Orthodox Christian, widowed in 2015; mother, grandmother. Love to read, garden, cook, write letters and a hundred other home-making activities.
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This very meditative homily on the words of St. Paul, when he wrote about faith, hope and love, I found to be truly rich and encouraging. Father Patrick Reardon points out in his sermon the strange reductions of St. Paul’s teachings that came from various Christians writing many centuries after the apostle’s letters were circulating among the churches.
In fact, it can only be theoretical to separate love from hope and faith, as St. Paul does in I Corinthians 13, for the purpose of making clear that love is preeminent; true love is not manifested without faith and hope. We also learn in this Bible lesson of another fruit of the Spirit that makes up a second triad of virtues, further fleshing out the reality of what it means to live in love. The interrelated meanings of the several words and their contexts lift one’s mind right up to the throne of God where the Three Persons live eternally in Love, a Love in which we are invited to partake.
If you are interested in further contemplation about this Love that originates in the Holy Trinity, and how it contrasts with Faust, or is described by Dante, you will want to listen to the 16-minute talk on the Ancient Faith site here: “The Supremacy of Love,” or by means of the direct MP3 file linked at top.
There is a place where the town ends and the fields begin. It’s not marked but the feet know it, also the heart, that is longing for refreshment and, equally, for repose.
Someday we’ll live in the sky. Meanwhile, the house of our lives is the world. The fields, the ponds, the birds. The thick black oaks — surely they are the children of God. The feistiness among the tiger lilies, the hedges of runaway honeysuckle, that no one owns.
What Dorothy Parker describes in her poem below reminds me of what C.S. Lewis called sehnsucht, the heart’s longing, seemingly for its home – in God. These episodes often happen at moments when we experience something very good or beautiful, and realize deep in ourselves that it doesn’t quite satisfy, but only reveals our homesickness.
In The Weight of Glory Lewis describes this aching in our heart:
“In speaking of this desire for our own far off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence….
“We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering.
“…These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never visited.”
Peder Monsted
TEMPS PERDU
I never may turn the loop of a road Where sudden, ahead, the sea is lying, But my heart drags down with an ancient load– My heart, that a second before was flying.
I never behold the quivering rain– And sweeter the rain than a lover to me– But my heart is wild in my breast with pain; My heart, that was tapping contentedly.
There’s never a rose spreads new at my door Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night But I know I have known its beauty before, And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.
The look of a laurel tree birthed for May Or a sycamore bared for a new November Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day– What is it, what is it, I almost remember?
By the time the book was ready to pick up at the library, I’d forgotten that I’d ever put it on hold; there must have been a good reason for me to look beyond the hugely generic title of Flour. Probably it was back before Christmas when I was still looking ahead, to Christmas baking, whereas now I’ve moved on.
Normally I am more drawn to provocative titles like Samarkand or Bravetart, two other cookbooks on my shelf at present, though I also have had plainer in my possession, such as The Onion Book, and Salt and Pepper — or was it Pepper and Salt? I gave that one away. The Moosewood Cookbook from my youth comes to mind, named after a restaurant, and Mollie Katzen followed it up with The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. I guess she had a knack for evocative names!
Before I leave the subject of Katzen, I have to tell you that one of her own three favorite cookbooks has an ambitious title: Honey from a Weed: Fasting and Feasting in Tuscany, Catalonia, the Cyclades, and Apulia, by Patience Gray. I definitely need to check my library to see if I can borrow that one; it has several words that arouse my imagination. Katzen’s latest published work has the lovely title, The Heart of the Plate ❤️
I did bring Flour home, and leafed through its pages a bit. It turns out that the word is in this case a reference to a very specific thing, and place, the Flour Bakery that the author Joanne Chang owns in Boston. Chang graduated from Harvard with honors, and degrees in math and economics, and also studied astrophysics. But even while she was in college she was selling cookies to her classmates.
today’s flour
All these facts make me start wondering about different personalities and how they use language; I’m fairly certain no one whose mind works like mine would ever come up with such a name for a bakery or anything. Her more recent book is titled Flour, Too, which is even more puzzling. In spite of all this distracting analysis, a recipe for Deep Dark Spicy Gingerbread caught my eye, and I decided to make it to serve after my house blessing that was today.
It’s not as though I needed another gingerbread recipe. If you are fond this kind of cake you might explore the other versions I’ve written about here over the years, like the vegan Gingerbread Pear Bundt Cake and Wheatless Gingerbread; I’ve made chocolate chip gingerbread many times but evidently never shared it here.
For the house blessing, we began our prayer downstairs, not far from where I had displayed the air clay owl that my granddaughter Ivy made for me last year. This year someone made a clay sloth for me. Not long ago I was also given a sloth tree ornament. Is there something about me that makes the family think of sloths? Now the sloth has joined the owl, and what they mean together, I am still pondering.
Knowing while sleeping last night that I would bake a cake in the morning, attend my friend Gwen’s house blessing, and drive back here for my own — all that made me wake up earlier than ever, and I had the cake in the oven before 8 o’clock! I was not channeling my sloth friend today.
The cake was not that special. I think it had too much butter — a full cup for a 9×13 cake — which bogged it down; the gluten-free flour probably contributed to its heaviness, and it included a whole 12 oz jar of molasses. It was not as spicy as I expected considering the fresh ginger and lots of black pepper that went into it. If I make it again I will use half the butter, and more egg. And maybe try another sort of flour.
But it was easy to eat
with a dollop of whipped cream on top,
and I sent a big chunk home with my priest,
because it was his birthday.
“In speaking of this desire for our own far off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence…. 
Gladsome Lights 