Saturday, April 17, 2010

MY GUY

Exciting things happened this week, not the least of which is this:

Connors nominated for state Supreme Court

Apr 15, 2010
SALT LAKE CITY — A 2nd District Court judge is one of six nominees for an upcoming vacancy on the Utah Supreme Court.
Judge David M. Connors, a former mayor of Farmington and 2nd District Court judge is one of the six nominees.
Connors was appointed to the Second District Court by Governor Jon M. Huntsman, Jr. and took office January 2008.
He earned a law degree from Brigham Young University’s J. Reuben Clark Law School where he was a member of the Law Review and graduated magna cum laude in 1979. He received a bachelor’s degree from Yale University in 1974.
Prior to his appointment to the bench, he was a partner with LeBoeuf, Lamb, Greene & MacRae, L.L.P., where he served as head of the Utah litigation group.
From 1979 through 1980, Connors clerked at the U.S. Court of Appeals, Second Circuit, in New York City.
He served as Farmington’s mayor from 2002 to 2006. He has also served as a board member of the Wasatch Front Regional Council, Davis County Council of Governments, Davis Education Foundation, and the Mormon Arts Foundation, and as a trustee for the Economic Development Corporation of Utah. He is a past chairman of the Business Law Section of the Utah State Bar.
Others nominated include: Judge Royal I. Hansen, of Salt Lake City, 3rd District Court; Thomas R. Lee, counsel, for Howard, Phillips & Andersen, and law professor, J. Reuben Clark Law School, Brigham Young University; Judge Carolyn B. McHugh, of Salt Lake City, Utah Appeals Court; Judge David Mortensen, of Springville, 4th District Court; and Jeanette F. Swent, of Salt Lake City, chief, Civil Division, U.S. Attorney’s Office.
A 10-day public comment period will be held before the names are submitted to Gov. Gary Herbert.
Utah Supreme Court Nominating Commission Chair Gayle McKeachnie is accepting written comments regarding the nominees at the Administrative Office of the Courts, P.O. Box 140241, Salt Lake City,, 84114-0241.

The deadline for written comments is April 22, 2010, by 5 p.m.

The commission may request further interviews or an investigation of the nominees after reviewing public comments.
After the public comment period, the names will be sent to the governor who has 30 days to select a candidate.
The governor’s nominee is then forwarded to the Senate Confirmation Committee, which reviews the nominee’s qualifications and conducts a public hearing and interview session.
The Senate Confirmation Committee will forward the final nominee to the Utah State Senate, which has 60 days from the governor’s nomination to confirm the nominee.

The position will replace Justice Michael J. Wilkins who will retire in May.




Sunday, April 4, 2010

GIVE ME JESUS


Today, Easter Sunday, I complete my Lenten Exercise with one last song. It’s been an interesting and introspective experiment these last 40+ days as I have revisited ideas and experiences that bubbled their way up through my day to day life and ended up in songs. The writing of songs is not commonplace for me. I wish I wrote more prolifically, and I wish I could say I have written deeply and effectively about everything and everyone that matters to me. Truth is I have a rather imbalanced record through my songs. But it is a record nonetheless, even if it is flawed, and for that I am grateful.

When I stand up to a microphone, or when I sit on my couch with my guitar in my hands, I hope, whatever it is I sing, that it is truthful to me. I have said before that if something is believable I can buy it, emotionally. Whether it is lighthearted music about bears wearing pajamas (I’ll one day record that one) or as painfully personal as Flexible Flyer, my goal is to make it honest in a way that will not harm the listener. I have respect for my audience and hope that what I say in song and word is collectively more than cotton candy in substance. (Not that cotton candy doesn’t have its place in the world.)

On this most holy of days, when my heart seems to sit a little higher in my chest, I would like to complete this self imposed “sacrifice” in honor of Lent with a song I did not write.

Of unknown authorship, GIVE ME JESUS is believed to have risen through the deep throated guttural voices of Negro slaves as they labored in the hot fields of the American South. Its simplicity and its repetition are part of its beauty.

GIVE ME JESUS
In the morning when I rise
In the morning when I rise
In the morning when I rise
Give Me Jesus

And when I am alone
And when I am alone
And when I am alone
Give Me Jesus

And when I’ve come to die
And when I’ve come to die
And when I’ve come to die
Give Me Jesus

The recording of this song remains one of the sweet spots in my memory bank. Four of us:
 David Eskelsen (guitar),
 Mark Robinette (upright bass)

and Michael Huff (piano)

took our positions in Guy Randle’s beautiful Rosewood Studios on a sunny summer day. There is a calm earthiness about Guy’s place, partly due to the care he and Kristen have given in the creation of the physical space. But I think it is more likely that the sense of peace comes from the people who work and dwell there. Couple the warmth of the place with the people who play music with me: all three of them like brothers, whose love of the music and the message sparkles in their performances, and a tenderhearted, talented engineer – It’s an amazing combination for any song. But add to that mix THIS song. It is hard to explain. If it had been a church meeting it would have been as if four of us rose to the pulpit at once, all of us with our hearts pounding in our chests as we stood to testify; only the testament is in harmony.

If I close my eyes I can picture myself in that little space where I stood, headphones connecting me to the sounds of my companions, Dave’s sweet guitar begins, like sun rays on the kitchen table in the early morning. Then comes Mike’s piano, swaying sweetly against the guitar, Mark’s bass filling the bottom where few people notice it, though they would surely know if it were missing. Then in the musical bridge when Mark starts to draw the bow across his strings, it doesn’t show so much in this mix – but I can feel it: that’s when it causes me to quiver. This is my testament, using 20 words or less.

I am grateful that this song brought comfort to my brothers and sisters as they slaved away their sorrow and sweat in fields that were not their own. It has comforted me in the singing of it, though it is not always easy to do. I sing at quite a few funerals. This is a difficult task, because you want the spirit to manifest itself of course, but I am one who cries at such manifestations, and trust me, I don’t sing well when I cry. So it’s a fine line I walk between being insensitive so I can sing, and so sensitive I can’t. I have felt the encouraging arms of angels at my back as I have testified through this song at the funerals of some people I love deeply. Before Ardene’s funeral we met in the Primary room to run through the song. Flanked by Mark and Dave, and with Mike at the piano, I stood through the introduction, then when it came time to sing I was simply overcome with sorrow. I could feel the boys lean in toward me. I could feel their prayers. I could feel their worthiness. We prayed together, then went into the chapel expecting that if the Lord wanted this song to be a comfort to those who were grieving in that space, He would give me the power to sing it. And he did. He had done it before. He had given me the power to look into Merlyn’s eyes when I sang it at her husband’s funeral. And He gave me the power again.

I acknowledge that all I have, that is of worth, comes from Him. I thank Him and I praise Him for his goodness.

Last year, for the Lent season, I challenged myself to sacrifice my mornings to write Word of the Day passages. This year the challenge has been more daunting, because I have had to look deeply in a place I don’t always love to look: myself. If you have taken a portion of this journey with me, I apologize for so much of it being “me” oriented. I guess it is the nature of the beast, under such circumstances. For me, I am just grateful to have been able to revisit so much of my past. I am grateful I required myself to write it down. There are more songs than this collection reviews. And hopefully there will be even more in the future. I am hoping my best song is not yet written. (This statement makes me very tired, I must admit)

Thank you for your comments, you who may have read along. When I analyze myself and why I write songs, I concluded I just want to be understood. I think this is a basic human characteristic. Not that I write for comments, nor do I sing for applause, but it is always comforting to hear that someone understands what I mean to say.

I pray the maker of all good things shines on all of us, whether or not you feel him shining. It’s been a beautiful Easter day, and a blessed Holy week, filled with good people and good interaction. There are many tasks that have been waiting for me to free up the time I’ve spent writing. I guess can finally get to them.

(Not that I really want to.)

Until next year, or until the next post, I’m signing off.

Cori




Saturday, April 3, 2010

ALL GOOD THINGS

Every other Wednesday I take a gig somewhere in the Salt Lake Valley on assignment from an organization called Heart & Soul. It’s not always convenient, but it is usually in the afternoon and that’s a good time for my mom to take an outing so more often than not Libby will drive me and Mom and Sherry will ride along. I go wherever they send me, which is usually to a nursing home, or a rehab center, sometimes a school or retirement center. Sometimes I sing and play guitar for little kids, but more often it’s for the generation one or two steps above me. There are not many left who would be two generations above me, people old enough to have grandchildren my age, but there are some. I’ve written about this before in this blog, because the moments are so meaningful to me. I was setting up last week and a woman over to the left was rather irritated. She mumbled and shook her head and I wondered, as I strapped my guitar to my shoulder, if I was going to have to try to sing above her rant. But when I started she looked up, her forehead pursed in a questioning manner. She cocked her head to the side, as if she were lifting her ear to hear better, and then she let out a soft sigh. I looked her in the eye and began to sing “Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, Consider all the worlds thy hands have made….”

I think of that, in contrast to the anticipation we feel as our dear friends Jason and Erica Gardner labor away in a hospital in New York City, inching their way toward the first breath of their first child, and the first grandchild of Reed and Cindy. That little first breath has been so long awaited. The thought of it got Cindy through her walk through the valley of the shadow of death, her sword cinched at her side as she pushed herself toward the beast called breast cancer, faced him head on, and slew him with every ounce of energy she had. She is reborn herself, her eyelashes returned and her head has a soft layer of fuzz under her baseball cap. She has a bit in common with her soon-to-be granddaughter.

In between that first breath we pray little baby Gardner will take today, and the last sigh so often heard in the homes where I sing, is the place of all good things.

When I set out to write ALL GOOD THINGS my intent was to give every day emphasis to the scripture Psalm 145:9 The LORD is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his works. Whether the receiver of His goodness is even a believer doesn’t seem to matter, still the origin of all good things is the Lord himself. But as I wrote, it kept coming back to me that even things that appear difficult, even bad, are in the end vehicles toward good. We think of life being filled with dichotomies, but on further examination it becomes obvious that what at first looks wholly wrong is often the seed to what is beautifully right.

From the lowest of earthly places, in the rawness of a stable with the stench of dung with the non-sterile blanket of hay as a bed, the King of all Kings was first presented to his kingdom. It seems incongruous. But when you think about it the incongruity is part of the majesty of it. The place was undefiled by human hands, it was humble…and he came to live and work with the humble at heart because they were open to what he had to say. It was close to the simple soil of the earth, and to the creatures of that earth which he himself had created. The oldest soul among mankind, the first born of all the spirits of heaven, and therefore the eldest of all the spirits, came to take his throne in the new flesh of a baby.

The shape of the song became a study of contrasts, and I hoped to show how contrasting things become unified in Christ. At least that was my thinking. It probably doesn’t come across that way if you are listening for aesthetic pleasure. If that’s the case, then hopefully the song isn’t distasteful either. But there is more in the lyric if you care to find it.

We are given hard tasks, with long days of labor, and what does the Lord give us for that? Able hands. He doesn’t take away the hard; instead he gives us the ability to deal with it.

We, in our innocence, look at tiny dry seeds, unaware of what they can do, and He says, “Here, place them here. Push them down into the dirty place and give some care. Look what I will make of them.” It only takes one growing season for us to understand how that works. Soon we have whole fields full of amber grain.

When storms come, and there is no shelter to protect us, he gives us the ability to bend in the wind. There is a promise he made us that nothing will come upon us that we cannot, with his aid, survive. Corinthians 10:13.

You catch my drift, hopefully. I feel like explanation is turning into preaching and that is not what I want or intend.

I started writing this post this morning, before we took the kids to the egg hunt and before we colored eggs and before we had the movie night and before I made potato salad for dinner tomorrow. It’s time to let it go, quit analyzing and move on to other tasks. Since I started writing this morning Jason and Erica have delivered a fabulously beautiful dark haired 10 lb 2 oz daughter. Welcome, little one. We share the same air. I breathe you and you breathe me, eventually. We all breathe each other, in joy and sorrow. Same air, passed around, cleansed in the clouds and the sea and the rain.
It’s all good; and we know from whence it came.

All Good Things

CHORUS:
All good things
Great and small
King of Kings
He gave them all

Small boy – Old soul
Broken earth – made whole
Look now what the stable brings
Lord of Lords and King of Kings and…

CHORUS

Hard work – Able hands
Small seeds – Good land
Whole fields full of amber grain
Warm sun and Cool rain and…

CHORUS
Wind blows – willow bends
Heart breaks – Love mends
Lullabies on a winter night
Dark skies have starlight and…

CHORUS

Sun set, moon rise
First breaths; Last sighs
And everything in between
All come to good things and….

All good things
Great and small
King of Kings
He gave them all

Tag: King of Kings He gave them all




Friday, April 2, 2010

IF YOU WERE MINE COMPLETELY

In 2000 the Seatrek Foundation commissioned me to write songs for an oratorio. The foundation was planning a worldwide celebration called SEATREK 2001 in honor of the Latter-day Saints’ answer to the call to gather in Zion from 1840 through 1868. Over 85,000 converts from Europe, Scandinavia, and the British Isles left all that was familiar and dear to cross a treacherous ocean, after which they picked up handcarts or purchased wagons and travelled another thousand miles of prairie and mountains before they arrived at the promised land…a desolate desert. The foundation gave me a wide creative berth, which was wonderful and awful at the same time. Having unlimited creative options can be overwhelming.

I decided it would best suit our circumstances to tell the story of the actual people who made that decision, then made that crossing. The foundation had planned a three week tour where tall ships would travel from port city to port city. There we would have a large exhibit telling the story of the saints, along with entertainment and a travelling genealogy library so people could research their ancestors. In the evening the oratorio would play in whatever concert hall aligned with that city; in Liverpool it was the Liverpool Cathedral, in Portsmouth it was Guild Hall, and so on. After the show there would be a grand fireworks display. The songs I wrote were to be orchestrated by Kurt Bestor, who would compose the score to go with them. Soloists from the Metropolitan Opera and Salt Lake City would sing, and the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra and Choir would play and sing. Pretty big stuff. So I felt a great weight of responsibility. In fact, I felt wholly incompetent. It became a problem. I mean seriously; I don’t even read music. I am not proud of this. I wish it were different. But it’s not. I kept telling Mark Robinette, who hired me in the first place (this is when we first got to really know each other), that he might want to find someone else. In retrospect, he probably should have found someone else. But if all we really got from it was our good friendship and the open door to performing together, well…that’s enough for me. Mark just kept telling me he knew I would find the right lyric for the right stories, and the music would flow with the lyric.

“But I am just a folk song writer.”

“Exactly!” Mark replied. “Do what you do best. Tell a story that will reach the center of people. Kurt can do the big flowery stuff.”

So there I was, commissioned with this daunting task, overwhelmed with the possibilities in storyline. I began reading. And reading…And then reading some more. I read ships logs, old diaries and journals, letters. The more I read the more amazed I was. These were normal people, with fairly common lives and thoughts and families and situations. What in the world would compel someone to leave their place of comfort and join strangers in such a far away desert? Like I shouldn’t know this already?

I was never asked to leave my home, or my family. I did not have to quit my job or sell my most precious things to pay for the passage. I have lived in comfort with my faith, relatively speaking. Sure I had my share of oppression, having grown up in Pennsylvania where some of our teachers looked closely at the top of our heads to see if there were nubs of horns. We were not invited to parties, we didn’t date much, we lived far away from our fellow saints. I was one of two Mormons in my high school class, and the other one was not all that active. That was the extent of my sacrifice, however. I don’t know what I might have done if it came down to deciding between my family and my faith.

In the interest of time I asked family and friends to read with me. We studied many books, and we used the Mormon Emigration Index, available at the Church Distribution Center. It is massive! And so interesting. Family and friends fed me the stories that were most compelling.

Eventually I had gathered a stack of writings from various people. A certain woman’s writings always seemed to rise to the top of the stack. I could tell, almost just by the style of her writing, if a collection of words quoted by someone in some book was originally written by her. Something valuable was left for us through the eyes of Jean Rio Baker. Jean was the wife of a fairly wealthy London accountant. She and her husband had seven children. They joined the church, in spite of rumblings from her family, and decided to sell their two homes and most of their goods to go to Zion, the area now known as Salt Lake City, Utah. Before they could leave, however, her husband died. Jean then had to make the decision again. Against the wishes of her extended family she sold her homes and goods and boarded the George W. Bourne in London with her children. She was able to purchase space to bring her piano with her. It was the first piano to come to the Salt Lake Valley and can currently be seen in the Church History Museum.

I wrote a few songs specifically after journal entries written by Jean. The one that gets to me most was written in my basement after a long day of fasting for direction. I was just not getting anywhere with this assignment, and I had no songs. I had journal entries, and ideas, but nothing was coming that fit. So I went to my basement, asked the family to leave me alone, and I lit candles all around me so that all light was natural. It was just me and my guitar and the flickering candle light, a pencil and a writing pad.

Whatever vehicles the Lord chose to use to help me, whether it be angels, or whisperings of the spirit, or just my imagination, I finally found the seeds to a song in the center of one of those flickering candle flames.

Jean Baker had written about the death of her youngest son, Josiah. He was four years old. She did not say what took his life, though we know he had been ill. What she did note were the exact longitudinal and latitudinal points where they committed his small body to its watery grave. That specific was so telling, and so wrenching to me.

I imagined having to do the same. I wept in the imagining. Sobbed, to be exact, there in my flickering space. Sometimes a good imagination can be so painful. And yet I read subsequent journal entries by Jean, and I could tell how she dealt with it. Her determination and her faith were unwavering through the whole journey. Despite her great losses, she still maintained her wonder at everything…the beauty of the stars at night, the quest for a bit of refinement in an unrefined setting. I was charmed by the fact that, when she was crossing the prairies in the Midwest, she would spy a farmhouse off in the distance. She would turn the reigns over to one of her sons and run up ahead, tea bags in hand. She’d knock on the door, hoping someone might be home for a mid-afternoon respite. “Would anyone here care for a spot of tea?” I can hear her say with her British accent, facing a wide-eyed farm-woman. She had no apologies, and she moved with grace and energy through more dirt and rawness than she might ever have imagined. I loved her. I felt like I knew her. When I imagined how she might have responded when her youngest son was taken from her, this is what I came up with:

If You Were Mine Completely

If you were mine completely
If you were mine alone
I would not let you leave me
I could not let you go
And Hope and Sorrow
Would not be so entwined
Oh, if you were mine completely
If you were only mine

Instrumental with voice over journal entry reading

Straight from your home in Heaven
Into my arms you came
How could I keep you here when
We heard them call your name
Now Hope and Sorrow
Cannot be taken away
Even if you were mine completely
I would not make you stay

No Hope and Sorrow
Would not be so entwined
Oh, if you were mine completely
If you were only mine


I believe that same faith that compelled Jean to leave her native land, to take company with strangers from different countries and different classes, to settle in a desert with little her money could buy…that same faith told her that this boy was not being left alone in a grave of water. He had gone back home, from whence he had come to her. He had once belonged to another, and he still belonged to another. He was not hers completely, though he was surely hers to love.

Hope assured her that she would see him again. Hope can abide alongside sorrow. It makes sorrow bearable. Mothers who have lost children know this. They are a distinctly noble group of people, being able to understand each other without a word. It’s a club no woman wants to join. But if there were some sort of support group for mothers who have lost children, it would be led by Mary. The same Mary who wrapped her baby in swaddling clothes; who took him dutifully to the temple; who kissed his cheek in a tender farewell when he left to enter the desert for 40 days and nights. This same woman stood by and watched as history turned on is side and changed the fate of mankind. I can hardly bear the thought of her kneeling at the base of the cross, her shoulders curled in around her heart, wondering herself why the Lord of all would not change this course. I can feel John’s arms wrap his cloak over her back as these words were spoken from the cross: “Woman, behold thy son…behold, thy mother.”

This song is for Jean Rio Baker. But today, this Good Friday, it is also for Mary, the mother of Jesus. Surely she knew that He was not hers completely. He belonged to God. And He permitted himself to belong to all of us. He is the giver of that Hope, and the comforter in that Sorrow. And because of Him, we are… none of us….completely our own.

**************

Following are from two separate recordings: The first three are narration, journal reading, and song from our Live Unplugged stage show, which we do occasionally with my folk artist friends. It’s pretty raw, and very “unplugged”. Following that is the oratorio version of the song, sung by Jennifer Welch-Babidge. Kurt asked me to write a preface for that, which you will also hear.

By the way, all that was imagined about the Seatrek adventure…the tall ships, the port city celebrations, the shows, the fireworks…it all happened. We had a glorious adventure travelling between cities for each show. Who gets so lucky to do this kind of thing?






Here, as if you had not read enough already, is an article by Janine Creager in LDS Living Magazine about my writing of Saints on the Seas: http://ldsliving.com/magazine/show/2386/Saints-on-the-Seas

ONE SMALL BOY

We humans are creatures of repetition. Come to think of it, this whole Earth is based on repetition, spinning faithfully on her axis, turning our faces to the sun regardless of our righteousness or unrighteousness. She just keeps on spinning, shifting dutifully so seasons come and go. Repetition. We who breathe require rest in regular intervals; we repeatedly nourish and cleanse our bodies; we put one foot in front of the other over and over again just to get where we want to be. We are replete with “repeat”.

Some things we repeat so we can consciously remember them. I listen to the toddlers in my life repeat their ABC’s, and within a very short while they are stringing letters together to make words. My guitar students place their fingers on the fret board of their guitars in certain patterns: “OK now, strum, 2,3,4…off,2,3,4…back to the pattern,2,3,4….Eventually they go to the chord they want without having to look, then eventually their fingers fall into place without even thinking of it as a pattern. Their fingertips are perfectly callused, their tendons and muscles are accustomed to pinching the string against the wooden neck…it all becomes second nature.

Even the term “second nature” alludes to the power of repetition. We shed our first natural state to take on a second one, like a butterfly sheds her cocoon, like a cicada molts and leaves the old flesh behind.

Night before last we all gathered around my milk glass cake plate, atop which was stacked a yummilicious fresh German’s Chocolate Cake. We lit candles and sang our massively harmonic Happy Birthday to You and David leaned over with his grandkids to blow out the candles. We have repeated this scenario for many years, many more than David would like to admit, though I think it wholly worthy of shouting that the world has had him this long. Birthdays are so great, in my thinking, because they allow us to remember someone in very physical and meaningful ways, without feeling like we are being exclusive and without hurting the feelings of other people we love. We are permitted to focus, to celebrate the fact that someone who has changed our lives was born in the same time and space that we lived on this earth.

Some birthdays we celebrate after the person has finished their earthly journey. There are national holidays assigned to give us pause, so that we will remember them and what they represent. This is a good tradition.

I’m not sure of this, because I have not researched it, but I am sort of guessing that the oldest birthday we celebrate as a people is the one we cherish on the 25th of December. Even though this is thought to be a different day than his actual birthday, the fact that we set apart a specific time to celebrate his birth is good enough. It’s not the exact moment that matters as much as the fact that there was a moment at all. And though we have not always celebrated in such a fantastic way as the civilized world has done the past century of so, the fact that there have been more than two thousand years that the earth’s cycle has repeated herself between his birthdays is really worth noting. A thousand years of Christmas days…and then again, a thousand more.

When I was working on the creation of songs for my latest Christmas album, I found the following tidbit:

A medieval hymn, written near the time the Christian calendar was set, says this-
"Though Christ in Bethlehem, a thousand times be born,
Unless he's born in you, your heart is still forlorn."

I was at the time working on another Christmas song, which remains unfinished, because I could not let go of these words. I thought of all the people on this earth who celebrate Christmas with a tree and presents and some form of culinary delights. I thought of how this holiday brings people to a place of sharing and giving, and all that is good. But for those who will go back, there is so much more. Back to the stable, to the manger, to the babe. His coming was so pivotal we changed our calendars to center on that day in that year.

We repeat the story over and over. We repeat to remember.

Today is Thursday. Not just any Thursday.

Remember.

There was a chamber in the upper portion of a house in a far away city in a far away time, and in that chamber there was a man who wore the cloak of humility though he was a king. And though he was a king he knelt before his servants and washed the mud from their feet. He broke bread, and he poured wine, and he sang and prayed and touched and taught. And he gave a new pattern for them to follow, doing away with the old one. He simply told them to Love, like he had loved, like He still loves.

It is as true and as lovely a story as has ever been told.

We do well to remember.

ONE SMALL BOY

A thousand times the Child is born
A silent night in a little town
With a thousand angels looking down
On One Small Boy

A simple stall; a manger bed
A brilliant star overhead
A thousand tears his mother shed
For One Small Boy

He is come Emmanuel
Holy one, Emmanuel

A thousand years of Christmas days
And then again a thousand more
And still we come and we adore
This One Small Boy

He is come Emmanuel
Holy one Emmanuel

A perfect life; a noble death
No greater love; no truer friend
In my heart He’s born again
One Small Boy

A thousand times born again
One Small Boy

There is a scripture in the second book of Corinthians that, in a few short words, speaks the volume of a life filled with remembrance.

2 Corinthians 5:17
Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

When I come to His table; when I willingly lift my hand and accept the offering; when I crush the bread and lift the cup to my lips; not only do I remember for myself my dependency on Him, but I remind Him that I am here…I am trying…I am weak, but I am willing. A thousand times, week after week in a lifetime of Sabbath days…a thousand times… born again.





Maundy Thursday refers to the Thursday before Easter, the occasion of the Last Supper. The word 'Maundy' comes from the Latin word for commandment, mandatum; referring to the new commandment given that we love one another as He loves us.

(a thousand angels looking down)