Rebecca's PenThe creative works of R.E.W.

About R.E.W

I am author, artist, history buff, wishing to share these three passions of mine with anyone who cares to read this blog. The main drive between these three deep interests of mine is imagination.

History isn't just people and events in a dusty book. Writing isn't just words in a tome. Art isn't just random images in a photograph, sketch or painting. I'll give you examples of what they really are.

Since October I have been thrilling about Christmastime and wishing it would come sooner! I can scarcely wait for it to arrive now, only a few days till it comes now, and the whole house is up for the holiday. The baking, family all together, decorations, stockings at the fireplace . . . the music! So beautiful, so exciting! It’s almost here! Oh yes! One of my favorite songs:

What Child is this who, laid to rest
On Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste, to bring Him laud,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.

Why lies He in such mean estate,
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christians, fear, for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you.
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.

So bring Him incense, gold and myrrh,
Come peasant, king to own Him;
The King of kings salvation brings,
Let loving hearts enthrone Him.
Raise, raise a song on high,
The virgin sings her lullaby.
Joy, joy for Christ is born,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.

~”What Child Is This?” by William C. Dix (words), music taken from Greensleeves~
We have many family traditions, and I love to bake, so that works, especially to meet the demands of my dad and brothers. Well, my sister and I have yet to make dad’s favorite: fudge–but he’ll get it :)
What we also need down here in Texas is a real Christmas–what I mean is a white Christmas–but the only experience of that I’ve had was about two years ago, but I’m still hoping and praying that God will send snow!!!
[Picture: 2009, R. E. Williams]
I’ve been missing around here for a while, but sometime later in the week I’ll make a few more posts. Right now I’ll just update:
Well, I’ve been writing, and writing, and schooling, but we have none for a while yet . . . and I’ve got to post some more drawings on here! I’ve been at that a lot, yet the days drain so quickly. Ideas keep on sparking in my head and I don’t know what to do with all of them, whether to put the into action or set them aside??? Planning out some new stories, and reading . . .
Here’s some of those dear books:
Pat of Silver Bush
By L. M. Montgomery
one of my favorites! Dear Pat and her beloved home Silver Bush . . . her hate for change, her friends, first romances, family happenings and experiences at Silver Bush Farm . . . I can relate . . . and I’m asking for Mistress Pat, its sequel. This beautiful story weaves the life story of young Pat Gardiner, from her years as wee bairn of seven to seventeen, relating her trials and joys in her life . . . and the home where ‘good things never change’ has a romantic, nostalgic aura that captured me from the first page. I’ll share the excerpt on the inside of the book:
[Pat’s Very Special Place]
It was so beautiful in the garden, in the late twilight, with a silvery hint of moonrise over the Hill of the Mist. The trees around it . . . old maples that Grandmother Gardiner had planted when she came as a bride to Silver Bush . . . were talking to each other as they always did at night. The big crimson peonies were blots of darkness in the shadows. The blue-bells along the path trembled with fairy laughter. Some late June lilies starred the grass; the columbines danced, the white lilac flung passing breaths of fragrance on the dewy air.Pat ran from plot to plot and kissed everything, and when she had kissed all her flowers good-night she stood for a little while looking at the house. How beautiful it was, nestled against its wooden hill, as if it had grown out of it . . . a house all white and green, just like its own silver birches, and now patterned over charmingly with tree shadows cast by a moon that was floating over the Hill of the Mist. “Oh I’ve got such a lovely home,” breathed Pat, clasping her hands. “It’s such a nice friendly house. Nobody . . . nobody . . . has such a lovely home!”
And I’ve been enjoying Louisa May Alcott’s A Rose in Bloom. It tells Rose, a girl taken in by her Scottish clan in old New England, a delicate, fragrant romance, lovable heroines and heroes, the power of forgiveness and thought-provoking moral basis woven in with the beauty of humility and  persevering love. I actually read this one before the preceding novel (Eight Cousins) but I opened it up and started reading, and couldn’t bear to stop.

Merry Christmas now, but I’ll be back shortly! Adieu and blessings,

Rebecca

 

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