The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month

106 years ago today . . . 

Armistice Day is commemorated every year on 11 November to mark the armistice signed between the Allies of World War 1 and Germany at Compiègne, France, for the cessation of hostilities on the Western Front of World War 1, which took effect at eleven o'clock in the morning, the 'eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month' of 1918. An American artillery gun from the 11th Field Artillery Regiment named 'Calamity Jane' fired a single shot at this time, known as the closing shot of the war. The armistice initially expired after a period of 36 days. A formal peace agreement was only reached when the Treaty of Versailles was signed the following year.

May we never forget the horrors of war in order that we be diligent in forging pathways to peace.

Magical Day Under Falling Leaves

Tiny joyful girls twirling as a gazillion golden leaves flutter and spin and fall all around them from the same trees their mommy used to play under during the glories of warm fall crunchy-leaf days.

The laughing children chased leaves. And caught some. Leaves landed on us. The girls heaped them with rakes, along with already fallen leaves, then jumped in. 

Leaf salads happened.

Pretending to nap in the comfy pile, Grandpa was soon leaf-covered by gleeful granddaughters. 

The baby giggled and wiggled as she watched the leaves fly all around her bright-eyed self.

Squirrels skittered.

Birds swooped and soared, seeming to observe and even play along.

Rope swing rides ensued, curly golden hair floating on air, strong short legs pushing and pulling, cheeks rosy and glowing, eyes looking upwards into the oh-so-tall old trees, swinging forward and back, forward and back, dreaming.

Lunch on the patio.

Nuts set out for squirrels.

Happiness and restoration. Magical!

Autumn Sunday pleasures.

Have a lovely day!

Morning in America, Again

According to my Facebook memories for today, four years ago I had a cold, COVID was reaching it nasty fingers worldwide, and my guy lost the election.

Seven years ago I was in Paris.

Eight years ago my guy won the election.

Twelve years ago Obama won a second term, and I was completely undone about it.

And do you know what? All of the many comments on my posts during those various and varied moments - from friends and family who politically agreed or didn't - were just as civil and kind as could be. No one took offense at my sharing my sadness or happiness.

(Everyone especially loved my Paris pictures and news, gotta say.)

I was equally kind to my friends when the shoe was on the other foot, whether they were despondent or satisfied. Why? Because we love each other and we like each other and we have each other's backs knowing we will disagree now and again. Agreement doesn't matter.

It's so different now. Because of this odd cultural climate we find ourselves in, I am hesitant to share my views and responses. Fingers wag and warn: don't do it! Menacingly, threateningly. Tippy tippy toe egg-shell walking only.

It's nuts.

I have decided today, however, in light of the strong waves of thoughts and emotions filling my mind and heart, that I'm going to share these despite cultural warnings to keep silent. All those years ago it was okay to share such things. I'm tired of caving to irrationality and childishness.

I trust you, my readers, to understand that elections are cyclical; sometimes we win, sometimes we lose. Remember how our parents implored us to learn how to win and lose with grace in order to keep our relationships above pettiness and jealousy? I remember my mom telling me once, while snapping two fingers, that things change in an instant. Don't toss your friends over disagreements.

So, with grace, I share my election responses.

I am thrilled that Donald Trump won the Presidency for a second time. I am relieved and happy. 

I am overjoyed that the Senate went his way also, and perhaps the House will as well.

I've felt a huge sense of relief all day long, as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders, a weight I hadn't even realized had become so slouchingly burdensome.

I feel my kids will be safer and find navigating their lives will be easier. This is huge for me.

My mood has a lightness it hasn't had for four years. Yes, I've had fun and pleasant moments these past four years, but that weight has always been there, pressing, pressing, pressing.

I feel I can breathe again, as an American, as if I can come out of the shadows, see the sun, stretch my arms and gulp in fresh air. I realize just how many millions of other citizens experienced these same things for four years. I am not alone.

I am not garbage, or a foul uneducated thing. Oh, how hurtful it has been to live under such cruel and false epithets. Constantly. Abuse hurled on Trump supporters caused most of us to just keep mum about our support for the issues and candidacy of our choice. We weren't allowed choice. We were ridiculed in the media, in entertainment, online, everywhere. The abuse messed with my mind over time, unbeknownst to me. Today changed all that, lifted the pain and twitchiness. I feel normal again, as if life makes sense.

I love how many of my friends called or wrote to me in jubilation, bursting with joy as was I. What wonderful chats we've had already as this surreal historic moment comes into focus. We are happy. I can't say it enough. Happy. Relieved. Grateful. Inspired. Encouraged. Hopeful.

I am truly sorry for the other half of the country, for. my friends and family disappointed with the election outcomes. I get it. Boy, do I get it.

For those of you 'on the other side' know this, you will win again one day. You will be the happy ones. You will be encouraged and hopeful. When that happens, I will have your back. I will understand. I will encourage you and pray for you and smile with you and revel in the myriad other things in which we share common ground. I will never toss you aside for disagreeing with me. You are more important than an election.

You know, we really are all in this together, this thing called life. We are all under the care of the One who Leads everyone of us. This will never change.

Remember, win or lose, I genuinely love you, my friends and family. 

Always.

Socrates on Transparency

 

We can all do better here . . . thank you, Socrates.

So much pretense in this world. If we could actually be and achieve what we set out for others to see, well, wouldn't that just be something.

Some people would be shooting themselves in the foot, I know. Influencers, for example, who are so fake that even their most sincere offerings are chaff, floating away in the wind.

But for we serious people of this world, we could do better at syncing up the real with the image. We imagine ourselves virtuous, but in our private moments, are we really? Who are we when no one is looking?

This is something I've taken to heart all my life. I do put a good foot forward for guests, it's what a good host does, but I'm not phony. I genuinely want to give my guests the best possible moment that I can, give them a respite from the drudgery of life. 

I don't think Socrates was talking about hospitality. I think he was talking about relationships, about behavior, but mostly about our hearts and minds, our desires and thoughts. What we pretend to be is what we think is the best 'us' to present to the world, so it probably is worth pursuing. The genuine article, our highest potential as human beings.

I have to say, phony people are a pet peeve of mine. Here I am, living as authentically as I can, though not perfectly, putting it all out there, only to have phony people all around me perform. They purr and giggle, they lie and deceive, they manipulate and condescend. I do not like being used, hence my aversion to using people. I do not like to be stroked when I'm hurting, stroked like a little puppy with goofy baby talk and useless platitudes. 

When someone I love is hurting I listen. Intently. And I offer whatever actual help I can give, and I seek to learn what they need from me to get them through the storm. I think about them and about their struggles, they don't leave my mind. I check up on them until they are through it. I care. Sincerely care. I am there for them through it all, not just until something distracts me.

But it's rare for people these days to put it all out there. The social competition is stiff. We don't want to show our flaws, because heaven knows, no one else has any. Seems people are not comfortable baring their souls anymore. It's a rare person who will do so. I do so. And I find people willing to listen and help me and show true compassion with intelligence. While it's one thing for them to dig into my mind, they often put up a guard around their own.

It's frustrating. Very. Because there is wealth in sharing our highs and our lows with one another. Dialogues are far superior to monologues. 

Also, I must note that Happy Talk is so sickly sweet it rots our minds like sugar on teeth. Chattering about nothing at all or parroting the words and ideas of others is utterly useless in forming lasting bonds. Stop pretending. Have the courage to reveal who you truly are.

Be yourself. Ask questions. Share ideas. We don't have to have all the answers or even all the questions. But to be curious and to share a hypothesis in process or to puzzle out concepts and ideas, yes, these enliven and enrich us. Hard to find companions who will take the time to linger over conversations such as these, I know. Everyone has to be somewhere else an hour ago. Plus, there is a fear of being revealed, of being known as we truly are. It's sad because most friendships grow in the soil of honesty.

Oh well. I will keep being what I think is the best version of me - still a work in progress - and thank God for genuine people when they pop up here and there.

Those of you who already are with me in this, you know who you are, I treasure you. 

Your honor crowns you.

Sweet June 2024

The air in Springfield this past month has been absolutely delicious! Perfumed. 

Each sunny early morning, the sun's warm fingers tickle the sweet aromas from flowers, blossoms, and grasses. The breezes then entice and carry the loosened dainties far and wide.

Mornings, I lie in bed reading . . . in bliss.

Filmy sheer white curtains lift and gently billow on the air dancing between my room's two huge garden-facing windows, fresh scents swirling with them.

I cannot help closing my eyes in peace, inhaling deeply of the mingled fragrances, smiling in closed-lipped contentment. 

Bright blue sky, no clouds.

I shall meander out to the hose in my herb garden to lightly sprinkle newly sprouting basil, parsley, and cilantro, then, give drinks to the other darlings.

I've already picked a heaping bowlful of red sweet strawberries, stunned at the many ripe orbs peeking out from under sturdy green leaves! 

I snap a handful of warm-from-the-sun asparagus. Prolific, as is everything else in my gardens this year.

Artisan French toast with berries for breakfast along with roasted just-picked-asparagus, and a mug of the tea my daughter gave me for Mother's Day.

Sweet June!

Biden the Literary Pirate

When I was a young woman, 1987 I think it was, I first heard, on the evening news at 6:00, the word plagiarize in connection with a smug and sleazy senator, Joe Biden, unknown to me at that time. 

Grabbing a heavy, bright red Webster's dictionary, I looked up the word. I was appalled. I thought surely the discovery of his crime was the end of this guy's political career.

Ever since then, in my mind the word plagiarize travels interchangeably with the name Joe Biden. He copies the words of other people, presenting them as his own, never noting their true authorship. He plagiarizes.

He's done this throughout his life beginning in school and most

recently during his crabbily-delivered Pointe du Hoc speech of Friday, June 7, 2024, many passages lifted from President Ronald Reagan's Boys of Pointe du Hoc speech from 1984. Yes, a speech writer no doubt wrote the entire body of Biden's speech. But Biden spoke it; the onus is on him to check it out, or have it checked out, especially given his, ahem, habit of cheating. He is the President now, after all. 

Sloppy and sleazy, the heart of a con man, a cheater, a puny fellow who tries to stand on the shoulders of giants, but he cannot rise that high. Ever. 

Joe Biden = plagiarist = sleazy, in 1987, sleazy in 2024.

Here is a link to the text of Reagan's speech, which is one for the ages, a beautiful, dignified, honorable speech worth reading. It cleansed my mental palate after listening to Mr. Plagiarist just now.

Here is a link to a video of Reagan's speech. 

Truth matters.

Omaha Beach, 2017 Photo: Cherie Klusman

Seeing One Another

   "We were created to look at one another, weren't we?" -  Degas

Place de la Concorde, 1875, Edgar Degas

Face to face, eyes upon eyes, feeling the heat and breath from another's body, smelling their clothing and perfume, watching the wind play with their hair, patting them on the arm in comfort, a teasing punch on the shoulder, seeing each other in person, this is normal human interaction.

Screens are abnormal.

And we are paying a price for our abnormality.

Unplug with me. 

Unplug from screens and walk away from fakery in comparison, forgery, manipulation, fake scripted and curated lives with unrealistic standards of plastic beauty. Succumb to the phony no more. 

Walk into real life, real living, flaws and all.

Live amongst people. Genuine people.

We were indeed created for each other.

Giving, Taking Away, Giving Back Again

It's been repeated to death, but there it remains in the Bible (Job 1:21b), the Lord gives and the Lord takes away. And here we are to understand that the Lord is blessed for doing so. He does what He does and there ain't nothing we can do about it . . . 

. . . except strive all our lives long to understand that a good God is doing what He's doing for a good reason. Always.

And He is. He really is. He is teaching and showing and growing all of us who are His children.

I remember giving my children toys to play with only to find they didn't appreciate them, might break them, weren't ready for them just yet. So I quietly took them out of play until the right time. 

I also remember many times in my life when I had something wonderful but didn't appreciate it, until it was taken away, or I lost it due to my own carelessness. I wanted it a hundred times more after living without it. How I cherished the wonderful somethings when they returned to me!

These little God lessons come to me at the weirdest times.

Like during this unusual and busy week in the middle of a huge home improvement project.

Two years ago I had something that was wonderful, that I had worked and prayed for, but it scared me. I wasn't sure how to live with it. It made me feel vulnerable, uncomfortable. I didn't appreciate its wonder and goodness. I stupidly dwelt in fear.

So, God took it away, slowly over the course of two years. I pine for it now. I kick myself for not realizing what I had, when I had it. I am frustrated for not guarding and protecting it. 

I prayed to God today, letting Him know that I understand why it was taken: I wasn't ready.

He is slowly giving it back to me, but He's making me work harder for it than I did the first time. I am humbled. And I am grateful. I am willing to work to regain the gift. 

I have every hope that the gift He gave and took away and is giving back will be appreciated and enjoyed all the more the second time around, because its value is known to me. Truly known and understood.

I love the last verse in Job 1. "Through all of this Job did not sin nor did He blame God." That's the ticket. 

I know a life-long, church-going Christian woman who regularly raises her fist to Heaven and blames God in fury when He does what I've described in this post, that is He doesn't do what she wants Him to do; He either doesn't give or He takes something away. She goes directly to anger, fury, blaming, fist in the air, "Curse you, God." I shudder when she describes these moments of hers to me. She doesn't understand her lack of perspective. "Um, He's God and you're not, and He is good and you're not, so maybe be still and know this? Watch and learn? Trust? Hmm?" 

I've always found her tempestuous reaction mystifying because, for some reason, God has kept such thinking out of my nature. I've always known that He is the boss, the One who knows all, the Author of the story, the only one who knows everything that has, is, and will happen, and He knows exactly how He wants it all to go down. Also, I know to the depths of my heart, mind, and soul that He loves me. He is the Source of love.

So I trust Him. I've had my moments - seriously hard, crushing life events - where my legs turn to rubber and the air is sucked from my spiritual lungs, but always - so far always - I have immediately turned to Him in prayer expressing my shock and weakness and hurt and pain, but I tell Him, "Lord, I don't know why you are having this happen, but I trust you. I can barely stand, but I trust you and know you are doing something good for your story. Whatever has to happen, please help me glorify you in my response. I want to understand You. I want to be good like You." (This, you see, is my long-winded version of Job's words at the end of chapter one. "Through all of this Job did not sin nor did He blame God.")

We all have our own walks and lessons. To respond in trust is the most important aspect of walking and learning. And then, to be grateful receivers of the gifts He sometimes returns to us, when we are ready

.

Spiritual Mea Culpa

Sometimes I am acutely aware that I live in a working class town with people who are, well, different from me, in manner, in presentation, in usage of the English language.

I fight the pride, man. I really do.

But today it got the better of me, and I actually said out loud as I drove home from the post office where I'd signed for and gathered my antique Italian mirror (ahem), "I really hate living here. These people!"

Feeling the necessity to meet my pride with humility, my thoughts turned to Biblical passages about believers being salt and light. Many of our Lord's teachings flowed through my pious mind.

Following resignation's deep sigh, I decided to focus on blessing the world with my presence, in order to brighten it, you know, help it out, because, well, me among them. I must stay the course and be a good little Christian woman amidst the Cretins. (Sorry, Crete. I'm sure you are populated with absolutely lovely people.)  I decided that it's best if I deign to bide my time being a godly example to these people until Jesus returns or takes me Home, whichever comes first. 

"Yes, you ignorant, unwashed, peasants, I will walk among you until God calls me out of this increasingly uncivilized world. He wants me here to help you. So I will do my best." 

More lung expulsions. 

The light turned green. I headed home. Unsettled, my mind puzzled over my hasty conclusions. I was missing something. Something crucial . . . 

 . . . . then, I realized with a gulp and a blush . . . . um, Jesus had to walk among the ignorant, unwashed peasants and also the snooty religious leaders in order to actually save their souls. And He did so willingly and with grace, love, compassion, purpose, and all His energy, creativity and talent. 

He washed His disciples feet and then told the disciples, "Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them." (John 13:14-17)

Face palm.

Right there in the car at the red light under a bright blue May sky, I got a clue.

Mea culpa. 

Looks like the biggest proudest unwashed idiot is me.

Postscript: memorize scripture all your life long. Especially teach Bible memorization to children. God uses it to teach you as an adult. Good stuff, even if it may leave a mark on your face.

Max Ernst, 1920

“Ambiguous Figures (1 copper plate, 1 zinc plate, 1 rubber cloth…),” circa 1919-20. Collage, gouache, India ink, pencil and painting over a print. Collection Judith and Michael Steinhardt, New York. Copyright 2004 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ADAGP, Paris.

Max Ernst's 1920 "collage is serious, desperately so. It is made up of cutting from pictures of machinery and other technical equipment, which have been pasted together so as to form two nightmarish 'mechanical men.' These stare at us blindly though their goggles and demand to know if we recognize them as images of modern man, slave to the machine and thus little more than a machine himself." -- H.W. Janson & Dora Lane Janson

World War One changed the world, drastically.

Things like Dada artwork erupted in response. With the aim to destroy traditional art and then replace it with new works they'd create, one of the Dada artists, Jean Arp (aka Hans Arp, 1886 - 1966), wrote this: 

"Revolted by the butchery of the 1914 World War, we in Zurich devoted ourselves to the arts. While the guns rumbled in the distance, we sang, painted, made collages, and wrote poems with all our might." 

Now, let me be clear, Dada-ists were politically very far left. I don't agree with their politics. I don't agree with their goal to destroy traditional art or culture. At all.

However, I understand that, while being very young, they felt fear and a lack of control or any sense to the War, to the destruction of life as they knew it. 

I am feeling the same things today, with the culture war drowning everything I hold dear, and at such a rapid pace. How quickly the structures of civilization are pulled down and either left ruinous or quickly replaced with evil. It is shocking.

So, while Ernst and I would disagree politically, we do agree that the barbarity of wars and the ensuing cultural upheavals need context, and art is a context that lasts.

This artwork of Ernst's comes to my mind often, because not only is it reflective of the existential crises experienced by the young in the early 20th century, but Ernst has proven himself prescient. His work reaches from the past to posit his questions to the early 21st century.

What is man becoming? Are we okay with it? How shall we respond to the blowing up of the world?

 

Revisited from 2018: Death, Where is Your Sting?

He was in His early thirties.

Just a kid, by today's standards.

Yet, Jesus lived a sinless life, died a gruesome death, and most importantly, awakened to eternal life.

I imagine Jesus stirring to consciousness there on that cold slab. Remember, He was a young man, a human being like the rest of us. Have you ever awakened from a nightmare only to react like Ebenezer Scrooge, rejoicing to be alive? Jesus must have been rejoicing, too. His sacrifice was accepted by God! He conquered death! He knew full well what, in His obedience, He had done not only for Himself, but for those who believe in Him, those who are drawn to the Goodness of God.

The Prince of Peace sat up, and unwound the grave clothes from His body. Then, Jesus folded the small facial cloth and set it on the slab. An interesting note about that action, the folding of the facial cloth, is that in Hebrew custom, when a master was finished with his meal, he'd leave his napkin wadded up on his plate to signal his servant that he was finished eating and would be leaving the table. If the master left a folded napkin at his place, it meant he would return, so please, servant, leave his plate and silverware on the table. Was Jesus, in folding that piece of cloth, leaving a signal that He'd be returning for us? Perhaps. At last, the Messiah walked out of the dark tomb of a rich man into the fresh air of Jerusalem.

Think of it. Just think of His experience.

Death could not keep Him. He rose victorious over it. He is alive today.

Because He lives, we have the choice to follow Him to another Age, which we call Heaven. It is there He prepares a place for us so that where He is, we may be also. He waits for us, his younger brothers and sisters. It is glorious, and so humbling.

To you, gentle reader, I wish an Easter Observation full of love, joy, meaning, refreshment, and the realization that Easter marks the most Important Event in World History. The resurrection of Jesus.

I hope He has your attention...and your love.

Happy Easter!

When You Can't Get to France or Italy Soon Enough

Springtime, printemps, France and Italy.

What do these have in common?

They call to me so loudly that I am distracted on a daily basis.

Spring is entering my world slowly and steadily. Yesterday, I caught the first cherished scent of spring breezing in the air, the moment I wait for all winter. It's gentle stream of sweetness casually tickled my nose. I stopped and gasped At last! 

Buds are forming on tree branches. In the garden, bulbs have pushed cheery yellow daffodils up and out of the soil. Skittering squirrels in the yard, birds energetically bathing in their baths, grandchildren gleefully squealing on the tree swing. 

Rhapsody!

One ache remedied by nature.

But France and Italy don't waft into my neighborhood as spring does.

You know how it is when you've frequented a beloved place, but you are no longer there? Out of the blue something and many things vividly bring the place to mind.

Repeatedly.

For days.

Weeks.

Months.

Relentlessly.

Until you feel so distracted and lonely for the place you find yourself weeping during the day, in little bursts, tiny, personal, and very very powerful.

Circumstances beyond my control have cancelled an upcoming late spring European holiday for me.

I am gutted.

That being said, I am pragmatic about the postponement, for I know I will return soon. Pragmatism is my mind speaking.

For my heart, however, it's as if the promise of Christmas has been snatched away. All the feels are still there, the expectations, the joy, the glory of what was to come.

Then, nope. Gone. 

I don't give up easily. As a mother of four kids and four grandkids, I've learned to create work arounds to dispel disappointment.

So, work around it is!

Since I can't get myself to France or Italy right now, I deliver France and Italy to myself in the shape of favorite movies (A Good Year, From the Vine, Paris Can Wait), French music (Debussy and Satie), and in the form of favorite treats always enjoyed in France including some special new-to-me tastes from Italy. 

The movies and music soothe the aches. But not enough.

Today, my order of French and Italian treats came in the mail.

Hallelujah! Relief!

Here I sit, sipping my tea with a cube of rugged La Perruche sugar. I am transported to European cafés in powerful, lovely ways. So satisfying is one French sugar cube that the noise of the roofer repairing storm damage above my head fades. 

Well, kind of.

Add to tea sipping joy, a St. Michel madeleine. My daughter introduced these to me. She is married to a French man and goes to France often, every time grabbing a big bag of these for the visit and a few more for her return trip luggage. 

Because madeleines are part of every visit to France, for me these soft delicious petite cakes evoke the distinct emotions, aromas, pace, and beauty of the Old World. As though superimposed onto my western Oregon chilly February, rich French and Italian surroundings come alive via memories of stone buildings, castles, cathedrals, friendly people, heavenly organic foods, the clackity clunk of ancient cobblestones, the joie de vivre of country driving along narrow roads which take us to places unventured and inviting. 

To soothe my need to be in Italy, I selected some Italy to put into me: jam prepared in the Puglia region of Italy made from 55% Italian grown fruit. 

I've yet to sample it.

As a small business product, this jam fits the bill perfectly.

I will buy fresh made croissants from my baker on Saturday morning. I'll knife dollops of jam onto each bite. I'll sip French-pressed coffee my husband and I will make, adding French sugar cubes, bien sur.

France and Italy have entered my home, delighting my senses once again.

Music, movies, and tasty treats will stave me off for awhile.

If you catch me glowing, smiling, eyes half shut, know that I am dreaming of friends who miss me as I miss them.

Hemingway's Genius

In the movie Papa Hemingway in Cuba there is a scene in which Ernest sits at the bar with a new friend who, as a young writer, asks Hem about writing.

Hemingway implores the kid, as he calls him, to think of a number between one and ten.

Six, replies the kid.

With a pen, Hem begins writing on a small white cocktail napkin.

Finished, he slides it over the smooth bar to his friend, a complete story in only six words.

His words?

"Baby shoes. Never worn. Brand new."

Genius.

Who Cares About Art? Repost from March 2016

[First published in March, 2016 here on Cause I Believe in You, this post is even more relevant today as we observe the diabolical erasing of Western culture and its history. If you follow culture, as I try to, you are likewise familiar with this rapidly unfolding tragedy. Alas, God will only allow what is necessary for His story to be told. We who believe in God, and in His saving grace, are His witnesses. Salt and light, that is our calling, to preserve the Truth in whatever form it is expressed and presented. May we rise to the challenge.] 

 Bruges Madonna and Child, Michelangelo, 

It has taken six decades for me to understand the importance of art for a people, a culture, a civilization.

This quote from the movie, The Monuments Men, summarizes my thoughts succinctly. Frank Stokes, the leader of the group of men sent near the end of WW2 to save works of art stolen by the Nazis and stored in Hitler's hidden treasure troves, explains to the close-knit group his perspective on their mission.

"All right, listen up fellas because I think you should know the truth as I see it. This mission was never designed to succeed. If they were honest, they would tell us that. They'd tell us that with this many people dying, who cares about art. They're wrong. Because that's exactly what we're fighting for, for our culture and for our way of life. You can wipe out a generation of people, you can burn their homes to the ground, and somehow they'll still come back. But, if you destroy their achievements, and their history, then, it's like they never existed. Just...ash floating. That's what Hitler wants. And it's the one thing we simply can't allow."

Art matters. Too few of us alive today seem to understand this truth.

Ghent Altarpiece, Jan van Eyck, 1430 

An Art History course I'm currently enrolled in through the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York City teaches me how to see history through works of fine art. Information is gleaned from more than what is overtly depicted in the art; it's in the style, the reasons behind the style, the perspectives and perceptions of the artists, how they came to have their views, and why the strong desire to express those attitudes and convictions. Our cultural timeline, our achievements, our failures, dreams, rebellion, foolishness, nobility, wisdom, and spirit are preserved in fine art.

Art is more than beautiful or interesting pictures, architecture, and sculptures. Art is a language of history, of culture, of mistakes made, of wisdom gleaned, and of warnings. Art is messages from the past which, when correctly understood, serve us today and will continue to in the future. Art inspires, disturbs, informs, challenges, soothes, and perplexes. It tells who and where we've been, and what we currently are. Art records everything!

How exciting to discover a new-to-me language, one which broadens understanding of the historical timeline, while encouraging the heart!