My Afternoon With Bryn – UPDATED

Dear Lord;

I’m feeling a little overwhelmed here. It’s bad enough that the Holy Spirit spurred me on last night into reading some of the most romantic and alluring poetry ever written, and it was in your scriptures, “I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick with love” and fulcite me floribus stipate me malis quia amore langueo!

Amore langueo! Egad!

Let me lean against the stout trunks, let me recline among the apple trees, for I am sick with love.
His left hand is under my head, and his right hand embraces me.

Good heavens! I know, I know, it is meant to stir the soul and portray the relationship between God and his people and – later – Christ and his church. But – ahem – it stirs the heart and soul aplenty, Lord. Aplenty!

And then – and THEN – I get into the car today to run errands, and see that Buster has left one of his Bryn Terfel CD’s in my car. Since my choices are Rush Limbaugh, Abba Gold or Bryn, I choose the basso profundo and herein lies my downfall, Lord, because now I am panting after a man in my heart, and it’s YOUR fault for equipping him with that voice from heaven!

He made me swoon with a fervent “I feel, I feel the deity within me.” He took my breath away with a decisive and manly “Arm, Arm, ye brave!” He pursued me like a randy young man with “Si, tra i ceppi e le ritorte…” then got downright laschivious and bawdy as he teased me with “O Ruddier Than The Cherry.” The Terfel left me breathless and gasping by crooning a sweet and intimate “Where’er You Walk…” Right into my ear, he crooned it, right into my heart, and I felt utterly ravished. Sigh.

Egad, help me, for I am sick with love. The man’s voice has turned me into a quivering, gulping puddle of joy! And it’s your fault, Lord! I mean, there I was, driving on the Long Island Expressway – the very metaphor of the road to hell – and I had to open a window, gasping as I was, “air, air, I need air, I’m gonna plotz, this man sings so beautifully. Get me smelling salts, I’m dying over here!”

Your fault.

Just so you know…I ain’t goin’ to confession about this. You put all that beauty before me, and I can’t be held responsible for my reaction.

Amen.

Your obedient but breathless daughter,
The Anchoress

UPDATE: Buster-the-bass/baritone just came in from reading this at his computer and he wagged an admonishing finger at me, “You are sick. You’re not allowed to touch any more of my Bryn Terfel CD’s. You’d better not let Dad read this, either!”

Kids. So moralistic!

My Afternoon with Bryn – UPDATED