The Lawyer

William L. Prosser has aptly written:

Your lawyer in practice spends a considerable part of his life
doing distasteful things for disagreeable people who must be satisfied,
against an impossible time limit and with hourly interruptions,
from other disagreeable people who want to derail the train; and for
his blood, sweat, and tears he receives in the end a few unkind
words to the effect that it might have been done better, and a protest
at the size of his fee. There is no lawyer who has not at some
time in his life rebelled inwardly against all this, and wished that
God had assigned him to the peaceful existence of a digger of ditches
or a master plumber. Your professor is most often a young man who
rebelled early, and while in that state of rebellion was unexpectedly
offered a means of escape with a little more pay. We are all of us
fugitives from that battlefield, and there is in us a weakness of character,
a kind of cowardice, which those of us who are least honest
with ourselves prefer to regard as a fine distaste for the wretched
bickerings of a sordid commercial life.
Prosser, William L., Lighthouse No Good, 1 J. Legal Educ. 257 (1948)

This sums up feelings which I often experience. It is difficult to return to the battlefield day after day. By the way, I really enjoy digging ditches.

A Call to Die

I have long been contemplating the purpose of my personal professional existence and found some insight in these words, which I came across in a reading of Christ and the Code: the Dilemma of the Christian Attorney, in Clark Memorandum, Fall 1990, Joseph Allegretti:

As Dietrich Bonhoeffer reminded us: When Christ calls us, he bids us come and die. He calls us to die to our illusions of power and importance, to the idolatrous demands of our culture, and to the vain promises and false security offered by our social roles and professional rules.

This helps me to take steps to clear my thoughts of questions of the relative importance of what I do. Hopefully then I can take steps to fill my thoughts with questions of the relative Christianity of what I do.

YICHETOSOCTOMY

Our family has a fun little pastime relating to texting. We sometimes write each other random combinations of letters that end up spelling words. Recently, my sister Beth sent me a novel creation in a text: the word yichetosoctomy. I'll be taking input as to the proper definition of the word. Google does not return anything . . .

Ode to Joseph

Our brother, our friend
The heavens are quiet now
Your countenance graces us no more

Our brother, our friend
What is man that Thou art mindful of him?
Vestiges of divine power reside in us,
Yet some souls more luminous
Solicit our respect, even adulation.

Our brother, our friend
You – our Lightning from heaven
We waited for you like fuel
Then we too would flame

We loved you, for you loved us first
We knew your spirit; it swelled wide,
Wide as eternity for the whole human family –
Let them now know and love

Our brother, our friend
Yours was communion with Father and Son
You our advocate, our fearless prophet
Constant commander, constant friend

Let me stand by you
I’m small, but can hold a sword
As in days of old and days to come
We overcome by faith

Our brother, our friend
Let us round up our shoulders
And be true men – like you
My brother, my friend – faithful to the end

Defenestration

Homeward Bound

In the quiet misty morning when the moon has gone to bed, when the sparrows stop their singing and the sky is clear and red. When the summer’s ceased its gleaming, when the corn is past its prime, when adventure’s lost its meaning, I’ll be homeward bound in time.

Bind me not to the pasture; chain me not to the plow. Set me free to find my calling and I’ll return to you somehow.

If you find it’s me you’re missing, if you’re hoping I’ll return. To your thoughts I’ll soon be listening, in the road I’ll stop and turn. Then the wind will set me racing as my journey nears its end. And the path I’ll be retracing when I’m homeward bound again.

Bind me not to the pasture; chain me not to the plow. Set me free to find my calling and I’ll return to you somehow.

In the quiet misty morning when the moon has gone to bed, When the sparrows stop their singing, I’ll be homeward bound again.

http://www.clermontyellow.accountsupport.com/flash/UntilThen.swf

Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae