#77.6 Thursday, February 12, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
 

Ousbert, the king’s man who oversees the guarding of Jarrow against the Vikings is asking me to do the abbot’s or an ealdorman’s job of writing a report to the king. He wants a letter that will make a fine display before the court and that has good words commending the guards he has placed on duty here. He tells me something I already knew of the ealdorman, though I have only heard stories. The ealdorman here is known to be a cruel and self-centered fellow, who would prepare the letter putting himself in the role of the one who assigned the guards in making all these preparations for a Viking raid.

         “So, it isn’t the abbot’s letter you would have me write. It is the letter from the ealdorman.”

         “It will have my name and my seal.” says Ousbert.

He mentions payment, and I could buy my cloak back from Cloother with that coin. And also, I would like an opportunity to inform the king about the unfair treatment of a pauper by this very same ealdorman excluded from this assignment.

         So, “Might this commendation of the guards also include a denunciation of the ealdorman?”

         “What are you thinking?”

         “Maybe just an explanation after the signature like, ‘Ousbert, in leu of the local ealdorman.’ Then a note could be added in smaller letters, of course, than the commendations, that would give examples of the ealdorman flaunting of his power over his district.”

         “You have examples?”

         “I’ve heard a story of it.”

So, I tell Ousbert all that I know of a woman rescued from the sea by these royal guardsmen who are being commended.

         “Yes!” He says, “This is very useful! Might we find this woman again, and dress her up in courtly gowns to go before the king to tell her own story explaining why justice isn’t available from the cruel ealdorman.”

I fear I’ve said too much. He was just looking for an excuse to replace the ealdorman, perhaps with himself, and now I’ve put the troubled young girl in the midst of their own power play. And not only that, I can imagine her audience with the king, outfitted as a perfect stereotype of a helpless waif, that will end with her being dragged from court, howling curses at the king. She does have that strong core of self-reliance and she has very little regard for glitzy powerful rule makers.

(Continues Tuesday, February 17, 2026)


#77.5 Wednesday, February 11, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
 

Ousbert, the envoy for King Ethelred of Northubria, called me to meet with him here in the entrance hall for the library. He was here before the Christ Mass asking me details of the Lindisfarne raid and has since learned that my information was accurate. But I’m sure the reason he’s called me here isn’t just to commend my accuracy.

         “So Eleazor, the librarian tells me you are a scholar as literate as any monk, and you have a rapport with the guardsmen I’ve assigned to this place.”

         “We shared a Christmas song and a pint of ale.”

         “The abbot here does nothing but complain about these heroic guardsmen. He has no regard for their living conditions and their needs, even though they are here to protect this community. I don’t trust the abbot to provide accurate reports to the Kings man.”

I can guess where this is going. Ousbert is looking for someone to spy on the spies. I ask him if that is what he wants of me.

         “More than that.  It would be very useful if I could carry a document to the royal court of Northumbria commending the fine work of these guards in protecting this outpost against the Vikings.”

         “You want to report commendation for these men? That really should come from the abbot?”

         “The abbot won’t do it. It could be on a long strip of vellum, with flourishes and proper lettering so that when it is unfurled and read in a royal court it will be well known that it is a worthy commendation.”

         “Can’t you just go and tell whatever royal court the guards are keeping their watch as ordered?”

         “It needs embellishment fit for a king. At the top it would announce, ‘The good works of the loyal subjects of the ruler of Northumbria. Then you would write something to say we have had no Vikings raid Jarrow since the guards have been posted!”

         “I can’t pretend to be the abbot’s scribe. This is his task.”

         “Indeed, or this could be the task for the local ealdorman, but..”

Oh, yes, now I know why he chooses to by-pass the ealdorman here.  This ealdorman is the ‘Mister’ in the ‘castle’ who abused the young pauper, and then he sent her away and let her baby die. Apparently, even a king’s military general doesn’t trust this ealdorman. And I actually do have some information someone needs to know; and it isn’t about the guards.

(Continues tomorrow)


#77.4 Tuesday, February 10, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.

On the horizon towers are rising — bell towers rise up from churches, but also, watch towers rise up here and there, as rocks are stacked higher and higher into babel towers to reach the heavens.

Watching the sea once gave monks a spiritual tranquility. Once gazing at the horizon at sunrise set a new day right. The dawning edge where sea meets sky brightens tenderly, softly, silently waking until the saffron sun rises, and immediately day is all.

But in these times, the watchers aren’t monks in private prayer; they are military guards, eyeing the breakers moving toward the shoreline searching for the shadows between the foaming edges in search of the stealth longships of the Norsemen lying low among the shore waves hiding in plain sight on the sea.

Returning to the monastery, I find Ousbert waiting to meet with me.  I’ve already told him all I know of the Viking raid at Lindisfarne. And now the people of this land live by warfare — moving rocks, setting guards, gathering swords and spears enough for every hand to hold a weapon. Ousbert has been to Lindisfarne since we last talked, and now he commends me on my accuracy.

          “Eleazor, your observations are well collaborated. I was fortunate to find you, a clear-headed witness, here.”

I have to wonder what Ousbert’s purpose is in seeking me out now. A military advisory to King Ethelred isn’t likely to be sent on a mission to compliment a witness.

         “So, Captain, now everyone thinks of nothing but the possibilities for devastation. In that way a violent raid has already taken a toll here even without actual Vikings.”

         “How so?”

         “All this preparation is driven by imagining an enemy. And it is fear that sets our hearts on battle, the exact opposite of God’s love that is the holiness of a monastery.”

         “Fear? No, the people should find comfort in the safety measures we take.”

         “Safety measures are wearing leather shoes in a berry patch. Setting guards, supplying weapons, setting traps, that is warfare, not safety.”

         “These are uneasy times. Every day I wake and wonder if we still have a king. Ethelred has his own brutality.” [Footnote]

         “I guess that is the risk of following temporal masters.”

         “You sound more like a monk than a layman. Maybe you’re already under the influence of them. But I’m here to appeal to your secular interests.”

         “Have I secular interests?”

         “Everyone does, of course. We live in the real world.”

[Footnote] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%86thelred_I_of_Northumbria  (retrieved 2-9-26)

  (Continues tomorrow)

#77.3 Thursday, February 5, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.

It is an easy verse to remember, “There is no fear in love,” [I John 4:18]. But it’s nearly incomprehensible in real life. Surely, the quill slipped and it was intended to say, “There is no hate in love.” Hate has teeth and tools, strength and power. Fear is a human frailty that leaves its victims helpless and shuttering.

Hate is transformative. Those war-kindling rumors offer up strangers as hated enemies. Hate can take any fear, big or little, real or imagined, debilitating or simply a nuisance and rename it, “The Enemy.” So, when rumors circulate and Jarrow hears of the raid on Lindisfarne, a truly hated enemy is created out of rumors by fear.  Really it  isn’t a Swede, or a Dane, or a Norseman, as though the enemy is a person made in God’s image; it is a fearsome rumored “other” — a Viking. 

Fear hides as cowardly hatred, and hate devolves into a lie to dehumanize, and transform other people into horrific superhuman monsters.

Jarrow has turned a feared rumor into a Viking enemy and even good Christians are encouraged to hate despite Jesus’s teachings to do otherwise. But I buried the dead, and I know this enemy is no human. It is actually, greed — the root of sin — though no one really wants to forfeit the power of that sin even though less greed makes them less vulnerable. Because, when the sin is greed it serves a feast, not a simple bowl of gruel. Greed warms a house, and furnishes it better than mere shelter. Greed appears to be a very likeable sin, says the woman who clothes all her family in velvet. The plentiful life of the greedy is a prize worthy of the cost even if it calls for wars and murders to keep it.

Greed drives the marauders to this shore because those Vikings share this sin.  The Viking raids are not hate-crimes. The raids are crimes of excess. The brutality and deaths are perceived as the collateral damage of wealth. If the raiders come to this shore they won’t visit the pauper’s woods, they will seek out the tallest towers and the fattest storehouses — likely the monastery. Yet, here, these preparations are to build higher watch towers and fortify the storehouses with weapons — always to save the gold at the risk of human lives. 

(Continues Tuesday, February 10, 2026)


#77.2 Wednesday, February 4, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.

I return to St. Paul in near morning light.

It is the changing of the guard when these king’s soldiers who are assigned to guard the seashore are taking their posts dressed as monks prepared for any real or imagined Viking attack. On the Jarrow side of the Tyne some men arrive with a mule and are moving rocks onto the sandbar.

         “Why?” I ask them.

         “It’s a new plan to stifle the longships of the Vikings so they can’t come up the river.”

         “Isn’t that likely to stop all ships from entering the river from the sea?”

         “Any acceptable ships can moor in the basin as they do anyway, waiting for the righteous tide, and a smaller currach can ferry the people and the goods up the river if needed before the tide rises.”

Having seen the longships of the Norsemen I happen to know they don’t have the deep draft of merchant ships and galleys that would be hindered by a rock laden sandbar. They are nearly already riverboats.

         I ask, “But what if they would attack near high tide? They would just slip right into the river, and never even notice all this fortification.”

         “Aye, but the rocks would catch them on the return and they wouldn’t get away with the plunder. All these rocks will surely stop them from escaping.”

A Viking raid isn’t like an army attacking an enemy at war; it is much quicker than the turning of the tide — silent and brutal.

         The overseer of the work says, “Everyone knows now the saints won’t save them from the attack. This isn’t Lindisfarne. Here every hearth will have a spear, every mantle a sword and every belt a dagger.”

So, fear calls for killing power. Fear transforms the hearthside, where a child would normally learn familial love, into an armed fortress with lessons in hatred for strangers. Fear hides weapons in monk’s robes. It heaps a low-tide causeway with jagged rocks as snares for ships.

These people have never even seen a Norseman marauder. Yet they call them the war word, “Viking.” It is simply the tales of Lindisfarne that made the rumor that set the rest of the world against welcoming strangers. Fear has the power to suck the heart out of anyone’s self, and teach away all tenderness for the sake of transforming protective fear into blanket hatred. We have an enemy now: the unknown neighbor.

(Continues tomorrow)

#77.1 Tuesday, February 3, 2026

Historical Setting: Monkwearmouth, 794 C.E.

It is the dark hour before dawn. We are five people waiting for the tide to turn in a shelter shed. The three who just arrived are arguing. The nuns are midwives advising the man on the needs of his brother’s family as they prepare for a new baby.

The grieving girl I’ve been keeping watch with through this night is huddled in the corner waiting for these people to leave– waiting for the silence to return pretending silence could be peace.

I’m waiting for God to answer my own silent prayer — Dear God, stay close to this young woman on her terrible journey through grief.

The three arrive in the midst of a heated argument.  The nuns insist the family must procure a fresh cow. The soon-to-be uncle raises the timbre of the argument insisting a cow is too costly, accusing the nuns of having no empathy for the poor.

         One nun says, “It is the responsibility of the family to care for their infants. It’s not simply the luck of having wealthy neighbors from whom to borrow a cow! Rich or poor, your family is responsible!”

         The other nun adds, “If we didn’t know your family to be poor we would demand that you hire a wet nurse. The cow is the poor man’s substitute!”

The man starts to speak. The nun speaks over him. 

         “All we ask is that you borrow a cow for the sake of this baby! It is the least you can do.”

The tension rises. The man rages.

         “Oh, dear Jesus, have these wealthy nuns no idea of what it is to be poor?”

At this moment, the girl huddled on the bench, flips her cowl back, stiffens her posture and shoots her demon glare right at the nuns and the uncle. She speaks boldly through gritted teeth.

         “Here is the fresh cow Jesus sends you.”

Silent. Stunned. These nuns have seen this demon’s glare before. Then they were prepared with a chain and manacles — though, of course, they prepared for a much larger demon. They recognize her now.

It is the nature of gracious God to send a holy happenstance.

When the tide turns the nuns, the man, and the holy gift of the wet nurse, cross the sandbar. I know the truth of this holy happenstance might seem a miracle at this moment. Really what happened is that God sent the baby to rescue the wet nurse. Thank you, God.

(Continues tomorrow)

#76.13 Thursday, January 29, 2026

Historical Setting: Monkwearmouth, 794 C.E.
 

It’s been nearly all night that we’ve sat here in the quiet darkness, except for the gentle sounds of a horse waiting for his master to return and our few words. I asked her to imagine a wishful story. She has an imagination and she has words that could tell fantastic stories. Were she literate, she could write her way through all the years of this grief.

It isn’t dawn yet, but we hear people talking, approaching outside. I step out and here is a man and two women crossing the meadow toward the shed, coming down from the convent of St. Peter. The young girl hears them outside and hides as best she can, not being a mouse that can fit between the boards. She is crouched at the end of the bench with her cowl pulled over her head hiding her face.

         Now they are here.

         “Hello. We’re seeking shelter here until tide ebbs so we can cross at the sandbar.”

The three of them crowd into our midst — two nuns, and a villager with them who is holding up a lantern so we can all see the young woman huddled and silent as though she is hidden. Once I saw a kit in a wood, thinking he was hiding from me, but only his eyes were hidden. The rest of him was clearly exposed, sticking out from the side of the tree that shielded his eyes.  And though her hiding is imaginary, no one acknowledges her.

         “Is something happening at Jarrow, today?” I ask them.

         “It is possible.” says the man. “My brother’s wife may need a midwife this very day.”

         “What a wonderful blessing for your family!”

         The man doesn’t answer. A nun answers for him.

         “There is a fear. This mother had a beautiful little girl a while back, but the mother is sickly and then that infant failed to thrive.  We told this family then, and we tell them now, they must borrow a fresh cow if any baby can survive at all.”

         The man argues, “These nuns think every family is rich and all the neighbors have fancy farms and cows just for the lending.”

         The nun adds, “We aren’t talking about great wealth. We only insist that you borrow a fresh cow that has recently born a calf. Even a poor family can surely take on that little responsibility.”

So, here we are audience for a continuing argument.

(Continues Tuesday, February 3, 2026)

#76.12 Weds., January 28, 2026

Historical Setting: Monkwearmouth, 794 C.E.
 

We sit here in the dark mostly in silence — the dark is cold — the silence is raw.  What can I say? There are no words of goodness or even hope. Much as I wish it, I can’t repair another’s grief.

She explains it again too easily.

         “I took him to the sea, and the baby prince was taken up by the angels. Them angels came in a crashing wave, and wrapped him up in sea foam and took him away to the place where the sea meets the heaven. But they didn’t take me — his own mother.”

She rubs the bruises on her wrists.

         “Instead, you and the demons took me away to Hell.”

         I say, “It was the king’s guards who were keeping watch over Jarrow and Monkwearmouth who pulled you from the sea. They brought you up from the water just as I was crossing over the sandbar to the church on this side of the river. I took you on to the church and to the nuns. They didn’t see you as you are. They only saw what belonged to the stories they tell — first they remembered you were a mother and they thought they saw Mary, then then they feared you were plagued by demons.”

         “They feared demons? But they’re the ones keepin’ the demons in the tower! There the ones chained me to the demons!”

         “The Reverend Mother showed me the tower and the chains with manacles sized to fetter a demon, but without a fearsome devil, a person in those chains could just slip away and run down the stairs and cross the field to the river. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

         “I had to be stealth to hide all the demon howls.”

         “You were stealth. The Reverend Mother didn’t even know you had escaped until I asked to see you in the tower.”

         “Good for them.”

         “So now you are free from the chains. I could walk with you maybe to a new place. We could see what is on the Jarrow side.”

         “I already said that’s where I can’t go! And look at me now, all dressed up like a princess but bringing no one any of the riches. Maybe they could trade me for a better price now.” 

         “Very well, use your castle words and make up the story you wish to live into. Hone the words to say any kind of worthy ever after. We should make a new plan now.”

(Continues tomorrow)

#76.11 Tuesday, January 27, 2026

Historical Setting: Monkwearmouth, 794 C.E.

The young woman has a dress and an apron and a cowl, all the things she needs to appear presentable to other people who could meet her with either judgment or compassion. Only heaven knows her nakedness, though earth is still touched by her unshod feet.

She recognized my selfish need in trading away my cloak for her to have this clothing. She offers me no gratitude. She saw my gift for what it was, my own selfish appeasement of conscience. So, we sit here in this little harbor shelter in the dark.

There is a horse sheltered here with fresh straw while his rider might be rowing up the river a short way to spend this night in Jarrow. This shed has a purpose. The horse has purpose.

This young Rachel has her focus on the mouse in the corner working feverishly to move its nest out of view of our human eyes. Now two mice are working on this project. When the last of the babies are tucked safely between the boards of this structure and out of our sight, the young woman still stares at the emptiness.

         “I could go with you at first light in the morning, when the tide ebbs again, and we can cross the river and walk to the wood where there are people you know.”

         “You would take me to the pauper’s woods where already they traded me away? Why would I go there?”

         “I don’t know. Is that where your home is?”

         “They would expect a princess bringing treasures and food from the castle. But I didn’t take stuff when I was dismissed.”

         “The house we saw across the river was no castle it was the ealdorman’s house. This village is small and Cloothar agrees with me that a king assigns a literate villager, hardly royalty, to be the ealdorman. It was your hopes and dreams that made it a castle. And you still have the gift to make castles of your dreams. So, tell me the story. What happens next, when the hour comes, and a castle is an ordinary house and the coach is a pumpkin, and the coachmen are rats? Is there still a hidden princess in a common girl? What is the ever after for this story?”

         “There is no ever. I gave that baby prince to the heaps of waters in the sea, and I promised to always keep him safe. but I was taken from the sea.”

         “So, what happens next in the princess story?”

(Continues tomorrow)


#76.10 Thursday, January 22, 2026

Historical Setting: Monkwearmouth, 794 C.E.
 

The young girl, along with Cloothar and I, have found shelter from the cold wind in a stable shed at the harbor on the sea gate of the Tyne. Cloothar has tailored a dress for the girl — the dress I traded for my cloak. And now he is in the spirit of this gifting also, and has made this child a cowl, and he has found in his heaps of merchandise. a linen apron just right for a small sized woman.

She fingers the apron, nudging the smooth weave, the purity of clean cloth, between her thumb and finger. Her fingers are like bird’s legs, rough and spindly but purposed for clinging to a branch — a flightless fledgling, alone. Her prayer is silent.

Dressed up in her own wools and an apron, she has the outward appearance of one who can manage the normal routines of life. But of course an outward appearance doesn’t fix the depths of a person where grief is relentless. The torments and sorrows aren’t dismissed when hidden. Underneath her restyled clothing she is still naked and grieving. But at least, I suppose, she isn’t exposed to the judgement from others for how she suffers. She looks to be a person first, before any infestation of demons, or sins of self-destruction are conspicuous. At least that was my thought as I wish to fix this thing.

So, what will she do? Where can she go?

Cloothar, hurrys to return to his boat by the rising tide and before the impending dark of night. I feel the unsettled night coming on as well.

         I tell her, “When the tide is out, the sandbar becomes a shallow crossing if you wish to go back over to the woods.”

She may know that as her first home. But she keeps her head bowed studying the weave of the apron with her fingers.

         She says, “You don’t have to wait here, you know.”

         “Yes, I do have to stay. It would ache my conscience to leave you here without a place to be or people to be with.”

         “It’s not about you and your shabby little conscience. I have to figure it out for myself, or not.”

Her idea of ‘Not’ isn’t an option. My “shabby little conscience” won’t allow it. So we sit here in the dark.

(Continues Tuesday, January 27, 2026)