Wexford Carol

Good people all, this Christmas time,
Consider well and bear in mind
What our good God for us has done,
In sending His belovèd Son.
With Mary holy we should pray
To God with love this Christmas Day;
In Bethlehem upon the morn
There was a blest Messiah born.

The night before that happy tide
The noble virgin and her guide
Were long time seeking up and down
To find a lodging in the town.
But mark how all things came to pass:
From every door repelled, alas!
As long foretold, their refuge all
Was but a humble oxen stall.

Near Bethlehem did shepherds keep
Their flocks of lambs and feeding sheep;
To whom God’s angels did appear
Which put the shepherds in great fear.
“Prepare and go”, the angels said,
“To Bethlehem, be not afraid;
For there you’ll find, this happy morn,
A princely Babe, sweet Jesus born.”

With thankful heart and joyful mind,
The shepherds went the babe to find,
And as God’s angel has foretold,
They did our Savior Christ behold.
Within a manger He was laid,
And by His side the virgin maid
Attending to the Lord of Life,
Who came on earth to end all strife.

Don't Cha Know

I just wrote on here what, like yesterday? Yeah, I think so. It seems like I'm writing too soon. Like I shouldn't write too often--if gives the feeling that I have no life, that I find myself more interesting than I actually am (possible? I think not. I am fascinating, trust me). And maybe this should be more polished. We were discussing the high tech media age during my rhetoric final, specifically blogging and all the rest of that avant garde hoopla. Everybody's got a blog. Paris Hilton's DOG has a blog. I don't know that, but honestly, don't you kind of believe me already?

Anyway, the point of this entry is to say that I'm writing too soon. But why? Why is it too soon ("you tell me, doofus" you're thinking, "you're the one who said it. Stop being a hoser.")? Maybe it seems conceited? Goes against my sense of propriety? Perhaps I fear that people actually read this, even though I write it for myself (secretly hoping some Icelandic princess will read it and we'll become pen pals). I don't know. I don't want to delve into this as much as I thought I did. Not on HERE anyway. Two things: I wish I knew how to knit and I miss the days of doing service for NHS in high school. I kid you not. one time we transplanted like three rows of raspberries. I have no doubt that they all died. But I kind of want to do it again.

FOCA

Abortion is a pretty hot topic these days. Everyone seems to have an opinion about it and it's too easy to say something that could be skewed the wrong way. The opportunities to sound politically incorrect or ignorant or intolerant are innumerable. I recognize that and I can see it being a risk in expressing my own feelings. But heck, I'm going for it.

I am opposed to abortion. I believe it is morally wrong. There are situations where I believe it can be acceptable, such as in cases of rape, or if a mother's life is in danger, etc. There are the two main sides: pro-life and pro-choice. Such nice little nick-names to attempt to encompass whole schools of thought. I remember being sixteen or seventeen and seeing a pro-choice commercial and thinking: "yeah, abortion is bad, but women should be able to CHOOSE." But I don't think I understood all of the implications. It seems that sometimes with this idea of "pro-choice" there is the desire to shirk responsibility. To have sex without consequences, for there to be some sort of "way out." And I know there's a feminist view: women should have this right because they're the ones that get pregnant, men can just do what they want without being responsible--they're never going to have to carry and raise a child and put their bodies through that trauma. It's not fair. It's not equal. It's not right. Yes, I've heard that and I even consider myself to be a bit of a feminist too. But to me that seems to go against some truths that are both very real and cannot be ignored. Men and women were created differently. Our bodies have different capabilities. Women can carry and bear children. Man cannot. That difference does not make women in any way inferior or superior to men, but it does mean that there is a responsibility they have to accept and deal with. Abortion is not a way of dealing with that responsibility. It's shirking it. And what's more, it's negating the importance and worth of life. Perhaps it is not fair that women cannot have sex without seeming "responsibilities," but nor is it fair to take the life of someone too young, too fragile and unable to defend and choose for itself. Life is precious. Perhaps we treat the power we have to create or destroy life too lightly.

FOCA is an act that would get rid of virtually all restrictions on abortion. That's something that I cannot and will not support. Like I said, I believe there are cases in which abortion can be permissible. But to take away all restrictions? That doesn't feel like freedom, it feels like an attempt to not accept consequences, to not deal with hard things.

I've never been in a situation where I've had to make a decision about abortion and I have no intention of ever being in one. I don't understand what it's like to be there. But I am a woman. I know I have the responsibility of having a body that can carry and bear life. And I am pro-life.

Ceramic Guilt

This evening I had decided to have a bowl of cereal. "Honey Bunches of Oats with Peaches," to be precise. I opened the cupboard to get a bowl and found guilt staring back at me from a neat stack of ceramic dishware. I do not have any dishes out and in use in my apartment. I moved in and the dish count seemed sufficient, so I left my kitchen things largely out of circulation (except for one massive wok that takes up a ridiculous amount of room, is rarely used, and fits easily nowhere, causing the door of every cupboard it's placed in to be propped open). Now, I don't know that my roommates mind that I use their things--in fact, I don't think they do. But it does make me feel a little guilty when they walk in an I'm eating soup out of one of their bowls that I made in one of their pots and that I am then shoveling in my mouth with one of their spoons. It's kind of demoralizing. Not a lot, but enough so that every time I use something I think (fleetingly, but still, the thought comes) about trying to find my own bowls (I know I have at least two, a blue one and an orange one). But I'm not sure where they are. In the trunk of my car, probably. I could search for them--but I don't want to. It's not like the trunk of my car is some clean, organized space. It's a mess. I know for a fact that it contains one faded, brown and green plaid blanket, a tennis racquet, a knee-length black dress that needs to be dry-cleaned, a beige pea coat that needs to be dry-cleaned (and has needed it for over a year), a cheap chess set, tennis balls at assorted levels of deflation, a blue Nalgene bottle with water in it from roughly 1995, a number of pairs of shoes of the Payless variety, a tie from only heaven knows where, an emergency road kit with it's red triangle sticker peeling off, a half-filled quart of 5W-30, charcoal flakes that chipped off my old muffler when it fell out of the bottom of my car last summer and I picked it up and shoved it in the trunk, a large bottle of handsoap that is leaking, etc. The list goes on, but the more I say, the more sick I feel. Anyway--clearly, I cannot go searching for my bowls. It would be unethical (for me, anyway). But I feel guilty! How to remedy this? I will eat with only my hands or eat things that need no utensils whatsoever. Like grapes. And Poptarts. And Popcorn. And lunch meat.

One of my real concerns is this: even though I reassure myself that my roommates don't care--what if they really do? What if they absolutely cannot stand to have me using all their dishes with my grubby, disorganized-trunk-girl hands? What if it's like every "Matlock" episode ever aired and eventually they will kill me in my sleep because they just couldn't take it anymore--couldn't put up with my antics? The possibilities are horrifying! And unlikely. So, I'll probably just keep using their things. I hope I'm not asking to be struck down my saying something like that. If it makes it any less despicable--I do try to handle the dishware with care.

Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin

Today I unexpectedly got to watch most of the funeral service for Elder Wirthlin, via television. When he died was serving as one of the apostles of the Lord. That really is a remarkable statement right there: he was an apostle.

I think most people are searching for something, be it religion, purpose, a good friend, a perfect pair of jeans. But I believe that the deepest, most sincere desires are found in having faith in God. Strange as it may seem, all while growing up I never thought of myself as being "religious." For me, that seems to connote Bible-thumping or living the law of Moses or being fanatical in some way. But I think my perception of the idea of "being religious" was wrong. I am religious, very much so. I think being "religious" can simply mean that you believe in someone or something. That you have some spiritual focus, or you're searching for one. It's not a bad thing at all.

To me, Elder Wirthlin represented a great example of charity. I remember him speaking so often about love and kindness and forgiveness and gratitude--all matters of the heart. We want to be like Jesus Christ and Elder Wirthlin was a pure and beautiful example of someone who strove to be like the Savior. His example makes me want to try harder and to be better. His son, Joseph B. Wirthlin, Jr. was the first speaker at the funeral and he said something like, "it doesn't matter where you work, only that you work for the Lord." He also read a poem by Edgar Guest that said that no matter what your lot is in life, if you do your best and be your best and that will elevate you and make you nobility. I want to have that kind of decency.

During the service, the choir sang, "The Shepherd Will Supply My Need," a beautiful song. I want to post the lyrics to it because it so well represents the kind of person Elder Wirthlin was and the faith he had.

My Shepherd will supply my need:
Jehovah is His Name;
In pastures fresh He makes me feed,
Beside the living stream.
He brings my wandering spirit back
When I forsake His ways,
And leads me, for His mercy’s sake,
In paths of truth and grace.

When I walk through the shades of death
His presence is my stay;
One word of His supporting grace
Drives all my fears away.
His hand, in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my table spread;
My cup with blessings overflows,
His oil anoints my head.

The sure provisions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be my abode,
And all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest,
While others go and come;
No more a stranger, nor a guest,
But like a child at home.