Audio Books

Recently I have been listening to audio books rather than reading. In my head, sitting down with a book feels like time wasted (I absolutely know it is not) but because there is always something needing to be accomplished in my home, reading feels like a luxury I cannot afford at the present. Audio books have solved this problem for me. I listened to Francis Chan's "Crazy Love" while doing household task. An amazing speaker and author, he draws great analogies from every day life to teach God's truth.   This has been beneficial to me since my "Mad Church Disease" has recently prevented me from attending.   Here is a video clip to give you an example.....

Wow!  What a great mind visual to help me see myself in a clear light!

Another audio book that came across the circulation desk at the library is "The Poets' Corner" compiled and read by John Lithgow.  His uniquely animated and lyrical voice brings poetry to life.  Poetry is meant to be heard.  Inflections in a voice can significantly change the tone of a poem and bring clarity to what the writer is trying to say.  This audio has been very enjoyable and relaxing to me and has introduced me to poets with whom I was not familiar, such as Elizabeth Bishop, the Poet's Poet.   Her poem "Filling Station" is an exquisitely precise painting of a miniature world.

Oh, but it is dirty

--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color--
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:

ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.

Somebody Loves us all.