Wednesday without words (mostly)

As if the Monday holiday didn't confuse me enough (did you notice I titled my Tuesday post "Monday"?), now I am exiled to my husband's computer until a new CPU fan arrives and replaces the old one, which is in its final death throes. So today's photos are from whatever Dave has hidden away on his computer: and here it is:

This is the 2002 Los Alamos Homeschool Cross-Country "A" team in the Bandelier races.
Back row: Dave, Tim, Eric Francisco, Jesse Piotrowicz
Front row: Joey Piotrowicz, Curtis Christensen, Dan Wermer, Jonathan Roybal

In memoriam, on Memorial Day

Dave's dad, George, was a decorated veteran of the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. When he returned from the war, he was changed forever. He spent the rest of his life refusing to call on God, though we pray the gospel grabbed his heart in the final hours when he was unable to communicate and alone with the Lord. He did amazing things during the war, and paid a significant price for them.

My poet son, Ben, caught much of the essence of the man when he wrote the following poem. Both the bitter and the sweet show through in a breath-taking way.

When the Purple Heart Stopped Beating

My grandfather never told
me, but I heard how
in’45 he was ordered to hold
an insignificant farm house
against an unlooked-for thousand,
and he did show me
the scars
once. But I always (wars
and all) admired the medals.
He left us, angry
because there wasn't a damn
thing left and he couldn't breathe;
asbestos got him in his bed
waiting for something that he could see.

Is it worth trying
where failure is certain?
Is there a single striving
moment of nobility,
somehow,
in the aiming, in the dying
fall of a dream pursued?
Is there something
in death-denied driving,
a poignant purpose
for the lost fought-for cause?

It took a machine-gun,
an entire division
to get Grandpa out of that house,
but when he lost hope
he laid down and stared
and wheezed.

A hope that is seen
is not a hope at all.

A literary girl...

I have been reading a short story by Mark Helprin that Elsa recommended to me. The other night as I picked up the book to read, I happened to notice the signature on the title page. It says:

For Elsa A+ Johnson- Mark Helprin

The story here goes back to a class which Mark Helprin was teaching at Hillsdale when Elsa was an English/flute performance major there. Each student had to write a short story and turn it in before the class started, and part of the class included Mr. Helprin going through those stories and commenting for the class. He began his first day of class saying none of them should count on making a living at story writing-- or at least most of them shouldn't. He went on to say there was one exceptionally good story, and that author might think about writing for a living. It was, of course, our Elsa!
It was fun to be reminded of that story when I saw the inscription in the book. And it will be sad to leave Ben and Elsa in Indiana when we head home tomorrow.