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DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
(John Donne, “Death be not proud“)

memento mori
(compare to the song referenced in the post title)

Just a moment’s thought about God’s goodness, and its complications.

In the past week, I have had reports from friends concerning the personal costs of radical disgust with humanity, the loss of a beloved grandfather, the near-total dissolution of a family, and the painful disorder of a beloved pet. I’m not even about to compare those to one another–suffice to say in every case my text here leaves out everything of interest except what strangers may glean passing by.

And yet here I am, too: stretched beyond my means in any practical sense, tired of looking for work, and knowing my family are in similar situations.

And God is good. No, really, He is. The prelims are getting scheduled. Profs are returning my mails, telling me what to do next. The bills were paid this month. There were jobs to apply for. Friends stayed in touch, and I renewed some friendships.

How do I weigh these things? By refusing to compare.

The World was all before them, where to choose
Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide:
They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow,
Through Eden took thir solitarie way.
(Milton, PL 12)

(contrast with the song referenced in the title: “Don’t Look Back in Anger” by Oasis)

Dixon, IL — Greenville, SC — Santa Clarita, CA — Waco, TX — Shimonoseki, Yamaguchi, Japan — the Netherlands along the way . . . I am an alien and a stranger and I’m home again. Here’s to being an alien here, most of all, after all, and before all!

As a deer pants for flowing streams,
so pants my soul for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God,
for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?
My tears have been my food
day and night,
while they say to me all the day long,
“Where is your God?”
These things I remember,
as I pour out my soul:
how I would go with the throng
and lead them in procession to the house of God
with glad shouts and songs of praise,
a multitude keeping festival.

Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my salvation and my God.
(Psalm 42:1-6)

(more “the best is yet to come” at my old blog)

The nations roar like the roaring of many waters,
but he will rebuke them, and they will flee far away,
chased like chaff on the mountains before the wind
and whirling dust before the storm.
At evening time, behold, terror!
Before morning, they are no more!
This is the portion of those who loot us,
and the lot of those who plunder us.
(Isaiah 17:12-14)

Same old song:
Just a drop of water in an endless sea.
All we do
Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see.
Dust in the wind–all we are is dust in the wind.
(Kansas, “Dust in the Wind“)