Saturday, 4. July 2009, 23:12:01
When our packers finished their work days early, my father lamented that we could have left a week earlier than planned. But it was too late. The plane tickets were purchased. So we moved into a hotel in downtown Stavanger and . . . lingered.
For a week we waited for our flight. Some days were dull, but most days not. We rediscovered the joy of having leisure for relationships. We wandered downtown Stavanger aimlessly, at odd times of day. We listened to the bells of the Domkirke tolling midnight over a harbor brilliantly stained with the blood of the sunset. We delighted in the people, as well as the place we were so loathe to leave. We lingered.
We ate barbecue at the house of friends, taught them a new game, and laughed at our own mistakes. We had a “cuppa” in the garden of another dear one, soaking up the sunshine and sharing stories and experiences and encouragement. We dropped by for final farewells at the home of another family and stayed close to an hour talking. I spent hours soaking up the wisdom and companionship of another dear friend—one old enough to be my grandmother. We went spontaneously to dinner or lunch or tea with this, that, and another, all with an odd feeling of departure and an even odder feeling of eternal comradeship and deep love. Christianity does odd things to us and our perceptions of separation.
I am reminded of Matthew 6:19-21. “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal; for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” May the treasures of my heart always rest in people, who are eternally valuable, and not in my possessions or my own pursuits. May I not forget, even during the busy times of my life, the importance and beauty of building bonds with others. Not only may I find refreshment and encouragement in Christian fellowship, but I find my life placed into better perspective.
Monday, 25. May 2009, 20:18:10
(Excuse the Dickensian paraphrase.)
Poland, the SAT, May 17, moving, Tolkien, Norwegian spring and summer, Prague at midnight with a British accent, Sally Lunn bread, indoor Ultimate Frisbee, scholastic plans for next year, Daniel Deronda . . . How much of life has flitted by since last I blogged. But now I do not feel inclined to go back and revisit it, much less in detail. Suffice it to say that this business of living takes up nearly all of my time, and I still repeatedly fail to carry it out as well as I should like.
That said, I suppose I may turn to business. Will I have to change my blog name once we're back in the States? Well, I think not. Not to get overly sappy and metaphysical, but we will still be, in many ways, Norway Edgrens, even after we move back. I know I, for one, am beginning to feel just a wee bit like one of those "third culture kids"--the idea of living in America strikes me as distinctly odd. And having a face-to-face conversation with another homeschooler, why, I'm not even sure I remember how to relate to kids who are (in theory) like me. And, on top of that, our quirky extended family tends to take some time "updating" its names. For example, we were the "Kansas Edgrens" for about a year after we moved.
I would like to promise more frequent, insightful, sparklingly worded blogs in the near future. I cannot. With exams and my brother's graduation (not to mention a trans-contintental move) on the horizon, amongst other things, I must quote Prince Humperdink and admit, "I'm swamped." Permit me, instead, to direct you all to my photo albums. These, I notice, have not been perused recently, and I would appreciate feedback. Some of the photographs, I think, are quite lovely. But I would like to see someone else concur.
Saturday, 7. March 2009, 19:17:18
Something I jotted down a couple of months ago . . .
I found a new road recently. Or, rather, a very old one. And already I can tell it will be one of my most frequent haunts in the months to come.
Fifteen brisk minutes will bring you to either end of it, and those fifteen minutes are rather less than pleasant, running along major roads. But the road—my road—itself is worth the grit of the highway-side. At one end you must slip around a small cemetery to get onto my road, and at the other it compasses a camp full of hyttes. But the length of my track runs through such woods and fields you would hardly believe there was a highway just beyond the bend. Coming from the cemetery takes you past a couple of modern-looking buildings, apartments or chapels connected with the cemetery, first. But these quickly fall away, shed like layers of sodden clothing. There’s a little barn on one side of the road, a jumble of green and red and grey. I say grey for the sage and scarlet paints are as much purged as present, and in a year or two I fancy no color but that of the weathered wood will remain. This barn, with its door thrown open to show the motley pile of scrap lumber inside, and its window-glass all broken and scattered, stands beside a dilapidated paddock fenced away from green fields beyond.
The road at this point turns to earth and gravel, well-populated with potholes, which are themselves filled with murky water. Lovely, old trees and a stone wall flank the road, marking it out from the fields now surrounding it. You can see all down into the valley of pastures below, and almost to the sea, were it not for one final ridge where the land rises in protest before dropping to the ocean.
I feel when I look down this road, guarded by rows of sentinel birches and scarred with rippling pock-marks, that I could fall into it everlastingly and yet, if ever I reached the bottom, find myself at home. It is like a tunnel that is both a well and a ladder and, therefore, also like a Story. (I say not a good story, but simply a Story, for if a tale be not a good tale it be not a Story, regardless of common usage.) And where the overarching branches join to obscure the track’s distant end, there I am certain lies another world.
After a few minutes’ walk, the road begins to enter some thicker trees. The stone wall to the left rises into a giant’s boulder border and testifies to the labor of Norwegian farmers in clearing the smooth valley below. The trees themselves—I wish I knew their kind, but, alas, can only say they are evergreens—rise tall on either side. Most of the trunks are of a red-brown tint, and some of them bend and writhe curiously.
Another space of time brings you out of the trees once more to a clear view of the valley. The beautiful part of the road is almost over now, as it begins to bend left around the camp I mentioned. One or two rutted tracks cut off to the right, which I hope one day to explore, but they look dishearteningly like tractor ruts and may lead nowhere. Even once the road bends left, however, it proceeds along a pretty course for some time, a grassy common lined with river birches on one hand and the ever-present stone wall on the other. And so, sadly, ends my road, petering into a nothing of pavement and electric lights . . . .
Sunday, 1. March 2009, 15:33:09
Of course a summary of what we did on our vacation will leave you with a rather incomplete picture. One usually can’t put the most memorable moments down on paper—there was something indefinable about the moment or the scene or the smell that made it memorable in the first place. And you must also understand that what I have written below also leaves out miles of Spanish countryside through which we drove from town to town. It was really stunning. Mother compared parts of it to the area around El Paso, TX. The scrub and rock and trees reminded me of some parts of Colorado, while the palms and warmth (and cement high-rises in the cities) reminded me of Kuwait. There were many windmills, many mountains, many wildflowers (even violets!), and many storks. But all this to say that I really cannot do justice to the experience . . .
We flew into Malaga over hills glowing red and gold in the sunset. I immediately noticed dates on the palm trees outside the airport, the sound of birds singing, and a stray dog wandering the street—not something we would see in Norway.
One sensation which I cannot sufficiently impress upon you is the deep joy of warm sunshine on one’s face. You stand at a railing looking over stunning countryside or oceanscape, and all you can do is close your eyes and soak up the light and the warmth and the fresh smell of the breeze. We left a country blanketed in snow; we arrived in one with laden palm trees. We left -8 degree (Celsius) weather behind, and reveled for a week in outdoor temperatures of about 15.
We ate at Pizza Hut the night we arrived, taking advantage of the haute American cuisine. The next day we did our “touristy stuff” in Malaga, going to the city fortress complex on a hilltop and wandering all over. In the afternoon we made our way along the coast to a town outside Granada, enjoying the sunshine and surprisingly “Spanish” architecture: tile roofs, white-walled towns, and narrow streets between tall apartment buildings in the towns.
We ventured into downtown Granada for dinner that night, but it turns out virtually everything in Spain closes on Sundays. The next day we spent the morning and early afternoon at La Alhambra, a palace and fortress complex scattered over multiple hilltops above Granada. The gardens were not much to see at this time of year, but the buildings were lovely, and the carving on the walls and ceilings was stunning. We made our way down from the Alhambra to the old portion of the town, where we walked for part of the afternoon. We spent another night outside Granada before driving west toward the white town of Rhonda.
En route to Rhonda we took a detour to El Torcal (Wikipedia has pictures, if you want to get an idea), a natural preserve with incredible rock formations and trails in amongst them. ‘Twas incredibly muddy, though the mud was shallower and sticker than the Norwegian variety. Nonetheless, we enjoyed looking around at the rocks, the view, and the mountain goats.
Rhonda itself is a white town perched atop a bit of a cliff and straddling a rather impressive gorge. We wandered the city, bought sweets at the local convent (whole ‘nother story for anyone interested, but cool nonetheless), went fabric shopping (successfully, I might add, and without resorting to any English), and toured the town’s bull ring. The ring is still used at least once a year for historically accurate bull fights: a girl I know who visits Rhonda annually recalls seeing bloodstains in the sand when she visited just after one of the fights. Next door to the bull ring is a riding school, and we got to peek in on their practice session, which was enjoyable—probably the closest I’ll ever get to seeing Lipizzaner horses in action.
After Rhonda we went south to Algeciras, around the bay from Gibraltar. We took one day trip to Gibraltar itself, which is still a British colony, and did all the typical, touristy stuff. We walked all over the famous rock of Gibraltar (really rather impressively large), saw St. Michael’s Cave (quite cool), walked through the siege tunnels, saw Africa, and generally enjoyed the sunshine in between feeling very hot and tired of walking. . . . Aaaand I am bound to mention that a monkey bit Samuel. But the tale isn’t mine to tell, since I didn’t even see it happen, so if you want full details you must ask him yourself.
The next day we explored some of the coast to the west, making our way eventually to the Roman ruins at Baelo Claudia, which Timothy particularly enjoyed. After walking through the ruins, we walked along the beach for a while, admiring all the shells. We get plenty of seaweed but no shells on our Norwegian beaches. On the way back we went for a walk in a pine forest (complete with grazing bulls) and stopped in Tariffa (Europe’s southernmost town) for an indifferent dinner.
Mid-morning Saturday saw us driving back towards Malaga for our evening flight.
Saturday, 14. February 2009, 07:11:48
Saturday, 3. January 2009, 14:38:33
My recommended book for January--a book I found by accident and read on a whim--differs a wee bit from some of the others I have covered on this blog. I daresay some of you have heard of it. The author of Mister God, This is Anna signs himself simply "Fynn." An endearing little book, it covers a variety of theological bases in an, ahem, extremely unique manner. I don't agree with "Fynn" in several points, but the book provokes thought, beyond doubt, and I generally favor thought.
A dark city street, some time in the early 20th century. A young man, done work for the day and out to enjoy the fresh air and a hotdog. An abused girl, not yet six years old, huddled on a doorstep, just run away from home. So Mister God begins. As Fynn recounts his friendship with Anna, we are entertained with the rich accounts of her shinnanigans and, more particularly, her discoveries. God through the eyes of an observant--and sometimes unbelievably analytical--child brings some interesting concepts to light.
Furthermore, the book is written in engaging, easy prose, scattered (at least in my copy) with the occasional, endearing sketch. Though a thick little volume, this book makes a quick read. Except, of course, for the portions where we must stop to work out what Anna (in a manner so concrete and pictorial we often fail to recognize the basic theology it cloaks) is trying to explain.
Interesting, to say the least, and possibly usable for family reading and discussion.
Saturday, 20. December 2008, 13:56:00
It's a little frustrating when God starts to convict you through your own writing. There you are, peacefully dropping the words one by one onto the paper. Once in a while you pause, turn back, and squeeze an extra word in where needed. Then again you scribble out a sentence. Nothing to worry about. Then God picks up what you've been writing and hits you with it, right between the eyes. This--mercifully--has happened to me more than once this year, including once this week.
We all know about the business of December. And sometimes when you oversleep on a busy morning, you decide to skip your devotions, say a prayer while you get dressed, and recite your memory work in your head as you eat breakfast. At least I have.
Well, this week has been no exception as I tried to get some school projects out of the way before vacation. Among these projects was an exam over Lewis's "The Great Divorce" (an exam I took this morning). In the process of studying, I opened a document I have squirrelled away entitled "spare ideas." Essentially, this 30-odd page document contains my half-developed ruminations on numerous essay questions for my Lewis class, and I use it to prepare for our essay exams. I also stow spare essays here, things I write only to end up hating them or discovering I don't have enough to say. I scrolled down to my "GD" section of ideas and absently began to read over something I'd written a couple weeks before. It was an alternate idea I'd had for a creative assignment, in which we were supposed to write a dialogue between a "Ghost" and a "Solid" (those of you familiar with GD will know what I mean). And . . . God hit me over the head with it. So here it is for you all to read. 'Tisn't as good as I would like but, hey, I decided not to submit it, remember? Just something to remember in this busiest of months.
I had just sat down on a stump to rest my aching feet when I caught sight of another ghost. It might once have had a pretty face, but I could hardly see the features against the growing lightness in the air. What there was of its face fell suddenly, and I noticed the Solid who had created this reaction.
“Arthur,” the ghost said in a voice profoundly disappointed.
“Yes, Muriel. It’s me.”
“Would Eva not come? I had hoped to see her, and I cannot stay long. But I daresay she has much to do with her time now.”
“Eva has all time. We all do,” the Solid smiled. “So do you, if you wish to stay. But you cannot see her just yet.”
“Why can’t I see her? Of course I must get back soon, whatever strange sort of time or . . . or “non-time” you have here. I shouldn’t have come at all, really, but I knew I needed rest, and I wanted to see Eva, but I truly have so much to do.”
“Eva will gladly see you later, but first you must see some others here. Daniel, for one.”
“Oh. Daniel. What does he need this time?”
“He doesn’t need anything, Muriel. He has everything. But he wants to give you his forgiveness.”
“Forgive me?” the ghost cried, half laughing, half incredulous. “The shoe should be on the other foot entirely. He was so demanding. All those years while I worked and studied, hoping to find a meaningful path in life and use my skills, but what did he do? He complained! Complained that I didn’t make enough time for him, that I worked too hard, that we should get married immediately since he could support us both. Why, he never even stopped to think that I might want to do something with my life; despite their difficulty (and I would be the first to admit they ran me off my feet at that school), I had to finish my studies.”
“Your work meant everything to you, Muriel. Daniel knew that. And for that he wants to forgive you. You ran yourself off your feet. You worked harder than you needed to and let your relationships suffer.”
The ghost tossed its head, its features writhing into a wispy, false smile. “You haven’t changed, Arthur dear. You still embody the supportive, younger brother. But unfortunately I simply haven’t time to meet Daniel. You see, I’ve begun to pursue my degree again. The pace of study is simply preposterous, though. I have a positively massive thesis due next week on Donne’s poetic development, exams begin Monday, and now one of my professors has called me in for extra tutoring every other Friday to . . .”
“Muriel,” the Solid interrupted, “you don’t have to go back to it. Come with me to the mountains.”
“What for? Haven’t you heard what I just said? I can’t simply leave my work. I only just made time for this jaunt and really haven’t time to make more excursions.”
“Do you not even have time for God?”
The ghost paused. “You sound like Daniel again. As I used to tell both of you, God has given me the talents I have and wants me to use them. That’s why I have studied so long to develop them. In a few years, when I have finished my studies . . .”
“But the talents do not mean anything outside the pursuit of God.”
“What do you mean? Of course I haven’t attended church every Sunday since I began my studies, but when I graduate . . .”
“You’ve lost sight of the end, Muriel. God wants you to know him and to chase him through your life. He’s given you a good mind to help you in that pursuit. But you are trying to develop it for its own sake.”
“Really, Arthur, you say the most ridiculous things sometimes,” the ghost laughed. It hugged the Solid carelessly but might as well have hugged a brick wall, for it could not even crumple the Solid’s robe. “Now I must get back. I shall have to work nearly all night to make up for this frivolity. Tell Eva I came to see her, but I don’t know if I can make it again. I know! I’ll send her a copy of my paper when I finish,” but these words I barely heard over the ghost’s shoulder as it mounted the steps to the bus.
Sunday, 16. November 2008, 15:02:29
Some time ago I promised a review of Three Men in a Boat, by Jerome K. Jerome, and here at last are my thoughts on it.
For those of you who enjoy humorous books, particularly Patrick MacManus and P. G. Wodehouse fans, Three Men in a Boat will be a treasure. For those of you who don't particularly like "frivolous" reading, well, this probably isn't the best of choices. I once heard this book described as "Wooster and all his friends on a boating trip--without Jeeves." Which summary, I have found, is surprisingly accurate. Three London gentlemen fancy themselves sickly and decide the best thing for them is a relaxing fortnight boating up the Thames. They will take their food (and one man's dog) with them, and alternately stay at inns and camp on the riverside. What follows is a hilarious, first person account of their "journey," punctuated by equally amusing but often very loosely relavant ruminations.
I found the book difficult to get through, though how much of this was due to my large school load and how much to the rambling tone of the narrator, I do not know. (I am inclined to attribute my slowness to the former: my brother finished the book in about three days.) But when I did buckle down to reading it, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Though not, perhaps, as classic as Jeeves or cleverly written as MacManus, Three Men in a Boat offers a good compromise between the two, and bears my official recommendation. Lucky book, eh?
Monday, 20. October 2008, 17:49:55
I've been informed by several of my readers that I don't blog enough. So I'm going to post part of one of my school assignments from a few weeks ago (actually the piece I will post was about 1/3 of a typical week's English homework), responding to a quote from Mere Christianity. Yes, it sounds wooden and lame and out of place and forced. But, hey, 'twas a formal writing assignment, and thus will always sound forced on a conversational blog. I don't expect you to enjoy it, but it will at least give you an idea of what I write in all the hours I am not blogging. (As a side note, I've put a few pictures I took for photography class in a new album on my photos page.)
“A real desire to believe all the good you can of others and to make others as comfortable as you can will solve most of the problems” (Mere Christianity, 89).
Lewis reminded me of one of my own most tenacious faults as he expounded this general principle regarding Christians’ attitudes toward others. Though this remark appears in a description of how different generations condemn each other for their varying standards of decency, Lewis does not limit his advice to that situation alone. Indeed, if Christians practiced this rule more generally in their lives, many who do not struggle with generational divides would find other problems resolved. Pessimism, complaining, judgmental attitudes, and pride all receive a blow when we try to “believe all the good [we] can” of our situation and companions. Undoubtedly this rule of thumb has its limitations, as when dealing with false teachers, but it opens a new perspective on daily life.
Though his understanding of loving our neighbor runs in a different direction, Lewis recognizes the importance of simply looking for the best in people and trying to do our best by them. And certainly recognizing people’s virtues makes them easier to love. Approaching life with an attitude of criticism will not uplift us or those we come in contact with. Instead, when we look for evil we will certainly find it, and we develop judgmental, proud, pessimistic attitudes. By turning our eyes to the good in others, we contemplate that which is of God; we focus our attention on reflections of his character, and what we see will humble us by emphasizing our faults. We will not like what we see in ourselves after we have seen all the good in others, which should drive our thoughts to God, who alone can help us improve. Dwelling on goodness edifies us and others, just as placing a tulip in a sunny window will encourage it to grow toward the light. Once we have gotten into the habit of seeking out goodness, we will also find the practice of making others comfortable far easier. Though our pride revolts at taking a dinner to that coarse neighbor who always shouts and laughs like a mechanical Father Christmas, we will find it quite a pleasure to bring food to the cheerful man next door who always has a kind word and a smile. Focusing on the faults in others leads to a habit of comparison and turns our thoughts self-ward; focusing on the virtues in others leads to a habit of edification and turns our thoughts outward and upward.
I fall easily into the habit of focusing on the bad in situations and people, as it involves less work and more self-gratification than looking for good. This negative attitude has often led me into complaining and uncharitable views of those around me and prevented me from giving God the glory he deserves for his graciousness to me. Lewis’s remark reminded me of the importance of this seemingly-simple matter of outlook and of how much damage negativity can do to my witness and to my relationship with the Lord. Tending naturally to introversion and observation, I easily find people’s faults. Not so readily do I pick up on their virtues. If I approach life with Lewis’s “real desire to believe all the good I can of others,” I more readily befriend them and more easily see God’s hand at work blessing me. Consequently, I also find greater joy and peace while more easily serving others. Finally, seeking to believe good of others helps me to imitate God, which may explain why the practice so greatly benefits me. For God sees only the best in his children: his son’s righteousness covering our sin.
Wednesday, 1. October 2008, 18:39:04
It's been a rather rough week in a few ways, some of which I can blather about here. (My eternal thanks go out to my cousin for teaching me the value of the word "blather.") I feel as if it should be Friday already. As Mother so aptly observed, "We just don't have time to be sick!" Family members (minus Samuel) continue to sniffle, but hopefully all will soon be well. As for me, the tail end of my cold and my continuing struggle with recurring health problems have only augmented some other difficulties, but 'tis amazing how important a few hours of sleep can be in one's schedule.
One of the main difficulties this week is my impending Death-by-Essay-Exam on Saturday (probably Friday, actually, in light of the International Sheep Shearing Competition). At least after my two hours' torture ends I can tell myself I know everything there is to know about Surprised by Joy and never touch it again save for personal enjoyment. Sadly, life doesn't pause for essay exams, and I have other schoolwork as well.
On a more cheery note, the least of my worries is runny frosting on a cake I was trying to do tonight. Perhaps I can walk to Rema (translation = local grocery store) tomorrow and get some whipping cream. Actually, exercise would feel good right about now, but I have a class in half an hour and would only have time for a spin around the block anyway.
And on a still more cheery note, I have a book/author recommendation. I recently finished Elizabeth Gaskell's book Cranford, which some of you may be familiar with from the BBC TV series. But the book is so much better! (At least I think so, though I haven't yet finished the TV series.) 'Tis so very funny. Actually, I was rather shocked to hear of Elizabeth Gaskell, having supposed myself more or less an authority on 19th century British authors. Yet, lo and behold, here was a new one come out of the woodwork with a whole collection of books I had never heard of. Good ones, too, from the couple I've read thus far. Now I shan't be so quick to stop looking for new authors.
Tune in next time for my opinion of Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog). For now, I think I'll take that spin 'round the block.
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