It's time to look back at 2004, if you wish. And I mean 'look back' at the year in pictures, one week at a time. More than once I have set aside a photo of the week for a year as a personal project related to photos in my work, and my passion for photography and photojournalism.
This time I share it with CreekNews and Fieldtrips readers. The picture of the week project (POW) becomes a challenge, not because I have to make sure that I have taken pictures every week -- there are an abundance of images from both work and my personal photo efforts -- the challenge is picking the one that stands out from the rest taken during that week. In work and in personal shooting, the equivalent of 10 to 30 rolls of film in images (both on film and digitally) are shot during an average week.
There is about a five week gap mid-year, due to a catastrophic failure of an external hard drive which stored about two years worth of all my digital images. I had let those five weeks of POW images lapse before the hard drive died, and still not sure if I will be able to reclaim the rest of the lost images - (making me revisit the digital/film debate - even though I have always maintained an affinity for film. But that is a topic for another blog.)
Many CreekNews/Fieldtrips readers may be in the POW images. You can check by clicking the link below. I'll see you there:
Lloyd's 2004 POW Project
Addendum: It appears that two images from the early part of the year have disappeared, due to either operator error (me) or some glitch in the server database. You will be able to see the images in the 'thumbnail' form until I can track down the originals and upload them once again.
Best to all,
Lloyd
26 December 2004
24 December 2004
Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus
The editorial below written by Frank Church did the world a favor in 1897, by affirming the existence of Santa Claus for eight year old Virginia O'Hanlon. To her, and to untold numbers of children then and since, it confirmed that a character existed in the lives and minds of children.
But for all of the former children who have grown up during the ensuing century plus, the simple response from an editor at a newspaper that faded out of existence many years ago (although a new New York Sun started publication in 1999) illustrates the importance of keeping a child-like wonder in our lives at all ages. It is the fertile ground from which creativity stems, the anticipation of good and joy flourishes, and the potential for an example of caring can blossom for all.
The red-suited character has roots in one religion, but the characteristics elicited are supported by nearly all belief systems. And while we pursue them through differing traditions, they maintain a common thread that could be a formula for the benefit of all.
Here is the language as it was printed in the New York Sun:
Fieldtrips readers can see a clipping of the original column by clicking here.
Francis P. Church’s editorial, “Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus” was an immediate sensation, and went on to became one of the most famous editorials ever written. It first appeared in the The New York Sun in 1897, more than one hundred years ago, and was reprinted annually until 1949 when the paper went out of business.
Thirty-six years after her letter was printed, Virginia O’Hanlon recalled the events that prompted her letter:
“Quite naturally I believed in Santa Claus, for he had never disappointed me. But when less fortunate little boys and girls said there wasn’t any Santa Claus, I was filled with doubts. I asked my father, and he was a little evasive on the subject.
“It was a habit in our family that whenever any doubts came up as to how to pronounce a word or some question of historical fact was in doubt, we wrote to the Question and Answer column in The Sun. Father would always say, ‘If you see it in the The Sun, it’s so,’ and that settled the matter.
“ ‘Well, I’m just going to write The Sun and find out the real truth,’ I said to father.
“He said, ‘Go ahead, Virginia. I’m sure The Sun will give you the right answer, as it always does.’ ”
And so Virginia sat down and wrote her parents’ favorite newspaper.
Her letter found its way into the hands of a veteran editor, Francis P. Church. Son of a Baptist minister, Church had covered the Civil War for The New York Times and had worked on the The New York Sun for 20 years, more recently as an anonymous editorial writer. Church, a sardonic man, had for his personal motto, “Endeavour to clear your mind of cant.” When controversal subjects had to be tackled on the editorial page, especially those dealing with theology, the assignments were usually given to Church.
Now, he had in his hands a little girl’s letter on a most controversial matter, and he was burdened with the responsibility of answering it.
“Is there a Santa Claus?” the childish scrawl in the letter asked. At once, Church knew that there was no avoiding the question. He must answer, and he must answer truthfully. And so he turned to his desk, and he began his reply which was to become one of the most memorable editorials in newspaper history.
Church married shortly after the editorial appeared. He died in April, 1906, leaving no children.
Virginia O’Hanlon went on to graduate from Hunter College with a Bachelor of Arts degree at age 21. The following year she received her Master’s from Columbia, and in 1912 she began teaching in the New York City school system, later becoming a principal. After 47 years, she retired as an educator. Throughout her life she received a steady stream of mail about her Santa Claus letter, and to each reply she attached an attractive printed copy of the Church editorial. Virginia O’Hanlon Douglas died on May 13, 1971, at the age of 81, in a nursing home in Valatie, N.Y.
(Background information gleaned from the "Newseum" website and other sources.)
# # #
Best to all,
Lloyd
But for all of the former children who have grown up during the ensuing century plus, the simple response from an editor at a newspaper that faded out of existence many years ago (although a new New York Sun started publication in 1999) illustrates the importance of keeping a child-like wonder in our lives at all ages. It is the fertile ground from which creativity stems, the anticipation of good and joy flourishes, and the potential for an example of caring can blossom for all.
The red-suited character has roots in one religion, but the characteristics elicited are supported by nearly all belief systems. And while we pursue them through differing traditions, they maintain a common thread that could be a formula for the benefit of all.
Here is the language as it was printed in the New York Sun:
Thanks to Virginia O'Hanlon and Frank P. Church: Some background on the editorialIS THERE A SANTA CLAUS?
We take pleasure in answering at once and thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of "The Sun":Dear Editor:
I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says "If you see it in "The Sun" it's so."
Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O'Hanlon
115 West 95th Street
Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
F.P. Church
New York Sun, September 21, 1897
Fieldtrips readers can see a clipping of the original column by clicking here.
Francis P. Church’s editorial, “Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus” was an immediate sensation, and went on to became one of the most famous editorials ever written. It first appeared in the The New York Sun in 1897, more than one hundred years ago, and was reprinted annually until 1949 when the paper went out of business.
Thirty-six years after her letter was printed, Virginia O’Hanlon recalled the events that prompted her letter:
“Quite naturally I believed in Santa Claus, for he had never disappointed me. But when less fortunate little boys and girls said there wasn’t any Santa Claus, I was filled with doubts. I asked my father, and he was a little evasive on the subject.
“It was a habit in our family that whenever any doubts came up as to how to pronounce a word or some question of historical fact was in doubt, we wrote to the Question and Answer column in The Sun. Father would always say, ‘If you see it in the The Sun, it’s so,’ and that settled the matter.
“ ‘Well, I’m just going to write The Sun and find out the real truth,’ I said to father.
“He said, ‘Go ahead, Virginia. I’m sure The Sun will give you the right answer, as it always does.’ ”
And so Virginia sat down and wrote her parents’ favorite newspaper.
Her letter found its way into the hands of a veteran editor, Francis P. Church. Son of a Baptist minister, Church had covered the Civil War for The New York Times and had worked on the The New York Sun for 20 years, more recently as an anonymous editorial writer. Church, a sardonic man, had for his personal motto, “Endeavour to clear your mind of cant.” When controversal subjects had to be tackled on the editorial page, especially those dealing with theology, the assignments were usually given to Church.
Now, he had in his hands a little girl’s letter on a most controversial matter, and he was burdened with the responsibility of answering it.
“Is there a Santa Claus?” the childish scrawl in the letter asked. At once, Church knew that there was no avoiding the question. He must answer, and he must answer truthfully. And so he turned to his desk, and he began his reply which was to become one of the most memorable editorials in newspaper history.
Church married shortly after the editorial appeared. He died in April, 1906, leaving no children.
Virginia O’Hanlon went on to graduate from Hunter College with a Bachelor of Arts degree at age 21. The following year she received her Master’s from Columbia, and in 1912 she began teaching in the New York City school system, later becoming a principal. After 47 years, she retired as an educator. Throughout her life she received a steady stream of mail about her Santa Claus letter, and to each reply she attached an attractive printed copy of the Church editorial. Virginia O’Hanlon Douglas died on May 13, 1971, at the age of 81, in a nursing home in Valatie, N.Y.
(Background information gleaned from the "Newseum" website and other sources.)
# # #
Best to all,
Lloyd
09 December 2004
A Christmas Story (for my children)
"Hey, were you born in a barn?!"
It's a term hurled sarcastically at the last person in the house to close an outside door, especially during cold weather.
But somehow, as I was growing, the idea of being born or living in a barn was at one time something quite appealing.
While I've seen marvelously renovated barns turned into homes, barns in their original form have always had a greater appeal. Ever since childhood they have been a place of mystery, simplicity, strength and structure. And a typical Midwestern dairy barn is a place that holds warmth in the winter and can be cool in the summer.
For me, the single most inviting sight during a Wisconsin winter is a dairy barn at milking time. So much so, that when I travel during that magic hour when the sun is hinting its morning return, about to throw back the blanket of darkness as the light turns from a cool blue to a warm gold, I will happen upon a barn warmly lit inside, and instinctively I'll stop along the road and grab a camera. And on those rare occasions when I am sans camera, I'll still stop across the roadway and see that an often lone farmer or herds person has just thrown a switch turning the big common yet unique structure into a lantern.
During a winter morning before first light, that golden illumination throws beams out the lower level windows, like buttresses of light that brace on the crisp surface of surrounding snow. The simplicity and contentment of bovine housed within is shared along with the heat they generate, shared as they telegraph an equally simple excitement at the start of a new day. They know that food is on the way, along with the other needs provided by their human's attention. Yet they have slept soundly without worry that those daily needs will be met, because the barn represents home.
For a decade we lived on a farm west of Watertown,Wisconsin and started a commercial dairy goat operation. You may have read about my early training in music that stressed opera. As it happened the area in that field proving my favorite style turned out to be Bel Canto opera. So it seemed the name Bel Canto Farm was appropriate.
A foundation herd of registered French Alpine Dairy Goats grew to be a comfortable, if not substantial, operation providing milk to a French cheese firm that had established itself near Watertown, because of Wisconsin's dairy state reputation.
And our young family grew. First moving there with our four-year-old son, our two daughters arrived during the decade we lived on Bel Canto Farm.
It was a time of learning and excitement for everyone, and a great time to be a dad. With mom working off farm, dad had the joy of raising both two legged and four legged kids. While a bucolic nature pervaded the experience overall, three two-legged kids and often more than 80 four-legged kids all frequently wanting to eat at the same time provided some feats of multitasking.
And like any dairy farm, the work was seven days a week year round.
It occurred to me that many farmers begin chores early, not only necessarily to be able to use the time when there is daylight to the fullest measure, but also as a built in oasis before unknown storms move across the day's landscape.
Moving to the farm after having traveled a good portion of the planet, the appeal of a lighted pre-twilight barn returned to me. It also occurred to me that an unlit barn was a little less appealing at 4:30 a.m. on a given Wisconsin February morning, so it didn't take long for me to put the lights on a timer set to go on at 4:20 in the morning.
One could think of this time of day - rising, dressing, and heading across a farm yard before daylight - as a lonely commute. But there is a joy in heading out as routine is turned into ritual, and the excitement of the pending day is as simple as that enjoyed by your livestock.
Clad in layers, gloved and capped you pull the door shut behind you, and exhale the air acquired within the house into a great cloud of vapor as you breath hits the clear air. Your next breath is the crisp unspoiled air of a new day before anyone else has had a chance to sample it.
You look up at what will be a cloudless sky. Perseus, Orion, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor greet you in a new position as those constellations perform their annual dance around Polaris. Stepping off on your daily journey from house to barn, the only things you hear are the crunching of crisp cold snow under your boots along with that sound each time you inhale and exhale.
The barn, with its incandescent glow, is like a guiding star, and while family is left behind in the house, there is a singular simple warmth that draws me to the barn. Under any other circumstances one would call a job that takes a person from a warm bed out into sometimes bitter cold weather before daylight to face the mechanical, structural or veterinary unknowns that lay ahead daily a potentially miserable experience.
But as Emerson said, "I like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching."
In an almost monastic nature it became a daily procession to a sense of purpose by working in the foundation elements unchanged for centuries. It was a matter of facing each day as a 'shepherd' of sorts, and realizing at some point how factual the formerly symbolic language was when speaking of that line of work, a shepherd, in Psalms, the New Testament or even Heidi. It was a situation where an entire flock or herd is faithfully dependent.
Upon arrival in a barn each morning a farmer's intuition often tells immediately if something is different. Even before seeing what it may be, I could tell if new livestock offspring had arrived during the night, or a nervous yet faithful greeting would telegraph a problem such as an illness or injury.
Settling into what grew from routine into ritual, one day during the trip 'out to the barn,' without any provocation, I started humming the old Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts". (I don't have a Shaker background, but it is a familiar tune.) Shortly the words returned to me:
'Tis the gift to be simple,There is a legend in parts of the western world that says at midnight on Christmas Eve animals are given human voice, because those animals present at the birth of Jesus were briefly given this gift to praise the new hope of the world. It's a nice legend, but I suspect it may have had something early on to do with getting younger members of farm families out to do chores the night before a holiday.
'tis the gift to be free,
'tis the gift to come down where you ought to be.
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
't will be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gained,
to bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,
'Til by turning, turning we come round right.
One Christmas Eve on our farm - no the animals did NOT speak - was a greater than usual learning experience. But that would be after church. It was an otherwise normal holiday as we were on our way to a Christmas Eve church service. As usual the obligations that church musicians have during the season, coupled with getting three children dressed and everyone out the door on time could be a hectic trial.
Upon our return, as the car swung into the driveway we noticed that someone had left the barn lights on after the evening milking.
After getting the children into the house, to bed and to sleep with all the excitement inherent to Christmas Eve, I volunteered to head to the barn to shut off the lights and to take that ubiquitous opportunity to 'check on things' one last time.
Heading out, the glowing warm light emanating from the barn was counter to the darkness that surrounded it and seemingly the whole world. But the surrounding snow seemed to emit a bluish glow from underneath, and as only this night of the year can provide, there was anticipation in the air that made the trip out to the old structure particularly welcoming.
Crunching through the snow until I stepped into its light, I immediately knew it was one of those moments when something was 'different.' I looked over the two loafing areas and noticed a group of old herd members huddled with their attention riveted directly below a hay feeding rack.
Unlatching the gate, I went over to see what was drawing their attention. Walking past others that didn't really acknowledge me, knowing it was too early for the next milking, they stayed comfortable in their carefully arranged mounds of straw. At most, one or two turned their heads toward me, eyes still shut, then as an afterthought started chewing their cud to an easy rhythm.
Approaching the group on their feet, I noticed that it was a group of the herd's old moms who were helping to clean up a newborn kid. Its mom was in the process of delivering the newborn's twin.
The first one was soaking up the attention of the half-dozen midwives as they licked it encouraging the kid to stand on its spindly legs. I walked back across the loafing pen, through the gate and into the milking parlor. I took off my jacket and laid my suit coat over a rail - still dressed from the earlier church service - I loosened my tie and rolled up my sleeves before grabbing a couple of clean old towels and heading back into the loafing pen.
I made it back just in time to catch the second twin and get it dried off and warmed up as soon as possible.
The midwife goats tried to push me out of the way, both out of curiosity and to remind me that those ruminants had been having babies for centuries without any help from humans. Satisfied that I'd done my best to get the twin off to a good start, I moved out of the way as the old moms moved in to inspect my work and again encourage the little new life to get on its feet.
At the sound of the first diminutive bleat the new mom was on her feet, ready for maternal duties and to show off the new family members to all of the aunts. I stood back, using the second towel to wipe off my hands and arms, and smiled at the scene. We went through it nearly 100 times annually, but it was still special.
The herd members didn't talk that Christmas Eve, in fact the majority didn't even wake up. But those that were awake acknowledging a natural instinct, along with this shepherd of the group, held a simple celebration with this early surprise.
Returning to the milking parlor and on to the milkhouse, I washed up and dried off, rolled my sleeves back down and buttoned the cuffs. After putting on my suit coat and winter jacket I went back out and leaned on the gate looking out at the loafing area as things began to settle back to a sense of normalcy.
The midwives had returned to a spot to sleep, each scraping some straw into some comfortable fluff before one by one they went down on their knees and their back half following, gently landing as they let out a sigh combined with a comforting moan. In a short while their eyes closed and in an almost hypnotic manner they began chewing their cud. The new twins, dry, soft and clean had enjoyed their first meal and were sleeping in the semicircle formed as mom's body and neck stretched around them. She appeared to enjoy a satisfied but alert and well deserved sleep.
I felt particularly privileged to be a part of the celebration in this oasis of light amid the darkness. It was joy in its basic and simplest form. The event happened in the middle of the night, and it was completely unannounced. But now the crisp air filled with the combined smells of good leafy hay and the earthy smells of the barn, as it emitted light out to make absent the immediate shadows, all had a basic energy. An energy that serves as that intermittent reminder that we are all given an adventure that is called life, and during that adventure the simplest moments can be the most exciting and rewarding.
It is something I never became glib or jaded about. A new life -- a kid, a lamb, a calf -- was always something to celebrate, especially under circumstances of such simple beauty. I think it may have been at that point that it became evident the significance of the beginnings of the Christian faith.
Earlier that evening my family and I took part in a very human traditional form of Christianity's celebration of its founder's birth. During that event we sang and played music written by some of history's greatest composers. We all dressed up, and the building was decorated, even though the building is always decorated with symbols of the faith that have developed over the centuries. Icons, paintings and statues have all been the result of artists inspired by faith.
But it dawned on me on that late Christmas Eve that all of the inspired music and art in the ensuing years came in an effort by those artists to express anticipation, excitement and joy of the promise and hope that child was bringing to the world. It is so strong an expression that their talent was inspired to create music played in the largest cathedrals, and art that is preserved in the world's museums, and over the span of time still honors the event and enhances the human condition.
Yet a celebration in that simple warm light amid the darkness made more sense, in the exhilarating crisp air perfumed with the natural scents of life's foundations. It is perfectly logical that the simplicity of this environment was likely similar to the birth place of the one who promised to be the Prince of Peace, a leader destined to feed the poor and heal the sick, bringing the message "Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward All Men." Such a new life would have to be born under these conditions. Conditions not 'like' the common people, but in humble conditions below the least of us and providing a warm unifying light for the world.
And that light is not exclusive, because the anticipation of good is the Spirit shared by believers of a multitude of faiths and traditions.
As I turned off the barn lights, and, remembering how I'd forgotten to douse them the last time I left, I said under my breath, "What? Were you born in a barn, Lloyd?"
I grinned as I headed up to the house.
There was home, where my family was sleeping briefly before that sleep which can no longer contain the excitement of Christmas morning. I sauntered to the house satisfied that I knew why a common barn illuminated at night had been so appealing all my life.
Stomping off some snow in the warmth of the old farmhouse kitchen, I took off my jackets, then walked through the house, poking my head in on each of our children. (I found that I often did this to assure myself that these young energy generators actually did sleep.) But opening the doors to their rooms and hearing their soft breathing rhythm was the end of 'Daddy Duty' for the day.
In our room, I sat on my side of the bed. A muffled whisper emerged from my wife. "Everything okay in the barn?"
"No problems - two new kids," I whispered back.
After it sank in through the veil of sleep, she mumbled back, "Oh, an early gift..."
Rolling under the blankets, sighing the last breath of the day, I quietly exhaled - "Yep...Merry Christmas."
# # #
Best to all,
Lloyd
04 December 2004
War Prayer by Mark Twain
The War Prayer
by Mark Twain
It was a time of great and exalting excitement.
The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.
Sunday morning came -- next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams -- visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation
God the all-terrible!
Thou who ordainest!
Thunder thy clarion
and lightning thy sword!
Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory --
An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"
The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside -- which the startled minister did -- and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:
"I come from the Throne -- bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import -- that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of -- except he pause and think.
"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two -- one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this -- keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.
"You have heard your servant's prayer -- the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it -- that part which the pastor -- and also you in your hearts -- fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. the whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory -- must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!
"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe.
O Lord our God,
Help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells;
Help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead;
Help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain;
Help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire;
Help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief;
Help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst,
Sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter,
Broken in spirit,
Worn with travail,
Imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it –
For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord,
Blast their hopes,
Blight their lives,
Protract their bitter pilgrimage,
Make heavy their steps,
Water their way with their tears,
Stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!
We ask it, in the spirit of love,
Of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts.
Amen."
[After a pause.]
"Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! -- The messenger of the Most High waits!"
It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.
___________________________________________________________________
Historical note:
"To Dan Beard, who dropped in to see him, Clemens read the 'War Prayer,' stating that he had read it to his daughter Jean, and others, who had told him he must not print it, for it would be regarded as sacrilege.
'Still, you are going to publish it, are you not?'
Clemens, pacing up and down the room in his dressing-gown and slippers, shook his head.
'No,' he said, 'I have told the whole truth in that, and only dead mean can tell the truth in this world. It can be published after I am dead.'"
Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain, A Biography (Harper & Brothers, 1912).
"War Prayer" and quotation from Paine's biography are from Mark Twain, The War Prayer (Harper & Row, 1971).
by Mark Twain
It was a time of great and exalting excitement.
The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.
Sunday morning came -- next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams -- visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation
God the all-terrible!
Thou who ordainest!
Thunder thy clarion
and lightning thy sword!
Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory --
An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"
The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside -- which the startled minister did -- and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:
"I come from the Throne -- bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import -- that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of -- except he pause and think.
"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two -- one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this -- keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.
"You have heard your servant's prayer -- the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it -- that part which the pastor -- and also you in your hearts -- fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. the whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory -- must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!
"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe.
O Lord our God,
Help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells;
Help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead;
Help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain;
Help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire;
Help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief;
Help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst,
Sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter,
Broken in spirit,
Worn with travail,
Imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it –
For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord,
Blast their hopes,
Blight their lives,
Protract their bitter pilgrimage,
Make heavy their steps,
Water their way with their tears,
Stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!
We ask it, in the spirit of love,
Of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts.
Amen."
[After a pause.]
"Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! -- The messenger of the Most High waits!"
It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.
___________________________________________________________________
Historical note:
"To Dan Beard, who dropped in to see him, Clemens read the 'War Prayer,' stating that he had read it to his daughter Jean, and others, who had told him he must not print it, for it would be regarded as sacrilege.
'Still, you are going to publish it, are you not?'
Clemens, pacing up and down the room in his dressing-gown and slippers, shook his head.
'No,' he said, 'I have told the whole truth in that, and only dead mean can tell the truth in this world. It can be published after I am dead.'"
Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain, A Biography (Harper & Brothers, 1912).
"War Prayer" and quotation from Paine's biography are from Mark Twain, The War Prayer (Harper & Row, 1971).
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