Tributes from Friends
October, 2003
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My favourite, alltime favourite, chapter of the Chronicles . . . the final one of Last Battle . . . of the swim up the mighty waterfall . . . the place in time when thrones and crowns are bestowed upon the faithful . . . then the cry of "further up and farther in" . . . entering the eternal land, meeting those who went before . . . and the looking-back upon what was, seeing those yet to follow . . . Aslan's country forever and ever reaching out to far outgrow its bounds . . . the garden . . .

Kathryn has, I know, found the true reality, of which our Shadowlands are little more than a paste copy, and though I never met her while walking through this Narnia of ours, I look forward to the prospect and certainty of an infinity spent in her company and that of all the other children of the Emperor-over-sea.

Dinah Beachy

---

My only contact with Kathryn Lindskoog was through Mere Lewis. On her website I found an article, "What do you say to Job?", that I wanted to translate. It dealt with the experience of being chronically ill, something I could relate to, being severely disabled myself. I was always impressed by how she managed to write so much, given her condition. Those lengthy posts on Mere Lewis must have taken much of her time, and yet that was only one of her writing engagements. Her passion for truth and facts - down to the infinitesimal detail - would sometimes overwhelm the reader, but set an example for a disciplined scholarship that, I think, has influenced my own attitude. And she never apologized for her achievements - in that respect she was truly an American!

Kathryn gave me permission to translate her article, helped me with some difficult USA-specific terms, and asked me to let her know when and where it would be published. It still isn't, but it's not too late to do so, as it is not too late to read any of her books. That's how I will continue getting to know her in the future.

I wonder what she _is_ saying to Job right now?

Mattias Agnesund
Gothenburg, Sweden

 

Kathryn

sweetness unbearable
becomes commonplace
to her visions setting, become waiting and courage, into waste
finally as true sweetness bears real
a winking distance, sweet star
she IS, NOW. REAL.

oh my G-d

_

.help.

 

joni :

Moons and junes and ferris wheels,
the dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real;
i've looked at love that way.
But now it's just another show.
you leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know, don't give yourself away.

...

I've looked at life from both sides now,
From win and lose, and still somehow
It's life's illusions i recall.
I really don't know life at all.

JP

---

REST

I. (number one)

When round the earth the Father's hands
Have gently drawn the dark;
Sent off the sun to fresher lands,
And curtained in the lark;
'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day,
To fade with fading light,
And lie once more, the old weary way,
Upfolded in the night.

If mothers o'er our slumbers bend,
And unripe kisses reap,
In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,
Till even in dreams we sleep.
And if we wake while night is dumb,
'Tis sweet to turn and say,
It is an hour ere dawning come,
And I will sleep till day.

II. (number two)

There is a dearer, warmer bed,
Where one all day may lie,
Earth's bosom pillowing the heard,
And let the world go by.
There come no watching mother's eyes,
The stars instead look down;
Upon it breaks, and silent dies,
The murmur of the town.

The great world, shouting forward fares:
This chamber, hid from not,
Hides save from all, for no on cares
For him whose work is done.
Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how
A certain unknown place,
Or here or there, is waiting now,
To rest thee from thy race.

III. (number three)

Nay, nay, not-there the rest from harms,
The still composed breath!
Not there the folding of the arms,
The cool, the blessed death!
That needs no curtained bed to hide
The world with all it wars,
No grassy cover to divide
From sun and moon and stars.

It is a rest that deeper grows
In midst of pain and strife;
A mighty, conscious, willed repose,
The death of deepest life.
To have and hold the precious prize
No need of jealous bars;
But windows open to the skies,
And skill to read the stars!

IV. (number four)

Who dwelleth in that secret place,
Where tumult enters not,
Is never cold with terror base,
Never with anger hot.
For if an evil host should dare
His very heart invest,
God is his deeper heart, and there
He enters in to rest.

When mighty sea-winds madly blow,
And tear the scattered woes,
Peaceful as summer woods, below
Lie darkling ocean caves:
The wind of words may toss my heart,
But what is that to me!
'Tis but a surface storm --- thou art
My deep, still, resting sea.

''REST''
by George MacDonald found in 'Organ Songs'
as located in Poetical Works, Volume One, 1893

Submitted by Richard Rowan