When the pandemic shut our doors, we found a window. And it’s open for business!
For thirty-seven years, the Cathedral Bookstore has been a welcoming corner of Latham Hall, a place to see friends on Sundays, and a resource for the literary needs of parishioners and downtowners. When the pandemic led the Cathedral to move to on-line worship and forced Treebeards to shutter, the Bookstore had to do some quick adjusting, too.
We began exploring new service options, starting with delivering books to homes. It was a great way to see people when we were feeling isolated, but we soon learned that Cathedral parishioners come from all over Greater Houston’s 9,444 square miles, (that’s larger than New Jersey)—and some from even further. Hand delivery was not sustainable for all the books people needed. Over the summer, we expanded our website, explored drop-ship options with our vendors, and set up direct invoicing. We’re getting to be very familiar with the kind folks at the local USPS. We still deliver by hand when that’s the best way to get the job done, and since the Cathedral offices opened, we provide lobby pick-up Monday through Friday. It was quite a summer, but readers need to read, and we had to find ways to get them their books.
We’re grateful to all the supportive booklovers who continued to order from us when supply chains were slow, and we weren’t just sure just when books might arrive. We’re thankful for all the recommendations of great titles that customers have shared with us. And we so appreciate the customers who have sent us their book club lists and said please order all of these for me. All of these purchases directly support the operating fund of the Cathedral, so buying a book from the Bookstore provides manifold blessings!
We can’t wait for the day when we’ll be able to open our doors and welcome everyone back for cookies, puzzles, and browsing. In the meantime, look on our website, Facebook, and Instagram for information on new titles, books for Cathedral programs, and other items of interest.
We continue to expand the website as fast as we can, but with the hundreds of books and gifts we carry, and the untold number that are available, we’ll never be able to list everything. Whether we meet in person or on-line, our goal is to provide you all the books and gifts you need, delivered with love, so don’t hesitate to let us know how we can be of service.
This Louisa May Alcott story was first published in 1882. It tells of an unusual Thanksgiving that was very nearly ruined by the threat of ill health and the inability to gather in normal ways. It is indeed thoroughly old-fashioned, but we hope you might enjoy reading it with a cup of tea over this unusual Thanksgiving so many years later. We are thankful for your interest in the Cathedral Bookstore, and we wish you good health and happy reading!
Sixty years ago, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived Farmer Basset, with a houseful of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about him. They were poor in money, but rich in land and love, for the wide acres of wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed and clothed the flock, while mutual patience, affection and courage made the old farmhouse a very happy home.
November had come; the crops were in , and barn, buttery and bin were overflowing with the harvest that rewarded the summer’s hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace roared a cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands of dried apples, onions, and corn ; up aloft from the beams shone crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison, for in those days deer still haunted the dee[ forests, and hunters flourished. Savory smells were in the air; on the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers copper saucepans simmered, all suggestive of some approaching feast.
A bald-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked six other babies, now and then lifting his head to look out, like a round, full moon, then subsided to kick and crow contentedly, and such the rosy apple he had no teeth to bite. two small boys say on the wooden settle shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from the goodly store their own hands had gathered in October. Four young girls stood at the ing dresser, busily chopping meat. pounding spice, and slicing apples; and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy and Rhody went as fast as their hands. Farmer Basset and Eph, the oldest boy were “chorine’ found” outside, for Thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be in order for that time-honored day.
To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs. BAsset, flushed and floury, but busy and blith as the queen bee of this busy little hive should be.
“I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind. Thanksgiving’ dinners can’t be drove, and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all these hungry stomicks,” said the good woman, as she gave a vigorous stir to the great kettle of cider applesauce, and cast a glance of housewifery pride at the fine array of pies set forth on the buttery shelves.
Only one more day and then it will be the time to eat. I didn’t take but one bowl of hasty pudding this morning, so I shall have plenty of room when the nice things come,” confided Seth to Sol, as he cracked a large hazelnut as easily as a squirrel.
“No need of my starving’ beforehand, I always have room enough, and I”d like to have Thanksgiving every day, ” answered Solomon, glaring the like a young ogre over the little pig that lay near by, ready for roasting.
“Sakes alive, I don’t, boys! It’s a marcy it don’t come but once a year. I should be worn to a thread paper with all this extra work atop of my winder weaving’ and spinning’,” laughed their mother, as she plunged her plump arms into the long bread though and began to knead the dough as if a famine were at hand.
Tilly, the oldest girl, a red-cheeked, black-eyed lass of fourteen, was grinding briskly at the mortar, for spices were costly, and not a grain must be wasted. Prue kept time with the chopper, and the twins sliced away at the apples till their little brown arms ached, for all knew how to work, and did so now with a will.
“I think it’s real fun to have Thanksgiving at home. I’m sorry Gran’ma is sick, so we can’t go there as usual, but I like to mess ’round here, don’t you, girls?” asked Tilly, pausing to take a sniff at the spicy pestle.
“It will be kind of lonesome with only out own folks.” “I like to see all the cousins and aunts, and have games and sing.” cried the twins, who were regular little romps, and could run, swim, coast, and shout as well as their brothers.
“I don’t care a mite for all that. It will be so nice to eat dinner together, warm and comfortable at home,” said quiet Prue, who loved her own cozy nooks like a cat.
“Come, girls, fly ’round and get your chores done, so we can clear away for dinner jest as soon as I clap my bread into the oven,” called Mrs. Bassett presently, as she rounded off the last loaf of brown bread which was to feed the hungry months that seldom tasted any other.
“Here’s a man coming’ up the hill lively!””Guess its Gad Hopkins. Pa told him to bring a deaden oranges, if they warn’t too high!” shouted Sol and Seth, running to the door, while the girls smacked their lips at the thought of this rate treat, and Baby threw his apple overboard, as if getting ready for a new cargo.
But all were doomed to disappointment, for it was not Gad, with the much-desired fruit. It was a stranger, who threw himself off his horse and hurried up to Mr. Basset in the year, with some brief message that made the farmer drip his ax and look so sober that his wife guessed at once some bad news had come; and crying “Mother’s wuss” I know she is!” Out ran the good woman, forgetful of the flour on her arms and the oven waiting for its most important batch.
The man said old Mr. Chadwick, down to Keene, stopped him as he passed and told him to tell Mrs. Bassett her mother was failin’ fast, and she’d better come to day. He knew mo more, and having delivered his errand he rode away, saying it looked like snow and he must be jogging, or he wouldn’t get home till night.
“We must go right off, Eldad. Hitch up, and I’ll be ready in less’n no time,” said Mrs. Bassett, wasting not a minute in tears and lamentations but bubbling off her apron as she went in, with her head in a sad jumble of bread, anxiety, turkey, sorrow, caste, and cider applesauce.
A few words told the story, and the children left their work to help her get ready, mingling their fried for “Gran’ma” with regrets for the lost dinner.
“I’m dreadful snotty, dears, but it can’t be helped. I couldn’t cook nor eat no way now, and if that blessed woman gets better sudden, and she has before, we’ll have cause for thanksgivin’, and I’ll give you a dinner you won’t forget in a hurry,” said Mrs. Basset, as she tied on her brown sold pumpkin-hood, with a sob for the good old mother who had made it for her.
Not a child complained after that, but ran about helpfully, bringing moccasins, heating the footstool, and getting ready for a long drive, because Gran’ma lived twenty miles away, and there were not railroads in those parts to whip people to and fro like magic. by the time the old yellow sleigh was at the door, the bread was in the oven, and Mrs. Bassett was waiting, with her camlet cloak on, and the baby done up like a small bale of blankets.
“Now, Eph, you must look after the cattle like a man and keep up the fires, for there’s a storm brewin’, and neither the children nor dumb critters must suffer,” said Mr. Bassett, as he turned up the collar of his rough coat and put on his blue mittens, while the old mare shook her bells as if she preferred a trip to Keene to hauling wood all day.
“Tilly, put extra comfortables on the beds to-night, the wind is so searchin’ up chamber. Have the baked beans and Injun-puddin’ for dinner, and whatever you do, don’t let the boys get at the nice-pies, or you’ll have them down sick. I shall come back the minute I can leave Mother. Pas will come to-morrer anyway, so keep snug and be good. I de[end on you, my darter; use your judgement, and don’t let nothin’ happen while Mother’s away.”
“Yes’m, yes’m—good-bye, good-bye!” called the children, as Mrs. Bassett was packed into the sleigh and driven away, leaving a stream of directions behind her.
Eph, the sixteen-year-old boy, immediately put on his biggest boots, assumed a sober, responsible manner, and surveyed his little responsibilities with a paternal air, drolly like his father’s. Tilly tied on her mother’s bunch of keys, rolled up the sleeves of her homespun gown, and began to order about the younger girls. They soon forgot poor Granny, and found it great fun to keep house all alone, for Mother seldom left home, but ruled her family in the good old-fashioned way. There were not servants, for the little daughters wether Mrs. Bassett’s only maids, and the stout boys helped their father, all working happily together with no wages but love; learning in the best manner the use of the heads and hands with which they were to make whiter own way in the world.
The few flakes that caused the farmer to predict bad weather soon increased to a regular snowstorm, with gusts of wind, for up among the hills winder came early and lingered long. But the children were busy, gay, and warm indoors, and never minded the rising gale not the whistling white storm outside.
Tilly got them a good dinner, and when it was over, the two elder girls went to their spinning,
for in the kitchen stood the big and little wheels, and baskets of wool-rolls, ready to be twisted into yarn for the winter’s knitting, and each day brought its stint of work to the daughters, who hoped to be as thrifty as their mother.
Eph kept up a glorious fire, and superintended the small boys, who popped corn and whittled boats on the hearth; while Roxy and Rhody dressed corn-cob dolls in the settle corner, and Bose, the brindled mastiff, lay on the braided mat, luxuriously warming his old legs. Thus employed, they made a pretty picture, these rosy boys and girls, in their homespun suits, with the rustic toys or tasks which most children nowadays would find very poor or tiresome.
Tilly and Prue sang, as they stepped to and fro, drawing out the smoothly twisted threads to the musical hum of the great spinning-wheels. The little girls chattered like magpies over their dolls and the new bed-spread they were planning to make, all white dimity stars on a blue calico ground, as a Christmas present to Ma. The boys roared at Eph’s jokes, and had rough and tumble games over Bose, who didn’t mind them in the least; and so the afternoon wore pleasantly away.
At sunset the boys went out to feed the cattle, bring in heaps of wood, and lock up for the night, as the lonely farm-house seldom had visitors after dark. The girls got the simple supper of brown bread and milk, baked apples, and a doughnut all ’round as a treat. Then they sat before the fire, the sisters knitting, the brothers with books or games, for Eph loved reading, and Sol and Seth never failed to play a few games of Morris with barley corns, on the little board they had made themselves at one corner of the dresser.
“Read out a piece,” said Tilly, from Mother’s chair, where she sat in state, finishing off the sixth woolen sock she had knit that month.
“It’s the old history book, but here’s a bit you may like, since it’s about our folks,” answered Eph, turning the yellow page to look at a picture of two quaintly dressed children in some ancient castle.
“Yes, read that. I always like to hear about the Lady Matildy I was named for, and Lord Bassett, Pa’s great-great-great grandpa. He’s only a farmer now, but it’s nice to know that we were somebody two or three hundred years ago,” said Tilly, bridling and tossing her curly head as she fancied the Lady Matilda might have done.
“Don’t read the queer words, ’cause we don’t understand ’em. Tell it,” commanded Roxy, from the cradle, where she was drowsily cuddled with Rhody.
“Well, a long time ago, when Charles the First was in prison, Lord Bassett was a true friend to him,” began Eph, plunging into his story without delay. “The lord had some papers that would have hung a lot of people if the king’s enemies got hold of ’em, so when he heard one day, all of a sudden, that soldiers were at the castle-gate to carry him off, he had just time to call his girl to him and say: ‘I may be going to my death, but I won’t betray my master. There is no time to burn the papers, and I can not take them with me; they are hidden in the old leathern chair where I sit. No one knows this but you, and you must guard them till I come or send you a safe messenger to take them away. Promise me to be brave and silent, and I can go without fear.’ You see, he wasn’t afraid to die, but he was to seem a traitor. Lady Matildy promised solemnly, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when the men came in, and her father was carried away a prisoner and sent off to the Tower.”
“But she didn’t cry; she just called her brother, and sat down in that chair, with her head leaning back on those papers, like a queen, and waited while the soldiers hunted the house over for ’em: wasn’t that a smart girl?” cried Tilly, beaming with pride, for she was named for this ancestress, and knew the story by heart.
“I reckon she was scared, though, when the men came swearin’ in and asked her if she knew anything about it. The boy did his part then, for he didn’t know, and fired up and stood before his sister; and he says, says he, as bold as a lion: ‘If my lord had told us where the papers be, we would die before we would betray him. But we are children and know nothing, and it is cowardly of you to try to fright us with oaths and drawn swords!'”
As Eph quoted from the book, Seth planted himself before Tilly, with the long poker in his hand, saying, as he flourished it valiantly:
“Why didn’t the boy take his father’s sword and lay about him? I would, if any one was ha’sh to Tilly.”
“You bantam! He was only a bit of a boy, and couldn’t do anything. Sit down and hear the rest of it,” commanded Tilly, with a pat on the yellow head, and a private resolve that Seth should have the largest piece of pie at dinner next day, as reward for his chivalry.
“Well, the men went off after turning the castle out of window, but they said they should come again; so faithful Matildy was full of trouble, and hardly dared to leave the room where the chair stood. All day she sat there, and at night her sleep was so full of fear about it, that she often got up and went to see that all was safe. The servants thought the fright had hurt her wits, and let her be, but Rupert, the boy, stood by her and never was afraid of her queer ways. She was ‘a pious maid,’ the book says, and often spent the long evenings reading the Bible, with her brother by her, all alone in the great room, with no one to help her bear her secret, and no good news of her father. At last, word came that the king was dead and his friends banished out of England. Then the poor children were in a sad plight, for they had no mother, and the servants all ran away, leaving only one faithful old man to help them.”
“But the father did come?” cried Roxy, eagerly.
“You’ll see,” continued Eph, half telling, half reading.
“Matilda was sure he would, so she sat on in the big chair, guarding the papers, and no one could get her away, till one day a man came with her father’s ring and told her to give up the secret. She knew the ring, but would not tell until she had asked many questions, so as to be very sure, and while the man answered all about her father and the king, she looked at him sharply. Then she stood up and said, in a tremble, for there was something strange about the man: ‘Sir, I doubt you in spite of the ring, and I will not answer till you pull off the false beard you wear, that I may see your face and know if you are my father’s friend or foe.’ Off came the disguise, and Matilda found it was my lord himself, come to take them with him out of England. He was very proud of that faithful girl, I guess, for the old chair still stands in the castle, and the name keeps in the family, Pa says, even over here, where some of the Bassetts came along with the Pilgrims.”
“Our Tilly would have been as brave, I know, and she looks like the old picter down to Grandma’s, don’t she, Eph?” cried Prue, who admired her bold, bright sister very much.
“Well, I think you’d do the settin’ part best, Prue, you are so patient. Till would fight like a wild cat, but she can’t hold her tongue worth a cent,” answered Eph; whereat Tilly pulled his hair, and the story ended with a general frolic.
When the moon-faced clock behind the door struck nine, Tilly tucked up the children under the “extry comfortables,” and having kissed them all around, as Mother did, crept into her own nest, never minding the little drifts of snow that sifted in upon her coverlet between the shingles of the roof, nor the storm that raged without.
As if he felt the need of unusual vigilance, old Bose lay down on the mat before the door, and pussy had the warm hearth all to herself. If any late wanderer had looked in at midnight, he would have seen the fire blazing up again, and in the cheerful glow the old cat blinking her yellow eyes, as she sat bolt upright beside the spinning-wheel, like some sort of household goblin, guarding the children while they slept.
When they woke, like early birds, it still snowed, but up the little Bassetts jumped, broke the ice in their pitchers, and went down with cheeks glowing like winter apples, after a brisk scrub and scramble into their clothes. Eph was off to the barn, and Tilly soon had a great kettle of mush ready, which, with milk warm from the cows made a wholesome breakfast for the seven hearty children.
“Now about dinner,” said the young housekeeper, as the pewter spoons stopped clattering, and the earthen bowls stood empty.
“Ma said, have what we liked, but she did n’t expect us to have a real Thanksgiving dinner, because she wont be here to cook it, and we don’t know how,” began Prue, doubtfully.
“I can roast a turkey and make a pudding as well as anybody, I guess. The pies are all ready, and if we can’t boil vegetables and so on, we don’t deserve any dinner,” cried Tilly, burning to distinguish herself, and bound to enjoy to the utmost her brief authority.
“Yes, yes!” cried all the boys, “let’s have a dinner anyway; Ma won’t care, and the good victuals will spoil if they aint eaten right up.”
“Pa is coming to-night, so we wont have dinner till late; that will be real genteel and give us plenty of time,” added Tilly, suddenly realizing the novelty of the task she had undertaken.
“Did you ever roast a turkey?” asked Roxy, with an air of deep interest.
“Should you darst to try?” said Rhody, in an awe-stricken tone.
“You will see what I can do. Ma said I was to use my jedgment about things, and I’m going to. All you children have got to do is to keep out of the way, and let Prue and me work. Eph, I wish you’d put a fire in the best room, so the little ones can play in there. We shall want the settin’-room for the table, and I wont have ’em pickin’ ’round when we get things fixed,” commanded Tilly, bound to make her short reign a brilliant one.
“I don’t know about that. Ma didn’t tell us to,” began cautious Eph, who felt that this invasion of the sacred best parlor was a daring step.
“Don’t we always do it Sundays and Thanksgivings? Wouldn’t Ma wish the children kept safe and warm anyhow? Can I get up a nice dinner with four rascals under my feet all the time? Come, now, if you want roast turkey and onions, plum-puddin’ and mince-pie, you’ll have to do as I tell you, and be lively about it.”
Tilly spoke with such spirit, and her suggestion was so irresistible, that Eph gave in, and, laughing good-naturedly, tramped away to heat up the best room, devoutly hoping that nothing serious would happen to punish such audacity.
The young folks delightedly trooped in to destroy the order of that prim apartment with housekeeping under the black horse-hair sofa, “horseback riders” on the arms of the best rocking-chair, and an Indian war-dance all over the well-waxed furniture. Eph, finding the society of peaceful sheep and cows more to his mind than that of two excited sisters, lingered over his chores in the barn as long as possible, and left the girls in peace.
Now Tilly and Prue were in their glory, and as soon as the breakfast things were out of the way, they prepared for a grand cooking-time. They were handy girls, though they had never heard of a cooking-school, never touched a piano, and knew nothing of embroidery beyond the samplers which hung framed in the parlor; one ornamented with a pink mourner under a blue weeping-willow, the other with this pleasing verse, each word being done in a different color, which gave the effect of a distracted rainbow:
“This sampler neat was worked by me, In my twelfth year, Prudence B.”
Both rolled up their sleeves, put on their largest aprons, and got out all the spoons, dishes, pots, and pans they could find, “so as to have everything handy,” as Prue said.
“Now, sister, we’ll have dinner at five; Pa will be here by that time, if he is coming to-night, and be so surprised to find us all ready, for he wont have had any very nice victuals if Gran’ma is so sick,” said Tilly, importantly. “I shall give the children a piece at noon” (Tilly meant luncheon); “doughnuts and cheese, with apple-pie and cider will please ’em. There’s beans for Eph; he likes cold pork, so we wont stop to warm it up, for there’s lots to do, and I don’t mind saying to you I’m dreadful dubersome about the turkey.”
“It’s all ready but the stuffing, and roasting is as easy as can be. I can baste first rate. Ma always likes to have me, I’m so patient and stiddy, she says,” answered Prue, for the responsibility of this great undertaking did not rest upon her, so she took a cheerful view of things.
“I know, but it’s the stuffin’ that troubles me,” said Tilly, rubbing her round elbows as she eyed the immense fowl laid out on a platter before her. “I don’t know how much I want, nor what sort of yarbs to put in, and he’s so awful big, I’m kind of afraid of him.”
“I aint! I fed him all summer, and he never gobbled at me. I feel real mean to be thinking of gobbling him, poor old chap,” laughed Prue, patting her departed pet with an air of mingled affection and appetite.
“Well, I’ll get the puddin’ off my mind fust, for it ought to bile all day. Put the big kettle on, and see that the spit is clean, while I get ready.”
Prue obediently tugged away at the crane, with its black hooks, from which hung the iron tea-kettle and three-legged pot; then she settled the long spit in the grooves made for it in the tall andirons, and put the dripping-pan underneath, for in those days meat was roasted as it should be, not baked in ovens.
Meantime Tilly attacked the plum-pudding. She felt pretty sure of coming out right, here, for she had seen her mother do it so many times, it looked very easy. So in went suet and fruit; all sorts of spice, to be sure she got the right ones, and brandy instead of wine. But she forgot both sugar and salt, and tied it in the cloth so tightly that it had no room to swell, so it would come out as heavy as lead and as hard as a cannon-ball, if the bag did not burst and spoil it all. Happily unconscious of these mistakes, Tilly popped it into the pot, and proudly watched it bobbing about before she put the cover on and left it to its fate.
“I can’t remember what flavorin’ Ma puts in,” she said, when she had got her bread well soaked for the stuffing. “Sage and onions and apple-sauce go with goose, but I can’t feel sure of anything but pepper and salt for a turkey.”
“Ma puts in some kind of mint, I know, but I forget whether it is spearmint, peppermint, or pennyroyal,” answered Prue, in a tone of doubt, but trying to show her knowledge of “yarbs,” or, at least, of their names.
“Seems to me it’s sweet majoram or summer savory. I guess we’ll put both in, and then we are sure to be right. The best is up garret; you run and get some, while I mash the bread,” commanded Tilly, diving into the mess.
Away trotted Prue, but in her haste she got catnip and wormwood, for the garret was darkish, and Prue’s little nose was so full of the smell of the onions she had been peeling, that everything smelt of them. Eager to be of use, she pounded up the herbs and scattered the mixture with a liberal hand into the bowl.
“It doesn’t smell just right, but I suppose it will when it is cooked,” said Tilly, as she filled the empty stomach, that seemed aching for food, and sewed it up with the blue yarn, which happened to be handy. She forgot to tie down his legs and wings, but she set him by till his hour came, well satisfied with her work.
“Shall we roast the little pig, too? I think he’d look nice with a necklace of sausages, as Ma fixed one last Christmas,” asked Prue, elated with their success.
“I couldn’t do it. I loved that little pig, and cried when he was killed. I should feel as if I was roasting the baby,” answered Tilly, glancing toward the buttery where piggy hung, looking so pink and pretty it certainly did seem cruel to eat him.
It took a long time to get all the vegetables ready, for, as the cellar was full, the girls thought they would have every sort. Eph helped, and by noon all was ready for cooking, and the cranberry-sauce, a good deal scorched, was cooking in the lean-to.
Luncheon was a lively meal, and doughnuts and cheese vanished in such quantities that Tilly feared no one would have an appetite for her sumptuous dinner. The boys assured her they would be starving by five o’clock, and Sol mourned bitterly over the little pig that was not to be served up.
“Now you all go and coast, while Prue and I set the table and get out the best chiny,” said Tilly, bent on having her dinner look well, no matter what its other failings might be.
Out came the rough sleds, on went the round hoods, old hats, red cloaks, and moccasins, and away trudged the four younger Bassetts, to disport themselves in the snow, and try the ice down by the old mill, where the great wheel turned and splashed so merrily in the summer-time.
Eph took his fiddle and scraped away to his heart’s content in the parlor, while the girls, after a short rest, set the table and made all ready to dish up the dinner when that exciting moment came. It was not at all the sort of table we see now, but would look very plain and countrified to us, with its green-handled knives, and two-pronged steel forks, its red-and-white china, and pewter platters, scoured till they shone, with mugs and spoons to match, and a brown jug for the cider. The cloth was coarse, but white as snow, and the little maids had seen the blue-eyed flax grow, out of which their mother wove the linen they had watched and wateredwhile it bleached in the green meadow. They had no napkins and little silver; but the best tankard and Ma’s few wedding spoons were set forth in state. Nuts and apples at the corners gave an air, and the place of honor was left in the middle for the oranges yet to come.
“Don’t it look beautiful?” said Prue, when they paused to admire the general effect.
“Pretty nice, I think. I wish Ma could see how well we can do it,” began Tilly, when a loud howling startled both girls, and sent them flying to the window. The short afternoon had passed so quickly that twilight had come before they knew it, and now, as they looked out through the gathering dusk, they saw four small black figures tearing up the road, to come bursting in, all screaming at once: “The bear, the bear! Eph, get the gun! He’s coming, he’s coming!”
Eph had dropped his fiddle, and got down his gun before the girls could calm the children enough to tell their story, which they did in a somewhat incoherent manner. “Down in the holler, coastin’, we heard a growl,” began Sol, with his eyes as big as saucers. “I see him fust lookin’ over the wall,” roared Seth, eager to get his share of honor.
“Awful big and shaggy,” quavered Roxy, clinging to Tilly, while Rhody hid in Prue’s skirts, and piped out: “His great paws kept clawing at us, and I was so scared my legs would hardly go.”
“We ran away as fast as we could go, and he came growling after us. He’s awful hungry, and he’ll eat every one of us if he gets in,” continued Sol, looking about him for a safe retreat.
“Oh, Eph, don’t let him eat us,” cried both little girls, flying up stairs to hide under their mother’s bed, as their surest shelter.
“No danger of that, you little geese. I’ll shoot him as soon as he comes. Get out of the way, boys,” and Eph raised the window to get good aim.
“There he is! Fire away, and don’t miss!” cried Seth, hastily following Sol, who had climbed to the top of the dresser as a good perch from which to view the approaching fray.
Prue retired to the hearth as if bent on dying at her post rather than desert the turkey, now “browning beautiful,” as she expressed it. But Tilly boldly stood at the open window, ready to lend a hand if the enemy proved too much for Eph.
All had seen bears, but none had ever come so near before, and even brave Eph felt that the big brown beast slowly trotting up the door-yard was an unusually formidable specimen. He was growling horribly, and stopped now and then as if to rest and shake himself.
“Get the ax, Tilly, and if I should miss, stand ready to keep him off while I load again,” said Eph, anxious to kill his first bear in style and alone; a girl’s help didn’t count.
Tilly flew for the ax, and was at her brother’s side by the time the bear was near enough to be dangerous. He stood on his hind legs, and seemed to sniff with relish the savory odors that poured out of the window.
“Fire, Eph!” cried Tilly, firmly.
“Wait till he rears again. I’ll get a better shot, then,” answered the boy, while Prue covered her ears to shut out the bang, and the small boys cheered from their dusty refuge among the pumpkins.
But a very singular thing happened next, and all who saw it stood amazed, for suddenly Tilly threw down the ax, flung open the door, and ran straight into the arms of the bear, who stood erect to receive her, while his growlings changed to a loud “Haw, haw!” that startled the children more than the report of a gun.
“It’s Gad Hopkins, tryin’ to fool us!” cried Eph, much disgusted at the loss of his prey, for these hardy boys loved to hunt and prided themselves on the number of wild animals and birds they could shoot in a year.
“Oh, Gad, how could you scare us so?” laughed Tilly, still held fast in one shaggy arm of the bear, while the other drew a dozen oranges from some deep pocket in the buffalo-skin coat, and fired them into the kitchen with such good aim that Eph ducked, Prue screamed, and Sol and Seth came down much quicker than they went up.
“Wal, you see I got upsot over yonder, and the old horse went home while I was floundering in a drift, so I tied on the buffalers to tote ’em easy, and come along till I see the children playin’ in the holler. I jest meant to give ’em a little scare, but they run like partridges, and I kep’ up the joke to see how Eph would like this sort of company,” and Gad haw-hawed again.
“You’d have had a warm welcome if we hadn’t found you out. I’d have put a bullet through you in a jiffy, old chap,” said Eph, coming out to shake hands with the young giant, who was only a year or two older than himself.
“Come in and set up to dinner with us. Prue and I have done it all ourselves, and Pa will be along soon, I reckon,” cried Tilly, trying to escape.
“Couldn’t, no ways. My folks will think I’m dead ef I don’t get along home, sence the horse and sleigh have gone ahead empty. I’ve done my arrant and had my joke; now I want my pay, Tilly,” and Gad took a hearty kiss from the rosy cheeks of his “little sweetheart,” as he called her. His own cheeks tingled with the smart slap she gave him as she ran away, calling out that she hated bears and would bring her ax next time.
“I aint afeared; your sharp eyes found me out; and ef you run into a bear’s arms you must expect a hug,” answered Gad, as he pushed back the robe and settled his fur cap more becomingly.
“I should have known you in a minute if I hadn’t been asleep when the girls squalled. You did it well, though, and I advise you not to try it again in a hurry, or you’ll get shot,” said Eph, as they parted, he rather crestfallen and Gad in high glee.
“My sakes alive–the turkey is burnt one side, and the kettles have biled over so the pies I put to warm are all ashes!” scolded Tilly, as the flurry subsided and she remembered her dinner.
“Well, I can’t help it. I couldn’t think of victuals when I expected to be eaten alive myself, could I?” pleaded poor Prue, who had tumbled into the cradle when the rain of oranges began.
Tilly laughed, and all the rest joined in, so good humor was restored, and the spirits of the younger ones were revived by sucks from the one orange which passed from hand to hand with great rapidity while the older girls dished up the dinner. They were just struggling to get the pudding out of the cloth when Roxy called out: “Here’s Pa!”
“There’s folks with him,” added Rhody.
“Lots of ’em! I see two big sleighs chock full,” shouted Seth, peering through the dusk.
“It looks like a semintary. Guess Gramma’s dead and come up to be buried here,” said Sol in a solemn tone. This startling suggestion made Tilly, Prue, and Eph hasten to look out, full of dismay at such an ending of their festival.
“If that is a funeral, the mourners are uncommon jolly,” said Eph, drily, as merry voices and loud laughter broke the white silence without.
“I see Aunt Cinthy, and Cousin Hetty–and there’s Mose and Amos. I do declare, Pa’s bringin’ ’em all home to have some fun here,” cried Prue, as she recognized one familiar face after another.
“Oh, my patience! Aint I glad I got dinner, and don’t I hope it will turn out good!” exclaimed Tilly, while the twins pranced with delight, and the small boys roared:
“Hooray for Pa! Hooray for Thanksgivin’!”
The cheer was answered heartily, and in came Father, Mother, Baby, aunts, and cousins, all in great spirits; and all much surprised to find such a festive welcome awaiting them.
“Aint Gran’ma dead at all?” asked Sol, in the midst of the kissing and hand-shaking.
“Bless your heart, no! It was all a mistake of old Mr. Chadwick’s. He’s as deaf as an adder, and when Mrs. Brooks told him Mother was mendin’ fast, and she wanted me to come down to-day, certain sure, he got the message all wrong, and give it to the fust person passin’ in such a way as to scare me ‘most to death, and send us down in a hurry. Mother was sittin’ up as chirk as you please, and dreadful sorry you didn’t all come.”
“So, to keep the house quiet for her, and give you a taste of the fun, your Pa fetched us all up to spend the evenin’, and we are goin’ to have a jolly time on’t, to jedge by the looks of things,” said Aunt Cinthy, briskly finishing the tale when Mrs. Bassett paused for want of breath.
“What in the world put it into your head we was comin’, and set you to gettin’ up such a supper?” asked Mr. Bassett, looking about him, well pleased and much surprised at the plentiful table.
Tilly modestly began to tell, but the others broke in and sang her praises in a sort of chorus, in which bears, pigs, pies, and oranges were oddly mixed. Great satisfaction was expressed by all, and Tilly and Prue were so elated by the commendation of Ma and the aunts, that they set forth their dinner, sure everything was perfect.
But when the eating began, which it did the moment wraps were off, then their pride got a fall; for the first person who tasted the stuffing (it was big Cousin Mose, and that made it harder to bear) nearly choked over the bitter morsel.
“Tilly Bassett, whatever made you put wormwood and catnip in your stuffin’?” demanded Ma, trying not to be severe, for all the rest were laughing, and Tilly looked ready to cry.
“I did it,” said Prue, nobly taking all the blame, which caused Pa to kiss her on the spot, and declare that it didn’t do a mite of harm, for the turkey was all right.
“I never see onions cooked better. All the vegetables is well done, and the dinner a credit to you, my dears,” declared Aunt Cinthy, with her mouth full of the fragrant vegetable she praised.
The pudding was an utter failure in spite of the blazing brandy in which it lay–as hard and heavy as one of the stone balls on Squire Dunkin’s great gate. It was speedily whisked out of sight, and all fell upon the pies, which were perfect. But Tilly and Prue were much depressed, and didn’t recover their spirits till the dinner was over and the evening fun well under way.
“Blind-man’s bluff,” “Hunt the slipper,” “Come, Philander,” and other lively games soon set every one bubbling over with jollity, and when Eph struck up “Money Musk” on his fiddle, old and young fell into their places for a dance. All down the long kitchen they stood, Mr. and Mrs. Bassett at the top, the twins at the bottom, and then away they went, heeling and toeing, cutting pigeon-wings, and taking their steps in a way that would convulse modern children with their new-fangled romps called dancing. Mose and Tilly covered themselves with glory by the vigor with which they kept it up, till fat Aunt Cinthy fell into a chair, breathlessly declaring that a very little of such exercise was enough for a woman of her “heft.”
Apples and cider, chat and singing, finished the evening, and after a grand kissing all round, the guests drove away in the clear moonlight which came out just in time to cheer their long drive.
When the jingle of the last bell had died away, Mr. Bassett said soberly, as they stood together on the hearth: “Children, we have special cause to be thankful that the sorrow we expected was changed into joy, so we’ll read a chapter ‘fore we go to bed, and give thanks where thanks is due.”
Then Tilly set out the light-stand with the big Bible on it, and a candle on each side, and all sat quietly in the fire-light, smiling as they listened with happy hearts to the sweet old words that fit all times and seasons so beautifully.
When the good-nights were over, and the children in bed, Prue put her arm around Tilly and whispered tenderly, for she felt her shake, and was sure she was crying:
“Don’t mind about the old stuffin’ and puddin’, deary–nobody cared, and Ma said we really did do surprisin’ well for such young girls.”
The laughter Tilly was trying to smother broke out then, and was so infectious, Prue could not help joining her, even before she knew the cause of the merriment.
“I was mad about the mistakes, but don’t care enough to cry. I’m laughing to think how Gad fooled Eph and I found him out. I thought Mose and Amos would have died over it when I told them, it was so funny,” explained Tilly, when she got her breath.
“I was so scared that when the first orange hit me, I thought it was a bullet, and scrabbled into the cradle as fast as I could. It was real mean to frighten the little ones so,” laughed Prue, as Tilly gave a growl.
Here a smart rap on the wall of the next room caused a sudden lull in the fun, and Mrs. Bassett’s voice was heard, saying warningly, “Girls, go to sleep immediate, or you’ll wake the baby.”
“Yes’m,” answered two meek voices, and after a few irrepressible giggles, silence reigned, broken only by an occasional snore from the boys, or the soft scurry of mice in the buttery, taking their part in this old-fashioned Thanksgiving.
All I have seen makes me trust the creator for all I have not seen. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Louisa May Alcott 1832-1888 In addition to being taught a deep love of learning by her parents, Louisa May Alcott studied under studied under Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathanial Hawthorne. This story, which is in the public domain, may be found in Paraclete Press’s wonderful collection of Thanksgiving readings and blessings found in Life Is a Gift, available for purchase here.
As Bishop Michael Curry explains, love is not a feeling. It is a specific commitment to living for “we” rather than for “me.” And his new book, Love Is the Way, shows us how we can do it.
From the title, it would be easy to write off Bishop Michael Curry’s new book as vague, feel-good musings on love. Of course love is the way — love is the way of Valentine’s Day, and pop radio, and the soft-focus Jesus of Hallmark Easter cards. But that’s not the love that Bishop Curry is talking about. While this memoir-based book has plenty of musings, they are neither vague nor soft-focused.
Written before the pandemic and before the racial and political strife of 2020 came to a head, Love Is the Way provides a series of anecdotes from Bishop Curry’s life that speak so directly to these painful social challenges that it seems prophetic. When one of his daughters asked him what he was writing about, he said he was sharing some of what he’d learned from “faith, family, community, and ancestors.” The life lessons he shares here get to the heart of his life, “those people and experiences that led to [his] conviction that the way of love can change each of us, and all of us, for the better.” And what better time to change us all for the better than now?
He presents these lessons as stories, beginning with losing his brilliant and loving mother to a devastating stroke, and the many ways his father, his extended family, and their community stepped up to not just show love but to be love. He tells about various churches where he served, and individuals who acted as the hands of Christ and others who were changed by the touch of those hands. He explains experiences in his own life that led him to understand his calling as a priest and that eventually put him on the path to become elected presiding bishop. He laces these stories with threads from the rich fabric of his life—the soul food, spirituals, jazz, theologians, poets, historic figures, and scripture that have influenced and inspired him.
Each story could stand alone as an interesting anecdote, but he deftly uses them to either define or illustrate his basic premise about what love is. As Bishop Curry explains, love is not a feeling. It is a specific commitment to living in an unselfish way. In the Way of Love teachings that he has shared with the Episcopal Church, he has taught that love is a step-by-step process that replicates the desire of Jesus’s earliest followers to live in a new way, for “we” rather than for “me.” Love is a verb, and it is challenging to do it. Here, he fleshes out what it has looked like in his life.
To those who say that love is not strong enough to form a way of life, Bishop Curry says that the current focus on selfishness is not working. His experiences show that love can be a strong guiding principle, and that those who practice it can be strong, too. He ends with guidelines on how to put love into action—a daily planner, or a rule of life.
Love Is the Way is engaging and moving, inspiring and prescriptive. In sharing the stories of his heart, Bishop Curry provides clear and specific ways to hold on to hope in these troubling times. Thanks be to God.
Love Is the Way: Holding on to Hope in Troubling Times Bishop Michael Curry Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church with Sara Grace Avery, an imprint of Penguin Random House 978-0-525-54303-9 $27.00
To purchase Love Is the Way from the Cathedral Bookstore, click here.
To join Bishop Curry and Bishop Doyle in conversation on Zoom on November 11, purchase a book from Brazos Bookstore here.
Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope. ~Maya Angelou
This little handbook shows us how to live in ways that seek the good of God and the well-being of others.
From the time most Episcopalians are little bitty, we’re taught songs like “God is Love,” and “Jesus Loves Me.” As we get older, the hope is that we’ll internalize these concepts and go out into the world and share the love of God with others. But for many of us, there’s a gap there: knowing how to live as spiritual grown-ups can be challenging. Just what does this love look like in practice? How do we move beyond singing kum-ba-ya and learn just how to walk in love?
Several years ago, Presiding Bishop Michael Curry gathered a team to create a blueprint for a way of life that would help Episcopalians live God’s love. They patterned it after the lives of Jesus’ followers in the first century, a community committed to living “the way of God’s unconditional, unselfish, sacrificial, and redemptive love.” Bishop Curry took these ideas and developed The Way of Love, seven steps to order and inform our lives: Turn – Learn – Pray – Worship – Bless – Go – Rest.
Scott Gunn, a priest and author who is the executive director of Forward Movement, was part of that team which helped develop The Way of Love. Now Gunn has published The Way of Love: A Practical Guide to following Jesus, a small handbook that provides an introduction to The Way of Love and helpful steps for creating a personal rule of life based on it.
In the introduction, Gunn explains that the type of love we really want to practice is “not a mere sentiment but a real commitment to a way of life that is sacrificial and redemptive, a way that seeks the good of God and the well-being of others. This Way of Love is a game changer.” He proceeds to explain why each step matters, how it relates to the other steps, and how to do it.
In an easy, anecdotal voice, each of the initial chapters provides an explanation of the seven practices. Other Forward Movement team members and Episcopalians from around the country also share their experience with each practice, and these chapters end with reflection questions and journaling and prayer prompts.
Once we’ve spent time getting to know the practices and exploring what they might look like in our own lives, the last chapter is “Developing a Rule of Life.” Gunn explains the concept of a rule of life, an ancient practice that helps monks and nuns organize their daily prayer, work, and service. Not just for monasteries, however, a rule of life can also help us to create patterns in our own lives to help us grow in faith. Gunn suggests starting by reviewing the notes we have taken in the previous chapters and choosing three practices to commit to for a month.
The book includes an appendix of scripture quotes that are used in the main text and resources for further study, both organized by the seven Way of Love practices.
While there is a great deal of information readily available online and in other books about The Way of Love, this book is a good entry point. It provides a balance of explanation and how-to, and it prepares readers to go deeper into the Way of Love.
Like the song says: God is love. No matter how far we may have come in our understanding of the Church since our introduction to it, this little book and the resources it contains can help us to further develop our faith practice and know just how to live that love, every day.
Tara Royer Steele grew up working with pie. She came to realize that God can use something as small as pie to build relationships and further his kingdom. Join her October 3 to learn more — and make pie!
There’s a well known Zen koan that says, “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.” We have to do the work, and we have to keep doing the work — in every area of our lives, no matter how enlightened, or exalted, or exceptional we may become. Like any koan worth its salt, it suggests other things, too: Maybe enlightenment is the chopping of the wood and the carrying of the water. Maybe doing the work is what enlightenment’s all about.
Maybe instead of trying to solve all the problems of the world, or telling everyone else how to solve them, or crumbling into an anxious heap because there are so many problems, we should just do the work that’s in front of us. Maybe the work is as easy as making pie.
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of going to Royer’s Round Top Cafe or Royer’s Pie Haven in Round Top, Texas, you know that they’ve done the work when it comes to pie. And you know that enjoying the fruits of their labor is a real pleasure.
Royer’s is a family company, and Tara Royer Steele grew up working with pie. In doing the work, she came to realize that God can use something as small as pie to build relationships and further his kingdom. She set out to share that message as widely as possible, and now she’s written a book: Eat. Pie. Love: 52 devotions to satisfy your mind, body, and soul.
On Saturday, October 3, from 10 to 11:30 a.m., Tara is going to share her insights about pie, life, and God’s love (and how they criss-cross like a perfectly woven crust) with the Cathedral. Sign up by September 30, and she’ll provide a list of ingredients to make a sweet & salty pie, a copy of her devotional, a journal, and a mug for the coffee you’ll want to drink with the delicious pie she’ll teach you how to make. The cost is just $45, and it promises to be a very satisfying morning of cooking and connecting.
So, for just one morning, put the newspaper aside and stop trying to make it all better. Join Tara, and just do the work: Eat. Pie. Love. There’s meaning in all three, and she’ll show you how they intersect in a very tasty, soul-filling way. Before enlightenment, Eat. Pie. Love; after enlightenment, Eat. Pie. Love.
To register for Eat. Pie. Love: A Virtual Women’s Event, click here.
I am more modest now, but I still think that one of the pleasantest of all emotions is to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world. ― M.F.K. Fisher
A new collection of Kristi Martin’s writings honors her beloved memory and shares her warm, empathetic understanding of life.
If you had the good fortune to know Kristi Cassin Martin, you remember her warmth and intelligence and the joyful way she embraced life. And if you didn’t have the pleasure, now you can know her though her collected writings.
When Kristi departed this earth in 2018, her husband Earle determined he would publish a collection to honor her memory. Life Is Rich: and other stories provides a beautiful window on Kristi’s life. It includes memories of her childhood in an artist’s home in Houston outside the Loop before there was a Loop, stories of generations of her family in their beloved summer community on the Great Lakes, meditations on her dear dog Nimrod, personal and profound experiences that she had at Christ Church Cathedral, and a variety of other vignettes — all recounted in a clear, engaging voice that is unmistakably and delightfully Kristi’s.
Pittman McGehee, a close friend of Kristi’s and former dean of the Cathedral, says in the epigraph, “Kristi Martin was woman who put nature’s color in art and word.” Her writing teacher Christopher Woods notes the sense of tenderness and empathy she captures in these pieces. But perhaps Earle describes the impact of the collection best: he “hopes you will come away with a happy sense of Kristi’s deeply loving person…a genuinely lovely human being…and perhaps through her writings get a fresh glimpse of your own life and the world around you.”
Published with thought and care, Life Is Rich reflects Kristi on every levels: the cover art and the illustrations that grace each piece are by her friend Roxanna Weiland. The colors that Kristi surrounded herself with, having lived her entire life inspired by her mother’s vibrant art, enliven the pages. And Earle has generously donated the books to the Bookstore, so that 100% of every book sold is a gift to the Cathedral that Kristi loved so much.
To make a donation to the Cathedral and receive a copy of Life Is Rich, click here.
What is the beginning? Love. What the course. Love still. What the goal. The goal is Love. On a happy hill Is there nothing then but Love? Search we sky or earth There is nothing out of Love Hath perpetual worth; All things flag but only Love, All things fail and flee; There is nothing left but Love Worthy you and me.
Join readers from across the country to hear two thoughtful, articulate Episcopalian leaders discuss the real possibility of living a life of faith and love in these times.
On October 8, 2020, at 6:00 p.m. Central, The Episcopal Booksellers Association is hosting a conversation with The Most Reverend Michael B. Curry, the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church. Bishop Curry will be discussing his newest book, Love is the Way: Holding on to Hope in Troubling Times, which will be published on September 22. The virtual meeting will consist of remarks about the book from Bishop Curry and a question and answer discussion with The Very Reverend Barkley S. Thompson, Dean of Christ Church Cathedral.
That’s a whole lot of holy wisdom going on in one Zoom meeting, and it promises to be uplifting, thought-provoking, and clarifying about just what the word love really means. And, more importantly, just how we can put it into practice in our lives. In his book Crazy Christians: A Call to Follow Jesus, Bishop Curry said “Being a Christian is not essentially about joining a church or being a nice person, but about following in the footsteps of Jesus, taking his teachings seriously, letting his Spirit take the lead in our lives, and in so doing helping to change the world from our nightmare into God’s dream.”
If there ever was a time when we felt like we needed to make that transformation from nightmare into dream reality, it’s right now. In this new book, the Bishop explains how the way of love is “essential for addressing the seemingly insurmountable challenges facing the world today: poverty, racism, selfishness, deep ideological divisions, competing claims to speak for God.” He also shares how we can develop the “deep reservoirs of hope and resilience, simple wisdom, the discipline of nonviolence, and unshakable regard for human dignity” that we need in order to meet these challenges.
Bishop Curry believes that “If it’s not about love, it’s not about God.” Join the Cathedral Bookstore and readers from other Episcopal bookstores across the country to hear what promises to be a powerful and practical discussion between two wise, articulate Episcopalian leaders about the real possibility of living a life of faith and love in these times.
To purchase your copy of Bishop Curry’s Love is the Way click here.
To purchase Dean Thompson’s In the Midst of the City: The Gospel and God’s Politics, click here.
To receive a link for the conversation on October 8, email the Cathedral Bookstoreat email@example.com.
We are created to follow the Way of love of the Lord Jesus. When we sacrifice our pride; when we uplift and live into our true nature; when we follow the Way of Jesus, then bonds of grace and community form and strengthen, and our world, that may at first seems like a deserted island cut off from hope, becomes, in the light of love, paradise. ~Barkley S. Thompson
I’m already missing Owen Meany and my Cathedral Reads group, but the Dean’s Book Club has a line up that promises to provide the next great read.
If Owen Meany is the reason that John Wheelright believes in God, I have to say that Owen is also the reason I got through the pandemic summer. My Cathedral Reads small group was a delightful collection of women, great readers all, who generously shared their insights and wisdom about A Prayer for Owen Meany, and life in general, each week. Some had read the book several times, and others were experiencing its richness chapter by chapter. We talked over an hour about each chapter, and I always came away thinking that many hours more would be necessary to really grasp all the details Irving packed into this dark, funny, moving and layered novel.
No matter what was happening in the news or at my house, I could count on this group and their perspective. I discovered many more layers of the book and of myself because of their conversation. Religion, sex, politics—we covered the waterfront in our discussions as Owen led us there with his full-frontal capitals. It was refreshing, sustaining, and enlightening conversation, providing just what a book club should.
Now it’s over, and I’m sad. I will miss my group and our routine. I will miss talking about Owen, and John, and Harriet and Hester. All summer I’ve been looking for armadillos, and I wonder if I’ll see them as frequently now. And there is the question of what to read next.
Yes, I have groaning stacks of books at home, and many more at the Bookstore should I ever run out. I’ve already started some of them, and they are commendable. But reading with others—others with different experiences and ideas and perspectives—seems so much more important now than just reading alone. Zooming for pleasure with the loose agenda of a great book is so different than a Zoom meeting. Anticipating a stimulating hour of good fellowship and conversation held back the dread of the sameness of the days all summer long.
Thank goodness the Dean’s Book Club is starting up again for Fall. If you, too, are looking for your next great read and a group to share it, look no further. September will provide a last deep dive into Owen Meany. October’s choice is S.C. Gwynne’s Hymns of the Republic: The Story of the Final Year of the American Civil War; November, the Cathedral’s own Kate Murphy’s You’re Not Listening: What You’re Missing and Why It Matters; and December the venerable Catherine Meeks’ Living Into God’s Dream: Dismantling Racism in America. All this non-fiction will be particularly interesting after having been steeped in Irving’s perspective on America all summer. I’m looking forward not only to gleaning new insights from these books, but also to sharing them with good readers.
To encourage you to support the Cathedral with your book-buying habits, The Cathedral Bookstore is offering a 10% discount on all the Dean’s Book Club titles from now until the meeting when the book is featured. However you choose to procure these titles, I hope we’ll get the chance to discuss them at some point this fall. As Owen so wisely told John “READING IS A GIFT,” and reading with friends is an even sweeter pleasure.
Love of books is the best of all. ~Jacqueline Kennedy
God is always with us, but a set of Anglican prayer beads in our pocket can provide tactile reassurance.
In the dueling storms of pandemic and pervasive political unrest, you may be seeking to hold, or find, your center by expanding your prayer practice. Like so many of us, you may feel that these trying times prevent you from focusing the way you once could. While our Episcopalian tradition offers a variety of prayer practices, praying with Anglican prayer beads provides a tactile way to keep focused and may prove particularly helpful. Cool in your hands and pleasing to the eye, the beads can also slip into your pocket and provide comfort even when you are not actively praying. We know that God is always with us but touching this reminder of our prayer life can provide reassurance, wherever we find ourselves.
Praying with beads is a time-honored practice in many faith traditions. In Christianity, The Desert Fathers and Mothers counted out their unceasing prayers with a pocket full of pebbles, which evolved into knotted prayer ropes they used for reciting the Jesus Prayer. By the middle ages, the ropes morphed into the traditional beads on which Catholics pray the Rosary. Then, in the Episcopal Church the 1980s, the practice of using beads as a focus for contemplative prayer and meditation experienced a revival, and Anglican prayer beads emerged. Unlike the prescribed ways the rosary is used, the Anglican prayer-bead practice provides a framework for both traditional and personal prayers.
The form of Anglican prayer beads is laden with symbolism, beginning with the 33 beads which represent the years of Jesus’ earthly life. The four larger beads, called cruciform beads, represent the four points of the compass. Between each of the cruciform beads lie the seven beads of the weeks, representing the seven days of creation, the seventh day on which God rested, and the symbolic number for perfection. The single bead that leads from the cross into the circle of weeks is called the invitatory bead. Like a collect at the beginning of a service, it invites us to worship.
Whether you use the beads to pray alone or in a group, the suggested practice is to pray the full circle three times. That number, representing the Trinity, also provides time for distractions to fall away, allowing you to go deeper into prayer. Many traditional prayers have been adapted to the form of the Anglican prayer beads: The Jesus Prayer, the Agnus Dei, the St. Patrick Prayer, and others may be found online. One that seems particularly apt in these times when we need to ask God to give us strength in our isolation and save us from fear is the Julian of Norwich Prayer, which was created by Sister Brigit-Carol, S.D. an Episcopalian hermit in Abilene. Here’s how to use the beads to guide you as you pray it:
The Cross In the Name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Invitatory O God make speed to save me (us),
O Lord make haste to help me (us),
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit: As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.
The Cruciforms God of your goodness, give me yourself,
For you are enough to me.
And I can ask for nothing less that is to your glory.
And if I ask for anything less, I shall still be in want, for only in you have I all.
The Weeks All shall be well, and all shall be well,
And all manner of things shall be well.
As you move around the beads three times praying these words, the storms of the world will not cease. But perhaps you will know that you are not alone, and your heart will be lighter. You may find some comfort knowing that you are praying as so many generations before you have. Most importantly, you will be focused on praying rather than worrying. An ancient monk said to the Desert Father St. Anthony “Pray for me.” The old man replied, “I will have no mercy upon you, nor will God have any, if you yourself do not make an effort and if you do not pray to God.” These strange times seem like very good times for us to pray without ceasing. If a string of Anglican prayer beads can provide the focus you need to deepen your prayer practice, then it is a good thing, indeed.
You can order a set of Anglican prayer beads which have been blessed by a Cathedral priest here.
As demands piled up, a battered copy of Revelations of Divine Love led my introverted friend and me to contemplate Julian of Norwich. “I want to be an anchoress,” said my friend. “No way,” I replied. “Even you can’t stay home all the time.” Not long after that, we found ourselves at home all the time. What better time to read a new novella about Dame Julian?
Before the virus, daily life was busy. Phones were ringing, emails flying. There were coffee dates, yoga classes, meetings, and dinners; between them all, texting, Instagramming, and sometimes — when I could stand the acrimony — Facebooking. There were also many lovely hours at the Cathedral Bookstore engaging with volunteers and customers, discovering and selling books, searching for delightful gifts, and decorating for the seasons of the church year. When everything rolled along smoothly, it was wonderful, but the smallest stick in the wheel could quickly turn busy to overwhelming.
A friend who volunteers at the Bookstore calls herself a recluse, but she’s actually very social—on her own terms. The term “friendly introvert” comes up frequently in our conversations. One day as demands piled up, we were therapeutically sorting used books. A battered copy of Revelations of Divine Love led us to contemplate Julian of Norwich, and the lives of anchorites in general. “I want to be an anchoress,” said my friend.
The cloistered existence sounded peaceful. Not ready to deal with the world? Draw the curtain. Hungry? Eat the food that appears at regular intervals. Inspired? Pray, write, sing, knit. Have visitors when you open the curtain, and a front row seat for every service in the cathedral. Mainly, exist at a safe remove from the messy demands of daily life. But in modern times? “No way,” I told her. “Even you can’t stay home all the time.”
Not long after that conversation, we found ourselves at home all the time. We still have virtual ways of connecting; but we are not busy the way we were. Aside from work, we can draw the curtain and log off when we want. Rather than peaceful, though, it feels more stressful than the busyness did. I thought of Dame Julian again, this time wondering how she had the strength to live all those years sealed in a small room.
When I found a recently published novella about Julian, I was quick to buy it. Lady at the Window: The Lost Journal of Julian of Norwich by Robert Waldron tells the story of a Holy Week late in Julian’s life. With God’s “shewings” many years in the past, she must draw on the deepest well of her faith to remind herself that God is still with her.
Each section presents a day in Holy Week and incorporates Julian’s own words from Revelations. She shares her wisdom about God’s omnipresent love with a homeless wounded soldier, a frightened unwed mother, and several others who fear not only their situation, but also the church’s condemnation. Each visitor leaves Julian’s window feeling uplifted and beloved, even as she herself struggles to re-enter the divine light that she once experienced. The book details her daily routine, a grueling regimen of prayer, fasting, secret writing, and opening herself in complete vulnerability to the pain of her community—not at all the stress-free existence my friend and I had romanticized. Julian expresses her gratitude and deep love for the God she refers to as “My courteous Lord” and “Mother Jesus,” as she beseeches this loving entity to end her spiritual darkness.
The novella is spare but richly referential. It weaves medieval spellings into the text in a way that feels compelling rather than gimmicky. By the end, I had to remind myself that it was not based on a real journal of Julian’s. Waldron’s text combines the interior life of the notable mystic with her larger historical context, presenting her in a way that made me want to delve more deeply into her actual writings.
Waldron presents the mystic experience thoughtfully. His twenty books include six on Thomas Merton and two on Henri Nouwen. He has received four fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities and multiple awards for his writing on modern spirituality. In the afterword, he says Julian of Norwich’s writings serve as “a window, though which we can at any time gaze, and see the great beauty, wisdom, and counsel she has to offer for the twenty-first century.” His novella provides an accessible entry to her world.
Reading it reminded me that while the virus cloisters me away from the daily joys — and pains — of busily interacting with the world, there are still many ways to engage with my own life, with my community, and with God. In Julian’s darkest week, she remains fully present to all three. Reading about the profound mix of light and darkness in her Holy Week provided the centering thought that if we focus on the presence and love of God in everything — even in our modern plague — all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
Lady at the Window The Lost Journal of Julian of Norwich a novella 978-1-64060-534-3
To purchase, click here.
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language And next year’s words await another voice.