Making a room for love and writing

It  always encourages me when I come across a writer who writes more slowly than me. One year at the Festival for Faith and Writing at Calvin College, I went to a workshop given by a man who had taken twenty years to publish his book. I left snapping my fingers saying, yessss. For my first book, The Exact Place, took seven years from start to finish. 

Jake & Joie Meador

 So what to do when you come across someone who writes so fast his pencils smoke?

Well, I think many factors are woven together in a person that makes his or her writing style unique. Personal habits, stage of life, natural talent. And it helps to be someone who doesn’t wait for ideal conditions in which to write. (I am expert on that topic. I often avoid putting words to paper because I am waiting for my body, the pantry, the weather, the stars to align before I get down to business.) So I applaud this young friend, Jake Meador –  as he pours himself wholeheartedly into the art of writing. He has a fascinating array of interests and is able to write well about each of them. From theology to soccer columns, journalism reports to blog posts about the demands of love in Harry Potter, they all pour out of his head. I once asked him how he managed to write so prolifically and yet do it well. He answered like this – and I have permission to share:

“My wife and I joke that I have undiagnosed Asperger’s, which is actually a real possibility, and so being in a place with noise is actually awful for my working. I need silence b/c I want to focus super intensely on whatever I'm doing, but I hear everything at the same time at close to the same volume, so being able to focus is hard for me if I'm in a place with a lot of noise. So I either work in a home office or in the stacks at the local university's research library. The upside to the Asperger’s is that I'm able to do a ton of writing in a fairly short amount of time at a level I'm happy with, which is probably the only reason I can write for four soccer sites while also doing work for Mere Orthodoxy, Fare Forward, and whatever freelance stuff I pick up.”

Yesterday Jake posted a piece about the work of Wendell Berry on Fare Forward. It is so insightful that Jake had me wanting to go back to read all of Berry’s work in order to explore this particular theme. His piece is a summary, in a way, of Berry’s understanding of what it means “to daily break the body and shed the blood of Creation.” Clearly, the burden of learning to live in creation lovingly and knowingly is suffused throughout Berry’s essays and works of fiction. Jake’s summary is done with such tender insight I had to share it with you. Go to the site, read the post. You’ll be blessed.

 

“In Berry’s work, marriage isn’t simply a social contract or an emotional bond; it’s a way of orienting oneself to the rhythms of creation. It’s the process of undergoing an organic “breaking,” much as one would break the earth when plowing, in order to produce a harvest. Seeds are planted and in time we reap a harvest—Paul might say a resurrection. For Berry the language of marriage is never far from the language of health, flourishing, and beauty.”  - Wendell Berry’s Room of Love by Jake Meador.

Put a little lime and salt on that

Last summer when our family arrived from Tennessee after a long and tiring journey, it was supper-time, their first evening with us in our new home. Everyone crowded into the kitchen as I put the final touches on a feast; hungry eyes watched as I cut a ripe watermelon into chunks. Then I mounded it in a large bowl and squeezed wedges of lime juice and sprinkled salt over it. Honest, this little trick makes it tastes like heaven. In my opinion. But my grandchildren watched in horror. Mason, whose tastes are very discerning left the kitchen and wept in the next room. None of the grandchildren ate watermelon that night. From then on they had a joke: “Grandma, did you sprinkle lime juice and salt on this?”

Mason's capacity to enjoy fine food is large.

Lately we’ve been trying to plan a little vacation time. We have a place to go – a sweet little cabin in Wisconsin. It is a way-away place with lines of ducks swimming past the dock, loons calling, and, yes, possibly wolves howling. This year there has been a lot happening with moving and family and visitors, and finding my way to Costco, and a little remodeling going on – that is, one bathroom being torn out and redone. Much as I love our contractor there has been lots of interruptions and noise – some of it due to loud, passionate sports-talk radio, so we haven’t been able to think about much more than the Vikings Running Back/Quarterback Woes much less than where or even if we might get away.

Plus, I’ve needed to convince Denis to come away. He loves his new office space and our home so much that the thought and inconvenience of packing up and leaving just isn’t appealing. But I’m promising that something good happens when people leave their workplace and home – which for us is the same, no matter how we configure it. To be away renews vision and, for me, restores creativity. I take time to reflect more and better, and that makes my soul prosper.

Denis has agreed to come but will consider it a Work Retreat. Okay. But I’m concerned that something will interrupt or ruin this time away. Possibly me. Or some unforeseen disaster. We can, or at least I can, find ways of getting us into trouble. Being crabby, making arguments, getting sick. Or. Or. Or.  Putting lime juice on the watermelon. I’m not gonna do that. 

Soul restoration, Pike Lake, WI

We were innocent back then

     Marsena snuck into the bedroom when we were visiting last summer. I was reading The Girl With theDragon Tattoo. Denis, well, you can’t tell, but he says he was reading Last Call a book about prohibition. He takes the jackets off hardbacks to keep them nice and doesn’t allow me to handle them. Last Call. Don’t you think the title is a little disturbing for someone his age? I was thankful when he was done so I didn’t have to check on him in the middle of the night. Forty-three years of marriage. You were probably curious, weren’t you? You thought we climbed into bed, reviewed Daily Light on the Daily Path, held hands and prayed for our grandchildren. Stop lookin at me like that. I have nightmares and must be very careful. Last night I taunted a lion and it came after me. Denis had to wake me up. I’m not kidding. It only gets better.

Cranberry Pistachio Biscotti

The husband was in a celebratory mood. Maybe cuz it was sunny and cold outside and we’d had cheese omelets made with happy eggs and scallions. That combination always makes him happy. I was fairly un-moody myself and had a huge batch of granola going which always makes the house smell crisp and cinamonny when it’s baking. I had also decided it was time for biscotti, when Denis wandered into the kitchen to suggest we needed a special dinner tonight and me, being me did not say make it yourself, but that could have been what I wanted to say. I try to be careful and pure in heart. When I said an elongated whiny wellllll. Anita, being the sensitive discerning person she is suggested takeout, explaining I’m sure you weren’t really planning on being in the kitchen all day. I wasn’t. I timidly offered that rather than takeout today might be a good time for Denis to expand his cooking repertoire from waffles to waffles plus one other thing. He’s a very smart person and could do this if he put his mind to it. Imagine my delight when he grabbed the Mediterranean Cook book and found Ground Meat and Rice Balls in Lemon Sauce! The blessing of it! He even had to go to the store to get fresh mint and parsley. The smell of garlic and lemons wafting out of the kitchen is pretty enticing, but I’ll need to wait to find out for sure. He’s a pretty great guy even though right now he is also searching for a pasta recipe he once made years ago and I don’t know why he wants that. He thinks I threw it away because it is made entirely of butter, butter, butter and a few breadcrumbs and ground pecans. Maybe I did throw it out. I don’t remember.

I did make the following biscotti recipe which is a change from the usual almond chocolate whatever. They are a really wonderful treat, especially if you like concrete dipped in coffee. Pistachios cost the earth but they’re a little cheaper when you shell them yourself. Otoh, you have to factor in that whoever shells them may also eat a cup while doing the job.

Cranberry Pistachio Biscotti

¼ cup light olive oil

¾ cup sugar

2 t. vanilla

2 eggs

1 ¾ cup flour

¼ t. salt

1 t. baking powder

½ cup dried cranberries

1 cup pistachios

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

Mix oil and sugar. Add eggs and vanilla and mix well. Combine flour, salt, baking powder and gradually add to egg mixture. Work in cranberries and pistachios. Roll into two logs 2x12 inches. Dough will be sticky. Wet hands with cool water to handle more easily. Place on cookie sheet on parchment paper if you have it. Or lightly oil the pan. Bake for 35 minutes or until logs are light brown. Cool for 10 minutes. Cut diagonally into ¾ inch thick slices. Place back on the cookie sheet and back again for 10 minutes. I like them pretty rock-hard, so I turn them all over put them back in the oven for about another 10 – 15 minutes.

There I fixed that

"Officer, I don't know how the fire started."

(see more There I Fixed It)

Denis says this is how he fixes things. I didn't say that.

Expunge

When the stench from the refrigerator is bad enough to get a whiff of it even when the door is closed and you’re just walking past you don’t really have many options. At least, I don’t. It’s not like I could move out or call the maid or anything. And, although I really hate to discourage Denis from doing anything in the kitchen, I don’t like it when he gets all logical about this odor and says he’s going to find the source. What he really means he’s going to get in there and try to pitch stuff like the apples that feel like Nerf balls – I was going to make apple cake with them someday. Then he starts pulling out containers, opening lids, slipping the trashcan over to the door, exclaiming, WHAT is THIS? And, HERE, SMELL THIS. And WHY are you keeping THIS? I don’t want to get into it with him about why I’ve kept half a jar of capers for eighteen months, or the unopened bottle of angostura bitters for five years. And he may not like four different kinds of mustard, but I do. I just want him out of there. I don’t go into his office and riffle his papers, or rearrange his mountainous stacks of books and cds.

But. Because there was something that was knocking me back when I passed the refrigerator, I knew I didn’t have much time. And it is New Years Day. What better way to say I’m going to be a better person, I’m going to never over-buy or compulsive purchase. We will be eating every leftover, no fruit will rot… the deli meat will not get slick and smelly, and…. Nevermind. Just for today, at least, the fridge smells okay and there’s more room in there than there’s been for about three months.

So, happy New Year, Denis, my love. With very few excuses, this is what’s either freezing (it’s minus 2 degrees right now) out in the trash can by the alley or has been flushed down the toilet:

¼ jar of fermented salsa. - It got pushed to the back. Along with about fifty other jars of jam, pickles, olives.

Canned salmon with cream cheese, lemon, dill. - From the second you made this, Denis, I dropped to my knees retching. 12 days later… there are no words. You were supposed to eat it.

A bowl of greenish-molded boiled potatoes. I was going to make potato salad with these leftovers from a raclette dinner a month ago.

2 rotten apples.

2 limes brown and mushy. – The color of fresh limes make me happy, but I don't eat them much.

A shriveled piece of ginger. - A mystery. I didn’t put it there. Probably Anita.

A small bag of blackened cranberries. They were organic, even. Spoilage proves it. I made something with them in early November, can’t remember what. These were leftover.

4 egg whites growing clouds. Didn’t need them for the Mexican chocolate pots de crème.

1 serving of Mexican chocolate pots de crème with now sour whipped cream on top 3 ½ weeks old. - I thought Anita wanted it. (I know you don’t like chocolate that much.) She thought I did. Now neither of us want it.

A plastic bag of swampy brown and yellow liquid that leaked under the drawer.

So touching

During an emotional interview at his Statehouse office with The Associated Press on Tuesday, Sanford said Chapur is his soul mate but he's trying to fall back in love with his wife.

He should take a hike, you know?

Use Protection

Often I am to blame for trouble in marriage, friendships, failures of measuring up, the practice of patience or any you-name-it virtue, I know this. But I forget that Satan also has a sniffing devouring interest in tearing us away from security in our Brother and Protector.

We cannot claim with certainty that every one of our sufferings and hardships is the devil’s work, for there are many sources of troubles in this world: our own sins, the sins of others, the hostility of the world, the brokenness of our universe because of the curse, the Lord’s discipline. But even though we cannot with confidence accuse the devil of being the source of all our troubles, we can be sure no matter what the source that Satan will be actively using our sorrows to discourage us and to undermine our faith. He is always going around like a lion to devour us. He is always lying, accusing, and murdering. This is his nature, and his purpose is to seek to tear us away from our security in Christ. Therefore, we must always pray against him, no matter what the source of our particular sorrows.
- The Heart of Prayer by Jerram Barrs

Someone to Watch Over Me*

I was reading this morning in Psalm 71 where David prays for God not to leave him in his old age. In my 20s I thought this was a nice sentiment. Today it feels a bit more relevant having just now arguably made a case for abandonment. Really, sometimes I feel like I should probably be driven to the wilderness and left. And I ain’t going to survive like that TV guy who digs tubers and eats roaches.

It’s been raining steadily all day. Chilly and wet. Not a big deal, just that it adds to the minor key. I went to the Good Food Store. I didn’t notice I was hurrying, but maybe I was. Denis always thinks I’m hurrying and not paying attention to the semi bearing down on me. Came out with two canvas bags loaded, stepped off the curb, twisted my ankle and fell down in a disgraceful heap, wracked a knee and the heel of my hand. They still hurt! Not that I’ve never done this before. But this time I managed to somehow use the other knee to explode a half gallon of milk which, again, somehow, shot up my arm, totally drenching my jacket, my glasses, the side of the car…I knelt there on all fours in a puddle of rain and milk, shocked, then realized I’d also lost a shoe. I put the remaining groceries in the car and finally found it way under a black Jeep parked in the next space. Totally unreachable. Do you know how it feels to, like, dream you’re naked at the public library and then you wake up relieved that it was only a dream? I kept wishing I’d wake up when I had to walk back into the store and ask for help, limping, one shoe missing, dripping with milk, looking, I’m sure, deranged. A sweet young man gallantly got on his hands and knees in the rain and with a stick poked my shoe back out and handed it to me saying, well, at least you didn’t break your leg. Which I maybe coulda done now that… oh well, not to go into that. I guess I did cry a little when I got into the car. At home, Denis was upset and is trying to give me shuffling lessons. Don’t RUN! he says. Don’t even WALK! Just SHUFFLE.

I’ve changed my mind about the wilderness and am asking to be taken out for dinner. Denis loves me a lot, but in the end, I’d say it takes a bigger person to shepherd us through the parking lots.
*I like Willie Nelson's rendition of this song.

What's in the bag?

Went to a bridal shower for a niece last Saturday and contemplated the rituals women must enjoy or endure when we marry. Perhaps it depends on how you look at it or how much freedom you have to insist on this or that. It was held in a church fellowship hall. My niece was looking beautiful and hardly more than a day old, though I happen to know she was nervous. It’s hard to keep from it when everyone is lookin’ at you. Each gift must be greeted with smiles and thanksgiving even if it’s a crocheted toilet roll cover. My lively, beautiful sister sat beside her, repressing some sort of mischief as usual. I loved seeing my Mom who wanted to sit in the back row so we could yak - talk at length about trivial or boring subjects (to you maybe). There were four rows of folding chairs in a semi-circle in a room full of women (all ages) around the bride and the mothers. Beside them was a table loaded with gifts. But first. It’s been a long time since I played shower games – a feminine tradition I hoped had been lost to history. Unscramble common words from the wedding ceremony. Like: mogro. I didn’t win. You’d think otherwise, since I’m a boggle queen… Then there was the famous “What’s in your purse?” game. You got major points for things like a to-do list and tweezers. My mom almost won having both of those and a lot of other stuff, too. And then we guessed the number of jelly beans in a jar.

I totally perked up during the devotion when the lady suggested we learn to pray for our husbands using body parts as a guide. She included a scripture reference for each one. She began well with the head, moving on to the eyes and the ears. But right after the mouth, inexplicably, she dropped to the feet, and I was left curiously wondering what she did with all those major body parts left out of the list. I’ll bet I could find Bible references for every one of them. But…another time, maybe.

How was your day?

It’s been snowing, sleeting, raining today depending on the hour. I’m having trouble with my neck and every day as I sit down to write the next issue of Notes from Toad Hall I have trouble concentrating. Am trying to be matter-of-fact about this slow-down. Today I thought, no matter the weather, I’ll walk down to Caribou, get a coffee, (as a treat – first time in a week, honest) come back here and get busy. I grabbed a little cash. Left the door unlocked, cell on desk, no key (stupid woman), and out into the sleet. Ran into Darcy, the manager, who told me all about the two new puppies she and her boyfriend are getting. The other barista needed to tell me about how on the way to work today she saw a car spin out and total the car next to her. Stupid drivers! she said. It took longer than I planned. Walked back home in rain and cold. Meanwhile a friend who’s been sleeping at our house left and responsibly locked the door.

Denis is sick. He’d gone back to bed with a noise machine going. I rang the doorbell over and over. Pounded on the door again and again. Stood on the porch watching it snow for twenty minutes. Drank my coffee to keep warm. Banged on the door some more hoping the vibrations would penetrate the bedroom. Useless. I went around to the side yard, thought about throwing a brick up at the window. And (brilliant woman) realized he might hear me call since the window is slightly open so we can sleep in arctic temperatures under polar tech. I bellowed, DENIS! Finally woke him up and he let me in. He said he dreamed that someone was making jewelry with little hammers. He felt bad, I felt sheepish and dispirited.

I won’t be ending this with … and so, I’m grateful for shelter, meaningful work, a husband who loves me despite all, because it’s Veteran’s Day and there is no mail which means the netflix I was hoping for won’t be arriving, and because I’m a petty, fallen, indulgent creature. …maybe tomorrow.

Call me, again

It’s a good thing I don’t get that many calls on my cell phone. I only lost it once this trip. (We’re on our way home from Colorado today, and made it to Lincoln, NE.) I’m forever misplacing it and asking Denis to call me so I can trace the ring. I panicked thinking I’d dropped it in one of the many restrooms I visit along the way. Denis called me three times and I could hear it, but couldn’t find it even though I was frantically tearing the car apart. My ringtone is a canyon wren birdcall and after dumping my purse twice, feeling under the seat, and checking my computer bag, the bird was also frantic. Turned out I was sitting on it the whole time.

This was a wonderful trip. Celebratory, restful, reflective. Together we recalled many times throughout the years when God spared us, shed grace on us, despite our bumbling around as husband, wife, parents, in our ministry, with friends, you name it. There are many reasons why it will be good to be back at Toad Hall. One is that I’ll be able to call my cell on our land line and not mention to Denis that I’ve lost it, once again.

Hollyhocks

We went on a walk last evening and I said, “Let’s go down the alleys.”

Denis wondered, “Why?”

I say, “Well, so we can raid backyard gardens, tease pit bulls, and climb on little kids playhouses, what do you think? Because it’s more interesting than the street – that’s why.” Of course, I forgot we’d be passing Hollyhocks.

Every time we pass Hollyhocks, I promise you, every, every time, Denis says,
“I love Hollyhocks. I’ve always loved Hollyhocks. I’ve asked you again and again to plant them and you never have.”

I just roll my eyes and remind him ONE more time: “I DID plant them. The bugs ate them every year.” Man, could someone please get him a package of hollyhock seeds for his birthday, and he can plant them himself?

Actually, I don’t REALLY mind. I know he loves them because they remind him of his Grandma Haack who raised them when he was a little boy. She grew enormous hollyhocks, sort of matching her enormous love for her grandchildren. I remember the one time I met her, right after we were engaged, and she crushed me into her large, soft bosom. She smelled like peonies and fresh corn. We didn’t know she wouldn’t live much longer.

What was June 15?

So Sunday, our first day back from a cabin in Wisconsin, we’re in church, our granddaughter, Manessah between us, and Denis passes me a note: “I need to go home now.” I thought it was some kind of joke, then I looked at him. We left in middle of David’s sermon. I drove us home, and he staggered up to bed. Later I found him with unmistakable flu symptoms and possibly some other complication. Who knows. I take his temperature, bring him ice water, and continue playing Monopoly with Manessah. She has an attitude when I refuse to give her $200 after she forgot to pick it up when rounding Go. (I never let a child win because they’re a child. I know some consider this mean.) But her delighted giggle when she bankrupts me after the third time I land on her bristling Pacific Garden sort of justifies my attitude. Monopoly passed the time and made her last day with us not so disappointing with Grandpa sick and all.

It was Father’s Day and I had forgotten. It was also our Fortieth Wedding Anniversary, which we had forgotten. I finally mentioned it to Denis, who sort of moaned, though I don’t know if that was due to regret or delirium. I guess we’re not a family into big parties. Sometimes for a second, I wish we were. Just saying “forty” smacks me. How can that be?! Back in January I said let’s wait until our vacation in September – that will be our big celebration – we’ll go to our friends’ condo in Colorado and we’ll drink red wine and look at each other for a long time and try to fathom the meaning of forty years of wedded-lock. I don’t really know what it means. I used to think of couples married forty years as wizened in body and mind, the undertaker on-call, and living in apartments that smelled of boiled cabbage, but that isn’t exactly our life. Marriage is less and more than I’d imagined.

My first difficult disappointment way back was that he did not make me happy every moment of every day, in fact, I couldn’t believe he called to the worst in me and I gave it. I spent a lot of time, still do, actually, in confession and prayer, confession and prayer, repeat, repeat. I was also shocked that I should feel lonely. Ever. Of course, I was only twenty then and hadn’t read the books. Blame it on that. Over the years after we went to bed, I learned not to mention getting rid of the carpenter ants, which are attacking the back of our house as we lie here. And he’s learned to tolerate my allergic coughing and wheezing with just the slightest rattle of his magazine.

Marriage is more than I imagined. We share a purpose and calling that has made the years both intense and lovely. We’re friends and lovers, but we’re not the same. I’m still learning how healthy it is to be differentiated (he will never like gardening and I will never enjoy list checking) and how good not to be responsible for the mate’s ultimate happiness. In learning a little more of what it means that Jesus is the lover of my soul I find it easier to rest in darkness. He is steadier and more comforting than a man, or a woman. We just aren’t equipped to do what only God can do – love us to redemption. We actually love each other better knowing this.

The thing that caught me on Sunday was that this little illness, this fever, and headache put a constriction in my throat – the what if. What if this is it and he dies. What will I do about our ministry if? Where will I live if? What will I do with myself without him? This is something I don’t want to imagine. The thought of your spouse’s death can be very self-absorbing.

I’ve always believed that in this fallen world marriage is not a given – not for any of us at any time. Statistically, I will likely join my single friends at some point, since women live longer. (I hope they’re around to help teach me to live alone if that should happen.) I’ve been blessed with forty years of God sustaining us through enough to write a book. Who knows, maybe I will.

So to Denis – who is in Baltimore today, having mostly recovered from whatever it was, and is now addressing the General Assembly of the EPC along with our dear friend, Steve Garber – Happy Fortieth Anniversary and may we continue, by God’s grace, with passion for one another for many more years.

Drunken Dandelion

I can’t ever remember my husband dressing me, or brushing my hair. I’ve never really wanted one of those Francine River moments where I let down my hair and my lover tenderly brushes my locks before we have hot sex. I mean, not that’s it’s totally of no interest. I was only towel-drying my hair after I got out of the shower when something happened to my neck. I managed to inch into the bedroom and fall on the bed moaning for Denis. When he arrived he was so concerned I thought of faking a faint to see where that got me. Anyway, he got my shirt on backwards the first try, and he kinda of brushed my hair - gouging my scalp, and scraping my ears. (It’s been a long time since he’s had hair of his own.) By then I was heavily into meds and didn’t care if I looked like a drunken dandelion head, but the occasion wasn’t entirely lost on me – it was a first.

With little ammo dumps going off up and down my right side, I shuffled into the chiropractor who, I think practices a form of chiro-voodoo. He doesn’t chant or anything, but he’s so cheerful about pain, which bothers me a little. “Lie down,” he says, “and we’ll have a look. Oh, you can’t get down there.” Thankfully, his tray table stands on end and if you can walk over, plant your feet in front of it, and lean forward slightly, you can ride the thing to a prone position. After gently tapping my spine, bending my knees, and asking me to look over my right shoulder – which I couldn’t do in any case, he said, “Okay, then. That should calm down, now.” “So what’s WRONG?” I wanted to wail, but I said it quiet, like I was only marginally interested in my ruptured disks and severed nerves; I couldn’t even breath without screaming. Inside. But no, he said I’d just wrenched my neck. I did start to feel better, but my day was shot, and I was discouraged.

Back home, Denis got me settled on the couch so I could watch daytime television. I wanted to see Jack Van Impe talk about End Times even though he makes me want to convert to Islam (temporary feeling). I want an illustration for my next Notes, but no Jack. Only Paula, the blonde with witch-nails. (I’d like some myself, except I don’t think I could afford them.) She’s sitting in a Queen Anne Chair, saying sincerely, “…you wouldn’t miss a doctor’s appointment or an appointment with your hair-dresser, so should you miss an appointment with GOD?” No, ma’am. I move on. An interior designer is re-doing a house so the know-nothing bachelor can sell. Charles Bronson is killing someone. A young lady with a thin waist and gorgeous, fat lips (I’d like them, too) is in a top register pitching notes, “You tore up my heart…” Oklahoma is under a tornado watch and flights out of LaGuardia are 70 minutes late. I shut it off, disappointed.

I was getting ready to nap when Denis brought the mail. I swear I never get packages, but today I got four! Two from Jeremy who sent me a pound of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe and a CD mix of Page France and Sigur Ros. Another package is from friends in Ghana – a tote bag, perfect for my computer. From Ann in Turkey, I get a disgusting, sick, beaded, smiley-face coin purse. I’d like to know how God managed to converge these things from across the globe and dump them all in my lap on the same day I wrack my neck and my husband dresses me and brushes my hair.

From evening prayers: Before I sleep, I would for a moment rejoice in the loves and friendships wherewith Thou hast blessed my life. … whom now, with my own soul, I entrust to Thy keeping through the hours of darkness. And for all who this night have not where to lay their heads or who, though lying down, cannot sleep for pain or for anxiety, I crave Thy pity in the name of our Lord Christ. Amen. – John Baillie.