B.D. and F.D.

Waterless Mountain by Laura Adams Armer
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

As I took the plunge into complete absorption into this long-ago Newbery winner I set aside my Darwinian world view and stepped into my magical world view.

What do I mean by this? In addition to the two time constructs "B.C." (or B.C.E. if you prefer) and "A.D." there is also B.D. (Before Darwin) and F.D. (Following Darwin). A quick google search coughed up this description: Remember that in 1850 virtually all leading scientists and philosophers were Christian men. The world they inhabited had been created by God, and as the natural theologians claimed, He had instituted wise laws that brought about the perfect adaptation of all organisms to one another and to their environment. At the same time, the architects of the scientific revolution had constructed a worldview based on physicalism (a reduction to spatiotemporal things or events or their properties), teleology, determinism and other basic principles. Such was the thinking of Western man prior to the 1859 publication of On the Origin of Species. The basic principles proposed by Darwin would stand in total conflict with these prevailing ideas. https://www.scientificamerican.com/ar...

What we are mostly unaware of today is that Darwinism is the salt in our stew. We do not taste it or see it or feel it or sense it in any way, yet it seasons everything we process. We judge former generations by it. We judge other cultures by it. It elevates us to what we consider a higher moral state of being. It liberates us, we think. Or we don't think. It is just there, within us, about us, and becomes in a way what we are all about.

That is why a book like this is so important, but only if we can objectively see outside of what we have become to what we once may have been and not cast judgement, not harbour ridicule, and open ourselves to something that first appears simple but in reality is complex beyond our ability to comprehend.

Only then can you come to appreciate Younger Brother's journey, observations, musings and perhaps absorb an intangible something that our current frenetic world obscures. It is something like driving along in a car across Younger Brother's landscape and being relieved of the blur of the posts and weeds along the road's shoulder to the magnificent geological structures on the horizon. Hold on, perhaps it's more like stopping time and really seeing and learning from those simple weeds within our grasp that have become nothing but a blur. Ha!


View all my reviews

Remembering Grandpa Williams -- by Jasmine

My grandfather requested that I speak at his funeral. I am honored and overwhelmed by this request. I do not know that I have the words to express who my grandfather was, but I shall endeavor to do my best.

My grandfather was the smartest man I have ever known.  He loved learning and pursued it throughout his entire life.  He was a quiet genius who knew his high school locker combination even until his old age.  His memory was keen, and his mind was always active. He was quiet about it--never bragging, never boasting of how smart he was, but always feeding his mind.  He kept an active tally of how many trick-or-treaters came each year; played games that are mentally stimulating -- like sudoku, crossword puzzles, and even jigsaw puzzles.  He read voraciously and loved to study a variety of topics but most especially books on the Bible.  He had a love of Christ and a love of the Bible -- both Old and New Testament stories were topics of great study for him.  His favorite was the story of the Prodigal Son.

He was the youngest of four boys born to Elsie Laura Ellen Talbot Williams and John George Williams.  He was born just after his twin brother on January 6th, 1922.  He would talk fondly of his memories of growing up -- of how he wore his hair one way and his twin wore his hair the other way and if they wanted to trick their teacher or another person they would part their hair opposite of normal and pull bangs forward or brush it back and nobody noticed the tan line from having bangs.  He talked about how he would steal grapes on the way home from school from a vine owned by a bank and how he would always take more grapes than he could eat.  I remember that he also grew grapes -- the green ones, both at his house in Colorado and in Provo.  And one time when I visited I overate grapes and got sick and he told me that you could have too much of a good thing but grapes were one of his weaknesses as well.

He also taught me about perseverance and deciding to be better and working towards it.  He told me of how when he was in school he was terrible at baseball, but he nailed a bucket to the side of the barn and would practice throwing the ball into the bucket until he could get it into the bucket often.  Though he never made it onto a national baseball team his love of baseball continued throughout his life.  He wore his (Oakland) A's cap frequently.  He knew stats of baseball players and games and followed them in his quiet pursuit of all his interests.  He followed horse racing with grandmamma.  He followed the news, and I heard that he had done so even in his younger days -- so much so that his own father would ask his advice on how to vote as he knew that my grandfather would have studied the issues thoroughly.

He loved listening to music -- both classical and folk.  Often I would visit and he would be listening to records, cd's, or even just using his t.v. as a radio playing classical music.  His appreciation of music and love of it was gained by each of his daughters, and he would attend concerts whenever he could.

In fact, he was a man who appreciated all the arts -- literature, poetry especially.  He wrote several poems himself, the most notable was one about a lighthouse, and then the lighthouse motif was a way of celebrating him.  He was himself like a lighthouse -- a beacon among the storms of life.

He was a rock himself.  Not very cuddly, and some might see him as stern.  But he was solid and firm, which in its own way is comforting.  He was a man who you learned to love  A man of greatness.  A man you respected.  A man with chiseled features.  He could have been a movie star.  He had the looks for it -- a mix of Charleton Heston and Gregory Peck.  But fame never called to him.

He pursued a career in soils science -- something that allowed him to be outdoors, something that allowed him the "thrill of discovery' as he figured out how soil was different and measure it and quantified how different soil was.  He had gone to Brigham Young University to learn this science.  It was there he met my grandmamma, the love of his life.

He met her at a dance and asked if he could 'stand under the light of her florescent-lighted watch'.  Many years later I got a pair of high heels for Christmas and grandmamma tried them on and he remarked how she still had the best ankles in the world.  He loved my grandmamma Arlene.  I could tell how much pleasure he got just from holding her hand.  She was his queen and the light of his life.  He was overjoyed every time she returned after her travels.  He was a rock and she was the wind.  They belonged together, and it was still okay every time they were apart.

He lived by the motto "Do the duty that lies nearest you and already the rest will seem clear". And "Fight the war from here".  And he passed that on to me and my family and it is a strength to rely on.  So when things seem overwhelming or you are struggling with any challenge large or small you look around and do the duty that lies nearest you.  It is about moving on, regardless.  It was this strength, this thought that carried me through the news of his death.  I knew he was old.  I knew that his time was coming to a close.  I loved my grandfather, and so finding out that he was dead was a hard blow.  I think that it was hard for all of us.  But instead of being immobilized by grief I drew upon his strength of character.  I found the strength to walk the dog; to reach out to my sister Julia and help her through this as well.

He and grandmamma had lived with my family for a few months in Springville, and then had come over frequently while living in Provo.  So he became our home-school-guest-tutor-of-honor.  He played chess and studied the middle ages with my sister Laura.  He took my sister Margret to her music lessons and instilled a love of music in her and helped train her ear for music.  With Trina he studied math and Ancient Egypt.  With Lark art was the main topic as he helped her to know the different artists.  Speaking of art he always gave us art supplies for Christmas and took the time to record shows of how to paint and gave them to our family.  He told Lark at one time to do the art that is inside of you.  For Julia he was the adult who was there when both my parents were at work.  He always shared his lunch with her, from sandwiches on rye bread to her all-time-favorite birthday present of a banana when she was two years old (which she carried around and cradled like it was a doll that entire day).  With Julia he shared his love of nature and puzzles.  His bond with Julia was a treasure she will always have.  I was glad I was able to be with her when we found out that he was gone.  He has a special place in all of our hearts.

He encouraged us to be who we were -- to follow our own paths and passions.  For me it was the theatre.
He came with us as support when we auditioned for "Our Town" and auditioned himself and got a part in the play.  He was in a few more productions.  I ran the light board for the production of "Arsenic and Old Lace" that he was in.  He also took me to see shows and even a few concerts.

He always appreciated  beauty, from nature to the little things in life.

I remember how he would kiss me on the ear.  It was strange and slightly prickly.  But I knew that he loved me.  Thinking of him helps me to realize that life is glorious and can be lived to the fullest in a quiet manner  You can be an athlete in high school, a radio technician in the navy, a boy in college who finds the love of his life, a soils scientist, the son of a farmer, a life-long learner, a patron of the arts, a father, a grandfather, a friend, a person of great importance to everyone who knows him.  He was a man who looked at life and lived it.  He enjoyed the beauty of the simple and complex.  He truly treasured every moment spent with hose he loved -- grandmamma (his wife Arlene), his daughters (Vivian, Gwenda, Velinda, Dawna, Natasha, and Tara), his grandchildren, his great grandchildren, the members of his church, and friends throughout his life (including those at The Seville where he spent his final days).

He was himself a lighthouse to me.  And even though he is gone it is up to us to pick up the torch and carry on.  "Do the duty that lies nearest you and already the rest will seem clear."  Thank you.  Thank you, Leslie Warren Williams.  Thank you for your light, your guidance, your strength, your example.  Thank you for your love.  Thank you for the time we were each able to spend with you.  We love you.  We will miss you terribly.  God be with you til we meet again.  We love you.  Farewell.

A Letter to My Father, age 91

So, though the post was begun on the propitious date of 11/11/11 (couldn't resist making a beginning!) the following letter was actually written on Saturday September 7, 2013. Time, indeed, does fly!

 Dear Daddy,

 Yesterday Jasmine and Julia walked the dog all the way to my work so we could all walk home together. The sky was somewhat overcast so it was quite comfortable being outdoors of an evening. On the walk Jasmine wondered aloud about reforming education. Julia and I joined in with our bits. 

Eventually we came around to how we home-schooled and that brought us to how you raised me. You always demonstrated that you weren't finished learning. It is significant that a child somehow knows that finishing school is not the end of learning. That is not to say that we're 'students in the school of hard knocks', as is everyone. It is more to the point that curiosity is not snuffed out. So you kept reading and organizing the articles and snippets of thought into your notebooks. Anyway, for your children it was background that we didn't particularly notice or pay attention to but it was there -- like wallpaper -- adding color and pattern and texture to our minds.

 And you read aloud to us. You took us to concerts. You took us out for ice-cream after the cultural events to draw out our thoughts. You showed us that we had thoughts which you respected. No doubt, you shared your thoughts as well. You helped us, or gave us opportunity and coaching to articulate these thoughts. You helped us play with our creativity with games such as "squiggles." Our "home evening" lessons featured your showing us how to "frame" our vision, our thoughts. You talked about "the pentagonal man" -- lessons that have stayed with us to share with our own families and to add dimension to our lives. Between you and Uncle Wes, we got a good grasp of the classics -- through children's versions of "The Canterbury Tales", "The Iliad", "The Odyssey" and recordings of "Alice in Wonderland" and other tales. You shared a love of poetry, classical music, and of other cultures.

 Recently I watched a film about a pediatric neurosurgeon named Ben Carson, based on his autobiography titled "Gifted Hands". He was the second of two children born to a teenage mother who soon learned that her husband already had a wife and children. A divorce was necessary and she was left to support her two sons by working as a domestic, having only a third-grade education herself.

 She noticed that her employers spent less time watching television and more time reading books. So she limited her sons to two shows a week and required them to read two books a week from the library and submit written reports to her. Her sons never guessed that she herself could not read, as she marked up their reports with red ink. Ben had done very poorly in school and was convinced he was "stupid". She assured him he was very smart. Eventually his marks improved, so much so that he graduated from grammar school with top marks. One teacher used this as an opportunity to berate his more privileged white classmates. Following this public humiliation of her son, Ben's mother moved her household and enrolled her sons in an all-black school. What she did not anticipate was that now Ben's desire was to "fit in" socially and he soon lost interest in his studies. However, "the damage" was done -- he could not take out of himself all he had previously worked so hard to acquire and this set him apart.

Back to me, Jasmine, and Julia on our walk -- talking about education and upbringing now. I postulated that the education one receives at home can have the effect of separating one from one's peers. In a way, this can serve as a protection of sorts. A protection from what I can't exactly say, but there you are -- different. It isn't until much later that you come to realize it is "different" in a good way.

I concluded, after all this, that I am not going to worry about my children or grandchildren or great grandchildren because I'll know they are in good hands. Somewhere along the way someone began a process of pursuing a classical education as a lifelong avocation, and this has passed into a personal legacy and a family culture. It is my hope that this legacy will remain in good hands and be put to good use, responsibly and honorably. I think it will, so long as there is a trust in Jesus Christ and God, with full accountability to them and gratitude and glory given accordingly. With much love and thanks to you, your daughter.

No Life for a Lady by Agnes Morley Cleaveland

No Life for a Lady by Agnes Morley Cleaveland
This autobiography of life on a New Mexico cattle spread during the years 1880 to 1940 was fascinating.

It was filled with incredible adventures and sprinkled with insights that could apply to today's cultural and political landscape. Along the way origins of idioms still in use today came to light. The author would have been a contemporary of my grandmother (although in different states). I wondered what my grandmother's story would have been, had she written it down.
She recounts her life in some forty or so engaging episodes. I read a chapter (sometimes more) every night for a month.
A few passages follow:
In her chapter titled "A Fatherless Swiss Family Robinson" on pages 38 - 39 she writes,

"In addition to the outlaws, we had another uncertain neighbor-- the Indian. If anyone imagines that the early settlers, by maintaining a proper attitude, could have lived in amity with the Indians, let him consider how little amity existed between the various Indian tribes themselves. From time immemorial, American Indians had lived by raiding, whether of the natural bounty of the land or the garnered resources of their neighbors. The net result at the end of thousands of years was that this continent, possessed perhaps of the greatest natural resources in the world, bore a population of less than a hundredth part of what exists upon it today, and this hundredth part lived precariously and in a state of perpetual terror. Ruthless and predatory Anglo-Saxons did not burst into a redman's Garden of Eden and wrest it from him. When all sentimentality about the fate of the American Indian has been cleared away, the bald fact stands out that today's American Indian enjoys this blessing at least; he need no longer fear his redskin brother's savage cruelties."
(It is up to today's reader to determine whether the author's bias or experience is justified regarding the environment, human rights, and progress. However, viewing the pageant of the American West from the heart and mind of one who lived it can help us examine our own western world views and in what direction to proceed.)
In her chapter "In Sickness and in Health", pages 146- 155 she writes,

"Perhaps the supreme instance of home remedy was the case history of Piute Charley. He appeared one day at our place, as sick a man as ever bestrode a horse, one arm in a very dirty improvised sling. An aged Mexican and his wife lived in one of our several ranch cabins and they assisted in getting the visitor, practically a stranger, onto a couch.

'I done run away from that horspital in town," he said. 'That sawbones was fixin' to cut my arm off.'

His words came with difficulty, but he went on with his tale, unapologetically.

'You see, I got drunk and lay out all night in the snow and froze one hand which I'd lost the glove of, and my hand all swole up and turned black and then my whole arm swole and I went into town to see a doc, and he said gangrene had done set in and I'd have to have my arm cut off to save my life. I don't want my arm cut off'--his tone pleaded indulgence for his unreasonableness- -'so I just went away from that horspital and got on my horse and rode out here. Thought mebbe you'd know something that would cure my arm 'thout cuttin' it off.'

Staggering proposition that was!

The old Mexican woman came to my rescue. 'I know something,' she said in her native tongue. 'I'll show you.'

Humbly I set about following her instructions. They were minute and ritualistic. We got a large onion and peeled off the outer leaves. Then taking a few of the inner succulent leaves we put them on live coals raked from the fireplace; when they were toasted to a degree of tenderness we put a pinch of Duke's Mixture (no other brand, I was assured, must be used) into each leaf, spread these leaves on a cloth, and applied them warm.

It was a long, harrowing three-weeks course of treatment. Onion, tobacco, and gangrene is a combination calculated to make a trained nurse shudder, much less an amateur. But every three hours day and night either I or the old Mexican woman toasted onion leaves, sprinkled them with Duke's Mixture, and bound them around the most repellent piece of human flesh I have ever looked at.

I dared not stop the treatment nor vary the formula. To have done so would have been to assume responsibility, and that was unthinkable! The patient at the risk of his life had run away from responsible medical help. I could not, either physically or morally, have forced him back to it. The old Mexican woman had stepped into the role from which the medical man had been cast out, and the responsibility was hers. Mine was to meticulously obey orders.

Duke's Mixture and onion leaves proved too much for gangrene. Or was it faith? Anyway, the man recovered, and when he rode away he rewarded me with a 'I shore do thank you. I thought as how you could keep me from gittin' my arm cut off.'

I never saw him again."
The chapter "Indians Played Their Part" (pages 298-307) is very interesting.

...One of the old Indians told me the story of their Big Walk.

When in the sixties the government was compelled to exert severe discipline upon the unruly Navajos who had committed a series of outrages against their peaceful neighbors, the Pueblo tribes, the Mexican settlers, as well as the pioneers from the East, and had delegated to Kit Carson the task of rounding them up and bringing them into old Fort Wingate, pending discussion of their ultimate fate, a small band, possibly two hundred men, women, and children, eluded capture.

This little band walked from some point in the vicinity of what is now Fort Defiance to their present home, near the mouth of the Alamosa Creek, a distance of possibly one hundred miles. What makes the adventure notable is the fact that they were fugitives and must draw subsistence from a country which offered little water, and a scanty supply of food. Considering they had no firearms nor pack-animals, and must carry on their backs the minimum of necessary equipment, along with the younger children, the Big Walk is an heroic contribution to the annals of people who have preferred death to loss of liberty.

That the passion for freedom still persists in them is attested by the fact that within this generation, when their case was brought to the official attention of the Indian Bureau, and that body decided they should be removed the the Reservation, the Alamosa Indians held a solemn conclave and swore to drink poison to the last man, woman, and child, before submitting, even though their purely physical well-being promised to be enhanced by the move. Uncle Sam had to give in.

When, after incredible hardship and much loss of life, the little half-starved remnant arrived at the Alamosa Creek, with its presumably steady flow of water (not very steady, it turned out to be), they must have felt that they had reached a Garden of Eden.
...
So much of what I learned from them checks with tales of other friends who have intimately known 'reservation' Indians, that I feel sure that our Alamo Indians had lost little genuine Navajo culture.

Just a story or two.

Trinkalino, one of Ray's best hands, left his young bride in one of the hogans while he was off on his work. The young woman died in premature childbirth, although the infant miraculously survived.

Now, the Navajo attitude toward death is the outgrowth of their basic belief in spirit dominance, in literal form. They hold that misfortunes are the acts of evil spirits who hover for at least three days around the scene of the disaster they have wrought, lying in wait for other victims. So the living remain as far away as possible from the dead or dying. Our little hogan community immediately withdrew (dogs included) indoors, and stillness settled down over the once bustling settlement.

We whites felt uneasy and baffled. We didn't know just what to do, so many wrong moves were possible. Of course we did send for Trinkalino. I shall never forget his arrival, his horse dripping sweat despite the cold day, nor the way he flung himself from the saddle into the blanketed doorway of the hogan in which he had left his wife.

Ray shook his head ominously. 'I wonder,' he said, for in the hogan still lay the body of the young woman.

An hour later, we noticed a small campfire several hundred yards from the Indian settlement and a blanketed figure crouched beside it.

'It looks like Trinkalino,' we said uneasily. 'Isn't there something--- -'

Ray again shook his head. 'Better let them make the overtures. They know we stand ready to help. Besides,' he went on, trying to reassure himself, I thought, 'they're Indians and they know how to take care of themselves. There's plenty of wood.' But he, too, looked unhappily at the lonely figure by the little campfire.

I did not sleep well that night and as a consequence overslept next morning---mercifully, for the white men on the place had already brought Trinkalino's frozen corpse from beside the tiny pile of ashes which bespoke a dead campfire, a fire he had not once replenished after we saw it, and had laid his body beside that of his young wife. Later we buried both, after one of the old Indians had emerged from the still hogans and requested it. But he gave no explanation of what had happened. Was it deliberate suicide from grief, or was it the execution of sentence passed by the tribe for his having gone into the presence of death and himself thereby become accursed? We could not know. Trinkalino's hogan was immediately torn down." (several other fascinating accounts follow).
The chapter "On to Pie Town" (pages 331- 339) tells of the demise of the big ranches in the face of the "Stock Raising Act". On one occassion she approached a would-be homesteader.

"An intelligent-appearing man came into the Lodge asking directions, as so many did. Through a window I could see his family in their battered car with its trailerload of home equipment. There were half a dozen bright-looking children, and a wife for whom he need not apologize.

'Do you know anything of the conditions you are facing?' I asked after I had paved the way by a few banalities. A perceptible hardness replaced the friendly light in his eyes. Undeterred, I hurried on. I mentioned the seasonal rainfall, the distance from market, the acreage per cow support. I told him the simple truth. He let me finish my say and then he had his. He knew me and my kind! He knew my type of pampered female who had lived on the fruits of other people's labors and had now stationed herself at the gateway of a new Eden to prevent the honest toiler from entering and sharing its opportunities! It was time, he told me with blazing eyes, and an almost hysterical ring in his voice, that we 'cattle barons' were brought to our knees, and it afforded him no end of satisfaction to tell this Jezebel of the species just what a she-devil she was! Then he slammed the door behind him.
...

The burden of supporting the homesteader continued to fall in no small measure upon ... the few established cattlemen who, never considering the possibility of outside aid, had weathered a good many depressions by tightening their own belts and putting in longer hours in the saddle. It was their wells which supplied the homesteaders with water (barrels and barrels hauled away by the wagonload for household use and maybe a milch cow or two); it was their beef, butchered surreptitiously, which supplied meat; it was their taxes which maintained the schools."
And so, in the end, the so-called Cattle Barrons met the same fate as the native residents they themselves dissplaced. Forced from their land and livlihood, their way of life supporting barely two generations, they spent the remainder of their lives despirited and purposeless, with only their memories.
What folk wisdom has been lost with the passing of that and ensueing generations? A few precious fragments have been captured by the pen, published, and found a readership. We see by Agnes's account how prone we tend to be to misunderstand the experience and motives of others.

Epaminondas and The Fourth Turning

stay tuned (at this point I'll need to re-read the book to formulate my thoughts).

A Daily Dose of Proverbs

I recently took on an eleven-day challenge to follow a prescribed nutrition regime, exercize twenty minutes a day, connect daily with one or more others on my team, get seven hours of sleep, drink three litres of water daily, give up one bad habit, and take on one good habit.  It was great. 

My exercise consisted of walking home from work and using a dance-mat to follow coreographed steps on a screen.  The discipline was good for me.  I felt healthy, vibrant, and alive-- all this in the middle of winter! 

The habit I gave up was watching movies every night and the habit I took on was reading two books of Proverbs daily, preferably in the morning before work.  I discovered that reading Proverbs, for me, was tedious.  Very.

To make the reading more interesting to me I began looking for patterns.  I noticed that most verses said the same thing twice, with some variation.  I am told this is called in literary terms "chiasmus".

Here is an example:  Proverbs 2: 11 "Discretion shall preserve thee,
                                                        Understanding shall keep thee:"

I appreciated some insights from my aging father on some of the passages.  He remarked that Proverbs 2:16, which reads, "To deliver thee from the strange woman, even from the stranger which flattereth with her words;" referred to falseness and that flattery is the "hard way disguised as the easy way".

I well remember my first encounter with the "hard way versus the easy way" concept.  I had taken my second daughter, then age eight, to the eye doctor for the first time.  This particular child was famous in our household for refusing to imbibe prescribed medications.  My husband and I typically teamed up to hold her arms (one of us) and administer the dose (the other of us).  It could grow to wrestling match proportions.  So here we were at the pediatric opthamologist's office needing to apply eye-drops to dilate her pupils.  I generously offered my assistance.  To my chagrin, the doctor asked me to leave the room.  I was border-line mortified.  To my surprise he too stepped out of the room in less than a minute, smiling and unruffled, and the job was done.  There was no squalling and thrashing about.  There were no artificial restraints applied.  How did he accomplish this, I wanted to know.  He said, "It was simple.  I asked her if she would like to do this the hard way or the easy way.  She chose the easy way."

This changed everything at our house.  Now we knew the secret incantation.  "Do you want to do this the hard way or the easy way?"  We found that our children were very motivated by the opportunity to be in charge of their own choices.  When it was bedtime they could do it "the hard way" (be carried to bed and dressed in p.j.'s by us), or "the easy way" (go by themselves and get themselves ready for bed).  When it was time to get dressed in the morning they could choose "the hard way" (we chose the clothes and set the pace), or "the easy way" (they chose).  This amazing trick could be manipulated to work in almost every instance.

Proverbs 4:7 intones that, "Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding."  The process of gaining parenting wisdom is circuitous and serendipitous.  It's as if we're alsways spinning the radio tuner to catch the channel or sound bite that will be helpful with a particular child and your own or your husband's particular nature, seeing as how we didn't come with instruction books.  Or did we?  We have the scriptures, classic literature, the gift and guidance of the Holy Ghost, and the insights and experience of family, friends, and professionals.  I like to think of the Gift of the Holy Ghost as my "tuning fork" to that which I need to learn.

Speaking of instructions, in Proverbs 6:16-19 are found, "These six things doth the LORD hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, an heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, a false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.

I have heard learning described as occuring in four phases-- the first being the "core phase" wherein is learned right vs. wrong, good vs. bad, and so forth.  The early years of childhood afford opportunities to encounter and identify these seven traits and learn why and how to avoid them and acquire self-control.  All other learning is dangerous in the hands and lives of those who have not chosen to take the Lord's word and honor his loving and righteous desires for us, His children. 

May we be examples for good in the lives of our children, our neigbors, our associates.  May we learn wisdom.  May we choose the better path.  May we take the "easy way" of responsible choice and self-control.  May our tuning fork be ever receptive to the Holy Ghost.  May we quickly repent of actions the Lord finds abominable. 

How fitting that the Book of Proverbs ends with what my young adult daughter calls her "Power Scripture".  She finds strength and inspiration reading Proverbs 31:10-31, "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies."  Notice the description of her character.  Notice her desires and actions.

"The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.  She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.  She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.  She is like the merchants' ships; she bringeth her food from afar.  She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.  She considereth a field, and buyeth it: with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.  She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms.  She perceiveth that her merchandise is good: her candle goeth not out by night.  She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff.  She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forh her hands to the needy.  She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household are clothed with scarlet.  She maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple.  Her husband is known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders of the land.  She maketh fine linen, and selleth it; and delivereth girdles unto the merchant.  Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.  She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.  She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.  Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.  Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.  Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.  Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates."

My personal Power Proverb is Proverbs 3:5, "Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths"  So let it be said, so let it be done.

Joseph's Story

If Joseph's story as presented in the first two chapters of the Gospel of St. Matthew were to be diagramed in the Grand Argument Storymind model, how would it look?

We will need to identify four journeys, or points of view.  These can be described as the Objective Journey, the Main Character Journey, the Impact Character Journey, and the Subjective Character Journey.

We will need to identify the drivers of the story and the passengers of the story.  The drivers make the story happen.  The story wouldn't exist without the drivers.  The passengers can be described as the skeptic (questions, doubts), reason (needs or provides quantifiable answers), emotion (goes by feelings), and the sidekick (often the comic relief but more importantly the bearer of hope, belief, and faith).

We will need to identify the protagonist (or hero), the contagonist (the manipulator), the guardian (the protector--who is always weak), and the antagonist (or bad guy).

Finally, we will need to plug all these into the Mythological Cycle of the Journey Story.  The cycles are as follows...

1. The hero crosses a threshold--a point of no return.  Identify the threshold moment.
2. A helper comes -- there is a call to adventure.
3. A prize is gained -- this could be change or growth of the hero.
4. The hero crosses a threshold return.  The real story is not over yet.  This is where the prize becomes useful.
5. There is a return to the world, or what has become of the world in the hero's absense.
6. There is another prize gained.
7. A helper, or helpers, appear again.
8. There are tests.

As I am no expert on any of these points there is ample room for disagreement on any or all of my suggestions.

Let us say that the birth of Jesus is the Objective Journey.  The story would not exist without this event.  This event is what made everything in Matthew 1 & 2 happen.  Now the question is who is the Main Character and who is the Impact Character in this account?  If it is indeed Joseph's story, then wouldn't Joseph be the main character?  It is Joseph's choice that allows Mary to live and give birth.  It is Joseph's choice that provides a tribal lineage for Jesus.  It is Joseph's choice that provides a nuclear family for Jesus to be brought up in.  It is Joseph's choice that took them to Bethlehem.  It is to Joseph that the angel appeared in this telling of the birth of Jesus. 

If Joseph is the main character then Mary would be the impact character.  It was Joseph who allowed her to live, give birth, make the journey, etc. 

If we are seeing the story objectively through Joseph's point of view we are outside the story.  The Subjective Character Journey would put us inside the story.  We would see as they saw, feel as they felt, etc.  The subjective character journey then is the story of Joseph and Mary together.

There is no mention in Matthew 1 & 2 of Caesar's decree or a journey to Bethlehem to be a part of a census or to be taxed.  There is mention of King Herod and his concern of a popular or prophetic challenge to his right to the throne.  I am going to identify Herod as the story's driver.

Now to address the various passengers and their roles.  Joseph, I will say, is the skeptic.  His lawfully betrothed was found to be expecting a child and he knew he was not the father.  For him to believe her claim of a virgin conception would require a leap of faith beyond all reason.  Nothing less than a visitation by an angel could dispell his doubts.  Later he receives warning after warning and instruction followed by instruction to protect and provide for the infant Jesus.  Yes, Joseph would be the skeptic.

The reasonable characters in this story would be the chief priests, the scribes and the wisemen whose search of scripture and knowledge of prophecies lent legitamacy to both Mary's claim and Herod's irrational fear of a supposed newborn King of the Jews.

The emotional character would be Mary.  Afterall, it was she who would have died without Joseph's mercy towards her.  It was she who would have born an illegitimate child and thus suffered life-long disgrace.  It was she who was the one who stood to suffer the most in travel and travail.  It was she who was dependent on the intervention of angels at each turn of the tale.

The sidekick character, the one who remains ever hopeful, ever believing, ever faithful would be the angel who appears repeatedly to give witness, instruction, and comfort.

The protagonist, or hero, is Joseph in this particular account.  The antagonist is Herod and Herod's son   Archelaus--definitely the bad guys.  Then who would be the contagonist and who would be the guardian?  Is the angel the manipulator or is the angel the protector?  The protector is always weak.  The angel is weak in that he is only a messenger.  He can take no action.  But the angel is also the one who manipulates Joseph to make choices that have no grounding in reason.  I will say that the wise men from the east are the guardians.  The are weak for a number of reasons.  They were ignorant of Herod's own ignorance and of Herod's plot to destroy the very person they have come so far to homage.  They are weak because their only recourse to protect the infant is to leave secretly by another route.  They protect by bringing another witness as to the veracity of Mary's claim and the angel's proclamation.  They protect by providing valuable goods with which the destitute couple can barter to provide a living as long as would be needed til they could provide for themselves.  This leaves the angel as the contagonist or manipulator.

Can two chapters comprised of a mere forty-eight verses or sentences by diagramed in the mythological cycle of the Journey Story?  Let's try.

Where would Joseph have crossed the threshold or point of no return?  This account begins with Joseph, describing himself as a just man and therefore not willing to make of Mary a public example for being found with child, being of a mind to put her away privily.  This would have been the orthodox or accepted thing to do.  There would have been no shame for Joseph and no physical injury to Mary.  Their lives would have proceeded according to custom -- injured of heart and reputation but without permanent repercussion other than Mary being forever dependent on her parents or becoming a beggar and her child forever a bastard outcast of society.  I would say that Joseph crossed the threshold when he took Mary to wife as he was  instructed to do in a dream.  He crossed the threshold when he believed the words of the angel which confirmed Mary's claim that the child in her was conceived of the Holy Ghost.  He crossed the threshold when he accepted the counsel to name the baby Jesus, which means "he shall save his people from their sins."  What exactly Joseph thought that to mean is not given here -- whether this would be a physical or a spiritual redemption or both.  The only explanation given here is that it was a fulfillment of a prophesy recorded in the book of Isaiah in the fourteenth verse of the seventh chapter.

The call to adventure is given by the angel  in a dream to Joseph, telling him to arise and flee into Egypt.  The help came from the wise men who unwittingly provided the where-with-all to make the journey.  They might have heard from travelers of Herod's merciless strike at the innocents of Bethlehem and all the surrounding coasts.  The prize Joseph gained would have been their very lives.  The prize Joseph gained might have been the faith he gained from being sustained during the flight and subsequent days of political refuge.  The prize might have been Mary's growing confidence in his ability to recieve and follow personal revelation which blessed her, the child, and the family with safety.  They learned to believe and trust in the providence of their God.

The Threshold Return experience would then be when they returned to the land of Israel.  His attainment of the prize might have been his patience in awaiting further direction from God.  The help that he again received would be the angelic message in a dream to "take the young child and his mother, and go into the land of Israel: for they are dead which sought the young child's life."  After doing so Joseph was again helped by heavenly messenger as to his choice of location -- "he turned aside into the parts of Galilee".   All along these were tests to Joseph's faithfulnees, submissiveness, and mercy.

Wow!  Joseph's story does indeed fit the Mythological Cycle of the Journey Story as described in the Storymind model.  Amazing.