A Dream

I interrupt my study to tell you of a dream. Actually, it is my good friend, librarian, and valet, George Harrell, who had this dream some time ago, and told me about it today. It is a dark story. There was no humour in this dream. It was serious. I shall try to relate the narrative as faithfully as possible.

Once upon a time, there were some men in a town called Moscow, in the great Northwest. There was a great and grave meeting amongst the important men of the town. It took place in the Logos Fieldhouse, but it wasn't quite the Logos Fieldhouse (Let the reader understand the nature of dreams). It was quite dark, like during a wedding reception, and in the center lay a large, long, solid table, like the one found in Bucers. The ceiling above was a lofty vaulted ceiling, like a cathedral. There was a monastic feel to this event. I'm sure there was a large fire roaring in a stone fireplace--at least this was the feel. Around it were gathered these men of Moscow, discussing something important, with bunches of paper laid out in front of them. Suddenly, one of the men, a certain gentlemen from across the sea, stood and starting lecturing about the glories of the French Revolution, and continued for some time. All present listened intently. Then another gentlemen, a local who's father took care of the towns insurance, stood and said a derogatory statement, now forgotten (let the reader understand the nature of dreams) about the French and leur Révolution. He then sat. All was quite. you could have heard a mouse on the stone floor. The Frenchmen then sent his glove flying across the table, hitting the head which contained the mouth that dared utter those words of meprise concerning glorious France. All men sat aghast. Then one of the leaders among them stood. "He has thrown the glove. We must fulfil ritual." Upon these words, everyone stood up. Some sided with the Frenchman, some with the gentleman who was hit with the glove (who was also a librarian). All headed for the south entrance. Upon exiting, there was no parking lot. Instead was a green field, surrounded by a stone wall, with bleacher type benches surrounding the small field on all side. Every last person we knew, under the age of 25, was seated upon the bleachers, looking down at the two gentlemen. In the middle of this clearing, stood a man, dressed entirely in black and holding a large staff (he is commonly known as Jody, the mover of books). To his left and right stood two large swords, wedged loosely in the soft earth. The opponents were each handed a pair of long, black, leather gloves by those faithful to them, which they pulled on. All was silent once again. The man in black started going through the rules. "You must wait for my command. You may not..." etc. He had done this many times before. The two faced each other. All was silent, and George Harrell's dream slipped into fogginess.

Multae Mortes, Una Vita - The Mysterious Ways of God

The Easter service was glorious! In his sermon, Dr. Leithart talked about how Jesus was not abandoned to Sheol as it would have seemed to everyone seeing Him die. In the same way we will never be abandoned to Sheol. Though we pass at times "into Sheol," as David did, Christ went ahead of us, and was raised the third day. His death was not pointless, and neither are our "Sheol's," as we too shall be raised. A new paradigm is set: a seed must go down into the ground and die in order that it might be raised to life.

We sang, "God Moves in a Mysterious Way," which is one of my favourite hymns:

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

Wedding Pics

Deborah is married!!!

Here are some of the pictures. Due to lack of time, they are not organized in any special way, but there is a basic, though fragmented, chronology.

www.danielfoucachon.com/beauchamp_wedding/