Historical Setting: Jarrow, 793 C.E.
Some rise early for the mass. At Monkwearmouth the antiphons will be sung by the women’s choir this morning for this feast day celebrating the Christ birth.
The guards dressed as monks have their shift change at first light, so it isn’t just the monks stumbling through the Jarrow halls with a cloudy intention toward wakefulness which, just now, makes early seem contrary to the warmth of dark sleep.
A guard I meet on the river path is breathless, hurrying to find a blanket because they just pulled a person from the sea near the river inlet. I run back with him to give my cloak.
He said, “Keep this quiet, because the rescued girl sinned unforgivably by attempting suicide and the holy men will only chastise her.”
“I’m sure the monks would only meet her need with kindness.”
“You know nothing of the holy, my friend.”
Here she is, a frail waif drenched in icy sea, naked, shivering, barely living. We wrap her in my cloak and a guard and I will take her to Monkwearmouth for the nuns to care for her. In my arms she is like a child, so little burden as she is so frail. She finds consciousness writhing, angry, clawing at my face, barring her broken teeth like a rabid beast. I stop and lay her in the snow in order to reclaim some reason and gentleness. Isn’t gentleness how it is supposed to be on this holy morning of Jesus’ birth? The guard takes a different tact. He shouts, “Behave or the nuns won’t have you!”
Now hysteria empowers her kicking, biting, flailing and her howls echo across the snows with amazing clarity for curse words against God.
He says, ” We should just throw her in the river and let her have her way. She meant to drown herself after-all.”
“I can’t do that.”
It isn’t any kind of relentless heroism that keeps me from letting her go. I just can’t do that for the simple selfish reason that I have to keep on living after this and it would haunt me.
“I’ll take her on to the church. You can go back to your duty.”
Now he leaves. I carry her shaking and sobbing, on to the church. Nothing is silent and holy here, but this is the Christmas story too.
(Continues Tuesday, December 30)
Lazarus Ink 