Family Day 2025: an Exercise in Hindsight

 I will endeavor to be brief, the better to return to the celebration to which the title alludes. But to honor the occasion bears some thought, and a reflection which yields rich fruits.

Today, December 12th 2025, is the third anniversary of our first day as a family, united and whole. We set aside the day to reflect on our story, and to celebrate the gifts God has given us.

We walked out of a social worker's office, not a dry eye to be found in our company. The social worker, foster parents, our NGO translator, and all of the accompanying administrative staff were overjoyed to share in the beginning of our new life as we officially took custody of our sons.

But, in truth, our family did not begin on that Monday afternoon, nor, indeed, when we began the paperwork many months prior. No, like all families, ours began more than 10 years ago when I married my beautiful wife, a faithful and loving woman, and we were resolved to get about the business of rearing children, preferably a bunch of them.

Man proposes, God disposes. 

As time passed, our young married minds shifted to preparation for adoption: obtaining gainful, long-term employment for me; reading and research into the processes and pitfalls for my wife. We saved money, purchased a home, and set our sights on a home study.

++ at this juncture there is a hiccup in the regular flow of time++

But even in this, the total disruption of all things as the world tried to remember how getting sick works, I remained employed, working from home. We saved the money we would have spent out and about, or on other things which were deemed non-essential by the powers that be and our plans moved along.

We began our homestudy efforts in Spring of 2021, meeting with a local agency to become qualified for international adoption. We had narrowed our prospects to a few countries, and planned on pursuing a waiting child adoption. Within two weeks of the first meeting with the homestudy agency, the boys' file was posted on a waiting child register. We requested an informal match (which would become official once we had met the boys).

Not to skip a handful of stories, but by summer of 2022 we made our first trip. We got to meet the boys in person, confirm that we wanted to proceed with the adoption (duh) and begin the legal process of adopting them in their country of origin.

Our boys were undergoing their own story, on their way to it becoming our family story. Surrendered to the state at birth for financial and medical necessity, as best we can tell. Placed in an orphanage, and then into Foster care in separate homes awaiting our eventual arrival.

It would be here where our stories converge, and we arrive at our previously mentioned departure from the offices. Boys in tow.

From there, what is there to say? What has transpired? What has God wrought? Too much for this particular train of thought, indeed deserving its own dedicated contemplation, methinks.

"Ah, but the title!" I hear you say. "We get Family Day! It's clear to us now, such a joyous celebration! But, why do you say hindsight?"

Or maybe, by now you are just thinking "I thought he was going to endeavor to be brief?"

Fair and true, in hindsight that was a foolish proposal. Hindsight, which we casually quip is 20-20 in tones and affects of frustration and regret. If, we had been wearing the particular spectacles to grant such vision, then all things would have gone well!

No, instead we will use red-tinted lenses for those same spectacles, even when considering times in which the world seemed painted black, the lenses tinted red in the Blood of the Lamb.

Man proposes, God disposes. And God's disposition is always the best.

This hindsight, seeing God's disposition for our family, yields much better results. We were always waiting for the children God has given us. We learned hard lessons that made us the people who wanted to provide, and were more able to provide, exactly the love and care our boys need. Our boys' time in the orphanage placed them in the path of a kind and loving therapist, who made it her mission to get them adopted together, and to care for them in the process. The delays to the initial process meant that we were ready the first opportunity our sons needed us. In every circumstance, even when the devil, the world and our sinful nature wrought what was meant for evil, God meant it for good.

Three years ago, our family became whole, united, because whatever possibilities we could contrive to plan for, God had chosen the children he would trust to our care. He handcrafted and continues to customize the crosses He sends, to strengthen our backs and break down our pride.

Today, the story we celebrate the story of our family, how God has blessed us and made us whole in Him. 

Happy Family Day.

To Lie in Thought

In which our hero contemplates aloud for your amusement.


What is a lie?

It's a fairly straight forward question, at its root. It is a request for the definition of a term or word used exceptionally frequently in our common parlance. Webster stirs up a mote of dust and from the confines of its now digital storehouse of definitions of words historical, nonsensical, and fictional it drudges these phrases:

1. 1a :  an assertion of something known or believed by the speaker or writer to be untrue with intent to deceive -He told a lie to avoid punishment.b :  an untrue or inaccurate statement that may or may not be believed true by the speaker or writer -the lies we tell ourselves to feel better -historical records containing numerous lies
2. 2:  something that misleads or deceives -His show of remorse was a lie.
3. 3:  a charge of lying (see lie)
4. -Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

So then, following these, and similar phrases to be found addressing the use of this word in our vernacular, we arrive at the stab of my thoughts:

Do lies exist?

I realize, having just defined the matter and even referring to it grants it at least a hypothetical existence. But what you can see in the definitions above, is that a lie finds its existence purely through intent or circumstance, a lie has no existence beyond that it is told. This has lead to the most profound of cultural and rhetorical debates: Do lies exist.

While it is not expressed in such forthright terms, that is what the debate often boils down to. Moral relativism, higher-criticism, aesthetics, and every anti-dogmatic mood swing of our culture all have this question at there core. If the truth, in any of its interpretations such as true art, theology, or morals is subject to the cultural mores and preferences, then it follows that the inverse of the truth, a lie, must be so also subject.

But then we have to return to those definitions, we know that mankind hasn't stopped acting in ways intended to deceive, or that a mis-recorded date, place-name, or event is somehow true now, even if it was false when recorded. So how is it that lies can be objective, recognized in their intent or ignorance, and subjective, constantly under  the influence of the pervading winds of society?

This, then, is where my own foibly thought process began.

Lies don't exist

But not for the reason people like to think.

It is not that lies can't exist because all things are relative and there is n absolute truth, for this defies our very existence. If indeed we think, therefore we are, then that is an objective truth. Similarly we are going to suffer a physical death.* Oh, we may postpone it indefinitely, but the universe is ending and I'm pretty sure it would take us with it.

*Barring the end of days and the return of Jesus

Anyone who argues for absolute relativism is arguing in a circle. To state that everything is relative insists that there are things in relation, which means they hold existence of some kind, which means they are objectively real.

However, if something is true does the inverse have to hold true that there are false things?

A falsehood is a paradox, the existence of something which finds its definition in not existing

The existence of lies is the only lie. Or rather, the only lie is that there is anything other than the truth. There are no alternative facts, no probable explanations, no half-truisms, only the truth and the lie. Every lie has to contain elements of the truth, even if only minuscule fragments, in order to have any existence. A lie does not have an independent, objective existence because it can only be rendered using things that are true.

Truth does not share this quality. When you open the box the cat will either be dead or alive regardless of whether or not you know the answer. The lie of the inverse of the Truth, the possibility that only exists because we base it off of the reality. The knowledge of Good and evil did not add to man's knowledge, it only removed his ability to always see the Truth, the Good. Mankind has always had freewill, but now he cannot determine which decision is of the Good, the True, and the Helpful, but rather his will is caught in a quagmire of confused and confounded reasoning.

Or perhaps, if you prefer, if Truth is not the only objective reality, then it is all in vain. There is no point to life, love, hope, or any emotion or thought.

You may prefer that, but I will premise my life on the Corner Stone that is rejected by the constructs of the logical and regarded as foolishness by the wise.

For that Corner Stone is the Way, the Truth, and the Light. In Him is found no deceit. He exists without contradiction, without admitting a lie into His existence. True God and True Man, the only True Man, bearing the image and likeness of God perfectly, not dividing the Godhead, nor confusing the substance, for to do such would be to create a contradiction within the Truth. 

God gave His only Son, born of the Virgin, born under the Law to redeem those who were under the Law, those who cannot hold the truth in ourselves of our own will. He sent His Helper, the Spirit of Truth to guide us into all Truth. Without this Paraclete there would be no knowledge of the Truth in our world of relative truths and half-truisms. To us, who by rights belong to out father the Devil, the father of lies; with whom we joined in willful rebellion when we first allowed for anything other than the express Truth, when we decided to make for ourselves a truth. 

Every sin is the perversion of good things, the taking of something we have not been given but that has been given. There are no victimless crimes, no innocuous lies, no happy mediums for peace. Compromise is premised on disagreement and all it does is deny inconvenient truths.

Thanks be to God that he does not treat us as our falsehoods merit. That even as we tell lies to ourselves, suppressing our consciences to hide from our own guilt, the Truth within us, God's Law written on our hearts, God still clothes and feeds us. He provides us with whatever it is that we require, even though we cannot always and fully understand the good that they do us.

So, that's where those thoughts wound around to end up plastered on the screen before you. I hope you enjoyed perusing them.

Peace in our time

“Would that you, even you, had known the things that make for peace!”

These words were uttered by Our Lord as he gazed on Jerusalem, the City of Peace; the hope of a long estranged people, the harbor of faith, and the place of the mercy seat: the Temple.

Would that we, even we, should know the things that make for peace.

But we don’t.

Jesus words ring not only as a lament for His Kingdom’s namesake city, but also for all cities. Who has known the things that made for peace?

The philosophers of countless ages have sought through political, rhetorical, spiritual, and scientific inquiry to establish what made for peace. They have held up moderation, good habits (ethics), political structure, moralism, relativism, fascism, communism, democracy, republics, monarchies, empires, tribes, clans, families, and egoism, amongst any number of other ideas and tactics to achieve peace.

The substantial instigating plot element of the Avengers movie series has been a simple little mantra, perhaps only explicitly voiced in Ultron by Tony Stark: “Peace in our time”. The promise of the end of war, political prosperity; universal health, wealth, and justice for all. The films then play out the consequence of that hope, and beg audiences to debate over whose version of achieving piece, or at least pursuing the good of mankind, is more soundly premised in “Civil War”.

But I digress; this isn’t about the Avengers, but good storytelling does stab to the heart of human worries and cares.

What then can make for peace? In recent memory the internet has been flooded with news stories of violence. Whether incited by terrorists, madmen, gangs, crusaders, or those we trust to protect us, there doesn’t seem to be a time when we are not regaled with the tales of the atrocities our race can commit.

At every turn the internet rises up to combat these crises; whether it does so with despair, anger, vengeance, calls for change, or with self-righteousness depends mostly on whether or not the atrocity has the right tags or threads to incite a given group. We are informed more and more vehemently that it is not acceptable that such violence occurs, and that something must change or we will face increasing peril.

The cry rings out ‘Peace!’ and the silence echoes back ‘how?’

We all sit in consternated fury, knitting our brow and reveling in how wrong everyone is about what is wrong with our country, the world, and everyone else; all the while begging the same answer as those we disagree with. We yell, ‘No! Peace!’ and the silence greets us with a low demonic ‘ha, how?’

We, because of our ready access to a panoply of humankind and a wealth of its news and stories, see the death wreaking havoc on every hand. All of our plans and schema fall away and we see the one abiding law of this world: All things are dying.

It’s a dominant theory, expressed in the law of thermodynamics. Many renowned physicists project an inevitable end to all life in the universe, although we can’t pinpoint when. Entropy defines every creature. We want law, but we ignore the one abiding law of man: he dies. We cry for peace, but we always strive for it with swords and barbs against our own brothers. We want change, but we, given time, revert back to the same systems and corruptions, across human history.

We look to the actions of a few foolish, scared, deceived, or evil men and say “see! We can no longer trust them, one of them killed someone!” As if we expected to find a human being capable of not sowing the seeds of his own destruction. We want to make the whole only as strong as its weakest link but we fail to recognize our complicity in expecting anything more than weakness.

If only, we say, we knew the things that make for peace!

We have chosen our bed, and are laid to rest thereupon. The first death amongst mankind came not to the first man Adam, but to his son, Abel. Our race marked our path in the curse with the blood of our brothers, and we have spilled that blood ever since. The blood of our brothers screams from the ground, begging the heavens for justice.

We stagger under the weight of the guilt of tragedies of our world. Any man’s death diminishes us, because we are involved in mankind. The bell has always tolled for us and every knell calls us to our own funeral. We are dead and lost with all the world, caught up in our nature with the Devil and all his band.

But, why would Jesus even ask this of Jerusalem? Why weep for this sad and depraved creation fallen so far from His divine command?

“Would that you, even you, had known the things that make for peace!” Jesus says, standing on a hill outside the city. This is the beginning of Passiontide, and Jesus is entering the city knowing the bloodthirsty rabble waits inside for him. Knowing that they, even they who beg for deliverance from oppression, will turn on their True Brother, shedding His precious blood all the way from the Praetorium, through the streets, onto the bloody hill of Golgotha.

Jesus knows the things that make for peace. He mourns the city that would not know her God, and then enters to be the Prince of Peace. Not by bringing about a restored glorious kingdom of Israel, not by preaching a message of defiance against evil, but by offering a sprinkling of Blood that would speak better things than that of Abel. The city named peace rises up in furor and strikes the Masters heel. The hill of the temple, where people no longer sought peace, was traded for the blood-stained place of the skull.

Our Peace was suspended between earth and heaven, outside the city gates. He was forcibly removed from the place of peace; ejected from the temple mount, the very presence of God’s abiding mercy, and was left to suffer all of Hell’s torments.

Peace died on the cross, surrounded by vagabonds, scoundrels and foes, amid the deriding jeering of his enemies.

But Peace, our Peace, did not stay dead.

Our Lord, Jesus Christ, having laid down His life as a perfect peace offering, takes it back up again to reign forever as our King. Christ knew the cost of peace. It was not a brilliant philosophy; or a great war to end all wars; or even a team of supercharged altruists ready to save the day. What made, makes, and will make for our peace, is His Sacrifice. Our homes were plagued with Death, but Christ has marked the door with his Blood. Our Paschal Lamb was sacrificed for us, not so that we could strive to perfect creation, but so that we would have strength for our Exodus. This world is not our home, and these trials are fleeting.

We do not mourn as those who have no hope. We do not offer the condolences of dying men. Our death is only the gateway into life immortal.

And so we pray. Do not mock those whose only response to tragedy is prayer. They do more in their love and hope than any planning and scheming for policy or revenge. We call out for love, but the only love to bring us lasting peace is the love of Christ. It is in His Love that we trust. He knows the things that make for peace, and He offers them to us openly: Be washed, renewed and named; Hear His word; Speak the words He has given you; Take, eat and drink. Receive a meal without price, which no sower sowed and for which no laborer labored. His cup runneth over and all of the world is invited into the wedding hall, all is made ready. Here, at last, is Peace.

Knowing

In which our hero no doubt will butcher many great thoughts by many thinkers far his superiors as well as his own half baked contemplations......

I realize I have been about as regular about blogging as the Cubs have been about winning baseball games, I seldom have ideas that form themselves completely enough to put into words, and even less often do I have time to commend them to type.

Nonetheless, as I sit here, likely trapped by a cataclysmic *cough*typicalmidwest*cough* snowstorm, I find myself with necessary homework defeated and time before bed. I heard tell there was a ball game on tonight but I am not a Pathawks fan. Therefore I will strive with the dual demons of procrastination and consternation to blog, hopefully for your reading pleasure.



I have just finished reading the "Republic" by Plato. I must confess to knowing much of the content before hand, having had many a prolonged and Whimmish conversation on the material. The reading itself brought me a much stronger appreciation for the essence of the text. As well, I have been aided in the reading with the guidance of a wizened teacher who is quite adamant that he is no professor of philosophy, such a thing being, frankly, impossible.

In Plato's other writings, Socrates insists that the only thing he knows is that he knows nothing. This is a powerful statement, and defines the Socratic method of philosophy. One cannot have thesis, or antithesis, only hypothesis. Everything is a shadow of greater things. The cave, often misinterpreted in modern education as an allegory about perceptions, is all about knowledge. The life of the philosopher is to be the discovery of shapes each more startling than the last, and light sources each more striking and blinding. But at the end of the allegory,  Socrates points out that the Sun, the ultimate source of light for humanity, is still not the root source of light.

The light, which is both itself and a symbol of truth or goodness, has some other source, and philosophy then is to delve and contemplate the attributes of this source. Socrates, however, has bad news for all of us knowledge seekers: there is no finding this source. Knowledge of anything, is immortal, and like our understanding of dimensions, nothing mortal can grasp that which is immortal.

Socrates does have more to say about knowledge, however. Socrates knows the things of the flesh. He knows of erotic things, desires, hungers, fears. These things he knows. Men are intimately acquainted with the knowledge of the flesh.

It is for this reason then that he establishes all of his regimes under precepts which restrain the flesh, all of which, he says, are doomed to failure and can never succeed. He describes a healthy city, full of just men who mind their own labors and don't meddle in the labors of others, and immediately the young man say it is a boring city, without relish or comfort. They want lavishness, luxuries, and extravagances. They want the feverish city, doomed to self slavery, oligarchy, democratic license,  and finally tyranny. No amount of Music, Gymnastic, Culture, or Mathematics can prevent this slow death of the city by humanity. Socrates could not give the young men a logical reason for why they should be just. He finishes his narrative with a myth about Hades, in which Odysseus says he would rather live the life of a quiet just man. Socrates doesn't have their answer, there is no answer to their question.

Men know, they know their impulses, and more importantly, we know that we are dying. We know we shouldn't, we aren't made for it. We fight it, we strive all our lives for immortality, whether in our children, our work, or in our sciences. We seek after a life that will outlast this feeble frame that could not know anything other than the desires which we so often let rule it.

But I know this, I know that my Redeemer lives.

Man cannot grasp the immortal, he cannot reach it in his mortal weakness, but the Immortal reached down and joined humanity. He bound Himself to our desire ridden flesh, but was not subject to it.

This is the knowledge that brings immortality. There are no Socratic Christian Philosophers, because you can't start with the question 'what is justice?' when you confess the Sacrificed King. When the demands of justice were fulfilled by the only Man who has ever done His duty, and not that of any other man. For just as doctors are to be consulted for sicknesses, only the Son of God, and Him crucified could redeem His fallen world.

Christ is Risen, and there is no other knowledge, of things above the earth or things under the earth, by which men are saved.

I hope you enjoyed reading my rambles. Thanks for making it to the end.

Getting Older (Or am I?)

In which our hero contemplates the annual addition of age....

Recently, I have been faced with something rather strange.

People don't seem to be able to guess how old I actually am. They assume older, or younger, and they are almost always surprised when I tell them how young, or old, I really am.

When I began at IPFW, most of my peers assumed I was an upperclassman transfer. Nobody thought I was a freshman, and many people did not know differently until I had to explain why I couldn't go out drinking with them. This still happens, to a degree. People will forget that I'm younger, or the new students will assume that I am older than I actually am. As well, this past week, I was asked by an acquaintance if a child I was holding for a friend was mine. I have not been able to establish a pattern amongst these people, though I am almost certain there must be some common perceptional basis.

The flip-side of the coin, was emphasized for me this past week. I was at rehearsal for a large Bach concert, in which I sang an aria, and the director started, briefly, to speak on the nature of the choir, who are volunteers, and soloists who are not. And he mentioned that the choir has been good about involving teenagers in singing Bach, and he sited me as an example.

In case you didn't realize, I am some ways off from being a teenager.

Afterwards, one of my professors, who was also a soloist, told me she didn't realize that I was as old as I was.

And in all of this, no one has ever predicted my age accurately, not to my memory. Perhaps, for those who have known me some time, is because they remember me younger. I don't know how to explain people believing me older. I graduated High school a year late, which might affect people's perceptions. I don't know what it is in my behavior or habits that people see as older, or younger. I know that people have always been thrown off by my voice. But that was when it wasn't tracking with my body; I was singing E2s when I was 15, if not earlier. I came in freshman year singing Db2s, which caused some confusion amongst the others in the group, when Dr. K made a remark about 'the lowly Freshman, popping out low Dbs.'

Whatever it is, I am not particularly concerned. I feel the press of my age, (having discovered that one of my more amicable classmates was born the same year as my little brother, albeit on the other end of the year) and considering decisions for college that will directly effect the rest of my life. I am starting my first annual job, and will be working a lot over the next year. As well as trying to discern how I should approach my personal development as a future husband, father, or pastor. I have been living my life very much one day, week, or month at a time, but my thoughts have to project forward to plan my schedule and make serious plans for paying for school or possible grad-school down the road.

All this to say, I got into a twenty minute conversation at lunch today about perceptions and how they change how people view  the world. In particular as pertains to art. I would like to say, I would be very depressed to think that the world is only as it is perceived, the prevailing opinion of our culture....

But that, is for another blog post.

Thanks for reading.

Time to Think and a Time to Rest

In which our hero is looking for the latter; he's had plenty of the former.....

For a sample of the latter, see my previous post....

This has been a busy semester and not even coursework wise. I don't know that I'll have a semester to rival last, as far as busy work is concerned. But this semester is full of thinking. Thinking about so many things that my brain is almost constantly on overload, trimming thoughts off the edges so that I forget things, little things, but things. I lost my travel mug, or I forgot to check my email, or I forgot to eat my apple with lunch, or I forget to pick up my pin for Freshman honors. Little trains of thought that took a detour and never made it back to the station.

This semester has introduced me to many new trains of thought, all of them freight trains. This semester I was informed that I had the possibility of considerably more scholarship money, as well as being invited to take part in a Colloquium class to help prepare for grad school. I had not thought I had particularly odd or varied interests until they were enumerated being assessed by someone else; (apparently the Office of Major scholarships at IPFW has never seen 'Koine Greek' on an application.)
I've also been going through the machinations of getting a job as a tutor. The process is taking a terribly long time; because the head of the program never seems to be free to finish up the training. I've been considering how effective of a tutor I actually might be. I'm hoping that tutoring, as well as providing me some much needed income and job experience, will help me get a feel of whether or not I would want to teach at some point in my life. I'm only tutoring in Music Theory, which is a subject near and dear to me. Although all the feedback I've received from colleagues, or the professor who wrote the letter of recommendation for me to tutor, is that I will make an excellent tutor, or indeed, in the future, professor.

But I digress, I was speaking of my thought freight trains; observe how easily the detour....

Why am I thinking of thinking? Well, right now it's all I can do, I am currently confined to a chair in my living room, having pulled my trapezius (and yes, spellczech, that most certainly is a word) muscle. I am hoping to try and wake up my brain before I settle in for some homework.

But I digress, that still is not a return to original subject matter....

This semester I also ended up with the unusual responsibility of arranging a gig for the vocal jazz group I'm in. I have a contact with the local food truck association and I volunteered that I could contact them about us maybe performing at a rally. Then it turned into me organizing the event and making all of the necessary phone calls/meetings for advertizing etc. I don't mind, I was glad to contribute, but it was a weight on my mind up until this week when plans were finalized.

And, as always, my thoughts have been much consumed by my thoughts of the future. Perhaps there is a time and a place to stop thinking so hard about it, but I am at a point where my actions will almost directly and dramatically influence my future. I am looking into Summer opera programs, but I am also looking towards starting to learn the organ, to the point of perhaps graduating with it as a secondary instrument. How I invest my summers will directly effect my career options from here to the point that I graduate from a masters. Which, for what it's worth, I know I want to pursue, even if I'm not positive what form it will take. And, of course, school is not the only thing that can shape my vision of the future, or alter it dramatically. I know that marriage and a family has been a central aspect of all of my plans, even if it has not been clear when or with whom. Which is perhaps another thing that has been occupying my mind of late, (let the reader understand.)

There is also the ever present idea of transferring. It's always a thought, whether or not it will need to happen or not.

There are other things that have occupied my mind, but I am now realizing that this post is waxing long; I suppose that is what will happen if I start writing during the day, as opposed to at night. But then, I always wax long, even if I'm writing in the AMs. There are other things I could continue to write about...

Anywho, I am merely recognizing that it has come high time to bring this post to an end... What was I even talking about? I had to think about it before I remembered.

I hope that there was something worthwhile in this post, otherwise it was just grumbling. Which mind, was not the intent of this post. I don't mean to whine.

But that's a post in itself.

Thanks for reading.

Escape

In which our hero gets away from it all....


On certain satellite radio services, there is a particular station which plays schmaltzy, jazz-lounge-ish music. The station alternated announcers and each one had a different manner in which they delivered the primary tagline. All of them over delivered it and consequentially sounded absurd doing so.

Apart from the fact that the music was insipid and the announcers unbelievable, what they were proposing was ridiculous. You are listening to satellite radio, which almost necessarily means driving, which, in my mind, is the absolute most polar opposite thing from 'getting away from it all.' Driving is death, and panic, and fire, and burglars, and demons, and madmen, and thieves, and charlatans, and scoundrels, and villains......

{This section of the manuscript has been removed by the NSA to preserve the life-force and sanity of the general populace}

.... it's just wretched.


So then, the purpose of this spiel.

This weekend, I got away from it all. I have been having a terrible time getting acclimated to being at school; acclimating to not spending time with my bros; not being in control of my own schedule; not getting to spend all day with my niece when she was here. I feel like I don't have time, even though I am on top of my studies, and am really faring better than fair. I love the work. I love my music. So, why the stress and lack of restiveness?

Je ne sais pas.

Whatever it is; I got away. I had homework that needed to be done, sure. But homework can wait for the lonesome hours. I didn't have a plan, sure. It was all impromptu, the only plan being that friends were in town, and I was going to spend every second I could in their incomparable society. I put the hazards and care of my life away and immersed myself in the mutual consolation of the brethren.

And there were stories for the telling, and roads to be run. There was trudging through trees, and foolishness in fields. We gandered at greenery and milled in modalities. We spoke, or were silent. Cried out, or said nothing at all. We posed for portraiture and laughed til it hurt. We talked of everything, and nothing, of cabbages, and even of kings; discourse in dialectics of didactics of demeanor and distraction. Words were exchanged, at cost or gain (and non cared the more which for.)

A day marked by the sheer unbridled happiness of a soul and mind at rest. Sure there was thinking, there might have even been some level of worry at times.

But what are such things, when one is among his friends?

Thanks for reading.

Retreating To Victory

In which our hero, classically, begins with "Once upon a time"....

So then, once upon a time, in an ancient land of bogs and buildings, there was a great gathering of brilliant and wonderful people. These people, labeled "Lutheran homeschoolers," are a singular breed; diverse in personality, original in conversation, and having gifts and interests that vary as much as their locations of origin. It was a gathering of minds for what was labeled a retreat of the family (an accurate label indeed).

The week was filled by the constant companionship of the Otter and his Doppleganger, Nimagist. This pair, glorious in Leaguing, magnificent in scheming, and possessed of a predisposition towards deep conversation, were excellent company and have beds under this roof any time that they should choose to claim them. A singular pair of gents. Along with Capt. von Corgi, we spent the week gallivanting and carrying on, (in the young Lutheran manner, i.e. regular church attendance and discussion of theological mores mingled with a healthy dose of Spiderman; i.e. "the Lutheran manner," minus beer.)

Speaking of regular church attendance, I love attending the Lord's service with a huge group of people who know how to sing harmony. Hearing ostinattos ringing through the arches of the sanctuary, tenor and alto lines being filled in where they seldom are, and hearing other people singing bass with me... Fun stuff. Daily communion and prayer with a massive convocation of my church family. And, to boot, the glory of serving as acolyte, not only with my blood brother, but with my other brothers in Christ. For three days--the length of the retreat--we had prayer offices and communion. Three glorious days.

Which, if you hadn't guessed, is the segue into the next paragraph... but I digress.

-Addendum- The party, kind-of, started on Monday with the unofficially-official kick-off party at Crazy Tony's. (Pseudonyms used to protect the innocent, or the guilty. Not that I'm officially acknowledging culpability in anything.)

The first day was a Tuesday, a thoroughly unremarkable day of the week according to most weeks, but glorious for the sake of circumstance. The morning was spent with Capt. von Corgi, preparing for guests to arrive at the church and in the family home, preparing for the retreat and impending guests at home, the Family de Violin and the aforementioned duo. These preparations are fairly well typified by that often spoken, many times heard saying concerning a certain kind of poultry that has suffered capital truncation. But Tuesday progressed in a surprisingly nonviolent manner, filled with educative and interesting plenaries and sectionals, and crowned with a game-night and potluck, which turned into more of an "everyone about your socializing and fraternization and leave the adults to their beers" night.

Wednesday was a busy day. It began early and ran late, spanning the spectrum from prayer in the morning, to dancing till the cows came home. That day, I led a book discussion concerning sheep and fads; later, even that very same day, I taught a sectional on the transition from homeschooling to college, assisted by the Doppleganger: Nimagist; which mostly consisted of talking about sheeps and fads. There was Vespers that day; and a dinner that day, served by the Ragin' Cajun, a man of vision, whose food knows no bounds of culinary resplendence. That evening there was dancing, hosted and provisioned by the Squirrel, another example of a talented Lutheran person. I love dancing, I'm not very good, but the longer it's going the less I care about that. The evening wrapped up with an ill-advised night swim in the 60-degree pool, instigated by the Generalissimo, and a long, deep conversation with the Dopplegangers.

Wait for it, I know it occurred to somebody. "Dancing then swimming in freezing water? weren't you sore?"

Oh yes.

Thursday morning began with pain, soreness inexpressible except by the very groanings of the Spirit.

But, once more, I digress. For most people, Thursday began with Matins, but I was too much of a pansy to overcome tiredness and soreness to attend. I showed up in time for the rest of the day's events to begin. There was a sectional, taught by the Rt. Rev. Seminarist. The topic of his sectional was, "Law and Gospel in [thatmusical/bookwhicheverybodylovesandwhichImayormaynotcurrentlybein-thefrenchone]." A very enjoyable topic. After the sectional, we all went to Mass. After Mass we went to harass Capt. von Corgi at his workplace, and then to the Farmers of Legumes and we went for a walk. We had a  spectacular time, but I did then leave lamentably early for a brush-up rehearsal for [thatmusicalwhicheverybodyloves -thefrenchone].

And that was it. The retreat was over. However, it was Friday, and there was still comradery of the Homeschooled Lutheran variety to be found. A small group of said people had remained behind to attend a performance of [thatmusicalwhicheverybodyloves -thefrenchone], and we all spent the day together. The assembled parties were, Myself, the Squirrel, the Dopplegangers: Nimagist and Otter, the Farmers of Legumes, Ms. Donau, and the Lady of Hippo. The good Capt. von Corgi was about his day's work once more at the Sandwich parlor of James-Johannes, from whence he did, in due time, join us. That evening, many of them attended the aforementioned production and a good time was had by all discussing it.

But alas, as with all things this fairy tale did come to an end--for woe of woes-- came Saturday, the day appointed for the Doppleganger: Nimagist, the Lady of Hippo, the Squirrel, and Ms. Donau, should leave to return to their home country, the city of Directionalcurve (and the Squirrel to the northern reaches, of which names I shall not speak). There was much weeping, and tears shed all around. Gifts of farewell, in the form of carafes filled with coffee for the road, were presented. Oaths of pilgrimage were vowed, and we bid a farewell to friends.

And here sit I, too many days after the fact, finally sitting down to record my version of events for posterity, and that only because I mentioned it in passing to Ms. Donau, who was good enough to hold me to my own plans. It was a good time, a time of fellowship, grace, and thanksgiving for the blessings I have received. Not the least of which blessings are my church, my family (both blood and church), for food, and for friendship so often taken for granted. As I have met more and more people and grown to know them, I have learned the value of a true friend, not just a fun person to be with, but a brother-in-arms against the devil, the world, and my own sinful nature. I am fortunate to have an abundance of just such.

Nope, not quite done, but hold your horses it'll all be over with soon. And not only in the cosmic sense....

This week reminded me, as these things always do, of how central my church life is to me. These people, my people, my church-family, are as close and dear to me as many of my extended family. And I love my extended family; that is no belittling of them. The mutual consolation of the brethren was quite visible and tangible amongst those who were gathered.

Sigh.

Nope, not finished... I will make an end when I am finished.

Capt. von Corgi took off this week to visit self same friends. They sojourned in a massive expedition to the far sands and the great inland sea. I did not realize I would be able to go, and thus I was left at home, the Mama having left for the East to visit the She-wolf and her adorable little Hellian, my niece. The Generalissimo was also with me, however, he worked at the Maul from the morn until eve on all but the last day of von Corgi's absence. I was so lonely, I went out and slew a zucchini dragon and returned with it and prepared many a cookie. Aside from that I did lounged, except for doing laundry, and called Von Corgi to complain to him, and anyone who would listen, about my plight of loneliness.

Now, Capt. von Corgi has returned, and existence is almost back to the holding pattern. Life continues much as it always has, full of its comings and goings. Otter has long since returned to the Academie de Bawl State, the Mama will return soon, and the run of [thatmusicalwhicheverybodyloves -thefrenchone] is on its final weekend. School will start soon. Winter is coming and we'd best be ready.

And I think that this shall be for sufficiency. I have vented my thoughts, even though I knew not what to write. I have bored you to tears and now you are reading this and realizing I am drawing out the end as much as possible just to see if you'll keep reading....

Congratulations, you made it.

Thanks for reading.

By the way, remember, if you are feeling good about yourself for humoring me and reading all of this, stop it! you've just gone and ruined that whole good work! Tsk tsk.

Sigh. Well, thanks anyway.... I guess. I hope you enjoyed it.

An Italian Inspired Introspectus

In which our hero devotes some thought to himself, an opera, and a Baritone....


This Thursday, I had the distinct delight of accompanying a group spectacular persons to see the Lyric Opera of Chicago. The Opera: Rigoletto. I was familiar with the story and most of the music, however I had never seen a full production of it....

Now, shame of shames, I must admit that, music enthusiast though I be, I had not, until Thursday, seen a full Opera production.
After that disgraceful admission, back to the first line of thought. Let's hope it's still there....

(Which it is!) ....The cast was incredible, with the exception of a lackluster tenor as the Duke. The Soprano -Gilda- soared through the stratosphere and never once were my ears offended. The Bass -Sparafucile- was exactly what you wanted to see and hear, he was big, he was scary, and he could sing that low F so that you didn't hear it, you felt it, in your very soul.

But the star, the crowning jewel of this cast, was the Baritone playing Rigoletto. The gentleman said in the program that he didn't act the character, the character spoke for itself. He said that he, as a father of children Gilda's age, could sympathize with Rigoletto's paranoia, and eventual despair.

(Interjection) If you are unfamiliar with Rigoletto, familiarize yourself, it is perhaps the best opera ever written, full of beautiful music with a story to break your heart.

Back to regularly scheduled ranting-
To say that I cried for Rigoletto's misfortune, would be a gross understatement, I wept. I got teared up just thinking about it right now. This is, in no small part, due to the Baritone. His performance was better than I could express in my few and meager words (let the reader understand). I cried in anticipation of his suffering, I cried for his fate as a cripple, I cried for his dead wife. Plot elements that I usually just absorb and shove into the back of my mind for reference, all were made real by that man's performance.

But I said 'Introspectus' didn't I?
Ah yes. Myself. My favorite topic, as always.

Recently I have been doing an inordinate amount of thinking. It has been quite painful actually. I wrote, on this very blog, not long ago about who I am, or who other people think I am. I have always thought that I had a great deal of self awareness. I know why I do things, why I don't do them, why I like or dislike certain things or people on a very base level. That sort of thing I have always thought myself geared for.

I am a planner. I got excited the first time I got a 'week at a glance' schedule for school. I like freedom for the time I have left, but I love the structure. Not that I am highly structured, as you can likely tell by reading my writing.

So then, as it is put, to the heart of the matter.

Thursday was the first time in my life that I have felt  not only an interest in, but a desire to pursue Opera. I do not honestly know if I have the voice for it or not, (But that is for another blog post and more thinking) but I am going to speak with those that I trust on such matters. The other edge of this dagger is what it would mean for me in terms of the future. If I want to do opera, I have to really go for it. I have to plan for it, or not. I am not vain to think that I could perform on the Baritone's level, but that doesn't stop me from trying.

That then is my cause for such elongated introspection. I go back and forth in my mind. I need time, which I do have an abundance of at the moment. But I also need counsel and I am going to seek that in its many and diverse forms.

I would appreciate the prayers of those who are willing or so inclined. Such is the main solace I seek.

And that all just has to do with my contemplations of my music career; my brain is fraying at the edges with all of the other stuff regarding life in general.

I didn't mean for that to go quite so long. I started and I really couldn't stop. Sigh.
Thank you for reading.

Times Gone By

In which our hero admits weeping brokenly over the sorrows of fictional characters....



Or, perhaps, weeping brokenly over the not so fictional circumstances of coincidentally fictional characters.

The musical 'Les Miserables' is an in depth study in fictional characters facing not so fictional circumstances. I love the musical. It is my favorite large scale dramatic work. I have been listening to it since I was small enough to not understand the lyrics. I knew the songs belonged to the specific characters and had, therefore, developed strong attachments to them before I started to learn that they almost all died tragic deaths....

That was a bit of a shock.

As time has passed, I have not lost these strong connections. I identify with Javert in many ways, but I am relieved by Valjean's version of the story, repentance, forgiveness. The end always makes me cry, the beautiful words accompanied by the triumphant music, in which the characters, having died, have rebelled against death and now live eternally.

Yeah, good stuff, I just teared up.

But more and more recently, I have cried more and more for 'I Dreamed a Dream' and 'On My Own'.
Both, of course, are powerful songs driven by terrible sadness. 'Little Fall of Rain' falls into the category as well, but not quite to same level. Les Miz, on the whole, is a very depressing musical. The only happy aspect, the marriage of Cosette and Marius, is mired in the sorrows surrounding it.

So then, that's the end right? Les Miz is sad, it makes poor pathetic-vocalist-blogger-person cry.
Zee end.

Not quite.

I don't know why I have thought this of late, perhaps my experiences of recent, and not so recent, times have created this ticking time bomb of thought in my head. Whatever it is, I am going to write about it and try to do it the justice it deserves... probably won't happen.

We live, in a time of 'times gone by.' The modern attitude towards women, on the part of both men and women, has chewed up our dreams, mocked our romances, and left us alone with no love, left to the shameful prostitution of fifty shades of black despair. We have been wooed by promises of enjoyment and freedom, license in licentiousness. It has left us bereft, weeping for dreams of times gone by, when men were kind, when the world was a song and the song was exciting. We were wooed by the devil, and he gave us what we wanted, freedom from romance. We gladly sing 'Pretty Ladies' with no sense of disgust or revulsion. It is the standard of the culture.

But then a Man comes, and even though the law stands and tells Him of how often we make excuses, how we are liars, deserving of death within the prison, He reaches out His hand, pulls us out of the ditch, takes us away from the docks. We still die, we are doomed to it, but we do not die in the despair of death, we die, Him at our side, promising us life for us and our children.

But I am speaking of Christ and the Church.

Thanks for reading.

Of Mice and Minstrels

In which our hero thinks introspective thoughts, imagine that....


Those who know me know that I am a rather proud person. I can hide it pretty well, but if you scratch the surface much at all you will find at the heart, a prideful sinner, much like many others, obsessed with his own affairs. I have enough gall to compare myself to the greats, make excuses, and in general not work as hard as I should.

I am, of course referring to myself as relates to music; however this is a concept which can, and probably should be universally applied to my person.

I have a strong voice, I have known this for a long time. When I was younger I would have barely been reticent to tell you I had the best voice of anyone I knew. I was not quite that crass; but I thought it. And still, when unchecked, my pride will flair up and threaten to consume that little veneer of humility which hides hubris and vanity.

This evening was Dr. Savage's faculty recital. It was a celebration of the 200th anniversary of Verdi's birth. As you may expect, it was all Italian, almost all Verdi, and all excellent. Dr. Savage is an incredible performer, and an incredible singer.

This week has been great for me, musically. Between the aforementioned recital, the vocal showcase --highlighted by the excellent performances of both my upperclassmen colleagues and my teacher-- and the Bach Collegium's performance of the St. Matthew Passion by Bach, highlighted by the performances of several brilliant vocalists, it has been a great treat.

But more importantly for me. These, like many such things, are a strong reality check.

For me, anytime I listen to Mark, my teacher, or Dr. Savage sing, I am given this overwhelming sense of perspective. I have a good voice, yes. But a strong voice does not the singer make, it doesn't hurt, but it does give me excuses. My performance might play out well compared to others in the eyes of the audience, but I, and those who know my voice, know that I didn't do it right. I got nervous, I clipped my vowels, I tilted my head, and, horror of horrors, I swallowed the sound.

I have taken to listening to recordings of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, another strong reality check. Dieskau's recordings are incredible. I am highly critical when listening to other people sing, almost to the point of being nasty, which partially comes from that over inflated pride I mentioned earlier, and when I listen to other people sing, especially in my range, I always say to myself, 'could I have done that better than him?'....

What did I know, fool that I was....

 When listening to Dieskau, I always realize, I cannot, now nor ever, perform at that man's level. His performance is flawless in my ears. He never sounds overwrought, or harsh, or nasal. He never sounds wrong. Everything he sings sounds right, like the way that it was meant to be sung.

And it brings everything into clearer perspective. My vanity and my laziness, and other people's talent and hard work, are all brought into stark contrast. Up til this point, I have been coasting through life, riding high --there's that phrase Patrick-- on the gift that God has given me, abusing it by not working harder to improve it. Laziness, lack of labor from lack of love.

Even in the writing of this I can see my perpetually present pride preening for presentation. Humility comes only of perspective, perspective, through wisdom, of which there is only one Beginning and one End.

Even in the writing of this, I have hedged statements, shaved my sentences, cleaned my clauses, and polished my phrases with politeness, in order to protect my pride or to maintain a thin gauze of humility over my pride.

Gauze is used to cover open wounds; this we know.

Anywho, I guess all I'm trying to say, is that it is Friday, I am tired and mildly disappointed at myself. Therefore I am venting my thoughts to the interwebs.

I hope you enjoyed reading this. Unless it was schadenfreude, if so, shame on you, it is Lent after all.

Thanks for reading.

Emergency Pressure Release

In which our hero opens some his consciousness overflow release valves....

I'm feeling restless tonight. Not in a manner that I cannot sleep, or even relax, but in the manner that my mind will not stop whirring. It spins in cycles chewing up, processing, and regurgitating information. But there is nowhere for these fancies and fascinations to fasten, and they quickly return to my mind to find safe haven and refuge from the prying eyes of wandering wrackspurts.

I feel, rather, like a spinning top, hung from a string being twisted into cat's cradles, suspended from a pendulum swinging against the wind. My mind is mincing its meat pies, mixing its metaphors, mashing its M-n-Ms, and meandering in a meaningfully menacing montage of mental menagerie.
Thoughts. They hum about my ears and make sounds, sometimes of a seamless symphony of sympathetic synonyms....

But I digress, I carried that on in order to exorcize my brain. I hope it made some sense, it makes sense to me.

On to actual topics which can be taken for what they are, or are not.

I feel behind; behind schedule as concerns school; behind on my reading; behind on my devotions; behind on life. I feel like I am moving forward, perhaps even quickly, but that the ground is moving faster than my feet and the objects in my rear view mirrors are closer than they appear. I feel that I am making progress, improving and learning, but oh so slowly, and sometimes too late. I am plowing forward, trekking, ever trekking, towards... what? I don't know. I have always felt that I had clear goals. Long term plans for my life. Now I only consider my future in definite terms as concerns my requirements for school. I suppose this has to do with having been assigned goals for the first time.

I was told something, by several different people recently; that, as a professional, and esp. as a performer, I have to define myself. I have to know who I am, and establish that for myself, and for other people. So then, how to go about that? Or do I do it already? Do people have a specific idea of who I am? Do I? If someone had to describe my personality to someone else, how would they do it. I hear people talk about other people they know, and I ask myself'; how do you talk about me when I am not there? I am not so foolish to not care what other people think, I try not to let it define me, but how people perceive you matters.

Ironic, I now have "Who Am I?" from Les Miserables stuck in my head.

When I took the SAT, the essay I had to write was based off of a question about whether we should let other people influence our ideas. Like all SAT questions, it was a low-ball pitch made to be struck with the full force of any highschooler's lofty opinions. I despise questions like this. They always ask for absolutes concerning things which have more touch-of-gray than silver lining.
My answer was that influence was inevitable. We cannot interact with anyone, or anything, and not have it influence our perspective. There is no avoiding influence, we are sponges, we absorb everything and assume it into who and what we are. Whether by adoption or repulsion, or even apathy, all things touch us and make us include them in our reality.

One of the things that has been the hardest about school has been the separation from my family. Nothing makes my day like meeting my brother on campus, whether for coffee or just to walk around talking. For my entire life, my family has been my first resort for advice and for conversation, and my classmates and friends, as excellent and interesting as they may be, do not make for very strong substitutes.

But now it is Lent, a season of prayer, fasting, and solemn meditation. It is strange to consider the fact that, in this world, I will only experience a limited number of Lenten-tides. Statistically, I have already been through twenty percent of them. My days are as an hand-breadth... I find that more and more, my favorite book of the Bible to sit down and read is Ecclesiastes. There is such a strong sense of perspective, of not just knowledge, but wisdom.

And that ultimately, I guess, will be what can help me in finding the answers to all of my problems: Perspective. To know who I am, and to know who He Is. A stark contrast to be sure. A sign upon my forehead and my heart. For, in this one of many Lents, even with the Golgotha of my sins looming in the horizon, I know that my Redeemer lives. And the neither the prince of this world, nor its principalities, nor my own foolish pride, can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus my Lord.

And that, was an explosion of thought. The last section is the only part that keeps me sane through the rest of it. Perspective for the day, eh?

Thanks for reading.