In my Bible study group we recently read Matthew 3, which concerns John the Baptist. It was an excellent discussion, and one of my friends pointed out that John knew exactly who he was. Which, for a human being, is unusual. He knew he was
A voice of one calling in the desert, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.’ (Isaiah 40:3).
When I went on vacation to Alabama with some of my friends from my Bible study, we all made mix CD’s to play in the van. One of my friends had “Chicago” by Sufjan Stevens as the first track, and it’s set the tone for much of what’s happened to me since then.
Nice outfits. I like this guy.
I’m a big fan of Gerard Manley Hopkins. I think he’s a genius, and I share many of his interests. Yet as I was reading my collection of his poems today, I came across a line that made me giggle. While his poems elicit many reactions from me, giggles aren’t a response I expect. The poem was “At the Wedding March” and is a brief ode to marriage. The last of three stanzas reads
Then let the March tread our ears:
I to him turn with tears
Who to wedlock, his wonder wedlock,
Deals triumph and immortal years.
I imagine the organ, all stops out, blaring out the march, propelling the couple down the aisle, trampling the poor ears of the helpless attendees. I count myself blessed that I’ve never turned to the Lord with tears due that particular torment. Also, Hopkins was clearly unfamiliar with the kiddie parody words “Here comes the bride, all fat and wide” which invariably spring to mind whenever I hear the classic march. Oh Hopkins, you’re mortal too, and thanks for the unexpected mirth. Every time I read your poems I take away something new. That’s a compliment. Really.
As a child I naturally looked forward to the end of the school year, but with a sense of foreboding, because I knew that with summer came swimming lessons. Trying to recall these experiences fills me with hesitation. Like a traumatized witness describing a crime, my memory is splotchy and unreliable. Then I flash back to the Adel Municipal Pool, see a horde of naked little boys horsing around, and shudder. Did I really go through that?
I’ve entirely forgotten my first encounter with a pool. My mother, seeking acclimatize me to water and make use of the YMCA membership given by my grandparents, brought me to a class called “Water Babies” when I was 9 months old. This involved about a dozen mothers in a pool with their babies bobbing in front of them while an instructor called out a series of exercises over the inevitable screeching. This must have been a bizarre scene to walk in on, like witnessing some kind of mass baptism at a church that believed in both infant baptism AND total immersion. My Water Babies experience didn’t last long. After three or four sessions I developed a major ear infection, the only one I would ever get, and we didn’t go back. (My mother, bless her heart, was keen to prevent me from repeating her mistakes. She didn’t learn to swim until she was at Girl Scout camp in junior high, when she had to take lessons with the little kids in order to go canoeing.)
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