(Just a note: since things are always better with a good soundtrack, I've added a few arrangements of some favorite hymns for this post.....I know, I know.....I'm a dork.....too late to change that now, though.)

In writing this post I am committing an historical faux-pas; relating things out of the order in which they happened.  Yet, it is the post which has been the most difficult.  It may sound insane to say that a vacation can be emotional, but for me, the entire trip to Illinois was emotional.  Perhaps it was due to the fact that each of the places we visited, each of the people we learned more about, had already claimed a portion of my heart and mind from a very young age.  C.S. Lewis was as dear a friend to me as any child could have, Lincoln, as I said last time, was a hero to a small child born over a hundred years after his death, and Nauvoo....well, if a city can, of itself, be dear to the heart, Nauvoo is to mine.  In Hebrew 'Nauvoo' means 'beautiful place' or 'place of rest.'  I suppose to the physical eye, it is a fairly typical mid-western town.  Not very prepossessing in terms of wealth, prestige or glamour.  Its beauty is of a different sort.  The history of Nauvoo is short, but not simple.  In 1839, after fleeing Missouri, the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints settled on the banks of the Mississippi.  There they built from the swamps a home, a beautiful place, a place of rest.  There also they began, in 1841, the construction of a temple.  It sits on the highest point of land, overlooking the broad, majestic river.  Yet, the Saints were driven again to flee their homes, this time leaving behind not only buildings and stores, homes and gardens, but the beautiful place of rest they had sacrificed so much to build for themselves out of wilderness.  It was here also, that Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were taken from their families and carried to Carthage, from where they did not return.  The feelings one has, standing in a place such as this are indescribable.  I thought I would feel pain at the thought of the pain and loss which was endured, but I didn't.  The peace which was mixed into the mortar and stones, plowed into the fields, still remained.  As the Saints were driven to the banks of the Mississippi, they watched the temple they had built burn.  Yet, here I was, standing on the steps and looking at the same river they had been forced to cross in the month of February.  The temple was rebuilt.  People were once again able to enter its doors.  

My mom and I, on our last day, drove down to the place where the members crossed to the opposite shore; as I stood there, many things filled my mind.  I thought of the part, in Oscar Wilde's "The Selfish Giant," after he has forced the children out of his beautiful garden, where they had been wont to play.  Wilde wrote, "They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.  'How happy we were there,' they said to each other."  I remember watching the short animated film of that story as a child, and how, when the narrator spoke that line, the lonely longing of those words struck me.  "How happy we were there."  As well, I thought of the line from one of my favorite musicals, "Fiddler on the Roof."  The Jews are being forced from their village of Anatevka to wander where they will; some of the villagers are standing in Tevye's yard, saying their goodbyes.  One line always stands out to me-"Anatevka.  Where else could Sabbath be so sweet?"  The day was overcast and cool, but not unpleasant.  The grass was deep and green, tree branches trailed in the flowing river-how my heart broke for those who had left this beautiful place.  But, as we were standing there, listening to the peaceful lapping of the water on the shore, looking for the last time on Nauvoo, the bells of the temple began to toll.  A peace which carried with it a certain power of strength and courage became so tangible it was nearly palpable.  I myself, in only two days, had come to love this city, and the people in it.  There was Elder and Sister Wilson, a man who worked in the sandwich shop where we ate two or three times, and the countless others we had come to truly love, through their kindness.  It was indeed a beautiful place, with beautiful people.  I finally realized then, that the same reason the members had to leave was the same reason they could leave this place of rest.  One of the only consistent things about history is the human race's inability to reconcile differences of religion, therefore the early Latter-Day Saints were fleeing their homes.  Yet, because of that same religion for which they were being persecuted, they realized that the place of rest was not in the city they had built, but within the knowledge they had of their Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ.  This they could carry with them, even if they must leave behind their possessions and trust in His care, that they would find another place of rest, whether in this life or the next.  This may sound cliche, but it was an important realization for me to arrive at.  That realization was the peace which permeated that verdant corner of Illinois.  That was what made it beautiful.  It was re-enforced to me that, although this life is fraught with pain, loneliness, uncertainty, loss and fear, it is also full to the brim with love, kindness, beauty and, if we know to which source to look, peace.  Not a peace of mortal proportions, but a peace in the knowledge that we are indeed precious in the sight of Heavenly Father, that our pains and sorrows do not go unnoticed, nor our prayers unheeded.  They may not be answered in the manner in which we would like, but that does not mean they go unheeded.  

There is a book I have on my shelf, which, should the house suddenly spontaneously combust, and I only had a moment to choose which books to escape with, and it came down to this or my C.S. Lewis, I'm sure dear Lewis would understand.  It is called, "Shepherds, Why This Jubilee?" by Jeffrey R. Holland.  It is a book about Christmas.  Notice I didn't say, a Christmas book, but a book about Christmas.  Please forgive the long quote, but bear with me, it is worth it, I think.  

"As they made their way toward the temple that day, the Holy Spirit was resting upon a beloved elderly man named Simeon, one whom the scriptures describe as 'just and devout.'  It was revealed to this gentle and venerable man that he would not die before seeing the Messiah-"the Lord's Christ," as Luke phrases it.  The Spirit then led him to the temple, where he saw a young carpenter and his even younger wife enter the sanctuary with a new-born babe cradled in his mother's arms.  Simeon, who had waited all his life for "the consolation of Israel," took that consolation in his arms, praised God, and said: 'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word: for mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; a light to lighten the gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel.  And Joseph and his mother marvelled at those things which were spoken of him.  And Simeon blessed them, and said unto Mary his mother, Behold, this child is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and for a sign which shall be spoken against; (yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also,) that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.' He was joyously happy.  He had lived to see the Son of God be born.  He had held the child in his very arms.  He could now die the happiest man in all of Jersualem, maybe in all the world.  But his joy was not of the superficial kind.  It was not without its testing and trying....his joy had something to do with 'the fall and rising again of many in Israel,' and with this child's life-or at least his death-which would be like a sword piercing through his beloved mother's soul.  We might well ask, "Was such an ominous warning, such a fateful prophecy, appropriate in this season of joy?  Surely such was untimely, even unseemly, at that moment-when the Son of God was so young and tender and safe, and his mother so thrilled with his birth and his beauty?"  Our answer is, yes, it was appropriate and important.  The true meaning, the unique and lasting and joyous meaning of the birth of this baby, would be in the life he would lead and especially in his death, in his triumphant atoning sacrifice and in his prison-bursting resurrection.  It is the life at the other end of the manger scene that gives this moment of nativity in Bethlehem its ultimate meaning.  Special as this child was and divine as was his conception, without that day of salvation wherein he would gain an everlasting victory over death and hell on behalf of every man, woman, and child who would ever be born-until that day should come-this baby's life and mission would not be complete.  Worse yet, without that triumphant atonement and resurrection he might have been remembered only as one born in abject poverty, scorned in his own native village, and tortured to death by a ruthless Roman regime that knew everything about torture and death.  But wise old Simeon understood all of this-that the birth was ultimately for the death-and it thrilled his soul that salvation was come.  Yes, for me the most important Christmas visitor of all may have been old Simeon, who, not in the absence of hard days and long years but because of them, would sing with us tonight at the top of his voice, 'Joy to the world, the Lord is come; let earth receive her King!...No more will sin and sorrow grow, nor thorns infest the ground; he'll come and make the blessings flow, far as the curse was found.'"  

The same reason the inhabitants of Nauvoo were forced to leave was the same reason they could leave.  Although they stood on the banks and watched their homes burn, that burning could not destroy the knowledge they possessed.  That is what I learned from Nauvoo, the beautiful place, the place of rest.   

I am officially the world's worst travel writer-any ambition or hopes I had in that direction have now been officially discarded.  After nearly a month I have finally proceeded to the third or fourth day of the trip.  These days consisted of time spent in Springfield, home of Lincoln.  It was marvelous.  Yet, for some reason, I've been having difficulty in collecting my thoughts about this portion of the trip to construct a sufficiently coherent post.  It is not due to a lack of material, most assuredly.  Rather the opposite.  Lincoln is easily the most well-loved president.  Aside from Washington being numero uno, Lincoln is probably the only other president who could be placed in a chronological line-up.  ("Turn to the right!"-sorry, bit of an inside joke.)  What we fail to remember, however, is that he was so 'despised and rejected of men' that his election sparked the flame which became the inferno that devoured our country for four long years.  Four years in which two percent of our population died.  Think about that-two percent.  At Antietam more American lives were lost than in all previous wars combined.  At Cold Harbor 7,000 fell in twenty minutes.  This is sobering by any measures but especially so when you consider the crude weapons still employed.  We were on the brink of collapse and staring into an abyss of such profound darkness that all were shaken in their belief in their homeland and its ability to persevere and continue.  Its very existence was challenged.  I don't think anyone, including Lincoln himself, could have foreseen the hell through which they must pass, individually or collectively, to reach the opposite bank of civil war.  I do believe, though, that there were those, like Lincoln, who did more than simply try to survive.  They attempted to give the suffering meaning.  Ideas and ideals change, nothing in this life can remain stagnant and live, but some ideals become more purified by the suffering of trials.  Lincoln stepped onto the national stage a fairly young man with unproved ideas and convictions.  He left the stage an old man, tired out by proving those ideas and defending those convictions; ideas which had been altered to answer a higher cause and convictions strengthened by immense suffering.  Sometimes our heroes are not necessarily defined by what they achieve as by how they reach those achievements.  Lincoln was despised, mocked and hated in his own day.  He was ridiculed and lampooned, criticized and castigated, yet his conviction in the sanctity of human life and the necessity for unity among men never faltered, even in the face of great personal loss, loneliness and depression.  His talents and ambitions were used in the service of others (an admirable trait in anyone, but more so in a politician).  His kindness, forgiveness and patience were equally matched by his 'malice toward none...charity for all...firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right...' (from his second inaugural address, 1865).  My admiration is not for a president who won a war but for a man who willingly and with great dignity served those he had been called to lead, even at great personal sacrifice.

One of my favorite speeches of Lincoln's was delivered in 1838.  In its opening paragraphs, he describes how those who came before us fought to gain the liberties, freedoms and blessings we later generations were born into.  He then delivers one of my favorite paragraphs-"We, when mounting the stage of existence, found ourselves the legal inheritors of these fundamental blessings.  We toiled not in the acquirement or establishment of them-they are a legacy bequeathed us, by a...departed race of ancestors.  Theirs was the task (and nobly they performed it) to possess themselves, and through themselves, us, of this goodly land; and to uprear upon its hills and its valleys, a political edifice of liberty and equal rights; 'tis ours only, to transmit these, the former, unprofaned by the foot of an invader; the latter, undecayed by the lapse of time and untorn by usurpation, to the latest generation that fate shall permit the world to know.  This task gratitude to our fathers, justice to ourselves, duty to posterity, and love for our species in general, all imperatively require us faithfully to perform."  (I adore that last sentence.)  In my opinion, that is some of the most beautiful writing ever constructed.  It gave me chills the first time I read it.  (In the next paragraph he goes on to say, " How then shall we perform it?-At what point shall we expect the approach of danger?  By what means shall we fortify against it?-Shall we expect some transatlantic military giant, to step the Ocean, and crush us at a blow? Never!-All the armies of Europe, Asia and Africa combined, with all the treasure of the earth (our own excepted) in their military chest; with a Bonaparte for a commander, could not by force, take a drink from the Ohio, or make a track on the Blue Ridge, in a trial of a thousand years.  At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected?  I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us.  It cannot come from abroad.  If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher.  As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide."  The prescience in that statement is a bit chilling, too, isn't it?  Remember, this was 23 years before the outbreak of war.)  Needless to say, I tried to soak in the experience of Springfield through every pore.  I may be accused, and not unjustly, of hero-worship, which is an extremely dangerous thing, but, like all hero-worshippers, I think I am justified in my admiration.
(It was a bit amusing-as we were standing in the lobby of one of the Lincoln Museum's theaters, waiting with the entire middle-school population of the state of Illinois, for a program to begin, I heard one very resigned sounding teacher bellow, "Lincoln, you need to stay with your chaperone!!!"  I just thought it was funny....)  So, here are a few pictures of Lincoln's Springfield. 

My initial intentions were to avoid vain repetition by posting tales of travel which have already been reported upon, as I am not a very adept teller of tales anyway. A genetic predisposition to exhibit signs of ADD prevents an economy of words and therefore dooms my attempts at storytelling to verbosity.  Tragically, however, I decided to write a bit anyway, just to be cruel.  Because I can. And because, glancing through as I was listening to my playlist for the blog yesterday, I noticed that I misspelled something.  Just for the record, I do know the difference between an ear and an era.  I did go to college and they did let me graduate.  
After leaving Hannibal, Missouri (every time I say that, though, I always think of Anthony Hopkins whispering, "Claaariiice?" through the bars of a jail cell.....kinda creeps me out, actually; anyway, to get on with the story...see what I mean about ADD?) we jumped in the car and headed towards Springfield.  It. Was. Amazing.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.  Before traipsing downtown we stopped at a small restaurant on Route 66.  It lived gloriously up to my expectations.  The Cozy Dog contained all the necessary elements-walls covered in old signs, license plates, signed pictures of celebrities hanging side by side with pictures of the proprietor's family, an old hand gas pump, and yellowed posters advertising the "Birthplace of the Corn Dog."  To polish off the effect was a group of old men grouped together at a back table, wearing baseball caps and plaid flannel shirts their wives have probably attempted in vain to dispose of on multiple occasions.  They were awesome.  They met three times a week, one informed us, all amateur ham radio operators.  They should be made someone's brain-trust, seriously.  Inspecting the signs along the walls, I was amazed at how far the medical field has advanced.  Let me explain: we now have penicillin, vaccinations, MRI, x-ray, ultra-sound, etc. to help us diagnose and treat various illnesses and complaints.  One sign for a 'remedy' had a list which consisted of three columns of ailments and conditions the symptoms of which it could alleviate.  For instance: malaria, eczema, rhuematoid arthritis, nervous prostration (my personal favorite), and la grippe, just to name a few.  Sometimes I think maybe the old-days actually  were less complex-just spray some Windex on it, it'll be fine.  After leaving the Fount of Youth and Health, we turned the GPS to Camp Butler Cemetery.  After a slight mishap and a missed turn, we found ourselves in the.....hmmm, politically correct term.......ghetto.  We're lost in the ghetto and we speak a foreign language.  Then, right on cue, the lovely mechanized voice of the GPS informs us that it has "Lost Satellite Signal."  Suddenly I found myself longing for the comfort of the model airplane and Joe the Pilot's all-too-cheery thumbs up.  The roads were packed dirt, crumbling steps clung to derelict porches that looked as if the health department wouldn't condemn because it is not illegal to have a compost pile.  We passed a similar 'house' which had been converted into the local beer joint, complete with Budweiser sign hanging out front, under which the waitress(?) stood taking her cigarette break and chatting it up with patrons.  At three o'clock in the afternoon. Anyway, we traversed the Wasteland of the Protestant Work Ethic and found our way back onto charted roads.  Five minutes after regaining the ability to breathe adequately we pulled into the gates of Camp Butler National Cemetery.  It began life as a military training ground in 1861, after President Lincoln called for troops to answer the call to save the Union.  It very quickly became a prisoner of war camp for captured Confederate troops.  It has become the final resting place for veterans of every war since. Interestingly, it now also contains the graves of German and Korean prisoners of war.  Interesting that all those who fought so fiercely against each other now reside in plots of ground side by side.  I don't know why, as it really has no direct connection, but for some reason a quote by Oliver Wendell Holmes kept running through my head.  It is used at the beginning of Ken Burns' Civil War documentary (EXCELLENT, if you haven't seen it yet; my dream is to work with Ken Burns one day-I get unduly excited about his documentaries.)  "We have shared the incommunicable experience of war. We have felt, we still feel, the passion of life to its top.  In our youths our hearts were touched with fire."  There is just something artistic and poignant about those words. 
The next day, after recuperating from yet another near death experience, we headed for the land of Lincoln.  It was marvelous.  First we stopped in the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library.  When you ask my nephew, who will be two in the fall, 'how excited are you?' he squints up his eyes, balls his fists and tightens up his muscles until he shakes like an epileptic all while dancing on his toes.  That's how excited I was.  I was allowed to walk into the archives-I danced on my toes a little more.  Archives may sound boring and dry, but I like what FDR had to say about such things.  "To bring together the records of the past and to house them in buildings where they will be preserved for the use of men and women in the future, a Nation must believe in three things.  It must believe in the past.  It must believe in the future.  It must, above all, believe in the capacity of its own people so to learn from the past that they can gain in judgement in creating their own future."

In the atrium of the the building was an exhibit dedicated to the World's Fairs which have been held in Illinois.  This was extremely interesting as my boss told me of the time, in the thirties, when her own father was able to visit a World's Fair held in Chicago.  He came home and told the relatives all about this amazing new box which sported moving images and sound, no one believed in his stories about this so called 'television.'  There were also many pictures of the 1893 World's Fair, with which, if you have read Erik Larson's non-fiction work "Devil in the White City" you will be familiar.  And, if anything like me, freaked out and paranoid.  It is the history of America's first serial killer.  The history of how they built the White City was interesting, if you ever do read it-just skip the Criminal Minds-esque chapters.  Anyway, I was going to include the Lincoln Museum/home in this post, but I have much to say on that subject, and I fear I may have already rambled into the thickets of verbosity again.  Therefore, I will defer my raptures until the next post.  Aren't you excited?    

We (I) decided the  squirrel should be named Phoebus. Apparently cemetery squirrels are well-fed, and the name "Phoebus the Fat" just sounds like the nick-name of some lunatic Roman emperor, doesn't it? (It had been a long day-remember the ghetto...)