A former vegan came across the bay to prepare a lovely cruelty-free dish for a former Thanksgiving dinner.  If memory serves, it was as good as it looks.  And so is she.

This one from Katherine was delivered just this very minute, and it won’t need any basting or anything.  Kate is spending the holiday in Colorado with some dear friends.  I am thankful for her here at 1880 — even when she doesn’t send chocolate.

Joannie has quite a collection of pilgrim figures (and a couple of Indians in honor of our own heritage!) which she displays in November.  A few of them came from Oregon.

To Be A Pilgrim

He who would valiant be ’gainst all disaster,
Let him in constancy follow the Master.
There’s no discouragement shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.

Who so beset him round with dismal stories
Do but themselves confound – his strength the more is.
No foes shall stay his might; though he with giants fight,
He will make good his right to be a pilgrim.

Since, Lord, Thou dost defend us with Thy Spirit,
We know we at the end, shall life inherit.
Then fancies flee away! I’ll fear not what men say,
I’ll labor night and day to be a pilgrim.

_______________________

But, if it had been up to me, I am afraid we would still be in living an English village, happily attending St. Swithin’s C of E down the street. I’m just not highly adventurous when a lot of discomfort is involved. Not that I’m proud of that, and I do have a heart full of gratitude for the adventurers.

The truth is, I sing a lot more than I pray.  And I know that the deity does not have ears or eyes or a nose or hands.  We don’t even have the right pronouns!  We can’t say “it” when speaking of God and “him/her” just seems a bit trite.  So I’ll say “him” here, though I think gender is another thing the deity is not limited by.  We poor humans have just made him in our own image so our little minds can even think about him at all.  Still, I hope the words I sing rise like sweet incense to his nose and do not fall upon deaf ears.

Yesterday, for our recessional hymn at St. Paul’s, we sang the 20th-century words of William Reid to the century-older hymn tune Llangloffan.  It’s hard enough for me to recess and sing at the same time, so I was glad I had already “gotten over” the words during our pre-service rehearsal. How amazingly they are both timeless and timely.  The first verse was the perfect prayer for the MIddle East right right now:

Oh, God of every nation, of every race and land,

redeem the whole creation with your almighty hand;

where hate and fear divide us and bitter threats are hurled,

in love and mercy guide us and heal our strife-torn world.

“Bombs Falling,” LunaOp, mixed media, 2007

Bombs falling, yesterday, Gaza.

I think John, “da man,” who takes care of everything around here for me, must have led a hike for the Chemeketans yesterday instead of showing up at 1880 with his rake.  I must say, I don’t mind looking at this beautiful carpet for a few more days.