[With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
whose poem, “The Village Blacksmith,” was partial inspiration for this.]
Under a spreading Christmas tree
The village kitty lies;
The kitty, mighty cat is he,
With large and glaring eyes;
The talons of his furry paws
Are sharp as kitchen knives.
His hair is thick, and orange, and long;
His face is rather tan.
His tongue is wet; he won’t forget
To lick his owner’s hand.
And also licks the same one’s face,
For to lick he thinks is grand.
Week in, week out, from morn ’til night,
You can hear his vig’rous purr;
Can hear his little kitty bell
Whenever he does stir.
He slinks around his owner’s house
And loves his owner well.
And children coming home from school
Look in at open door;
They love to see his glaring eyes
And hear his mighty purr,
And watch as he does stretch and turn
And lick his lengthy fur.
He won’t go Sunday to the church,
For it is not too near;
He’ll miss the preaching, and the choir —
His hissing could cause fear.
But singing in the village choir
His owners do with cheer.
They sound to him like chorus strange,
Yowling but not feline.
He’d like to throw a clod of dirt
Into their open eyes;
But with his furry paw he wipes
A speck out of his eyes.
Rolling — stretching — yawning,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees the food put out,
Each evening sees it go;
Something eaten, something caught,
He’s earned his night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy cat,
For lessons thou has taught!
If I could sit around all day,
I hope I’d not be caught!
I better not so lazy be
Or poor will be my lot.
clarakatalin 
Christ is My Hope
I love cemeteries. They are quiet and peaceful. I think of the people resting there and hopefully they are completely at peace.
So Christmas day, my kids and I took a walk to Maple Leaf Cemetery in Oak Harbor, Washington. The walk itself was brisk, both in speed and in the weather. After a few meanderings we found the cemetery. One grave I saw was of a three-and-a-half month old child, which brought me to tears. Then, a young man of 28, obviously well loved. More tears. As I walked, a group of people across the cemetery seemed to be having a party. They had their car door open, and Christmas music came from its radio. Perhaps celebrating Christmas as they remembered a life well lived.
The final grave I looked at is pictured here. “Christ is My Hope” was the epitaph. I can honestly say that is true for me.
I just now noticed that there is no date of death, and that the birth date was in 1915, which means the person is now 98 years of age. I am glad the person has faced the reality of death and has the hope of resurrection.
Just a few days later, we visited my uncle by marriage, who is now 100 years old. He still walks an hour a day using his walker. His mind is still pretty sharp. What an amazing man.
Still, we never know when we might go.
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Christian, Commentary
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