Keeping Up

Medicine Park

2012-05-24T17:45:00.002-06:00

We stopped and had a picnic supper in a recently-discovered and highly commercialized little resort called Medicine Park. This river area was a public park, running through the center of town.

There were little kids splashing everywhere, so I finally caved in and let Zay and Mim wade in the water---but only up to their necks. Well, if you had smelled the water, you would have set a few limits too!

The geese were fearlessly swimming and strutting all over the place, joining the waders and begging--nay, demanding--scraps from our picnic lunch. While we were watching the grandchildren doggy-paddle in the puddle, three wild ducks swooped down and made a glide through the canyon. It was impressive.

All the same, we had a concert to attend, so we soon called our bedraggled youngsters to the car, where they struggled into clean, dry clothes that didn't smell like old geese poop. We made it to the school auditorium and listened to Elijah's third-graders and then his fifth-graders. All together, there were around two hundred and sixty choir students. They sang exuberantly. With the auditorium packed, I'm sure nobody noticed what remained of the pond-water smell.

Attractions--Large and Small

2012-05-24T17:29:00.000-06:00

The fence is to keep tourists out...at least the ones who follow the rules and suggested guidelines. The buffalo in the background don't read, yet for some reason they keep their distance from this fierce little attraction

We always have to stop and say hello to the prairie dogs in their village full of tunnels. Most of the time there are plenty of them on the surface, standing to bark a warning, or slinking up to the fence, hoping for someone to disregard the notice board and throw them a cheese pretzel.

This one found something to munch. We thought it looked like a piece of bread crust, but didn't want to approach and ask politely to see. After-all, if buffalo are afraid of them, they must be fearsome indeed. I'm sure the "cuteness" is just a ruse.

A Picnic in May on a Hot, Windy Day

2012-05-24T16:35:00.001-06:00

When my own children were young, we used to hike in the Wichita Mountains. Now that the grandchildren are visiting, we've renewed the tradition. No, we didn't take the eight-mile Buffalo Trail. We had a lot to do in one day, and the temperature was approaching ninety degrees, so we just hiked a little ways--less than a mile actually, although it included quite a bit of climbing. Since there was a great breeze, it didn't feel as hot as I knew it was.

That was fine with us, but it sure messed up Mim's posing for the camera. She always had to hold her hair out of her face.

I liked the look of the swirly clouds and the little trees against the sky here.

There were plenty of rocks and stumps to clamber over, and the wild flowers were vivid.

We saw a cosy little bench near the end of the trail, but, since it was not in the shade, it wasn't tempting in the least.

In the distance--a lake beckoned. Nope, we didn't swim in it, but we did make it back to the creek at the beginning of this article, where two squealing grandchildren scampered around to cool down, chasing fish that were as long as their feet, but swifter.

2012-05-11T10:17:00.000-06:00

I realize I'm not keeping up very well. It's a sad fact that I'm not keeping up with everything right now. That's what comes with the last few weeks of school, especially when you're senior sponsor, trying to plan a graduation, make sure all the students get their work in and graduate, plan a senior trip, make a slide show, get caps and gowns to the church, and keep my desk clean. Ha ha. That last one is a joke. Anyway, I plan to write more in a couple of weeks. Here are a few of my exuberant seniors. They're loving this last week. Bless them.

Golden Daybreak

2012-05-01T15:21:00.000-06:00

There's a special bonus to getting up early; it's called "Daybreak".
Sometimes it's just called "Awesome".

I took a few pictures on the way to work this morning. I know; they're almost alike, but I had a really hard time deciding which one to cut.

I know the Heavens declare the glory of God. Sometimes quietly, sometimes in a loud and boisterous shout! Today they were singing--fortissimo!

I was listening to my new CD--Handel's Messiah performed by the Cambridge Singers, and the Royal Philharmonic--
'Twas marvelous accompaniment for the show in the skies.

Storms

2012-04-28T19:17:00.001-06:00

We say strong faith "moves mountains",
Alters the course of rivers
And sets multitudes ablaze

Yet faith is fragile...like a flame
It must be guarded, if it would grow.
Faith is dependent like a branch
Attached to a vine to be sustained
It cannot yield its fruit alone.

Doubt's tenacious...suffocating.
It thrives in the desert and the dark;
Grows in solitude and sufficiency
Defiant and proudly on its own.
Doubt invades the crumbling conscience,
Of a cynical, spectating crowd
And silently erodes will to won't.

That's because Faith is alive.
Doubt is dead.
And living things take work.
Dead ones don't.

Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was "Storm".

Wichitas

2012-04-26T06:07:00.000-06:00

Holy City of the Wichitas

2012-04-26T05:29:00.000-06:00

The Doctor's Lobby

2012-04-24T18:38:00.003-06:00

Doctors' lobbies are not my favorite places to visit. Actually, I would rather never see them at all. I don't have anything personal against doctors--someone has to handle all those difficult jobs--but I'm sure glad I didn't choose to be one. For a doctor, just meeting people on the street must be awkward, knowing all you know about them and wanting to call them Mr. Kidney Stone or Little Miss Chronic Mono. Also, nobody ever visits you unless they are sick, until they want something from you, like your autograph...under a prescription. It has to be depressing.

No wonder the doctor's lobby is a tension-ridden place. There are all those crabby people sitting around cradling their fevers; they're hoping for a little sympathy to atone for their having dragged themselves out of bed and onto the sensible, washable, straight-backed chairs that line the foyer. Patients, already in a rotten mood, are then confronted with the receptionist. Right there, in plain sight, is a sign that says one must sign in as soon as one arrives. So one drags oneself over to the window and contaminates the pen as he or she signs a wobbly name. Miss Cheerio smiles and says loudly, "So why did you need to see the doctor today?"
Talk about a loaded question. What if I don't exactly want the strangers in the lobby to know my business with the doctor? Do I confess my bunions, warts, indigestion, and frequent hallucinations? Or do I mumble something like: "Oh nothing really. Just wanted to wish the medico a happy birthday and see if he thinks I'm pregnant at fifty seven."
I've thought and thought about it. At the risk of upsetting a really good doctor's staff, I've decided to meet the challenge head on. If I ever have to walk into that place again, I'm going to reply to the insistent receptionist: "I have all the symptoms of the pneumonic variant of bubonic plague and I just wanted a professional to confirm it before I report myself to the CDC." Then I'll sneeze all over the sign-in sheet.

Through a Glass--Darkly

2012-04-23T08:32:00.001-06:00

Fog obscures the camera lens
Distorts my own perception
But the bricks are solid

And I know the world
Beyond this clouded swirl
Is just as surely there...
So I step into it
For there are many ways of knowing

Real Relaxation

2012-04-21T21:44:00.000-06:00

I'm pretty sure there is something wrong with me.
Once again this week I listened to a woman describing the perfect little vacation her boss had given his staff-- a Holiday-inn weekend, complete with foot massages, pedicures, manicures, pool, sauna--lots of luxuriously lounging around reading magazines and chatting idly with each other.
She sighed. I smiled and murmured something appropriate like, "How nice."
What I wanted to say was,
"How horrid" I'd sooner go to the dentist.
Since I teach school, everyone assumes I love to sit around and chat with people.
Since I'm a woman, everyone assumes I love pampering.
I don't.
What's wrong with me?
I'd sooner go for a walk, mow the lawn, or read a good book. If I really need to relax I'd much rather be with family...or even--gasp--be all alone for a day.
That's a far more blissful dream than letting a strange person mess with my feet, or paint my nails or talk about famous people in magazines...most of whom haven't done anything to be famous...except possess great looking feet and nails.

April Wheat Haiku

2012-04-20T18:47:00.000-06:00

Restless April wheat
Tosses its thin blond tresses
In the furious wind

Stretches and surrounds,
Like curious, creeping carpet,
Crowding the village

Behold the castle!
Silent, swaying heads affirm
Their destination

Green Panhandle of Texas!

2012-04-08T12:54:00.000-06:00

For the last two or three years Texas has been suffering from a drought. I've become used to dusty brown fields and parched red roads on all my visits to the Texas panhandle. This April, however, my drive over and back was pleasantly green. It was a misty day, following several days of March rains. Some fields were grassy and even the plains were alive with the eruption of once dormant seeds. Horses grazed quietly in the shade, and fat cows munched contentedly--some were up to their bellies in tall grass. I felt the land relax--no worried weariness. Such a difference water makes!

A Walk Down Memory Lane...in the Misty Morning Rain....

2012-04-07T12:56:00.000-06:00

Past fields of new green grain

I hear a distant train.

And I somehow can't refrain from a picture of this mane, on a horse that won't complain...be he ever so restrained.

Arrgh. That's enough! Wicked rhymes to pile all over themselves like that!

I did take a walk though. In this mist.
It was exhilarating.

Past the white-maned heads of curious dandelions.

I encountered the doorway of a house where once we lived. Obviously, it is being devoured by its own garden. Sad. Even though I'm not planning on living there again. Still sad.

Swallowed up by the jungle though right in the middle of town.

Canola in the April Green

2012-04-06T18:04:00.001-06:00

Our usual March fields are green--new wheat green.
There's the occasional white elevator poking out, and the blue, cloud streaked skies over and above, but the ground is green--just green.

This year is different. I don't know if it's due to the drought last year, or if there was a great sale at the local COOP, but this year's green has occasional interruptions of blazing yellow canola.

I'll be driving along, resting my eyes on the green with a merry sigh that it actually has been raining when boom--there's a yellow field.

Sometimes I can see it for miles and miles ahead.

Not only is it fantastically beautiful, but it even smells fragrant.

And if you have any farmer friends, they might let you stand at the edge of the field and soak it all in.

I hope it harvests well. Because if it does, we might be seeing it for a long time.
Welcome to Western Oklahoma, Canola.

Can't tear themselves away from the Hunger Games

2012-04-05T05:59:00.003-06:00

It has taken me a long time to understand why I feel uneasy about my students' fascination with The Hunger Games.

And just in case there are people out there who don't know what I'm talking about, this recent book series and movie is a story set in post-apocalyptic America. The government is totalitarian. Every year the rulers require two teen-aged "tributes" from each of the twelve provinces to report to the capital, be trained, and compete in a duel to the death--last survivor wins. The contest is televised and all citizens are required to watch every episode
--death after gruesome death. For those not directly affected, the contest is enthralling entertainment not unlike that of the Roman Coliseum. It's a captivating event that keeps the nation glued to the screen from one horror to the next. They laugh, cheer, bite their nails, and cry...but they can't stop watching.

Like most post-apocalyptic, totalitarian government, mechanized, dehumanizing literature, it warns against power in the hands of the wrong people; it cautions against win-at-all-cost mentality and it offers hope to those who dare to oppose evil and ban together to set things right.

Still, I was troubled, and I wasn't sure what bothered me about the students' love for this series. After all, I assign reading to them which could be criticized for having questionable content, books like Animal Farm--which is about totalitarian government and Out of the Night, which is about the Holocaust. I don't mind their reading Lord of the Rings or Lords of the Earth or The Longest Day even though those books have their share of violence. I had been hesitant about the value of other books they read, but I could usually pinpoint why.

The Hunger Games, however, looks innocuous, even educational, from the outside, so why this feeling at the pit of my stomach? I've read lots of reviews. A few of them criticize the movie but don't really pinpoint why; most of them are rabidly in favor. Maybe that's what rankles. Rabid anything suggests caution to me.

Why is it so enthralling? Why are my junior-high students so fiercely defensive? Why are they rushing their achievement tests so they can finish the chapter, and refusing to take a restroom break because they have a few pages left? What keeps them glued to the riveting finish? Shouldn't I be glad that they are reading at all? Somehow I'm not. There's that feeling.

I look at the delight, the shivers, the intensity as they read--eyes glued to the book; From the background, I listen to their guarded discussion as they praise the movie and insist they are going to watch it yet again. Why is the tone of their conversation conspiratorial? What is troubling me?

I'm far from reaching the complete answer, but it sickened me yesterday to realize something: As we read Hunger Games, we look at those pampered tyrants in the "capitol"--those wealthy, uncaring, citizens who force children to kill each other so they can enjoy the drama on a screen and we loathe them. But isn't that what we are doing too? Getting pleasure from the adrenaline rush we feel as yet another tribute dies?

Haiku with Hebrides (Played loudly)

2012-03-30T11:03:00.000-06:00

Morning drive in March
Misty and mysterious
Mendelssohn's Music

Sheets of fallen cloud
Spreading tenuously thin
Slice through the treetops

Glowing in the East

Reveals an elevator

Palace of the plains

Driving North Into Kansas

2012-03-23T07:38:00.210-06:00

Sandra, a fellow teacher and friend of mine lost her mom last year to a heart attack. It was a sudden tragedy, one for which the family was not prepared...but then we never are.
Jeanie was an artist, whose life in a small college town included helping the students in her clay studio. Every year they made dozens of clay projects--dishes, dolls, canisters, baskets, and ceramic statues. These were then sold at a yearly auction to benefit the college.

Yesterday, Claye and I took a trip to Kansas to purchase some of the glazes. Our trip up there and back took all day, but the weather was pleasant. We saw a tidal wave of dark clouds approaching from the east, and were soon overtaken by gentle rains.

Arriving somewhat later than we had planned, due to my hasty decision to trust the GPS over the map, we made a call and were led to a garage-shaped building on a grassy lot.
We met Sandra's father, the builder of the shop, an industrious man, who was kind enough to show us around and fit us into his work schedule for the day. The shop had been sold, but everything in it still needed to be moved into storage or bought by people like us.

We were particularly interested in the glazes, because they are expensive to buy new, and Claye uses them in her studio. There were so many of them, we hardly knew where to begin. While we selected and loaded plastic tubs full of glazes, the rain settled down to a misty drizzle. Outside, the quiet little town nodded steadily. Students popped in and out of the studio occasionally, making sure we weren't a couple of pottery thieves. We could tell they missed their mentor and felt protective of her little shop.

It took about three hours, but we got the car loaded and called the owner. He was back in a couple of seconds, between jobs and smiling, despite the sadness this task must have cost him. How do you part with the things---all the little things that gave pleasure to the one you loved? How do you let strangers carry it off without sending a little of you with every jar?

"She was happy here," he told us. "Working away for hours with clay, painting and spinning and firing." He looked around the shop. "It was usually busy here, too. Students coming and going. She had a gift. Our daughter has it too, you know, and our grandson. He can spin pots and work with all this."

"I'm not much of an artist, but I built this place for her. It's got everything she needed."
We could tell how much he had loved her by the pride in his voice and the obvious labor he had invested. There was a kiln room, spinning area, office, bathroom, painting table, and shelves everywhere. They were all full.

Claye and I showed him the buckets full of glaze and the clay tools we had chosen. I offered him as much as I knew we could afford, hoping he wouldn't think it too little.
He looked serious. I thought, "Maybe I should offer more. Even if some of the glazes are ruined, the ones that work will be worth it, and I can manage."

Then he smiled, "If you would write that check for half the amount you offered, it would make me happy. I think Jeanie would have wanted you to have the glazes. She would be glad that they are going to good use. And the shelf you need to store them, I'll throw that in for free."

Sometimes a thank-you isn't enough.
I was overcome with gratitude.

Here was a man with cause to be bitter, to be self-absorbed in sorrow, loathe to part with shreds of memories. But he smiled. He carried on. Courageous, that's what he was, and pleasant on a stormy, rainy day.

On the way home, I took a picture of this little tree, just standing, feet planted into the green, bathed in daylight...a daylight that finally comes after the dark cloud has passed. It reminded me of the gracious gentleman we had just left, standing in the door of his little shop with misty, new sunbeams on his bowed head.

The Long and the Short of It

2012-03-21T18:36:00.004-06:00

Ever since Turtle had to take a personality test for an upcoming seminar, we've been enthralled by the whole Meyers-Briggs/Keirsey personality typing--testing everyone in the family with the enthusiasm of amateurs.

After complaining for weeks about having to take the test, and the absurdity of tests, and the conspiracy of all testers, and the consequences that would probably ensue should he not perform well on the "stupid" test, Turtle finally caved in and took the fifteen minute exam. From that, he tallied his scores and was given a four letter "code". When he researched the four letters on the internet, he found pages and pages about his personality type. These descriptions fit him so incredibly well that (in his own words) "It was spooky". Suddenly all those crazy little quirks--like never finishing a sentence or at least not until you've started three or four others to leave hanging, or forgetting everything and blaming it on everyone else--were explained as part of a particular personality type. His affection for children; his "alleged" affection for animals (that never leads to actually owning one because they are not hygienic); his always having a story ready to tell; his propensity for long conversations with complete strangers; and his distrust of logic. It was all there. Having seen the simple test, I simply couldn't see how anyone could use it to deduce these things. It did seem kind of "spooky".

So I took it myself. Not surprisingly, I tested the exact opposite in every letter. The descriptions seemed uncannily apt also. All my unique personality had obviously been studied, unbeknownst to me and posted on the internet. Logical, diligent, introspective, and sometimes needing silence for my overactive imagination, I love sequence, charts, lists and main points. Now Turtle knows why I frequently interrupt his detailed, twenty-minute, explanations that start in the middle of the subject and dart in both directions crying: "Get to the point, please, before I go crazy!"

I always knew we had nurtured a wild and crazy family.
Now I know why--all that genetic variety available for our offspring's personalities.

Our Three word Wednesday prompt was: diligent, nurture, amateur

March-The Lamb and the Lion

2012-03-20T18:18:00.001-06:00

I took a little trip today to a town about thirty miles from here. The morning was golden when I left home, so I stopped to take pictures of the yellow flowers on green fields.

In the distance, I could see a white bank of approaching clouds, like a line of surf heading toward the shore.

The sky was beginning to darken when I arrived, but by the time my shopping was finished and I headed toward home again, there were curly clouds everywhere.

It made for a beautiful sky. I drove past the windmills just so I could get their picture against that swirling, leonine, backdrop.

As I drove west, the skies began to lighten through the clouds

It's amazing to me how a distance of thirty miles can affect the scenery! I arrived home to find full sunlight on the trees, just like it was when I left.

Genetically Dominant Haikuity

2012-03-14T19:52:00.002-06:00

An Interesting Facebook exchange.
Carina started it by posting this status:

Carina---My Victory Haiku

Dumpster to the road
Lid pushed down; I'm just in time
Here comes the trash truck.

Whereupon her Aunt Rebecca commented

- Rebecca You are 200% your mother's child, even in spite of the fact that is impossible!
- Carina: I felt the occasion had to be commemorated. Now that I think about it, my mother is probably the source of that particular DNA code.
- Lilibeth: Why would you think that? It could have come from your dad.
  Ha Ha just kidding. ( I don't know how to space it like a haiku)
- Elijah:
  Formatting Haikus?
  Try Using Shift + Enter
  Just like this mom, see?
  Whereupon I deleted my previous comment and put it in proper formatting like this:
  
                 Why would you think that?
                  It could have come from your dad.
                  Ha Ha just kidding.
  And Elijah protested
- Elijah: You fixed it, now people won't understand my Haiku :(
  
  Lilibeth:
  If I had known that
  you were writing the Haiku,
  I wouldn't have fixed it.
  
  Lilibeth
  Well, I should have known
- Haikuescent phenotypes
  Are hard to suppress
  
  Elijah:‎.
  
  Comment formatting
  deletes initial spaces!?
  Very uncool facebook.
- Carina wrapped it all up with:
  In the words of Sam
  The big, blue muppet eagle,
  "[We] are all weirdos."

Stars on the Ceiling

2012-03-12T11:17:00.002-06:00

Once again, my classroom ceiling is covered with stars. Spring and stars are now intrinsically linked in my mind. Our modern missions unit involves oral reports, research biographies, a bulletin board and Stars for each missionary researched by a student. This year there are sixteen. Here's what the final board looks like.

Some of the stars are exceptional. Look at this one, which remembers the life of Eric Liddell, a Missionary to China. All the detailed props have been fashioned with clay. I was especially impressed with the spokes of the bicycle and the laces and cleats on the running shoes.

This star--representing Corrie Ten Boom--was made by one of our students in his welding class. Each section of the second triangle was a separate bit of aluminum.

Cameron Townsend spent much of his ministry in Mexico, so his star was made of tamale-wrapping corn husks.

And Betty Green's is pilot's wings.

Florence Young's star, all hand threaded yarn, looks like the jungles on the islands she visited those many years ago.

Jim Elliot's star is made of spear tips, burned and sharpened in the fire.

Jonathan Goforth's is a fan, spread like his years of influence over Northern China.

We just finished reading chapter eleven of Hebrews in our morning teachers' meeting, and a phrase of it always runs through my mind when we do this unit: "of whom the world was not worthy"

³⁶And others had trial of cruel mockings and scourgings, yea, moreover of bonds and imprisonment:
³⁷They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented;
³⁸(Of whom the world was not worthy:) they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth.

I know that passage is talking about Old Testament prophets and heroes, but I feel that these missionaries would qualify for that hall of fame as well. What a wonderful thing that their sacrifices were not for nothing, that this life isn't an end to itself, but a crowded little lobby where we stand before the porthole of the next.

Someday I plan to see these people, and and I know their faces will shine brighter than our clumsy, hand-crafted stars.

March Skies-- the evening and the morning

2012-03-08T10:54:00.004-07:00

Coming home from play practice at around 6:30 on Tuesday evening, I saw this out to my left as I drove southward through the countryside. Of course I stopped. Who wouldn't, with the moon suspended just so, as if it were an escaping bubble from the sudsy clouds below...

Then I zoomed in a little, steadying the camera for the shot, and catching the shine on the surface a little better. It needed a song, but my brain was simply to exhausted to write one. There was the moondancing song from Celtic Thunder, however, so I played it in the car as I turned and wended my way to the West.

The next morning, I awoke, refreshed and ready to discover this blossoming tree outside my door. Obviously, the warm night winds had shaken its flowers out of their little buds.

I drove at a leisurely pace toward work, which, on Wednesday, begins thirty minutes later. Ahead, were clouds, struggling to contain the persistent sun as it poked and beamed its way through.

The fields are green in March--wheat coated and rain hungry. Meandering through the back roads gave me the freedom to pull over suddenly and take pictures as I approached the cloud bank.

And then...as I was standing there in the early morning quiet, the sun came bursting in, splitting the glass on my camera lens like a star. I snapped it, then jumped back into my little Dusky Wuggins, and drove to school where the inside world awaited--like a different planet.

Baby Crankenstein

2012-03-02T11:54:00.002-07:00

Our family living class is taking turns babysitting this little machine. He comes with a carrier, diaper bag full of supplies and a sensor that recognizes a wrist band attached to a caregiver. Each student has three days and nights at a stretch with the cranky little being, who acts, in many ways like a real baby. He has to be fed, changed, burped, rocked, and everything but ignored. His computer records all aspects of his treatment and each student is graded according to how much attention and positive care he awarded the "baby". The teacher has tried to schedule mostly weekends for this assignment, but that's impossible for everybody, so the doll was in my class this morning. I was able to rock and burp him while the assigned student took a test for my class. It didn't take too long. Then, he settled his cute little plastic head right down on my shoulder and slept. In some ways, I can see that this activity might be good for a student, particularly one who doesn't realize that babies are going to need care.

However, I have a lot of reservations. At first glance, this educational tool seems innocuous, or even beneficial. But, unless it is handled correctly, there could be an undesirable corollary to the activity. I can see students deciding that a child is too much trouble to keep. This one cries a lot, keeps everyone up at night, and never smiles or gurgles with that delightful laughter that convinces a mom she is raising a rare treasure. I think the sleepless nights, the curtailing of planned activities, the sheer enormity of the responsibility might encourage abortions, or decisions to avoid having a child--ever.

Children are a lot of trouble. That's true.
It's also true that the joy they bring is worth far more than all the trouble.

As I held Baby Crankenstein this morning, I remembered a time long ago--thirty two years ago to be exact--when I held my own, colicky, two-month old baby in the middle of a long, sleepless night.
I sat there rocking and wrote her a poem.

So in the morning at two o'clock
We sit together--sit and rock
And your head feels very soft against my shoulder.
Someday, Baby, when you're older
Then, I'll let you go.
But, Please God, let the coming of that day be slow.

Exultate!

2012-02-22T11:45:00.001-07:00

Claye and I traveled a ways yesterday evening to listen to a concert by the Lawton Pro Musica--a chamber choir. Since Elijah and Marie are members of this 14-member ensemble, we wanted to hear the performance, particularly since Marie had informed me that Elijah had a solo. Not being too sure of what to expect, and even suspecting that it might be all Latin and German numbers, or, worse yet, modern classical music with its screeches and jagged edges, I almost packed my Kindle. Fortunately, the concert was far from that. In fact, it was quite enjoyable.

The singers were almost all music educators, either in or retired from the school system or music ministers in area churches. The singing was exceptional. Also, and this really matters to me, the songs were meaningful!

From the Gregorian chant, "Creator of the Starry Skies", through hymn medleys and Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee, to I Got a Home in-a That Rock, they encouraged my soul.

The setting--St. Andrew's Episcopal Church--and the lighting--subdued as it struck the ancient wooden beams and stained glass--only added to the mood of peacefulness.

The audience even got to participate in a couple of numbers, one of which was a total surprise to me. I knew that Gustav Holst had written "The Planets", which includes a composition for each of those heavenly bodies. (My grandchildren like to imagine they are space-traveling while that music is playing; they hop to the right planet when they hear the music for it) What I didn't know was that Holst had composed hymn lyrics to go with the main theme for Jupiter. Somehow I had never imagined that. The song is called O God, Beyond All Praising.

Our evening was well worth the trip...and Elijah's solo was excellent.

Here are the Lyrics to Gustav Holst' Hymn

O God, beyond all praising we worship You today

And sing the love amazing that songs cannot repay;

For we can only wonder at ev'ry gift You send,

At blessings without number and mercies without end;

We lift our hearts before You and wait upon Your Word,

We honor and adore You, our great and mighty Lord.

Then hear, O gracious Savior, accept the love we bring,

That we who know Your favor may serve You as our King;

And whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill,

We'll triumph through sorrows and rise to praise You still:

To marvel at Your beauty and glory in Your ways

and make a joyful duty our sacrifice of praise.