Vox Lucens

The past few days were just that. Enjoy!

This weekend I had the chance to head up to Virginia for Easter, and catch the sunrise service at the Arlington Memorial Cemetery.

I left feeling proud to be an American, and uplifted by the music and what really was a powerful, personal salvation message. But mostly, I left with a powerful visual of the Resurrection that I have simply not been able to shake. It first hit me when singing Bill and Gloria Gaither’s great hymn, “Because He Lives.”

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, all fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

What an absolutely ironic thing to sing in the middle of a graveyard. Surrounded by uniform white headstones, singing about life just doesn’t seem to fit. And yet it does; that is the message of Easter. That white tombstone doesn’t signify the end. It is the beginning!

And as we walked back to the car after the service, that visual persisted. All around the tombstones, the signs of life were unmistakable. The trees, the flowers, the robins all showed life. What a picture of eternity that is–eternity thanks to the resurrection. We live in a world of death, physical and spiritual, a world of all the pain and tears sin can muster.

But that’s not the end. That’s the beginning. The beginning of glorious, unending, perfect eternal life. Because He lives…

Happy Easter.

***UPDATE***

Well, not really an “update,” I guess–It’s Monday morning, and He is still risen! But I’m still thinking about Easter and it’s meaning for us as Christians, and I shared some of those thoughts at Remember Ambassadors. Check it out, and let me know your thoughts: Easter’s Power.

I am not one to normally admit my linguistic gaffes.

But unfortunately for my pride, I’m also a huge fan of the mixed metaphor. Before today, my favorite mixed metaphor came from a member of the Pennsylvania House of Representatives, who spoke with great passion against the gambling bill before them, claiming that he would lead the way to “derailing that ship.”

Today I gave him a run for his money, though, when talking to a Remember supporter interested in knowing about our trip plans. In referring to a potential Thailand trip this summer, I told him, “I’m hoping to get this trip off the ground. So far it’s all a bit up in the air.”

Sigh.

Walking through the streets of Alexandria on my recent trip to Virginia, I noticed a church with a few flyers out front. In walking by, I noticed just enough big print to firmly catch my attention. It said “Suspicious Cheese Lords” and presented them as a male ancient music vocal ensemble in concert.

So I grabbed a paper, stuffed it in a pocket, and forgot about it for a month. After the Bar, I pulled it back out, and found to my joy that not only is the Suspicious Cheese Lords a brilliant name for a group, it actually is based on logic.

he Suspicious Cheese Lords’ name is derived from the title of a Thomas Tallis motet, Suscipe quaeso Domine. While “translating” the title, it was observed that Suscipe could be “suspicious,” quaeso is close to the Spanish word queso meaning “cheese,” and Domine is, of course, “Lord.” Hence, the title of the motet was clearly “Suspicious Cheese Lord” - which in time became adopted as the group’s name. Although their name is humorous, the group appreciates the literal translation of Suscipe Quaeso Domine, which is, “Take, I ask, Lord.” Suspiciously, the Cheese Lords have yet to perform this motet.

Visit their website.

And their music is awesome! I’ve already detailed some of my affinity for medieval music, and this is a great addition. Their vocals are well-blended, and the music as glorious as its composers are unknown. Check ‘em out!

Yesterday was supposed to be a good day. Big plans of enjoyable things–heading up to NC for the wedding of a friend from high school, replete with old acquaintances that I hadn’t seen in ages.

So there I am, tooling along 77 north of Columbia, when my yellow gas warning light comes on. Sighing to myself about gas prices, I head for the nearest exit. I notice that there are no gas indicator signs at this exit, but heck, there’s a town, and towns have to have gas stations.

I pull off and take a left towards White Oak. I drive. And drive. And see lots of trees. And not much else.

Lo and behold! An intersection! With a sign that says “6 miles to White Oak.”

Sigh.

But my gas will last that long, and I have time, so I truck on toward White Oak. When I get there, though, no gas. I actually think that the town consisted of one white oak, and nothing else–it was aptly named, I will give it that. At this point I don’t have enough gas to get back to the highway, and with the indicator riding “E” I start to stress.

But I keep driving–through the pouring rain, I might add–in the spirit of Ponce de Leon, searching for the ever elusive Fountain of Fuel. I was exactly as successful as he was. I drove, and drove, and drove, and saw hundreds of trees, a campground, some houses, and about 4 other cars.

But I got excited when I saw an intersection with an important looking highway. The indicator is below “E” as I realize that intersection does not equal gas, but I plug onward. I ride through the town of Blackstock, with no gas, and realize that the next town is going to be further away than I have gas for, so I turn around in a last desperate hope to find gas.

I tried to turn around, that is. And you may be surprised to know at this juncture that I never actually ran out of gas.

I pulled into a random driveway, and as I pulled out my car stopped. The engine revved, but nothing happened. There I sat, straddling the road, waiting for the first car to come around the bend and spin me like a runaway dreidel. Not liking that idea, and unable to get my car to go forward, I put it in reverse and gently rolled down the hill into the ditch.

I’m in the ditch, thinking I’m out of gas, and wondering what is going to happen. A car pulls up next to me and the gentleman informs me there is no gas station within 25 miles. So much for my theories that towns require gas stations. I walk down the driveway to discover two men and three dogs in a workshop, explain my predicament, and drive back up to the road in a monstrous Dodge with a gas can in the back.

After putting the gas in the car, it starts up, but I’m at a steep angle in the ditch, and my transmission sure isn’t catching. So they haul me out of the ditch with the monstrous Dodge.

At that point, sitting in the wrong lane and facing oncoming traffic, pulling my car into gear and revving the engine with nothing happening, I began to realize a very painful conclusion. Later that conclusion was brought to full agony when my mechanic told me, “That is how those transmissions generally die.” And die mine did.

But I have been reminded how gracious folks are, and what a blessing that is. The family whose driveway I invaded were kind, and gave their time at a moments notice to assist some stranger who landed in their ditch. Though they may be the quintessential northern-SC rednecks, they showed their true colors–hearts of gold. And they blessed me.

And so have the many others that gave of their time, their vehicles, and their advice to help me get out of this jam. I’m not out of it yet, but thanks to the many wonderful people God has put into my life, I should be soon.