Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges Mts.
Like some kind of other-worldly hero or saint, or maybe simple rote righteousness, I let the prayer in my heart be that I could love the ‘enemy’ – the idiot who beats my daughter and who most certainly threatens the life of my unborn grandchild. How can God and Layla love this fumbling oaf? I was hoping my prayer could rid me of responsibility for him and dump my judgment of him back onto God. In setting a protective wall around Layla, hiding her away in the safe arms of her mother and her sister, haven’t we done all we can do? I pray some kind of fantasy that God could teach that numbskull husband of hers an iota of kindness.
But as prayer – even a prayer pretending righteousness – God answers with a demand for me to act. I know God calls me to a hard task. Now, I am called to go to the worst place I can imagine just because I let my prayer be something I didn’t believe I would have to do – I said “help me God, to love my enemy.” It’s an inspiration, a calling, but I have to act.
Now here I am driving the donkey cart to a serfs’ plot in the fields surrounding the castle. And in the donkey cart are all the family things we didn’t take to Brandell’s and Gaia’s new house just yet. With me I have the cradle I made so many years ago, and the soft blanket knitted with the wools from our first sheep. I have here that little glass spoon we used with the twins, to feed them milk when so many of us were helping Ana with the two at a time babies. It will seem so tiny in the oafish hands of this fellow. And Haberd’s wife also sent along a wash bucket and clothesline, and all the little cloths for a baby. These are the things that are supposed to be passed from woman to woman, mother to daughter, sister to sister, friend to friend. And here I am taking them to this heartless oaf in all his hopeless poverty and wrath.
Here, his appears to be one of the only fields not yet planted. Dear God, what are you asking of me? He is nothing but a problem. Their house is only a lean-to, like a pasture shed. And here he is on the straw mat, passed out drunk, snoring loudly.
(Continues Tuesday, April 30)
Lazarus Ink 