Devotional/Meditation Poetry

The Bible encourages believers to meditate (throughout the Psalms, once in the book of Joshua, and

once in Paul's letter to the Philippians.) Don't assume I'm writing about Eastern mysticism or repetitive chants. I am writing about contemplation. Evangelicals tend to define Biblical meditation as Bible study. Anglicans and Catholics define Christian meditation differently. For them meditation is more like contemplation, like on Christ's crucifixion, or the depravity of a person's sin. Some of the followers of these traditions would write poetry to further their devotion to God, hence the name "devotional poetry."

This semester I'm taking a class on four poets who wrote devotional poetry: John Donne, Christina Rossetti, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and George Herbert.  Since all of these poets once lived in England, I thought writing a devotional poem would be a fitting prelude to my trip. It'll be an attempt at a devotional poem, anyway.

And Deliver Us From Temptation

I worry. You provide bread from heaven. 

You stomach ached until it went numb,

but Satan's honey words did not touch Your lips.

You knew where he harvested them:

from a rotting carcass of a King.

You know that despite Satan's reign over

this world,

He had no power over You.

He could make kingdoms rise;

He could make them fall,

but only with Your permission. 

Once he separated You from Your Father:

the greatest divorce Earth had ever seen. 

Even then, You could have put at stop to it,

but You had planned a wedding.

You proposed on Mount Sinai,

but you made Mount Moriah Your altar.

You took a bride, and gave her a dress

whiter than the clouds. 

You gave her a ring of life

that would rest eternally on her hand. 

You shed Your own blood for wine,

and broke Your own body for bread.

You gave up Your spirit 

so that we might have Yours.

You carried over the threshold

every sin that was, 

every sin that is,

and every sin yet to come.

You bore them into Hell,

and drowned them in a burning lake.

You found your bride in a garden,

perhaps the same she ran from,

and one day You will find her again.

Though I wasn't able to go to church this morning because of unusual circumstances, I did get to fellowship with God through writing this poem. I'm not entirely sure if it took me to a higher plane or anything like that, but it did leave me in awe of God. Maybe those "high church" people are on to something. I don't think I'll make it a habit though, as that would most likely defeat the purpose. 

(Psst! If you think you might be into the whole poetry thing, you should check out my other blog! )

My Connections to the British Isles

Why do I want to go to the British Isles? This trip means connecting with my heritage. I can trace my family on both sides to the United Kingdom. When researching family history, I've found that having family pictures rather helpful. Having a famous ancestor also helps, just a tad.

My last name, Pittock, is a word for kite, that comes from Kentish, an Old English dialect spoken by the people groups that settled in southeast England, or Kent. Scholars disagree on whether or not these people were the Jutes from Denmark, or some other people group from northwest Europe. Fast forward a few millennia, and we come to the 19th Century England. A certain Frederick Pittock immigrated to Pennsylvania with his parents in 1836, only to return to England to break into the printing business. There he met his wife Susanna Bonner, had several children, including Henry Lewis Pittock and Robert Bonner Pittock,(my great-great grandfather), before moving back to Pennsylvania.  These two brothers joined a wagon train to Oregon, splitting ways in Eastern Oregon. Henry went to Portland and made his name through The Oregonian. Robert went to Coburg, though his life eventually brought him further south to San Diego, where he died.

On my Mom's side, I can trace my history back to Scotland.  Pictured here is my great-great grandmother Elizabeth Cora Ella Allen-Jacobs, who was from Paisley, Scotland. As you might guess from her outfit, the picture was taken in the late 1800s. I'm not sure when, but eventually Elizabeth or her descendants immigrated to the United States, settling in New England.

In 1918, my great-grandfather Walter Jacobs purchased a homestead in Bend, OR. He's pictured here with his son Don, my grandfather. Sometime later, I think during the Great Depression, Don Jacobs moved to Medford, where I grew up.

I probably won't have to see much of Kent or Paisley, if at all. Still, the chance to brush shoulders with distant relatives I refuse to take for granted. If nothing else, at least English and Scottish people won't butcher the pronunciation of my last name.  (I can't guarantee the same for the tour-guides at the Pittock Mansion.)