Polly plays the harp.  It is the most ridiculous thing in the world to have one's very own harpist in the home.  Every time I walk past it, I feel like a medieval lady of a great manor house. I should wear long skirts that rustle and knock things over while I brush past and have straw on my floor.  And a servant girl.

And then the noise of the dishwasher reminds that I am not a lady of a great manor house.  I am a homeschooling mom and I rarely do needlework in the solarium.

It is not possible to play the harp badly, I have discovered.  Polly is nearly 17, and she plays it beautifully.  But even I, without a musical bone in my body,  can sit at the harp and make beautiful noises.  Because the harp doesn't make ugly noises.  I sadly cannot say the same thing for a badly played trumpet.

Polly looks exactly like one of those baby cherubim in paintings or statues.  So you can only imagine what it is like when she is sitting playing her harp.  There are a few words that sum up Polly, her personality and her bearing.  Demure.  Graceful.  Reserved.  It seems unlikely that she is my own flesh and blood.  But there it is. 

Our conversion baby is what we called her. For it was during my pregnancy with her that the Good Lord saw fit to reveal to us His Great Plan.  His truths came tumbling down upon us, and we cloaked ourselves with the culture, thinking it was a good cover.  But He gently lifted it back, and there we were.  "Okay, fine, then."  We said. 

And here we are.