The joys and sorrows of language

Last week we discussed ways to add meaning to an otherwise senseless death, and I promised to write this week about immortality. I will do that, but you'll have to hang on just a little longer because first I want to talk about language. (After all, if we're going to be immortal, we may as well settle on a way to communicate for eternity.)

Tonight we had choir practice, and it was rough. We are preparing for Easter and beyond, and are struggling with anthems in Latin and in French. The combination is particularly difficult, because we have to remember to pronounce the word "qui" as kwee in one case, and kee in the other.
Add to this the fact that two of us grew up in England, and so had to learn Latin and French for O-levels (the exams on which J. K. Rowling based OWLs in the Harry Potter series), and the pronunciation we learned in class differed from the sung forms. French in particular tends not to pronounce any of the last five or more letters in a word, except when sung, in which case they are given their own syllable and note. And then the sung form of Latin in England differs from that in the U.S.A., which led to the closest that Presbyterians come to a knock-down brawl--which is not very close--over the pronunciation of virgine.
The choir has decided they don't like French.

Eternal life; or how to leave a legacy

"Everyone ought to have a legacy, something to be remembered for." Clinton Tyree, aka Skink; in Stormy Weather, by Carl Hiaasen.

Last week--well, actually two weeks ago now--I wrote about death. Not a particularly cheery topic--sorry. And the somber mood continued through the week. On Wednesday, as we prepared for the imposition of ashes in a ceremony that was particularly poignant, we gathered in the fellowship hall for a discussion. After considering various aspects of the "I am" statements, both of God (Exodus 3:14) and of Jesus as recounted in John's gospel, we walked through the dark hallways of the church to the sanctuary, lit only by candles on the altar, having been enjoined to remain silent from the time of leaving the fellowship hall until our return. We were invited to sit and meditate, then go forward for the imposition of ashes, return to a pew and meditate, and leave when ready. Sitting silently and meditating is not a comfortable experience for many Americans, or for many Presbyterians. But I found it strikingly fulfilling. Before we left the fellowship hall, Rev. Bell asked us a question: "what do you have in your life that cannot be reduced to ashes?" This tied so well to my promise to address what we leave behind when all else is gone, that I thought maybe he was reading this blog!

Giving meaning to a senseless death

My early career in the Navy was backwards. In November, I arrived at Officer Candidate School in Newport R.I.--actually, I almost didn't, but that's a different story--and spent four frigid months there, running at five in the morning with two sets of sweats, long-johns, a scarf, woolly hat, and gloves and still freezing. Graduation day in February was incredibly cold. I spent the next summer in Orlando FL at Nuclear Power School. The uniform we wore was 100% polyester, with all the ability to breathe of a plate glass window. Every afternoon at about two o'clock it rained, which reduced the temperature not a whit, but raised the humidity back up to 100%. This was followed by winter in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., where our Chevette was buried by snowplows, then a hot summer in Virginia Beach for Guided Missile School at the Dam Neck base and a cold winter in Groton CT for Submarine School.
But it was in Orlando that this story starts. We lived in an apartment complex, the entry to which required turning left from South Bumby Avenue. I had stopped to let an oncoming car pass before turning. A boy on a bicycle was coming out of the apartment complex, saw me stopped, assumed I had stopped to let him out, smiled in thanks, and pulled out. Directly into the path of the oncoming car.