So I was reading random parts of the Old Testament a few months ago and stumbled upon this story and immediately thought; no way, this is the story he must have been citing when he wrote that hymn, it borrows words and even fits the event that led him to write it. Anyone else ever noticed this before? For all I know, it’s probably common knowledge.

2 Kings 4:17

And the woman conceived, and bare a son at that season that Elisha had said unto her, according to the time of life.
18 And when the child was grown, it fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.
19 And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother.
20 And when he had taken him, and brought him to his mother, he sat on her knees till noon, and then died.
21 And she went up, and laid him on the bed of the man of God, and shut the door upon him, and went out.
22 And she called unto her husband, and said, Send me, I pray thee, one of the young men, and one of the asses, that I may run to the man of God, and come again.
23 And he said, Wherefore wilt thou go to him to day? it is neither new moon, nor sabbath. And she said, It shall be well.
24 Then she saddled an ass, and said to her servant, Drive, and go forward; slack not thy riding for me, except I bid thee.
25 So she went and came unto the man of God to mount Carmel. And it came to pass, when the man of God saw her afar off, that he said to Gehazi his servant, Behold, yonder is that Shunammite:
26 Run now, I pray thee, to meet her, and say unto her, Is it well with thee? is it well with thy husband? is it well with the child? And she answered, It is well.

This morning, I played both discs of Rounder Record’s Hand-Picked: 25 Years of Bluegrass on Rounder Records. This compilation of forty-nine songs includes such legends as Alison Krauss, Bela Fleck, Ricky Scaggs, and the Tasty Licks. The only person who came to the desk to find out what cd it was was the fellow with plugs in his lobes and an Unsung Heroes shirt. I saw some other people walk out with a little more jaunt in their step than when they came - a little shaking of the hips and a smile that impending doom in the form of finals had all but wiped away.

Miss Ellen Hampton has returned from Lent! Go see!

Five minutes ago (well, fifteen by the time this post is completed):

I read Mrs. Friedrich’s remark about my sister sharing the same birthday with St. Shakespeare and decide I am going to put an end to my sister’s foolishness. I retrieve my miniature bonded-leather copy of Macbeth and run upstairs to my sister’s room, rush through her door, turn the light on, and sit primly on her footboard.

–It is Shakespeare’s birthday, I say. It’s time you memorised a soliloquy in his honour. Wake up, deadman! Time to memorise!

She jolts awake, groggily looks up at me and buries her head in her pillow and groans, “Miss Clark! No Heelllp! This isn’t happening!”

Miss Clark, her English lit teacher, is a wonderful woman. I had a studyhall with her senior year of highschool. Why my sister appealed to her I have no idea. Miss Clark would have completely supported my drastic and absurd action. In fact, she’d love it.

–Repeat after me, I command. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morr

–AHHHHH! Stop!, Meggan interrupts!

–If you don’t memorise this soliloquy right now I’ll tell mum and dad that you haven’t been to school the last two days!

–You’re horrible! You’re horrible, mutters Meggan, covering her eyes.

–Now then, where were we, oh yes!, I respond, ignoring her.

–To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, she repeats.

–Creeps forth at its petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time;

–Creeps for at its pretty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time;

–PETTY, I correct her. It’s PETTY. P-E-T-T-Y!

–PETTY then, she says, exasperated.

–And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

–And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
They way to dusty death.

–Out! Out brief candle!, I exclaim.

–Out! Out brief candle, she mutters.

–Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets its hour upon the stage,
And then is heard from no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

–Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets its hour upon the stage,
And then is heard from no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying…something, she murmers.

–No! Nothing! SIGNIFYING NOTHING!

–Nothing then!, she wails.

Now, from the top!, I exclaim and we go through it two more times.

–Dad!, she yells, bloody-murdering. Dad! HELLLLLLLLLLLPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I figure that if I’m going to go out I best go out in a blaze of glory so I stand on her bed and start the soliloquy once more from the top, this time with melodramatic sweeping arm gestures.

Meggan pulls her sheet over her head and pretends to cry.

The door opens and my father walks in, looking around with an amused expression.

–She’s forcing Shakespeare on me!, Meggan says, accusingly, frustratingly. Throw her out!

My father suddenly stands at attention and says:
The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

My jaw goes agape and I exclaim excitedly:
Dad! Merchant of Venice!!! You know some Shakespeare! O brave new world, that has such people in it!

I jump off Meggan’s bed and run over to hug him.

–I had to memorise it in highschool, he tells me.

Meggan stares at us as though we have gone mad and yanks her covers over her head. I wish her happy birthday and we leave.

Huxley?s Savage ain?t got nothing on my father and I in this dystopia. If that didn’t put the fear of Shakespeare into her, than I fear nothing ever will.

So I get home from work this evening and I ask my father where today’s mail is. He hands it to me, mentioning that I received something from the Veterans of Foreign Wars. I open the envelope. “Thank you, Ms. Sarah M. Jones, for remembering America’s proud, struggling veterans!” Smart-looking, personalised Ms. Sarah M. Jones return address stickers with the American flag. How did the VFW find me? I have no idea, but I thank them for their generous gift, among many other generous things.