Yesterday it got up to 70 degrees in my flyover town and the sky was blue. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Everyone was out walking their dogs.
I could hear the woodpeckers drilling, but I never saw one.
I went to my local park and walked around the pond, where the water was very low. There were men there fishing however. I saw some big hawks and also my friend Chris, who was walking into the park with his fishing rod (and one granddaughter).
I read this about Jonathan Edwards’ most (in)famous sermon by the much loved former pastor of my church. “God is angry at the lost condition of the world. He is angry at the sin that ruins you. But He is not angry because He is insecure or easily offended. He is angry because He loves you.” Amen.
As you can see, the snow is mostly all gone except where those big piles are slowly melting.
Yesterday I didn’t wear a coat when I went out to lunch! (Of course, as to be expected, there were people out and about wearing shorts and t-shirts, but that’s ridiculous!)
Here is John Piper talking about aging, which I find very relevant and you might too. “Between now and the moment we die, we are walking into an unknown country. No matter how many steps you have taken to make it feel secure, it’s not — not in this world.”
“For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.”
Today we remember American poet Marianne Moore (b. 1887) who died on this day in 1972. Moore was born in Kirkwood, Missouri in the manse of the Presbyterian Church where her maternal grandfather, John Riddle Warner, served as pastor. By the time of her death, she had received many honorary degrees and virtually every honor available to an American poet. She was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. The New York Times printed a full-page obituary.
Like her mother and her brother, Moore remained a devoted Presbyterian throughout her life. I spent a pleasant afternoon yesterday reading her poetry. Here’s one: The Past is the Present
So look up at the sky on this beautiful day, read a poem, embrace the silence.
*From the poem “Silence”–read the whole poem here.
Yesterday was a beautiful day–cold, but beautiful. Blue sky, untouched white snow reflecting the sunlight. Very nice. I sat in my office and watched a huge red-tailed hawk cruise around.
Here’s a poem, “Shovelling Snow” by Harry Edward Mills, written around 1901:
And Don shared this lovely Dan Fogelberg piece with me:
More cold weather coming up, so I’ll be sitting by my window for the foreseeable future.
“Every bit we eat, and every drop we drink is mercy; every step we take, and every breath we draw, mercy. [These are] what we have reason to acknowledge with thankfulness to God’s praise.” (Matthew Henry, 1662-1713)
Our week is turning out to be fair and mild–what a relief! Love those upper 50s temperatures. Isn’t it so much more pleasant to run errands around town when you don’t have to get all bundled up to go out?
In other news, my son-in-law gave me a book for Christmas, Jorge Luis Borges: Conversations, which I have been reading. It is from the Literary Conversation Series. It prompted me to read this poem by Borges: Another Poem of Gifts
We should all be writing our own poem on this subject every day.
(By the way, Frances Haslam was Borges’s English grandmother.)
It got very cold indeed here in flyover country. From 78 degrees on Sunday it dropped over 50 degrees! (A 70 degree change if you count the wind chill!) Yikes. We missed a new record by one degree! (Set in 1911.) I’m feeling a little jealous of the twins down in Florida!
Well, anyway, I am starting to get back on my feet, getting some things done around the house. And that’s a good thing.
Today we toast country singer Suzy Bogguss on her birthday. She was born in 1956 and grew up in Aledo, Illinois. We always liked Suzy back in the day–what a voice–and we are happy that she is finally being inducted as the next new member of the Grand Ole Opry on January 16, 2026.
Way to go, Suzy!
And here’s a poem by James Crews, “Winter Morning”:
I made it safely to the snow-covered prairie–a very windy trip, but uneventful. I controlled my 241 horses and raced north, arriving in good time. Praise the Lord.
All is well.
*And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flames are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
Well, we got more snow–how about that? Luckily I had gone out early in the morning to run errands, so I could just stay home and watch the snow fall. Thankfully, daughter #1 had cancelled her drive to Indiana for work, but she still had to drive home from downtown and that was moderately traumatizing.
The snow was really coming down when I took this picture, but the iPhone does not capture that adequately at all!
Both of my Christmas cactuses are budding, right on schedule! Isn’t that something? This made me think of Walt Whitman. I agree with him about miracles.
Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?
The other day I mentioned the story of Billy Graham going to see the dying Steve McQueen and that truly is a great story. But the even better part of all that was how the flight instructor over time converted the questioning Steve into a “born again” Christian. I know quite a few people like that flight instructor now–“ordinary” men who take Mark 16:15 very seriously in their daily lives. One such guy is Bill who was an executive at some big engineering firm. He is a piano-tuner now (in retirement) and he evangelizes quietly everywhere he goes, just talking to people. He is not ashamed of the Gospel. No sir. He sees it as his duty to spread the Word.
The Billy Grahams of this world are wonderful, but it is the Bills among us who do the real work where the rubber meets the actual road.
And here’s a song for Monday–the great Mark Knopfler singing the great Bob Dylan:
Oh, a false clock tries to tick out my time To disgrace, distract and bother me And the dirt of gossip blows into my face And the dust of rumors covers me
[Chorus] But if the arrow is straight and the point is slick It can pierce through dust no matter how thick So I’ll make my stand and remain as I am And bid farewell and not give a damn
(Meanwhile we made it to the prairie–where it has turned cold and even snowy!–and we went to church where daughter #2 and the girls became members along with a dozen others.)
We are surrounded by God’s benefits. The best use of these benefits is an unceasing expression of gratitude. –John Calvin
dual personalities 