at long last, a white christmas

... and I can't wait for it to melt so that I can go out and see the horses again. Breakfast eaten, stockings opened, wrapping paper torn and living-room cleaned, I took a bag of carrots out to the barn and wished all the horses a very merry Christmas. Although, to be honest, they were more interested in checking my pockets for more treats. They've all learned that I am the bearer of good things, and thus it never hurts to look. The savvy ones figure that if sniffing around doesn't garner more goodies, then being cute will. And alas, it usually does - when I'm with my favorites, I find myself surrounded by three pairs of pleading brown eyes and I'm sunk. And they are happy.

Christmas photos are a must. We all line up in some semblance of order and have our picture took. And retook. And tooken again, until our teeth hurt from smiling so much. But there is always one more camera and someone blinked the last go-round.

Our house is small, and it shows. With everyone home, plus my uncle, aunt and cousin over, the (rather cold) basement is total chaos - sleeping bags, extra blankets, more quilts, books, suitcases and another pile of blankets in the corner. Rachel is sleeping directly in a draft from the back door, thus the extra pile.

But hey, Christmas was yesterday. Who says that Christmas has to be neat and orderly?

the eve of battle

It is the night before finals. Snow falls steadily outside while inside numerous students are diligently pouring over their notes.

Open books, loose papers, a box of Wheat Thins, a half burnt candle, bits of torn paper, and a tea mug belonging to one of my roommates surround me as I attempt to wrap my stubborn brain around Roman philosophy. Very pragmatic folks, those Romans.

My commonplace book has fallen open to an incredibly famous quote:

Trojans, do not
trust in the horse. Whatever it may be,
I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.

-Laocoon, from Virgil's Aeneid.

Aristotle is waiting for his writings to be actualized on my page. Virgil demands to be understood - "What makes me a stoic?!" And I say it was fate. All fate.

because blogs are not a place to bare the soul

Praise the Lord!
For it is good to sing praises to our God;
For it is pleasant, and praise is beautiful.

The Lord builds up Jerusalem;
He gathers together the outcasts of Israel.
He heals the brokenhearted
And binds up their wounds.
He counts the number of the stars;
He calls them all by name.
Great is our Lord, and mighty in power;
His understanding is infinite.
The Lord lifts up the humble,
He casts the wicked down to the ground.

Sing to the Lord with thanksgiving;
Sing praises on the harp to our God,
Who covers the heavens with clouds,
Who prepares rain for the earth,
Who makes grass to grow in the mountains.
He gives to the beast its food,
And to the young ravens that cry.

He does not delight in the strength of the horse;
He takes no pleasure in the legs of a man.
The Lord takes pleasure in those who fear Him,
In those who hope in His mercy.

Praise the Lord, O Jerusalem!
Praise your God, O Zion!
For He has strengthened the bars of your gates;
He has blessed your children within you.
He makes peace within your borders,
And fills you with the finest wheat.

He sends out His command to the earth;
He word runs very swiftly.
He scatters the snow like wool;
He scatters the frost like ashes;
He casts out His hail like morsels;
Who can stand before His cold?
He sends out His word and melts them;
He causes His wind to blow and the waters to flow.

He declares His word to Jacob,
His statues and His judgments to Israel.
He has not dealt thus with any nation;
And for His judgments, the have not known Him.

Praise the Lord!

Psalm 147

puer natus

The NSA Choir

advent is here!

(Perhaps I should start with a disclaimer - I'm not much of a photographer, so no, I didn't take this picture. I found it on the Internet and thought it fit.)

Yesterday was epic. After a week of intensive practicing, the NSA choir gave our Christmas concert, "A Boy is Born," highlighting Christmas music from the era of chants, through the days of Bach and all the way to a spiritual. Each song was very, very different from the others, and Dr. Erb had been meticulous in teaching them to us for the past four months.

During the concert itself, I found myself standing in the highest front corner of the risers, right above the organ. Heights are not my thing, and my greatest fear was not so much missing a note or sounding like a bullfrog as it was falling off and crashing oh so gracefully onto the organist.

I didn't fall.

When the concert was over, I walked off the stage in a daze, not realizing it was over until I was back at home and it had time to sink in. I then went and sang Christmas carols with my sisters until my voice was crying out for mercy. I estimate that I sang for roughly five hours all told that day.

Life is good.