For no other reason than how good it is to hear, this is Aslan’s theme music from the BBC’s 1988 Chronicles of Narnia. It’s short, but it never fails to move me. And these movies were the last Christmas present I got from my father before he died. I have many reasons to treasure them.
Performed by the Philharmonia Orchestra.
I can never hear this beloved, old-fashioned hymn without thinking of my Uncle Bernie, a wonderful, big-hearted man who late in life finally achieved his dream of being ordained as a minister in the Methodist Church. This hymn was one of his favorites–Shall We Gather at the River, sung by Burl Ives.
Sorry I’m late–wanted to get my bike ride in before it rained.
I would’ve thought doubling the dose of her medicine would have made her even sicker–just goes to show you what I know.
Our poor little bag of bones is now eating heartily–I pray she’ll put some weight back on–and yesterday unloaded a fine big poo. Not to gross you out, but it had been some days since she’d pooed at all, and we were getting a bit concerned about it. She must’ve been happy: she ran all around the living room when she was done.
As of now, she’s not acting like a sick cat. I think God has heard our prayers for her: thank you, Father. Thank you.
Patty and I met in Keyport, at The Bayshore Independent, in 1976. She was the bookkeeper; I was managing editor. She was captivated by my column on the inanities of Affirmative Action. For my part, she once happened to mention Ecbatana, the ancient capitol of the Medes, and I knew this was the woman for me.
One evening, early in our relationship, a bodacious storm came over Raritan Bay. She had a suggestion: “Let’s go down American Legion Drive to see the high tide.” American Legion Drive is right on top of the water. And of course, I was all for it.
Well, the tide was high, all right, and American Legion Drive was underwater. So was my car, which very quickly shorted out and wouldn’t go any farther. We had to get out and slog through the water to the police station, so I could report that my car was stuck there and please don’t give me a ticket.
My future wife was very upset, blaming herself for the whole debacle. To this day, neither of us can remember what we did after checking in with the police. “I was afraid you wouldn’t like me anymore!” she said. But you don’t give up on a woman who knows Ecbatana–and whom, by the way, your iguana likes almost as much as you do–just because your car got stuck in a flood. Anyhow, the tide receded, there was no permanent harm done to my wonderful 1970 Pontiac, and after it dried out a bit, we simply drove away.
As Agatha Christie’s Superintendent Battle often said, these things are sent to try us. And I think we passed the test.
God has given us simple pleasures to keep us sane. I don’t have space to list all the simple pleasures I enjoy, because in this respect, God has made me rich. And without spending a lot of money on it, either. But here are just a few of my favorites, which help me to avoid going off the deep end.
A sweet, sunny day, 70 or 75 degrees, my lawn chair, a nice cigar, and the book I happen to be writing at the time.
In bed with my wife, Peep the cat purring, and us with our bedtime books: Agatha Christie, Freddy the Pig, Narnia, and other favorites.
A nice game of chess by one of the old masters–Morphy, Marshall, Anderssen.
A Christmas tree.
Coasting downhill, no-handed, on my bike: makes me feel 12 years old again.
Combing Robbie, who can barely contain herself for pure pleasure.
A satisfying supper: Patty excels at creating these.
Jigsaw puzzles.
A snowy day.
And a tiger swallowtail butterfly visits our little garden…
I could go on with this all day and into the night. Thank you, Father in Heaven, for all of these and more–and for teaching me to appreciate them.
This is Robbie’s sister, Peep. She doesn’t much care for all the attention Robbie has been getting lately, and it has made her rather cross. Her behavior was so bad the other day, I started calling her Black Bart. But at the best of times she is a very nice Peep indeed.
Robbie’s famous portrait for the Old Farmer’s Almanac
All right, we got the dreaded vet call this afternoon. It wasn’t as terrible as I’d feared. Robbie’s thyroid numbers are still sky-high and we must increase the dosage of her medicine, which I pray won’t make her sick and stop her from eating. The good news is that the number is down significantly. The bad news is, it’s still way too high.
Last night and throughout this day, she’s been eating normally, with a hearty and healthy appetite–making up for lost time: she’d gone three days without eating–taking nice naps, and occasionally attacking her sister for no reason. That’s normal for them.
And so tomorrow she gets a stronger ear gel dose, which still has to be better than the asthma medicine I had to squirt up her nose for several years. This poor cat has really had her share of tough sledding–so please, friends, keep those prayers coming, and we thank you for them.
This movie was a huge hit when it came out in 1958. All over my neighborhood there were skinny little kids running around with sticks and yelling “Odin!”
We all would have loved to try this Viking oar-walking stunt, but we didn’t have enough oars for it. That’s Kirk Douglas himself doing it in the movie, so how hard could it be?
(Editor’s note: I’m posting the happy stuff now, before we get the report on Robbie’s blood work from yesterday. She ate normally last night and this morning, but you never know what dreadful thing diagnostics might uncover.)
Every now and then I encounter a comment like this: “What’s a ‘horror novelist’ doing, writing Christian commentary?” The people who make these comments seem rather ticked off that I should be writing anything at all.
Thirty years ago, I was writing horror novels and four of them got published. Lifeblood was my first–and note the tiny little letters for the author’s name. I wrote them because I’ve never wanted to be anything but a writer, all my life; I like scary stories; and horror was booming at the time. And even if I do say so myself, as Steven King knock-offs go, these were pretty good.
But it was thirty years ago, and it would be a sad thing if I never grew and matured spiritually in all those years. Obviously I don’t write that kind of book anymore. I doubt I could, even if I wanted to.
So, because I used to write such books decades ago, that disqualifies me from ever writing anything else? Is it like an armed robbery conviction and prison term suddenly appearing in the resume of a political candidate? Some folks out there seem to think so. But I think this phase of my writing career was a door that I had to pass through to get to where I am today.
I once wrote for the glory of me. Now I write, I hope, for the glory of God.
Robbie Update: They gave her a shot to subdue her nausea, and since we came home this morning, Robbie has already eaten more than she has in the last two days put together. Not a lot, but enough to give us some encouragement. Please, Lord, in Jesus’ name, make this turn out right! Amen.
And now this old horror novelist is about finished for the afternoon.
They gave Robbie an injection to subdue her nausea, and hopefully she will start eating again. She has lost another pound, which she can ill afford to lose. More blood work, more diagnostics to come. And of course, now that Robbie and I are home, Peep is being a total hissing, growling idiot.
I almost got lost on my way there, because once again they’ve changed the scenery. This time, at the corner where I make a turn, they’ve torn down and erased some big, gracious, country-style homes that had been there all my life and replaced them with shallapas that look just like all the other shallapas: I don’t know how they get them built so fast.
I am so tired of them always changing the scenery. It’s never replaced by something nicer. Could we have the uniquely beautiful houses back, please, and get rid of the cookie-cutter houses?
Please pray for our poor cat to come out of this in one piece. In Jesus’ name, amen.