Faintly the voices are flying to me;
Fragments and snatches fall here and fall there.
Shall I draw nearer, or will the song flee?

Pines of the forest are dark, yet I see
The light of a fire, all blazing and fair—
Faintly the voices are flying to me.

Strange is the melody, wild, and free,
Chanting of happiness, love, and despair.
Shall I draw nearer, or will the song flee?

Softly I steal through the dim-lighted lea,
Earnestly seeking that uncanny air.
Faintly the voices are flying to me.

Almost I catch it; again it breaks free.
What is this song, so familiar, so rare?
Shall I draw nearer, or will the song flee?

Finally I break through, the brightness I see!
Then blackness, and silence, and nothing is there.
Faintly the voices are flying to me:
Shall I draw nearer, or will the song flee?

I always enjoy gaining insights into other cultures, especially through their own languages. I came across one recently that really made me think, and you may find it interesting, too.

On Facebook I “like” a Greek musician, Areti Ketime. And being one of her likers, her posts show up on my newsfeed. I enjoy reading them to practice my Greek, even though they usually consist of announcements for concerts that I can’t go to. But this time it was different: she posted something that alluded to the recent passing of an (apparently) famous Greek musician. What caught my eye, though, was not the post, but the comments that followed it. People said the things people usually say when someone like that dies—expressing how much they loved his music, etc. But almost every commenter also included the phrase “Καλό ταξίδι!”, or some form of it, addressed to this deceased musician. That’s the Greek way of saying “Have a good trip!”, or “Bon voyage !” if you please, and in this context it intrigued me.

Greece is known as one of the most religious countries in Europe, and while I don’t know what the Greek Orthodox beliefs on the afterlife are, it was apparent that these well-wishers had full confidence that this man was on his way to a new destination. I like this point of view, and perhaps we should remember more often that those who have passed on are not dead forever, but only gone to another place; and if they were faithful in this life, we may see them again if we follow the same path.

But as much as I will miss brother Fred, and as much as I wish I had done more while he was still here, I am not sad. As the preacher remarked at the funeral, “He was a Christian, and you can’t top that!” Even though he’s finished the last mile of the way, he was faithful in his life, and by the grace of God he will receive his reward, and I will see him again.

Even though we can be certain about our reception after death, life is still uncertain, and no one knows when it will end. I don’t mean to be morbid, but each interaction with a person may be your last. Knowing that, shouldn’t we be more encouraging, more loving, more focused on others? Encouragement is not something that should be put off. Opportunities come and go, and some may make an eternal difference. Also, I believe that every interaction either brings people closer to God or pulls them away, even if in the slightest degree. That’s something I want to try to keep in the forefront of my mind, so that I can try to do better to make sure my life does bring people closer to God.

We only have so much time allotted to us, but opportunities abound. Let’s take advantage of them before they slip away.

I have had some conversations of late with people my own age who informed me that this is no longer a sign of disrespect in our society. I will continue to do it, because it is part of my nature, but is this the case? Has our culture changed in this point, to where no offense will be taken when a man wears a hat indoors?

Last week I was on a mission trip in West Virginia with 14 other Christians, and while visiting a nursing home a Christian lady remarked that she really appreciated me taking off my hat when we came in—I didn’t notice whether some of my team members may have neglected to remove their caps, but that is a possibility. She then went on to cite some male figure in her family—her father, perhaps—who had stressed the point in her past.

I think what my friends have said is becoming true: among middle-aged and younger people in the United States, no one really thinks about removing their hat when entering a building. However, it is also clear to me that there still exists a generation that holds to this way of showing respect, and out of respect for them, I believe that we men should be more conscious of that aspect of culture (even if it is passing away), and observe it when in the company of older people. As for me, I’m quite content to continue in all situations even if the idea disappears completely, since I like it. But the bottom line is this: Be thoughtful, and show respect!

‘Tis the children’s bedtime hour;
They are murmuring sleepy prayers,
While my thoughts go straying backward
Down the path of the vanished years;
And, evolved from their misty shadows,
One face and form I see:
A dear little boy, with serious look,
Saying his prayers at my knee.

With brown hands closely folded
And dark head bended low,
I hear again the murmur
That the childish lips o’erflow.
“Lead me not into any temptation,
From all evil deliver me,”
Was the nightly prayer of the little boy
Who said his prayers at my knee.

Ah me! with an aching heart beat,
I think how the years have flown
Since that time, and my firstborn
From his mother’s home is gone;
And to-night I pray: “‘Our Father,’
Wherever he may be,
Make him again the good little boy
Who said his prayers at my knee.”

For the beauty of the earth,
For the beauty of the skies,
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies:
Lord of all, to Thee we raise
This our sacrifice of praise.

For the beauty of each hour
Of the day and of the night,
Hill and vale, and tree, and flower,
Sun and moon, and stars of light:
Lord of all, to Thee we raise
This our sacrifice of praise.

For the joy of human love,
Brother, sister, parent, child,
Friends on earth, and friends above,
For all gentle thoughts and mild:
Lord of all, to Thee we raise
This our sacrifice of praise.

For Thy church that evermore
Lifteth holy hands above,
Offering up on every shore
Her pure sacrifice of love:
Lord of all, to Thee we raise
This our sacrifice of praise.

Have you lifted a stone from your brother’s way,
As he struggled along life’s road?
Have you lovingly touched some frail, toil-worn hand,
Shared with someone his heavy load?

O the things we may do, you and I, you and I;
O the love we can give if we try!
Just a word or a song as we’re passing along,
They will count in the great by and by.

Have you spoken a word full of hope and cheer?
Have you walked with a slower pace,
Till the weary of heart who were stumbling on,
Took new courage to run the race?

Have you held up your light through the shadows dark,
So that somebody else might see?
Have you lived with the Christ through the long, long day,
Gaining many a victory?

“No visit to New Orleans is complete without a pilgrimage to St. Roque, and you must go there. I have some wishes to make, and will go with you.”

So said my friend, whom I will call “Nell.,” for short.

“Some wishes to make?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “According to an old legend, one may get any wish granted by walking to St. Roque—never stopping on the way—saying a prayer, and making a wish.”

“How easy! And who, pray, might St. Roque be?” I asked.

“O, he was just a saint,” she said, lightly, “a very holy man. I don’t know much about him, but I do know that wishes are granted at St. Roque’s Church. I’ve tried it. I wished once for money, and got it.”

Nell. was not raised a Catholic, but has drifted that way from superstition and association.

Seeing that I was still unbelieving, she appealed to Miss Cecilia, a lovely Creole girl, a native of the city, and a pure and tender lamb of the Catholic fold.

Miss Cecilia is religious. She attends all the masses, says all the prayers, names all the saints, and things heaven is a gigantic convent. When her brother lay dangerously ill she made nine pilgrimages to St. Roque’s, and is serenely confident that his health was restored on account of her penance in walking the five miles, and on account of the candles she burned and the holy water she sprinkled herself with. So she is quite an authority.

“Go, by all means,” she said; “you will never regret it. Any time is good, but St. Joseph’s Day is the best, except Good Friday. O,” she said, fervently, her fine eyes glowing, “it is a lovely place to go to pray!”

“I can pray anywhere,” I responded, “and don’t think that the place makes any difference.”

“But it does,” argued Nell. and Miss Cecilia in a breath, “because St. Roque’s has been blessed.”

“And who blessed it?” I asked.

They responded: “Why, the priests, to be sure!”

So a time was set for the pilgrimage, and, as a searcher for quaint and historic spots, I was glad to go; but before starting my friend took me to a little shop where all sorts of Catholic things are for sale—prayer books, images, rosaries, wax tapers, altar clothes, etc.

“Let me see a St. Joseph,” she said; and the shop-woman brought out some little pewter things that looked like cartridges. A pewter cap was on each, which, being removed, showed the tiny figure of a man with a child in his arms.

“Nickel apiece,” said the woman. “Maybe you take three for a dime.”

“One is enough,” said Nell.; and, while searching in her pocketbook for the nickel, she asked: “Which is the best charm for money?”

“St. Joseph is the best,” the woman said, “for money, but St. Benedict is the best for health. Always put the image in the shell on his head. See?”

Nell. took the tiny saint, whose value is so small, and led the way up the street. I, being a looker-on in Venice, followed her.

She stopped at the Jesuits’ church and went in. The pale and careworn face of a brother appeared at a little grating, and Nell. said: “Can I get this St. Joseph blessed?”

He bowed.

She laid a dime on the window sill, saying: “For the poor.”

He bowed again, took the image and the dime, and vanished, but returned in a moment, saying: “The Father has blessed it.”

“Now,” she said, as we went out, “this St. Joseph is yours. It has to be a gift, it has to be blessed, and it brings you good luck. Nearly every soul in New Orleans carries one for luck. Even the Jewish shop-girls carry them in their pocketbooks.”

I received it meekly, and it lies in my pocketbook; but if any good luck has come with it, I fail to know it.

As the old saying is, “we took foot in hand” and stepped off on our walk—a long, long walk, up one street and down another, until finally the picturesque little chapel, covered with ivy and surrounded by tombs, came into view.

At the gate is a little lodge, and in the windows are souvenirs for sale—tiny gold spoons, with the chapel engraved in the bowl (price, $1.50); beads, crosses, and more St. Josephs.

The door bore the legend, “No admittance, only on business,” and I was surprised when Nell. knocked.

A priest responded, who was the opposite of the Jesuit, being hale, hearty, and looking well fed. A few words passed and he handed her a tin candlestick, with a long, slim candle set therein, for a nickel.

“Will you have one?” she asked?

“No, no,” I said; “I can see well enough without a light.”

It might have been fancy, but I thought that a contemptuous smile played for a moment on the full lips of the priest; and not wishing to appear stingy in not buying the candle, I said I would like a “Life of St. Roque” that was in the window. It was a small pamphlet, and I supposed would be a nickel; but when he said a quarter, I declined.

We went up the beautiful shell walk, Nell. carrying her unlighted candle before her, and several other ladies doing the same.

The altar was ablaze with numberless candles, and was gay with flowers; pictures and images were on the walls; but my attention was drawn to the full-length marble figure which lay in a glass case under the altar, and before which all the candles were burning. It was the sculptor’s conception of the body of our Savior after the crucifixion, and was so real and lifelike that my heart contracted painfully as I gazed. The lifeless look, the suffering stamped upon the dead face, the thorn-wreathed brow, the wounded side, the pierced hands and feet, were terrible for me to look upon, and I wondered that others seemed so careless and unmoved.

On each side of the altar is a large urn to hold offerings to St. Roque. Hands and feet of marble and plaster hang thereto to commemorate miraculous cures wrought there. In a corner stand a pair of crutches, and marble hearts and blocks, with “Thanks” and “Merci” inscribed thereon, hang on the wall or cluster on the altar.

“O, it is wonderful,” says Nell., “the cures that have been wrought here!”

“Who does the curing?” I ask.

She answers: “St. Roque has it done.”

I look again at the pitiful figure under the altar, and think: “They put him to an open shame.”

Nell. dips deeply into the holy water, puts money into the contribution box, and we sit awhile on the old, old seats, while her candle burns itself away.

St. Roque’s is a tomb. I discover that the walls are numbered crypts for the dead. What is overhead I know not, but there is another story.

We go out and walk around the churchyard, and, in so doing, follow an old lady, who, Nell. tells me, is “doing” the stations of the cross. There is no room inside for the pictures which trace the life of Christ from the cradle to the tomb, so they have little porches built to shelter them, where people may pray. Some of the pictures are very old, and exposure to the air has faded and tarnished them; but some are in bas-relief, and are wonderful for naturalness of expression.

The churchyard is inclosed by a brick wall, and the wall is a tomb, or a collection of tombs, the coffins being slipped into vaults just large enough to hold them, and sealed.

But Nell. has another thought. “Let us go to the wish well,” she says, leading the way. It is a round hole in the middle of the walk, paved with marble; and one must look at his or her own reflection in the water, and wish.

A boy comes up and says “Would you like some sacred heart clover for luck?” and while Nell. is hunting another nickel for him, I examine the clover, and think that a touch of brown paint in skillful hands will work the miracle every time. “It is found in this cemetery alone,” he says and superstitious Nell. believes him.

He goes into the church and gathers up the empty candlesticks and takes them to the priest. Other visitors are coming in a constant stream with fresh candles, and this candle burning is certainly a source of revenue. Who gets it, I don’t know, neither do the devout Catholics.

Miss Cecilia tells me that it is a beautiful service at early mass, when the priest makes the round of the pictures, chanting in Latin (which they do not understand), and followed by the congregation; and she wonders that “poor Protestants can keep their religion together.”

St. Roque’s is only one of many churches here almost worshiped by the people, but having an added value in their eyes as being a granter of wishes. It is said that the Creole girls go there to wish for husbands. My friend only wished for the wherewith to keep up the husband she has.

“For Christ and the church” let our voices ring,
Let us honor the name of our own blessed King;
Let us work with a will in the strength of youth,
And loyally stand for the kingdom of truth.

For Christ, our dear Redeemer,
For Christ, the crucified;
For the church His blood hath purchased;
The church, His holy bride.

“For Christ and the church” be our earnest prayer,
Let us follow His banner, the cross daily bear;
Let us yield, wholly yield, to the gospel’s power,
And serve faithfully every day, every hour.

“For Christ and the church” willing offerings make,
Time and talents and gold for the dear Master’s sake;
We will render the best we can bring to Him,
The heart’s wealth of love, that will never grow dim.

“For Christ and the church” let us cast aside,
By His conquering grace, chains of self, fear, and pride;
May our lives be enriched by an aim so grand;
Then happy the call to the Savior’s right hand.