burning like matchsticks in the face of the darkness|
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Sunday, March 12th, 2006
|learn something new every day
zomg I hate rich text option in LJ. I tried it out 'cause I already had a draft in Semagic and figured I'd save time not hand coding the bolds. Yech. em for italics ("emphasis") and strong for bold. And they do this weird <br /> shit for line breaks. And it's so hard to edit. And I couldn't see any way to move it back to regular edit. *stabs* (I c&p-ed into Semagic, deleted the entry, recoded, then c&p-ed back. So not a timesaver. A mistake I will never repeat.)
|Second Sunday in Lent: Matthew
Was up until nearly 3am reading Matthew. Woke up to my alarm, turned it off, and then didn't manage to get up. Woke up at quarter of nine. Damn.( BibleCollapse )( Sunday serviceCollapse )
Emmanuel LutheranThe following themes and lessons will be the focus of our Sunday worship services. We hope that you might read them at home as well, joining us in the discipline of Lenten devotions and prayer.
March 12 - Genesis 17:1-16, Romans 4:13-25, Mark 8:31-38( Read more...Collapse )
|on taking notes
Right around one of the many times my mother joked about my being the only person she knows who takes notes while watching TV, hernewshoes provided proof
(as if I needed any) that I'm not the only one.
Today Neil Gaiman
writes of his daughter:
Last night Miss Maddy watched the episode she missed on Thursday "America's Next Top Model" on a Tivo 4000 miles away, and it made me smile, mostly because I'd never watch something like that for pleasure, but watching it with her, as she covers notepaper with the names of the contestants she likes, crossing them out when she decides she doesn't like them after all, drawing thumbs downs next to them when they don't get selected or get sent away, makes it somehow enormously enjoyable.
|[Lent: day 12/40]
The table, son, is laid
with the quiet whiteness of cream,
and on four walls ceramics
gleam blue, glint light.
Here is the salt, here the oil,
in the center, bread that almost speaks.
Gold more lovely than gold of bread
is not in broom plant or fruit,
and its scent of wheat and oven
gives unfailing joy.
We break bread, little son, together
with our hard fingers, our soft palms,
while you stare in astonishment
that black earth brings forth a white flower.
Lower your hand that reaches for food
as your mother also lowers hers.
Wheat, my son, is of air,
of sunlight and hoe;
but this bread, called "the face of God,"
is not set on every table.
And if other children do not have it,
better, my son, that you not touch it,
better that you do not take it
with ashamed hands.
My son, Hunger with his grimaced face
in eddies circles the unthrashed wheat.
They search and never find each other,
Bread and hunchbacked Hunger.
So that he find it if he should enter now,
we'll leave the bread until tomorrow.
Let the blazing fire mark the door
that the Quechuan Indian never closed,
and we will watch Hunger eat
to sleep with body and soul.
translated by Doris Dana
*In Chile, the people call bread " the face of God." (G. M.)
from Place of Passage: Contemporary Catholic Poetry
ed. David Craig and Janet McCann (Ashland, OR: Story Line Press, 2000) p. 207-8
Googling to copy-and-paste gets me also the Spanish version
. ( La CasaCollapse )