A Christmas Haiku

Grace and truth is He
Jesus unshackles mankind sins 
Paradise regained

L'

I Find Sweet Peace in Depths of Autumn Woods

Half Dome Panorama, Yosemite NP, Cook's Meadow Loop View, 25 October, 2023

November 
by Elizabeth Stoddard
(1823-1902)

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf; 
Long have I listened to the wailing wind, 
And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds, 
For autumn charms my melancholy mind. 

When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge: 
The year must perish; all the flowers are dead; 
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail 
Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled! 

Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer, 
The holly-berries and the ivy-tree: 
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year's bier 
These waiting mourners do not sing for me! 

I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods, 
Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss; 
The naked, silent trees have taught me this,--
The loss of beauty is not always loss!

Rare View of a Rainbow

Dear G_:

While having dinner tonight, the sun was shining but it was raining at 1800 hours. (A meteorological paradox always amazes me.) I beheld a rainbow through the dining area window! Indeed, this was a very rare phenomenon for a rainbow to appear conveniently for my viewing.

I took some photos of the rainbow from the garage looking eastward. Later they were combined as a panorama. Here it is.

Apropos of the event, here is Spurgeon quote excerpted from his Faith’s Check Book:

“Faith always sees the bow of covenant promise whenever sense sees the cloud of affliction. God has a bow with which He might shoot out His arrows of destruction; but see! it is turned upward. It is a bow without an arrow or a string; it is a bow hung out for show, no longer used for war. It is a bow of many colors, expressing joy and delight, and not a bow blood-red with slaughter, or black with anger. Let us be of good courage. Never does God so darken our sky as to leave His covenant without a witness; and even if He did, we would trust Him, since He cannot change, or lie, or in any other way fail to keep His covenant of peace. Until the waters go over the earth again, we shall have no reason for doubting our God.”

In Christ, Paradise Is Regained.

L'

On Wings of Song, Happy Birthday!

Dear Mrs. M_:

On wings of song my affections to you fly! Happy birthday!

The English poetess and writer, Christina Rossetti (1830-1894,) wrote a poem on her birthday. She was thankful for her special day underpinned by Providence’s care, “My heart is like a singing bird…/Because the birthday of my life/Is come, my love is come to me.”

When one was young, he hardly stopped to admire the “primrose by a river’s brim”. After all, it was “a yellow primrose was to him,/And it was nothing more.” So perceived Wordsworth. In the arrow of the time, similarly, Browning’s “Pippa’s Song” has become more endearing to those who are living in the last of the seven stages of man.

Notwithstanding these final August days of sultry noons and hot breaths, they do bring on the glories of soft evening hours and the tinkles of wind chimes. Would you mind then sauntering along with me to the sunset tree—sauntering slowly in the twilight breeze while listening to Handel’s “Where’er You Walk”? Perhaps the tenor voice of Richard Lewis would enthrall on your birthday this halcyon year.

Ever in His grace,

L'

It Ain’t Macbeth, Watson

Watson, '“something wicked this way comes.”'

I took this picture this morning; a few feet from the motion-sensor light unit where I set it across from the persimmon tree. Some wild thing was looking at the fruit last night. Notice on the left of the picture a deep scarring paw print; a less distinguished paw print on the right. I surmised it was a heavy animal. It could be the possums and or raccoons have returned for the summer season. See what comes tomorrow, I might put a ruler on the ground to measure the prints.

"Approprite and cleaver, Watson. You know your Bard. Now put on your Fedora. The game is afoot."

"Thank you, Holmes. If it is the same to you, I will wear my bowler. By the way, I liked your pun, too."

History of Their Deeds Can Tell

Fourth of July Ode
James Russell Lowell
1892

I.
Our fathers fought for Liberty,
	They struggled long and well,
	History of their deeds can tell—
But did they leave us free?


II.
Are we free from vanity,
	Free from pride, and free from self,
	Free from love of power and pelf,
From everything that's beggarly?


III.
Are we free from stubborn will,
	From low hate and malice small,
	From opinion's tyrant thrall?
Are none of us our own slaves still?


IV.
Are we free to speak our thought,
	To be happy, and be poor,
	Free to enter Heaven's door,
To live and labor as we ought?


V.
Are we then made free at last
	From the fear of what men say,
	Free to reverence To-day,
Free from the slavery of the Past?


VI.
Our fathers fought for liberty,
	They struggled long and well,
	History of their deeds can tell—
But ourselvesmust set us free.

Then Came Hot July, Boiling Like to Fire

Moments ago, I took this picture of a freezer thermometer in the shaded garage. The thermometer reading maxed out at 90°F. It is hotter still outside of the house. It is 104°F at this writing. I am not quite naked as Spenser intoned (ha ha). Nevertheless, few verses of his came to mind on this first day of July.

"Then came hot July, boiling like to fire,
That all his garments he had cast away;
Upon a lion raging yet with ire
He boldly rode, and made him to obey."

Filled My Heart with a Quiet Joy

“I can see it now: the little brown house, with its sloping roof, its clumsy old chimneys, and its vine-clad porch; where the brown bee hummed his drowsy song, and my silver-haired old father sat dozing the sultry summer noons away, with shaggy Bruno at his feet. The bright earth had no blight or mildew then for me. The song of the little birds, resting beneath the eaves, filled my heart with a quiet joy.”

— Fanny Fern, 1854.

L's addendum from Jeremiah 31:26,

"At this I awoke and looked, and my sleep was pleasnt to me."

May you fathers have a restful and quite joy in this Father's Day!

The Peoples Republic of Berkeley Days and Garden Entropy

Sather Tower (Campanile), UC Berkeley

Dear S_:

Did we ever meet and swan about at UC Berkeley?

While matriculated in the vicintiy of the west Science buildings (e.g., Biology, Operations Research, and Biochemistry), I was far away from the east Administration buildings and the UCB landmark Sather Tower (Campanile).

I remember hangin-out with some people. There was John, the astrophysics Ph.D candidate, David, the optometrist to be, and Patrick, the accounting or economics student. There were a few other guys in the group whose names I do not recall. After I earned my post-graduate degree from the People’s Republic of Berkeley, the people in the group scattered in these United States. It's par for the course; I’ve lost touch with them.

You are the only one left. The one and only UCB grad and the Lawrence Livermore person with which I am still in contact. Do you recall an email episode where you and I dwelled on the math (without using the WWII analog computer method) 'Angle on the Bow' of a submarine game? It was fun.

The Second Law of Thermodynamics is in effect daily and every moment with the living. It is still very undiscerning or unaware of to the populace. Entropy is most pronounced in spring. It is much more so after an abundant raining season; like the one we had this year.

Springtime is where entropy (chaos) is really visible in my gardens. I spent the last two weeks, cleaned the patio and bistros, examined the bubblers and their water hose, cleared the wild and massively scattered California poppies and weeds, trimmed three types of European lavender shrubs, manicured gardenia and roses bushes, and propagated the Echeveria and Crassula succulents; a total of 18 pots! Also, I had my annual ritual of 6-week springtime combat to contain (though hopelessly) the Hoplia beetles; the devouring insect of my pastel color roses.

And since there are no red ferns and coonhounds in our neck of the woods, the neighboring dogs just barks at the intruders so to earn their Kibbles. This past week I placed two motion-sensor LED lights with a slim hope of keeping the raccoons and the North America Opossums away from the house.

Energy of my was applied and will keep applying to keep my garden universe from descending into a chaotic mess (entropy).

Having quaffed several bottles of sports drink, enough was enough for spring garden maintenance. That leaves (pun) the gardener to trim the rest of the flora. e.g., the Bougainvilleas, the flowering vines, the Lilacs, the Clematis, the ornamental Pomegranate, and etc.

Of course, my preceding discussion on entropy is a microcosm of life.

The Bible already implied that life on earth (birth and growth) is invariably follow by death (dust to dust), the ultimate in entropy (Genesis 3:19). Humanity lost the privilege of entering God’s rest when mankind fallen from grace in Eden (Hebrews 4:3-5). All the generational evolving “better mouse traps” (i.e., updated version of whatever) are ways of making some form of entropy easier and better for life’s maintenance. Entropy resulting from sin does not ever go away. From the ‘A’ Train to Zarathustra it will always shadow humanity every moment until He comes again. Until then, God's love for His creation continues. What God creates, He also sustains. Therefore, Providence graces all humanity, evil and good, with sun and rain (Matthew 5:45). When God returns, He shall separate the redeemed (wheat) from the arrogant unbelieving humanists (chaffs). See Matthew 3:12.

Your last correspondence was much appreciated. It does not matter if Virgil’s Aeneid hoc opus, hic labor est applies. Your trip from California to visit the widow in Boise, ID, was much more than going the extra mile, literally. God "upholds the widow" (Psalm 146:9). Your gestures was an expression of Christian love par excellence.

May God’s countenance enwrap you and your loved ones.

L’

Kung Pao Chili and Rib Eye Steaks

3 June, 2023

Dear A_:

“'tis impossible he should; cannot creep into a
halfpenny purse, nor into a pepper-box.”
- Shakespeare

But, A_, I've kept all three bottles of your past and present gifts of homegrown chilies!

Of course, thanks for the delights of your gardens. I had the fresh zucchini last night for supper. Pan fried in Granoloa oil, and with a dash of garlic. It was delicious! As for the basil and rosemary sprigs, they are being air dry. And for the Kung Pao chili, I have plans for its use, too.

L'

p.s. I most likely would be shopping for a rib eye steak and thinking of smothering it with the Kung Pao chili after it is cooked. Francis Ford would probably be "horn-mad" what I proposed to do with the meat.

Thy Friends Are Exultations, Agonies, and Love

Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; earth, air, and skies,
There’s not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.

— Wordsworth

The Heart of a Mother Has Gone with Thee

Hast thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?
Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?
Then may’st thou mete out a mother’s love.

Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on
To the throne of God some wandering son?
Hast thou witnessed the angel’s bright employ?
Then may’st thou speak of a mother’s joy.

Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee
Go forth on her errands of industry.
The bee for himself hath gathered and toiled,
But the mother’s cares are all for her child.

Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought afar—
From pole to pole, and from star to star?
Thou hast—but on ocean, earth, and sea,
The heart of a mother has gone with thee.

There is not a grand, inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in mother’s eye.

And ever, since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,
To win them back from the lore they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.

There are teachings in earth, and sky, and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare;
But louder than voice, beneath, above,
He is heard to speak through a mother’s love.

Emily Taylor, 1888

Wherewithal the Seasonable Month Endows

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in the embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild;
      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
                  And mid-May's wildest child,
      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

—John Keat

As One Whom His Mother Comforts

Dear S_ and E_:

Your message by the devotional author “Prodigal God” is a very creative use of terms, indeed. Thank you. Like you, “prodigal” always has a negative connotation to me in our English language.

The etymology of the word “prodigal” is taken from Medieval Latin prōdigālis (wasteful). In turn, it originated from the Latin prōdigus (lavish), and from prōdigere (to squander). Undoubtably, the said devotion has the definition “lavish” as its topic for the day. It is cleverly appropriate of the author to use the word contrary to what we were taught on the word “prodigal”. The said devotion reminds me of an oxymoronic phrase Piper used in my 1997 devotional, “Christian Hedonism”.

By the way, I use a modified Cornell note taking method for my daily devotion. It has three sections:

📝Cornell Note
§ Telegraphic Sentence Note:
§ Thoughts, Words, or Questions:
§ Summary & Reflection:

As Peter writes in 2 Peter 3:1, I am to “stir you to wholesome thinking.” So then, to continue on this “prodigal” theme, let’s play a game. There are two parts to this game.

• What is the father first reaction when he sees the Prodigal Son coming home? How is this incident compare to Noah’s action when the dove returns to the ark?

• Rembrandt painted the “Prodigal Son”. In this painting the humbled and repentant son keels before the father. The father welcomes him back home. What do you see in this painting that appears so intriguing? (My hint: Isaiah 66:13)

L'

I’m in God’s Keeping Wherever I Go

If In God's Keeping

If the Lord didn't lead me beside the still water, 
Who then would satisfy my heart's need? 
If the Lord didn't make me lie down in green pastures, 
I would never know his perfect peace. 
I would never know his perfect peace

If the Lord didn't lead me thro' the dark valley 
How would I find the way on my own? 
If the Lord didn't give me the love for the Savior, 
I could never call heaven my home. 
I could never call heaven my home.

I will lie down and sleep though I'm lonely; 
I will lie down and find rest far from home. 
I will know peace though the dark night surrounds me; 
I'm in God's keeping wherever I go. 
I'm in God's keeping wherever I go.

You have declared me as perfect in your eyes. 
You always cared for me in my distress Lord, 
see in me a sacrifice pleasing. 
Send me contentment and perfect rest. 
Send me contentment and perfect rest.

I will lie down and sleep though I'm lonely; 
I will lie down and find rest far from home. 
I will know peace though the dark night surrounds me; 
I'm in God's keeping wherever I go. 
I'm in God's keeping wherever I go. Wherever I go.

Let Us Leave Him

  
Soothsayer: Beware the Ides of March.

Julius Caesar: He is a dreamer, let us leave him. Pass.

- Shakespeare


Ides=half-way point in a month
Pass=move on.

Love Make Anew This Throbbing Heart

Spring still makes spring in the mind,
When sixty years are told;
Love makes anew this throbbing heart,
And we are never old.
Over the winter glaciers,
I see the summer glow,
And through the wild-piled snowdrift
The warm rosebuds below.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

At Last, One Which Makes the Heart Run Over

“We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is a last a drop which makes it run over. So in a series of kindness there is, at last, one which makes the heart run over.” - James Boswell.

15 February, 2023

Dear B_:

Life's tapestry is constantly stitching and unstitching. Whether we dance in the gentle breeze under a warming sun beam, or moan in the crucible of doom, God knows. God’s wisdom and ways, as apostle Paul declared in praises, are far beyond the understanding of us human beings. Because His grace transmuted us, we are now His portion. So through it all, God guides the paths of our life journey. He will keep the feet of His saints, and uphold them with the right hand of His righteousness (1 Samuel 2:9; Isaiah 41:10).

By His general grace, God has given us our friendship. He has also guided and upheld it by His tender mercy. Even though all of us are getting older in the sands of time, still, He has blessed us with the indelible footprint of memory - so our yesterdays remain. In the unpredictability of our world and lives, He has given us hope - so our tomorrow waits. And, even though not seeing each other as friends - so our today is one of recherché. O, how I would you a “sunset in a cup” at each dusk, overlooking the Huntington Harbor.

Ethereal memory, hope, and friendship are precious gifts you and I possessed and shared in this life time. It is God who bestowed these gifts to us. Truly and eternally, He has deigned to be our friend and counsel yesterday, today, and forever (Psalm 25:14; Hebrew 13:8).

Sooner or later, and more so in our old age, we become feeble in the yoke of sickness and disappointment. Yet by His grace and love, He will strengthen us upon the bed we are languishing, and carry us through (Psalm 41:3; Isaiah 46:4).

As always, you are the apple of His eye, and in the shadow of His wings.

L'

And Fain Would I Call You Mine

The Old Valentine

I sent my sweetheart a valentine on one St. Valentine’s day,
A long time ago, when my hair was brown, ah, now it is sprinkled with grey!
My sweetheart was pretty as she could be, a wild rose bloomed in each cheek,
Her auburn hair rippled down to her waist, her eyes were tender and meek.

And, O, my sweetheart was dear to me, though nobody could have guessed
From my careless glance, or my careless word, the tenderness in my breast.
I sent my sweetheart a valentine, a flowery and foolish thing,
All covered with blue forget-me-nots, and cupids gay on the wing.
Two hearts pierced through, a ruffle of lace, a knot of ribbon, a dove,
And, better than all, a space whereon I could write a message of love;
So burning the midnight oil I wrote with infinite patience and care,
This one earnest verse (for rhyming came hard) to send to my lady fair:
“I love you, I love you with all my heart, And fain would I call you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl, 
Let me be your valentine!”

This yellow old page from the book of youth was put in my hand to-day,
As I growled, “Our Tom has fallen in love in a nonsensical way;
He is making a fool of himself—ha! ha! he is writing poetry now,
To his Anna’s lips, and his Anna’s hair, his Anna’s beautiful brow.”

“Why what rubbish is this?” I asked my wife, a portly but sweet-faced dame,
Who smilingly showed me the verse underneath which I had written my name;
Shamefaced, I read it again and again—let me confess to a truth—
I felt like disowning the yellow thing that belonged to the days of youth.

Till I pictured myself an excited lad penning the words of care,
Knowing her answer would fill my heart with rapture or dark despair.
It was yesterday, who says we are old? “I do,” says Mary, my wife,
“But age has nothing to do with it, since the choosing was done for life.”

I bowed my grey head over her hand, “my sweetheart,” I whispered low,
On this Valentine’s day I tender you the verse written long ago.

“I love you, I love you with all my heart,
And fain would I call you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl,
Let me be your Valentine.”

Jean Blewett, 1897

What Matter Though the Sky Be Gray?

What matter if the sun be lost? 
What matter though the sky be gray? 
There's joy enough about the house, 
For Daffodil comes home to stay. 

- Bliss Carman, 1921

New Year’s Day 2023 - Whose Blossoms Shall Be Tender Deeds

  

A New Year’s Wish

May each day bring thee something
Fair to hold in memory—
Some true light to shine
Upon thee in the after days.
May each night bring thee peace,
As when the dove broods o'er
The young she loves; may day
And night the circle of
A rich experience weave
About thy life, and make
It rich with knowledge, but radiant
With Love, whose blossoms shall be
Tender deeds.

—George Wharton James, 1909