This morning, walking back from church, I stopped briefly on a hill to watch birds on the wind. The hills were stretching away, folding and unfolding until they disappeared over the horizon. They are something like golden this time of year, and the sky was a pale blue. In between the gilded land and powdered sky were hawks floating in the breeze. I’ve seen wind toss trees to the ground, send cars across multiple lanes, and topple steeples. These hawks were not disturbed in the least by the moving air. It was strong where they were. They rose up and dove down, drifting about on thermals and cross-breezes, not going anywhere in particular. They were just riding the wind, enjoying the view.
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The Palouse hills, though they rise and fall, keep a steady height. It’s like the rumpled sheets on a bed, always curling up only to fall down to the mattress and no further. They’re bounded at the top, too, so you can stand on the top of one and watch the rest ripple off into the distance. But in one place, that is not true.
Wawawai is a sudden downward slope, a passage deep into a valley. The hills surge above, like giants looming. The sun sits above them, gleaming down until the fire touches the river, and the little lake that squats beside it. The water’s surface shines like shook foil, as Hopkins once said. It’s like a second sun, trapping you within a cage of golden beams and walls of grass and earth. It’s a pleasant captivity.
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Everyone should sing. It’s a fact. Not all of us have great voices, and not all of us have voices that can sing everything. But all of us should find something to sing, and sing it passably well. Singing is part of being in a community: sharing joy and words of wisdom or worship in a glorious medium.
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Every American child should familiarize himself with the history and culture of the British Isles. There is nothing so exciting and so commonplace, so tightly knit and so separate and diverse as that community of nations. An understanding of those islands and the nations that call them home fills with the world with a richness and wonder that stretches back for millenia, providing a hint of the wisdom our American youthfulness has not achieved. And, as one who loves Scottish freedom, it makes a man twice the nationalist and the twice the skeptic than if he had been raised on our history alone.
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The sun is falling low now, a jewel set in sapphire and gold, a seal on the passing day. It’s been glorious. Friends and new freshmen, long car rides, shy dogs, and watermelon, all of them interwoven with music to our Lord and for him. As the day winds down and the next week rises up like a battlefield to be traversed, the Sabbath is bidding a fond farewell. It will come again, and we will sing again, and it will go again, and we will fight again, and at the end of weeks, the end of days, there will be another Sabbath. And that one will last forever.