In This World, Not of It

So many times a person drops a comment--"how could they have a child, it is so irresponsible" "Someone that sick is better off dead," "Tim Tebow's Superbowl ad is a sign that the world is reverting into barbarism and darkness"--little things passing in a conversation and I cringe and protest inwardly but keep quiet.  I feel like I cannot fight every comment, fight every minute.  But where is the line between between being a witness and being a coward?

The idea of drawing a line in the sand has its attraction; of setting oneself apart, being scorned and persecuted for one's faith, the romantic vision of the solitary martyr.  But the root of this is pride and fruit of it is not witness.

I keep reminding myself of the St. Francis' words, "preach the Gospel always and if necessary use words." But what constitutes necessary?  When is that line crossed when action becomes a necessity?  And is the light of my actions enough in a place like this?  Never have I been somewhere where I feel so isolated by what I believe, so completely alone.  How much does that impact to not speak, the desire to have friends, to be liked?  How many people would I alienate by speaking out?  And how can I find the community that is so important to human life?

God grant me the grace to shine your light to those around me, the courage to speak out, the wisdom to know when to do so, and faith to know I am never alone.

Perhaps with the feather bed underneath, just in case

"Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope." Edith Wharton

Ash Wednesday

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

This is the last fit of T. S. Elliot's poem, "Ash Wednesday."   The whole this was too long to post (and probably violated some sort of copy write) but it can be found here and is worth the read.  

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

"And little he knew of the things ink may do, how it can mark a dead man's thoughts for later years, and tell of happenings that are gone clean away, and be a voice for us out of the dark of time, and save many a fragile thing from the pounding of heavy ages; or carry us, over the rolling centuries, even a song from lips long dead on forgotten hills."
--Lord Dunsany

Stand up and Fight, and I'll Stand Up with You

The shadows of the Past

"We read to know that we are not alone."
— C.S. Lewis

As Everyone Should

From Maria Kalman's entry about George Washington in her "And The Pursuit of Happiness Blog."  Heed his example, for it is wise.

The Work-a-day World

"You gotta drag yourself to work, drug
yourself to sleep, you’re dead from the neck up by the middle of the week." 
The Clash- All The Young Punks