resemblance. I do, of course, think he is exceptionally good, and for reasons of brotherhood among others, I love him very much. But the similarities run deeper. In addition to being a moral example and a fiercely loyal friend, Calvus has an enormous sense of vocation. His ministry, (or mission, or whatever you'd like to call it) especially since the important moment when he switched his college major from music (a discipline in which he possesses untold talents) to religion and philosophy has been commenced with vigor. He didn't simply stop attending music theory classes and start going to New Testament; he drove to the city to hand out apples to the poor, went on mission trips, plumbed the depths of great theological problems and considered seriously the problems of poverty, befriended those on the outer social perimeter, learned Greek, and (hopefully with his older brother), is planning on learning Hebrew. He is a fundamentally contented person, never affected by ennui, and always poring himself into some definite end, whether that be baking bread, gardening, or reading. He is always content because he's never suffered from that terrible selfish anxiety of "what will come and entertain me next?" He's delighted to pick up whatever God has offered him that day and that hour. Perhaps it it borders blasphemy to make anyone a comparison to Jesus; but I think that at this hour, the hour when Calvus is the bridegroom, I see, though veiled, some shocking truth to it.
If someone was unable to accept the trappings of the ceremony were somehow special, there will be no denying that those involved are quite something. To start, looking at the bride and groom from the back of the church, you would notice how many of those in attendance were there to support them both. I can't ever recall attending a wedding in which so many of the bride's family remembered the groom's first name. (Their DJ struggled with his last name, but I believe this was unrelated.) Nor had I ever seen a reception in which so many of the groom's family not only knew of the bride, but knew here deeply and personally; indeed, if they weren't Calvus' relatives, they would have come as Beka's guests! This is, I believe, a small taste of what ye olde community life used to be like. In a book I intend to review shortly (this means, according to my intentions, within two blog entries; according to my recent history, this may mean up to two weeks) called I Kissed Dating Good-Bye, the author discusses the importance of community involvement in a dating relationship. This, along with every other question raised in that book, Calvus and Beka answered resoundingly.
I've recently been reading N.T. Wright's volume on the historical Jesus, and have realized how foolish it is for me (or anyone else) to say of someone "he is like Jesus" without bothering about the necessary historical work to find out what Jesus might have actually been like. When used thus irresponsibly, all it means is "I like this person" or "I think he is good." But Calvus, if I understand even a fraction of who Jesus is, makes a striking resemblance. I do, of course, think he is exceptionally good, and for reasons of brotherhood among others, I love him very much. But the similarities run deeper. In addition to being a moral example and a fiercely loyal friend, Calvus has an enormous sense of vocation. His ministry, (or mission, or whatever you'd like to call it) especially since the important moment when he switched his college major from music (a discipline in which he possesses untold talents) to religion and philosophy has been commenced with vigor. He didn't simply stop attending music theory classes and start going to New Testament; he drove to the city to hand out apples to the poor, went on mission trips, plumbed the depths of great theological problems and considered seriously the problems of poverty, befriended those on the outer social perimeter, learned Greek, and (hopefully with his older brother), is planning on learning Hebrew. He is a fundamentally contented person, never affected by ennui, and always poring himself into some definite end, whether that be baking bread, gardening, or reading. He is always content because he's never suffered from that terrible selfish anxiety of "what will come and entertain me next?" He's delighted to pick up whatever God has offered him that day and that hour. Perhaps it it borders blasphemy to make anyone a comparison to Jesus; but I think that at this hour, the hour when Calvus is the bridegroom, I see, though veiled, some shocking truth to it.
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