Let there be lit


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I read.  I collect books and I read.  I don’t read as often as I should nor as ravenously as I did when I was 11 but I can do, when I want to and when I tell the outside world to carry on without me.

I am an email subscriber to LitHub, the online literary magazine that promotes reading, thought, ideas, literature, all the good stuff.  I read it, if not daily, then sub-daily, weekly, and in great chunks.  I wish I read it regularly, in the mornings over coffee.  Do people do that?  Or is it a situation of my imagination?   I hope they do.  I hope that there is in the world someone wo reads LitHub over coffee every morning; to know that there is in this slightly-off-kilter world a place, even if it is just one desk in one home, where someone opens the laptop lid, takes the coffee cup in hand, and enjoys both, simultaneously, enriching soul and caffiene habit.

But today this article, entitled ‘The Truth of Ray Bradbury’s Prophetic Vision’ appeared in my FB LitHub news feed and struck me as something I ought to have read and ought to have known before now.  And so it is with so much: I feel I ought to have known it and then the shame of not knowing it and then ensues the not-very-subtle argument with myself about becoming a better person.  But what a hubristic approach to literature and learning.

This article intrigued me not because of its Science Fictional leanings (I confess I have never given William S. Burroughs his fair due) but because of what it says about reading.  As a teacher I promoted reading in every way I could, including the subversive ways, which included condoning Harry Potter at the Evangelical School and turning a blind eye when students underlined passages in school copies of To Kill a Mockingbird and The Great Gatsby.

I miss the classroom and what I miss most is the discussion and the critical learning brought on by critical mass: that series of moments in which no one knows what we’re talking about and then, suddenly, we all do.  It’s a wonderful thing and while it cannot be entirely planned, it can be sculpted, it can be drawn out when conditions are right.  It is akin to using one’s sail: it is impossible if there is no wind, but when a wind arises, do not expect the sail to do any of the work: it is the sailor’s job.  So the teacher’s when the students are alive (to the wind in their cognitive sails).

The line in the article of most rich significance, in my view, is this, the last one:

Why bother to ban books when people voluntarily ignore them? Books don’t have to be hunted to extinction. Books die as a result of our taking them for granted. As the world of books steadily shrinks publisher by publisher, shop by shop, library by library and reader by reader, the result is the same. Only here and there, powerless to resist the general momentum of society, do a few people remain who love literature enough to try somehow to preserve it. So perhaps Bradbury suggests, at the end of this dark fable, all is not lost. Not quite.

I want to believe that there are more than a few of us left, but I know enough about humanity and the difficulties of literature to believe there is a great readership out there–especially in America at this moment.

The article is pinned below, and I encourage you to peruse it, if only to buck the trends that say our reading habits are confied to social platforms and easy news.  And if you want to grab a cup of coffee, you just go right ahead.  LitHub away.




Sweetie Darling/Cheers, thanks a lot (part 1 (probably))


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I don’t know, somewhere, in this blog is a post about how we discovered an Abbey called Downton.  It was about 6 1/2 or 7 years ago when the blog was new and I had nothing else to write about or put in it and also, we were living in remote Alaska where things like Internet and shops were unknown.  At that time I believe Internet was in existence in the village, actually, and we were pirating it from across the marshland or bay, probably, and pre-loading Netflix episodes of Lady Mary Crawley while we made dinner and looked at our fabulous view of Lake Iliamna.

But those days are past and we can neither recover nor fully remember them, and so we move on to greener or at least funnier (sic) pastures called Absolutely Fabulous and Gilmore girls (no ‘The’ and lower-case ‘g’ as per A Year in the Life–look it up).  This video, below, correctly expresses all the funny I have hoped to convey over the course of my life but, not being a comedienne, was unable to.  So I leave it to the professionals, like Jennifer Saunders and, in part 2 of this blog entry, Lauren Graham/Lorelai Gilmore.  I think Jennifer Saunders is simply hilarious and she is simply hilarious because she is all (or at least many) of the things I love in a person: humble, intelligent, kind-hearted, supportive of friends and realistic about family, interested in learning and interested in other people and not afraid to take what she’s been given (by God, from birth, etc.) and make what she can of it. She is also articulate and generous when it comes to compliments.

In this interview–all of which is worth stopping whatever you are supposed to be doing and watching–at around minute-marker 34, she gives an account of the time she (almost) misplaced their baby, going so far as to quetsion whether or not said baby had actually been born.  I am, as many of you know, no prude when it comes to parenting because I have never been an official parent (no matter what you say, step-parenting, albeit complex and rewarding, does not involve the same collection of sacrificial emotions as the other kind of parenting, and that is just the way it is).  So to laugh at what can only be a sleep-deprived moment in this woman’s life is to show solidarity as a human being, not a form of mockery of mothers.  But even so, Saunders doesn’t seem to leave any room for that sort of uppityness.

But if you’ve already begun watching this slightly saucy, very endorphin-inducing (through hearty side-splitting laughter) video, you may as well either just keep watching or, if you’re pressed for time, kick over to minute 40 and watch to the end.  Because unless you’re interested in all the French and Saunders skits, the Absolutely Fabulous stories and the Interesting Youth (not a comedy sketch title, just a period in the comedienne’s life), there’s really nothing here that can’t be summed in the last 6 minutes.  But who am I kidding?   Nobody needs to be reminded that life is tough, fashion prevails and we all need each other as much as each other needs us.

So, cheers, (and) thanks a lot.

Field-Names: An abbreviated corpus glossary complete with medieval picture


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In case anyone is looking for it, the (very trimmed down) glossary specific to my thesis on medieval field-names in the English Midlands is right here.  I’ve included a picture that may or may not be of any help/interest, but I haven’t yet converted every OE (Old English) character that needs converting.  That’ll be tomorrow’s project.

Calendar page for July: Farm workers scything.

A glossary of p.n./f.n. elements from the corpus
æ þ ð ā ē ō ū ȳ Æ Þ Ð ī

æcer OE, amount of land tillable by a yoke of oxen in one day; ‘a plot of arable or cultivated land, a measure of land (an acre) which a yoke of oxen could plough in a day’;

ald OE (Angl), eald (kt, WSax), adj., ‘old’.

beonet OE ‘bent grass’

beorg, burh, berg (Barroacr’) OE ‘a hill, a mound’

blæc (blacan wk. obl.) OE adj., ‘black, dark-coloured, dark’

bōth ODan, ‘a booth, a temporary shelter’

botm, *boðm OE, ‘a bottom, a valley bottom’

brād (brādan wk. obl.) OE adj. ‘broad, spacious’

brēc OE (Angl, Kt), braēc (WSax), brēche ME, ‘breaking, breach, land broken up for cultivation’

brēr OE (Angl) ‘briar’


brōc OE, ‘a brook, a stream’

brōm OE ‘broom’

būr OE ‘a cottage, a dwelling’

burna OE, ‘a spring, a stream’

butte ME, ‘a strip of land abutting on a boundary’, also ‘a short strip or ridge at right angles to other ridges, a short strip ploughed in the angle where two furlongs meet’

cald OE (Angl), ceald (Kt, WSax), kaldr ON, cald, cold ME, adj., ‘cold’

clæg OE ‘clay, clayey soil’

clif (clifu, cliefu, cleofu nom.pl.) OE, klif ON, ‘a cliff, a bank’

cnoll OE ‘a hill-top, the summit of a large hill’, later ‘a knoll, a hillock’, freq. in f.ns.

cot neut. (cote dat.sg., cotu nom.pl.), cote fem. (cotan dat.sg., nom.pl.) (cotum dat.pl.) OE, ‘a cottage, a hut, a shelter, a den’

cress/cresse OE ‘cress’ v. caerse

croft OE ‘a small enclosed field’, dial. croft ‘a small enclosure of arable or pasture land’ and in the NCy often ‘such an enclosure near a house’

cros OIr, kross ON, cros late OE, ME, ‘a cross, the Cross’

crumb OE ‘crooked, twisted, bent’ (esp. in a river or stream); cramb OE ‘land in the bend of a river’

crymel OE, ‘a small piece (of land or water)’, ‘something crumbled’, possibly also in the later sense of ModE crumble ‘fine debris’.

dēop OE, djupr ON, adj., ‘deep’, especially with words for ‘valley’, ‘water’, and ‘ford’.

dīc OE, ‘a ditch’, was used in OE chiefly of ‘an excavated trench’

docce (doccan obl., doccena gen.pl.) OE, ‘dock, a dock’

dryge OE adj., ‘dry, dried up’

ecg OE, ‘an edge’, most often in p.ns. of ‘the sharp edge at the top of a hill, esp. an escarpment’

ende OE, aende (ESax), endi ON, ‘end, the end of something, the end of an estate, a district or quarter of a village or town’

eng ON, ‘meadow, pasture’

feld OE, ‘open country’ (see full entry EPNE)

flat, flot ON, ‘a piece of flat level ground’

fox OE, ‘a fox’

furlang, forlong OE, ‘the length of a furrow, a furlong, a piece of land the length of a furrow’

geard OE, ‘a fence, an enclosure, a yard, a courtyard’

græfe OE, ‘a grove, copse, thicket’

gráf, gráfa, gráfe OE, ‘a grove, copse’,

grēne (grénan wk. obl.), groenn ON, adj., ‘green, young, growing’

hæc(c) OE (Angl, WSax), hec(c) (Kt, Merc), ‘a hatch, a grating, a half-gate, a gate’

(ge)hæg OE, (ge)heg (Kt, Merc), hay ME, ‘a fence, an enclosure’

halh (hale dat.sg., halas, healas nom.pl., halum, healum dat.pl.) OE (Angl), healh (heale dat.sg.) (Kt, WSax), ‘a nook, a corner of land, a water-meadow’./ ‘a secluded hollow in a hill-side’ or ‘a small steep valley on the side of a larger one’, but most commonly ‘a remote narrow valley’

hālig (halgan wk.obl.) OE adj., ‘holy, sacred, dedicated to sacred use’

hall OE (Angl), heall (Kt, WSax), ‘a hall, a large residence, a manor house, a place for legal and other public business and in later dial. ‘a farm-house’

hangende OE pres.part., ‘hanging’

hēafod OE, ‘a head’, ‘the upper end or top of something, a hill, an eminence, the end of a ridge’, esp. when combined with topographical els. denoting ‘hill’ and the like; ‘a headland, a spit of land round which a river flows’

hēah OE ‘high’; ‘high, in lofty position’, ‘tall, long’, cliffs, banks, posts, etc.; ‘chief, important’ 2. ‘a high place, a height’

hlæfdige OE, levedi, lavedi, ladi ME, ‘lady, a nun, Our Lady’; in f.ns. it is used of land dedicated to the Virgin.

hlāw, hlaew OE, ‘a mound, a hill’; common literary contexts meaning ‘an artificial mound, a burial mound, a mound in which treasure is hidden’, also ‘hill, a conical hill resembling a tumulus’

hol holh, OE, hol ON, ‘a hole, a hollow’

holegn OE, ‘holly’

hors OE, ‘a horse’

hungor OE, ‘hunger, famine, usually as a term of reproach in allusion to ‘barren ground’

hwæ-te OE ‘wheat’

hwit OE adj., ‘white’

hyll OE, ‘a hill, a natural eminence or elevated piece of ground’

hyrst OE (Angl, WSax), herst (Kt), ‘a hillock, a copse’. The attested meanings of hyrst are: ‘ a hillock, a bank’, ‘ a copse, a wood, a wooded eminence’ and in ME ‘a sandbank’

intak ON, ‘a piece of land taken in or enclosed’

kjarr ON, ‘brushwood’

(ge)lād OE, ‘a water-course, a passage over a river or stream’
læ-s OE, ‘pasture, meadow-land’

land, lond OE, land ON, ‘land’. This el. has in p.ns. a variety of meanings of which the principal ones are: ‘a part of the earth’s surface (as distinct from water), earth, soil, dry land’; a tract of land of considerable extent’ as in county or regional names; ‘an estate or smaller tract of land’, which is no doubt the common one in p.ns.; ‘a strip of arable land in a common-field’

(lane, lone) lanu OE, ‘a lane, a narrow road’

lang (langan wk. obl.) OE adj., langr ON adj., ‘long’, in p.ns. usually means ‘extending over a great distance’

lēah OE masc., lēah OE fem. ‘a wood, a clearing in a wood’

leme ME, ‘an artificial water-course’

hlot OE, allotment, ‘a lot, a share, an allotment’; ‘a piece of land assigned by lot’

lȳtel, lytel, litel OE adj., litill ON adj., ‘little, small’

mæ-d (maedwe obl.sg., maedwa nom.pl., maedwum dat.pl.) OE (WSax), mēd (Angl, Kt), ‘a meadow’, orginally ‘a piece of meadowland kept for mowing’

mersc, merisc OE, ‘watery land, a marsh’

micel OE adj., ‘big, great’

middel (midlan wk.obl) OE adj., ‘middle’, midlest OE adj. sup ‘middlemost’

munuc OE, monke ME, ‘a monk’

myln, mylen OE (Angl, WSax), meln (Kt), ‘a mill’

park Ofr, ME, ‘an enclosed tract of land for beasts of the chase’

persone OFr, ME, ‘a parson, a beneficed cleric’

pie-2 OFr, ME, ‘a magpie’

pil-āte OE, ‘pill-oats’ cf. ME pilcorn.

pingel ME, ‘a small enclosure’

pise (pisan), pisu, peosu OE, ‘pease, peas’

ruh OE adj., ‘rough’

rydding OE, ‘a clearing’

OE, *sa (EAngl), sáer ON, ‘a sea a lake’.

scēap OE (WSax), scēp (Angl, Kt, late WSax), ‘a sheep’

sīc OE, ‘a small stream, esp. one in a flat marshland;, sik ON, ‘a ditch, a trench’; cf. dial. sike, sitch. In p.ns. sic was often used of a stream that formed a boundary and so came to denote ‘a field, a piece of meadow along a stream’

smið ON, ‘a smith, a worker in metal’

solum, dat. pl. of sol ‘dirty place’, OE ‘mud, slough, a wallowing place’

spring, spryng OE, ‘a spring, a well, the source of a stream’

stān OE, ‘a stone, stone, rock’, has a variety of applications in p.ns. Its common meanings include: ‘rock, stone’ in allusion to the character of the ground, esp. when used as a first el. (almost with the adj. function ‘stony, rocky’

stede, styde OE, ‘a place, a site, a locality’.

stigel, -ol OE, ‘a stile, a place devised for climbing over a fence’, probably also on topographical grounds ‘a steep ascent’

stubbing*, OE adj., ‘a place where trees have been stubbed, a clearing’

swin OE, svin ON, ‘a swine, a pig’

topp OE, ‘top, the top of a bank or hill’

toft, topt (ON); archaeology of ancient building site

torr OE, ‘a rock, a rocky outcrop, a rocky peak’

tūn OE, ‘an enclosure, a farmstead, an estate, a village’, tún ON, ‘an enclosure, a farmstead’

þorn OE, ON, ‘a thorn-tree, the hawthorn’; cf. also blaec-, lús-.

wælla, waelle OE, (Merc) ‘a well, a spring’, also seen as wall, walle v. wella.

wall OE (Angl), weall (Kt, WSax), ‘a wall’

weg OE, ‘a way, a path, a road’, but not usually an urban road; it denotes a great variety of tracks, from one used by animals to a great Roman road like the Fosse Way or the ancient British track of Icknield Way.

wilig OE (Angl), welig (WSax), ‘a willow’.

wulf (wulfes gen.sg., wulfa gen.pl.) OE, ‘a wolf’

A Reflection on the Women who are ever-present throughout my day(s)


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This post was written on International Women’s Day and posted on the 3rd of April. (Just to note.)

I do not have a regular calendar above my desk because we do not live near a Half Price Books.  Half Price Books hands out the most amazing author-and-book-themed calendars at the end of every year, free, if you spend $25 at their store which,  for us, is really no challenge whatsoever. But since we don’t live near a HPB, I don’t have one this year.  So I didn’t know that today was International Women’s Day until John mentioned it in passing on our drive home from Milwaukee.

Milwaukee.  City of breweries.  Butt of many a dumb-Midwesterner joke.  Setting for the appallingly awful ‘That 70’s Show’ and, in actuality, not a terrible place at all.  In fact, for a city, it’s all right.  It bears a great resemblance to Portland in the mid-to-late ’90s and was home, for quite a few years, to the redoubtable Golda Meir.  Golda Meir.! Who knew?!  Apparently, a lot of people, but indeed, not I: at least, not until we moved to Wisconsin.

Though in point of fact, moving to Wisconsin did not provide me this information, but having a Masters thesis to complete and an inherent need, therefore, for an academic library did the trick. In September I signed on as a Patron of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee’s Library so that I could use their stacks to my heart’s (and degree’s) content.  Enter Golda Meir.  The library is named after the formidable first (and only) woman prime minister of Israel and it is only one of many reminders, on International Women’s Day, of the inundation of my day by equally formidable, though perhaps less well-known, women in my life.

Here’s one:
This morning, as I do every morning, I looked out the front windows at the house across the street.  It is the home of Anna and Chuck, who have welcomed us so unreservedly into this, our new neighborhood.  Anna, who had never laid eyes on us before, appeared at our back door with wine, cheese, and a lot of enthusiasm the day after we pulled up in our big yellow Penske truck.  This woman is, to me, as necessary to life as Golda Meir.  Maybe more so.  I do not look out across North 16th Street and see Golda Meir, but something better: a yellow-and-stone house where a friend lives: a woman who has refreshed the hearts of the saints.

So it isn’t just the big-time women who ought to be honored on these International days but the women who make us better citizens of our neighborhoods, better neighbors which is, after all, part of Christ’s commission: Love the Lord your God with all your heard, soul, mind and love your neighbor just as well.

Storing this here for later



Creative People sometimes Make no Sense

If I add this article (click photo and link above) to my bookmarks then it will, quite literally, become one of the hundreds of bookmarks I have added over the years.  I am a book-marker and no bones about it: I love to save a good thing for later.  Be it a compelling website, an inspiring or informative article, a list of the top 50 (or even 500) books/authors/typefaces, I really like the idea of holding on to them and tucking them away for a less inspired, less-informed period of life.

Not to be outdone by the interwebs, I do this with real stuff, too, like storing cards my mom sent me whilst I was in college (or just living in Seattle) alongside the neat-o bulletins from the Episcopal church and the  bar napkin with the finely-crafted logo on which my husband wrote an anniversary haiku.  Okay, the latter example is sentimental for a whole lot of other reasons, but the bulletins and concert tickets and Valentine’s cards are of a piece.

And so, to marry form and function, content and style, I post this entry alongside a list of paradoxes often exhibited by the creative individual (among whom I count myself one).  It’s a coarsely-curated list but it’s more than tolerable as a guide for understanding the oddities of those who aren’t linear or, if linear, inconsistently so.

What we may have left undone


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Forgiveness is the perfume the trampled flower casts back upon the foot that crushed it.

-Attributed to Shakespeare, Mark Twain, and a variety of clueless blog writers

For many years this quote, several poems, an oil-pastel portrait of our Scottish terrier, and a string of daisies adorned our upstairs bathroom.  These gems, the first of which appeared circa 1986, were drawn directly onto the original 1963 yellow-and-white wallpaper by my sister and myself as a protest against the paper’s perceived ugliness.  The bathroom has long since been updated and stripped of its character-filled wall adornments but this particular quote–provided, I believe, by my friend Jill–is one of the few that remains for me, to this day, a source of humility and something worthy of my consideration.

We have all done selfish things, naughty things, things we wish we hadn’t done and hope will disappear, but few of us have learned the solidarity of forgiveness that must needs follow these behaviors.  We have all lost our tempers, we have lied and stretched the truth to fit our needs, we have ‘left things undone’, so to speak, and we have very often shirked what little responsibility we have truly been given on this earth.

Most of us, if not each of us, barring the psychopath or the deranged, has felt remorse, sudden and uncomfortable, creep up on us as we shoulder the guilt of an unwise action. That sense of righteousness or pride that led us to our un-right action is, if we are fortunate, followed quickly by a flash of despair over what we have done.  We wish it were not so and, instead of begging forgiveness, often we follow the lie or the theft or unkindness with yet another round of the same.  We long to ask forgiveness but our pride prevents us: we do not know where to begin because we think we are still the flower when really, we are the foot.

And because we have deceived others, we know what it is to sit at the receiving end of such unpleasantness and even cruelty.  We have been stood up, we have been dumped, we have been lied to or stolen from or hurt by someone–likely many someones.  We have been broken into, in one way or another, and we have not always acted in accord.  That is, we have indeed acted in accord–but not like the flower.  For when a foot, shod or bare, tramples a flower, breaks its stalk, and removes its petals the flower does not and cannot trample back.  The wild exception is the blackberry cane, but even then the fruit it bears is sweet, purple and forgiving.  No, the flower bends and is sometimes broken, but it often will, when carefully and curiously examined, cast upon us a fragrance.  This is what is meant by in accord.

So often the inclination of our heart is not to release anything akin to perfume when the boot comes down upon us.  Instead our first response is to weep angry thoughts and sharpen hardened words and to be, in a sense, the blackberry vine sans fruits.  We dagger our feelings into each other and into ourselves because we have been wounded and we want to wound in return.  When hurt by someone’s selfishness, unkindness, lack of thought, or lack of understanding we weep, and we also harden.  Soon we are behaving unkindly ourselves and crushing the beautiful blooms around us, simply because we reacted like a blackberry vine and not a flower.  If forgiveness is the perfume then peace must be the fruit.  And it is for these fruits that we work and are known, as the disciples of the Christ who called us be in the tiresome, troubling world, but not of it; to be, as it were, the flower and not the foot.

Good Works in Green Bay


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In this video you will see Katie Stockman advocating for the creative powers, stories and beauty of women everywhere–but particularly these refugee women in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

It’s never a bad idea to share the good works of another person.  By Good Works I mean the work of another person that promotes Goodness, one component of the trivium–Truth, Beauty and Goodness–that points to God.  (The other two components have been and indeed will continue to be discussed on this here weblog.)

My neighbor’s daughter is part of the Good Work featured in this video and I am so proud to say that I know her and that my life somehow intersects hers, for Christ calls us to surround ourselves with others who do His work and to learn from one another how to discover and use the Gifts He has so generously given us.  Not everyone can be an organizer or a motivator or an advocate, but neither can everyone be a lawyer, a teacher, a lineman, a chef. And so when we see others using their gifts, not afraid or held back by fear, challenges or social constraints, we must thank God, both for the gift and the recipient of that gift.


Ash Wednesday


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Remember that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.

For Ash Wednesday I am letting Professor Alison Milbank speak for me in this University of Nottingham Department of Theology and Religion Sacred Calendars video.

This series, Sacred Calendars, sets to explain the church year, the liturgical calendar to people who, like me, did not grow up in a liturgical tradition.  But it does not assume total ignorance, and that, I believe, is its mark of success.

Let us be penitent; let us rend our hearts and not our garments, and let us sing litanies, long prayers to God, and wear the ashes.  On this Ash Wednesday may our petitions for clean hearts and right spirits be made in humility and in genuine love and may our understanding of the ash on our foreheads remind us of the dust from whence we came.


Shrove Tuesday


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Today, for Shrove Tuesday, I post to the site a video that, in many ways, isn’t phenomenal.  It has had 107 views, and a dozen of those are likely the person or organization that uploaded it.  It has one ‘like’ (mine) and for some seemingly-insensitive reason, one ‘dislike’ (why does that option exist?).  It is a video I found through rather phenomenal circumstances, however, and that is what merits its presence here.

I found this piece after spending the weekend in Rochester, Minnesota, at the annual L’Abri conference, where I met a man named Joe Holbus who attends the church featured in the video.  He and I got to talking, as people do at conferences, and it turns out his church, Trinity Presbyterian, works closely with the Crow Creek Tribe and Reservation to restore and preserve their graveyard.  When I went searching for more information on the leader of this project, Wes Peterson, I found–as one must–there to be more to the story and a strong need for understanding and silence as we hear the stories another culture tells us about its own, precious humanity.

Should you decide to watch it, I recommend sticking to it through all 22 minutes, even though at times it is slow and even repetitive.  Good narrative repeats itself and is rarely–perhaps never–summed up quickly.  It is a Christian video, that is, it possesses and shares the message of Christ which is to Love one another.

Truth is stranger


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I’ve just finished reading a fantastic article from the TLS about a little-known Russian author who (more than likely) forged an account of the ‘lost years’ of Jesus’ life.  While this sounds utterly sacrilegious–and in a way, is–it is also an attempt at an exoneration of the Jews’ part in Jesus’ crucifixion–by a converted Jew.

The man who wrote this account, Russian-born Nicolas Notovich, had been living in Paris for many years and had encountered great discrimination and seen great evil done, both by and to the Jews.  The author of the article, Marcel Theroux, writes with great clarity and turns a side-note of history into a very compelling read. Thus, I spent about 20 minutes this morning utterly engaged in another world and viewpoint on humanity.