For my First Love

I never touched you

But you touched me

Our eyes met with a look that I still feel

across all the years and miles

And that has walked with me

on all the lonely paths of my life

I never touched you

But you sent me Oscar de la Renta-scented letters

I can still smell them when I close my eyes:

lilac-blue three-by-five cards with ruled lines

but nothing written...just the scent of your love

I couldn't touch you

We were so young. Romeo and Juliet young

But there was more between us than just three little years

I was a boy in a man's mantle

My world was combat loads and early morning alerts

and Russians

So many Russians

Millions of them, waiting to kill me for Lenin, Marx, and Motherland

And my world was hard machines

and hard men

and hard drink

I couldn't even vote yet; but I had another contribution to make

One that would take about eighteen seconds

once the balloon went up

according to the bean counters

And so I couldn't hold you

You were too good for me

too beautiful

too sweet

too innocent

to right

I turned away

and turned you away

and I have felt the pain of it every single day of my life

from that day to this

For on this day I've found you again

and my hardened husk of a heart has finally been healed

I still cannot touch you

still cannot hold you

The sacred bonds cannot be broken

To try would be a black and heinous sin

not only against the only One I love more than you,

but against the very love I bear you

It would change my love: pervert it

twist it into something unrecognizable;

ugly and abortive

And so it is enough just to know you again

Your words are life and nourishment to my heart

Although the notes we send now cannot bear the scent of perfume

Do you know that I still love you?

Does it matter?

Perhaps I'll buy some three-by-five cards

and a bottle of Oscar de la Rente

-- M.S. du Pré

"I loved that woman like a second mother. I loved her to the point of tears."

-- Marilynne Robinson, Gilead

André Rieu - And The Waltz Goes On (composed by Anthony Hopkins)

Who knew he was a composer too? And not a bad one at that. There's something magical about a waltz, isn't there? So heartwarming to see good art going on out there amidst the interminable dross.

“Living by faith includes the call to something greater than cowardly self-preservation.” -- J.R.R. Tolkien

"He who learns must suffer, and, even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God." -- Aeschylus

"There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark." -- J.R.R. Tolkien

For an Unnamed Lady

I love you in your mystery

For all you are, and all you might be

Lasting love, it is said,

Can only come of Knowledge

and I cannot deny that it is so

But what lover knows his Beloved perfectly?

Woman is mystery

the incarnation of Holy Mystery

which must be loved in its obscurity

Wrapped in darkness, only revealing glimpses of itself

to longing and adoring eyes

Must a man taste every vintage

to know that wine is good?

Or cannot he accept that he will,

on occasion,

taste vinegar and gall,

and still love wine for all its variety,

and even love the mystery itself;

never knowing what surprises each new glass will bring?

Or how long must a man walk in Faerie

to know that he prefers it

to every place he's ever been,

or shall be?

Must he seek out all its dark corners,

uncover all its secrets

fight all its monsters

before he can say he loves it?

For in Faerie is darkness

as well as light

Elven song and the stench of trolls

Modest maids and devouring dragons

But can he not, having seen that this is so,

declare that here he will make his home--

taking the evil with the good,

the hideous with the fair?

And had he not rather die in the realm of light and shadows,

than live a thousand years in the grey land of men?

Thus I love you.

I know that you have faults;

some I see, some are undiscovered

But to me, they are not faults: they are imperfect perfections

I love your good, I love your bad
because I am bad, and good;

Your virtue and your vice,

Your beauty and your blemishes,

your sanctity and your sin

I do not know you yet--not all of you

it is true

But I know that all I wish to know is you

-- M.S. du Pré

The Courtship of Hawkeye

The Deerslayer is a 'prequel' to James Fenimore Cooper's more famous work, The Last of the Mohicans, telling the story of the character who would later become Hawkeye but who, in this book, hasn't yet earned his nom de guerre, and is called Deerslayer by his Delaware Indian friends for his skill in hunting.

In this scene Judith, a young woman of uncommon wit and exceptional beauty, who has spent her life living alone on a lake in the wilderness with her reclusive foster-father and simple-minded sister, has been trying to steer the conversation toward marriage with the young woodsman, for whom she has been developing feelings throughout the book. But Deerslayer's natural modesty and humility, as well as his high regard for Judith's person and charms, have blinded him to all her attempts to show her feelings by the usual circuitous route taken by members of the fair sex.

"This is not talking as becomes either of us, Deerslayer; for whatever is said on such a subject, between man and woman, should be said seriously, and in sincerity of heart. Forgetting the shame that ought to keep girls silent, until spoken to, in most cases, I will deal with you frankly as I know one of your generous nature will most like to be dealt by. Can you--do you think, Deerslayer, that you could be happy with a wife such as a woman like myself would make?"

"A woman like you, Judith! But where's the sense in trifling about such a thing? A woman like you, that is handsome enough to be a captain's lady, and fine enough, and, so far as I know, edication enough, would be little apt to think of becoming my wife. I suppose young gals that feel themselves to be smart, and know themselves to be handsome, find a sartain satisfaction in passing their jokes ag'in them that's neither, like a poor Delaware hunter."

This was said good-naturedly, but not without a betrayal of feeling which showed that something like mortified sensibility was blended with the reply. Nothing could have occurred more likely to awaken all Judith's generous regrets, or to aid her in her purpose, by adding the stimulant of a disinterested desire to atone, to her other impulses, and clothing all under a guise so winning and natural, as greatly to lessen the unpleasant feature of a forwardness unbecoming the sex.

"You do me injustice if you suppose I have any such thought or wish," she answered, earnestly. "Never was I more serious in my life, or more willing to abide by any agreement that we may make to-night. I have had many suitors, Deerslayer--nay, scarce an unmarried trapper or hunter has been in at the lake these four years, who has not offered to take me away with him, and I fear some that were married, too--"

"Aye, I'll warrant that!" interrupted the other; "I'll warrant all that! Take 'em as a body, Judith, 'arth don't hold a set of men more given to theirselves, and less given to God and the law."

"Not one of them would I--could  I listen to; happily for myself, perhaps, has it been that such was the case. There have been well-looking youths among them, too, as you may have seen in your acquaintance, Henry March."

"Yes, Harry is sightly to the eye, though, to my idees, less so to the judgment. I thought, at first, you meant to have him, Judith, I did; but, afore he went, it was easy enough to verify that the same lodge wouldn't be big enough for you both."

"You have done me justice in that, at least, Deerslayer. Hurry is a man I could never marry, though he were ten times more comely to the eye, and a hundred times more stout of heart than he really is."

"Why not, Judith--why not? I own I'm cur'ous to know why a youth like Hurry shouldn't find favor with a maiden like you."

"Then you shall know, Deerslayer," returned the girl, gladly availing herself of the opportunity of extolling the qualities which had so strongly interested her in her listener; hoping by these means covertly to approach the subject nearest her heart. "In the first place, looks in a man are of no importance with a woman, provided he is manly, and not disfigured or deformed."

"There I can't altogether agree with you," returned the other thoughtfully, for he had a very humble opinion of his own personal appearance; "I have noticed that the comeliest warriors commonly get the best-looking maidens of the tribe for wives; and the Sarpent, yonder, who is sometimes wonderful in his paint, is a gin'ral favorite with all the Delaware young women, though he takes to Hist, himself, as if she was the only beauty on 'arth."

"It may be so with Indians, but it is different with white girls. So long as a young man has a straight and manly frame, that promises to make him able to protect a woman, and to keep want from the door, it is all they ask of the figure. Giants like Hurry may do for grenadiers, but are of little account as lovers. Then as to the face, an honest look, one that answers for the heart within, is of more value than any shape, or color, or eyes, or teeth, or trifles like them. The last may do for girls but who thinks of them at all, in a hunter, or a warrior, or a husband! If there are women so silly, Judith's not among them."

"Well, this is wonderful! I always thought that handsome liked handsome, as riches love riches!"

"It may be so with you men, Deerslayer, but it is not always so with us women. We like stout-hearted men, but we wish to see them modest; sure on a hunt, or the warpath, ready to die for the right and unwilling to yield to the wrong. Above all, we wish for honesty--tongues that are not used to say what the mind does not mean, and hearts that feel a little for others as well as for themselves. A true-hearted girl could die for such a husband!"

Twenty-Nine Years Later

Today is the 29th anniversary of the day I joined the Army. Shipped out the next day (on my mother's birthday) and spent the next 14 weeks at Fort Knox, Kentucky learning to be a soldier and a man.

I'm on the left. That's my brother, James with me.

My official Army photo from basic training.

The only picture I've got of myself in BDUs. And my first car: I'd previously only owned a motorcycle.

On a special recon mission with Bill Gabbert from my platoon in Germany. My platoon received orders one morning to dress warmly in civilian clothes, then was divided into two-man teams and given maps and coordinates with a course covering several waypoints and many miles. When we reached the last waypoint, we found that it was a Gasthaus with our Platoon Leader and NCOs waiting inside with free hot food and cold beer for all. Those were the days.

Off-duty.

Me in Germany, with a glass in my hand and a cross around my neck. Iconic.

I have many regrets, one of the chief among them being that I was forced out due to medical issues and couldn't finish my full career. But, although it was hard and at many times unpleasant and downright miserable, I don't regret joining the Army. Rather, I shall always see it as one of the best things I've ever done.

The Secret Thread

“You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw -- but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of -- something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat's side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it -- tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest -- if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself -- you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say "Here at last is the thing I was made for". We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.” -- C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

The truly tragic thing is when you find that rarest person, with whom you share that secret thread, but, through fear, misunderstanding, the interference of others or, as usual in my case, through trying too hard, fail to establish a real and lasting connection with them. It's like finding an oasis in the desert and then not being permitted to drink.

Girl From The North Country - Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash

Fun with Books

I came across this site while researching books, and am afraid I've quickly become addicted.

Goodreads | Michael Du pré - The United States (93 books)

Bibliophiles, beware. Or, join me in listing, rating, reviewing, and cataloging every single book we've ever read (it's going to take a while). Come on; it will be fun, in a nerdy, obsessive-compulsive kind of way.

I Fall To Pieces

There She Goes

Brother Walid

Walid is my friend from Syria. We met through a mutual friend on facebook a while back. He was disillusioned with Islam and searching for something better, and began to ask me about Christianity. A year or so ago, Walid courageously gave his life to Christ (apostasy from Islam is a capital crime), and though I tried to get him connected with a local church and offered to send him an Arabic Bible, he was very concerned with security and the best I was able to do at the time was get him an electronic version of the Scriptures in Arabic.

Despite the danger, however, it wasn't long before Walid had a growing group of new believers around him...the Gospel has its own power. I've been praying for him and for them ever since, and was very touched and gratified today to see him in this photo: at church for Good Friday! Praise be to God!

La Vie en Rose - Audrey & Bogey

From 'Sabrina'. They don't make 'em like this anymore.

Orlando

Old friends made my stay in Orlando fun despite its marking the end of my walk.

 Brian 'Zoid' Kelly and me at the "Get the Led Out" concert

 Pastor Ray and Helen Reynolds. He was my pastor in Belgium when I was in high school, with...

 Ruthie Reynolds Delk

 Get the Led Out. Awesome Zep cover band

Brian and me at the Irish pub

 

Brian and me at the German gasthaus. Are you beginning to see a theme?

And I don't have any pictures, but most of my time was spent with lovely Jessica Eve, who opened her home and her heart to me for almost two weeks. Why don't I have any pictures of Jessica?

"A full life will be full of pain. But the only alternative is not to live fully or not to live at all." -- M. Scott Peck, 'The Road Less Travelled'

Comin' Home

Isms

I thought I had coined the use of the term 'isms' to describe the limited kind of thinking that only sees in terms of camps and categories. But it turns out that C.S. Lewis used it back in 1946 in his introduction to 'George MacDonald: an Anthology'.

"I will attempt no historical or theological classification of MacDonald's thought, partly because I have not the learning to do so, still more because I am no great friend to such pigeonholing. One very effective way of silencing the voice of conscience is to impound in an Ism the teacher through whom it speaks: the trumpet no longer seriously dusturbs our rest when we have murmured 'Thomist,' 'Barthian,' or 'Existentialist'."