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My dear friends,

Alexander Pope turned the clandestine clipping of a bit of a girl’s hair into his mock epic masterpiece, “The Rape of the Lock.”

What dire offence from am’rous causes springs,
What mighty contests rise from trivial things…

If I had his gifts, I could regale you with the tedious runnings about of the last week. For example,

A thousand times he read the regulations
For masks and tests for plagues in many nations—
No two alike, despite
Europa’s Guild
(A “Union” in name only, hence
Until his eyes were crossed and bloody red
And spinning round inside his flummoxed head…

I’ll stop there. I’ll not rhyme you through our runs to the dump, the wonderful people I met who came to collect free things I advertised on the Slovak Craig’s list, the packing of boxes, the anxious waiting for the results of our COVID test that felt more important for travel than our plane ticket, the painful goodbyes, and countless dull yet stressful minutiae.

But as I was reading Psalm 57 Thursday morning, these dull doings took on new meaning. David sings of high drama—not mock but true heroic verse, of deliverance from traps and pits and plots of deadly enemies. Our “deliverance” from missed flights and lost luggage and whatever other trivial disasters didn’t happen are reason enough for me to waken the dawn—to take up harp and lyre and pluck and sing a paean to the steadfast love of the Father who watches over sparrows and falling hairs.

All this to say that we are, like Jackie Robinson in the 1955 World Series, safe at home.

We arrived in Bryan Friday evening, exhausted but thankful: thankful for the smoothest ever crossing of the Atlantic, all the thoughtful effort my parents, Karen, Nicholas, and members of Westminster who prepared our place for our arrival.  Now to quarantine, which will give us time to begin to process our transition. Please thank our Father with us—on your own harps and harmonicas—for he is worthy.


If you don’t mind, I’ll keep this letter short, and write again if and when I have more thoughts.

Now may our heroic Father watch over all your comings and goings, whether you are crossing an ocean or crossing the street.

Kris (for Paula)

PS: Did I say home? Where is home? Is this our home? When will it feel like home? Sigh...
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Copyright © 2021 Kris Lundgaard, All rights reserved.

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