#56.4, Weds., May 8, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges Mts.

         Our donkey is old and not trained to work the fields, but if I walk him, and Will holds the plow steady we can plow this unturned earth much more easily than one man could do it simply by hand.  These new fields are a great consternation to all of these new farmers here at the foot of the Waldalenus Castle.

         Will is slow in starting his work and all around us others either have finished their first plowing and are already planting, or maybe, like Will, they have just given up. In one day, we are able to plow the strip for the field and turn a tiny little patch behind the house for vegetables.  Vegetables will be a luxury here and Layla knows how to do vegetables, so I don’t suppose it will be a waste of the little space they have. Now, Will still has to put the hoe to the ground to break up the newly turned earth to prepare for the seeds. 

         This third day I’m here we have a gentle rain falling so we will put off the hoeing for tomorrow, and maybe the rain will soften the clods to make that task easier or else it will just be mud to make another day to wait before the planting. 

         Will and I trek back to the castle storage barns to see if he can receive more seed now. And I hope they will give him oats. Layla knows all the steps in winnowing and preparing oats. Oats can be a crop abundant enough to pay the fee for the land due at harvest, if it is a good year for crops that is. They do have a few fists full of seed-oats for him. I try to coax him to gratitude, just for the sake of civility. I’m not asking him to show Christian love or empathy to this master of the serfs, just a simple, “thanks for the extra seed,” is good enough.

         He reduces it to, “Thanks.” But from him, that sounds magnanimous.

         The fourth day of my visit here we are both getting tired, hungry and annoyed with one another and I still haven’t emptied the cart of family gifts for him yet. I’m waiting for Will to be in a better mood to receive a gift.

         While he hoes his own field, I take the donkey, Jack, to a needy neighbor, so that someone else can have the advantage of a donkey to help with the first plowing.

(Continues tomorrow)

#56.3, Tues., May 7, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges Mts.

         Tenderness, father love, turning all will’s frustrated fervor to lullaby is a task no man can teach another. Dear God, give the patience of parent love to this house. Let the baby teach this father gentleness.

         We pull the cart into the lean-too house and together we walk the donkey and the spoiled seed bag to the castle gate where we are directed to the shed where seed is given out.

         Before we go in to make our request I instruct Will in the use of utilitarian civility, “You will need to explain to the man who distributes the seed that you had received barely seed, but now you have to prepare for a baby so oats will be more useful.”

         “You tell him that!”

         “I’m not the one who needs the good seed. You are.”

         We go in and Will opens the moldy bag, showing the spoiled barely seed. “I need oats now.”

         The man tells him, “You already have barely, and you let the seed rot in the bag.”

         “I need oats now.”

         “Okay, okay, don’t get riled.  I’ll check on that. Come back tomorrow and ask again.”

         As we walk away, he blames me for a bad plan and reminds me he doesn’t even like oats. He only likes the fermented barely beverage.

         “Whatever seed you get, it will have to be planted, so before we come back tomorrow let’s prepare your field for planting.”

         If we get barely, it will already be barely seed and it won’t need planting.

         “May you one day find the humor in this, Will, but making barely seed into your beverage of choice requires something more than leaving it in the bottom of the bag and letting it spoil. Even if you wish to eat a wild pig, you still have to hunt it down, butcher it and roast it.”

         “How would you know?”

         “The point is, even if the seed is given to you, it still has to be planted and nurtured, to have the abundance, then it is harvested and winnowed before it can be used with other things of earth to make that beverage you so love. Every blessing, every goodness that is gifted to you takes your participation in some way. And having children, sons and daughters alike, requires a father. You are a necessary part in all the goodness you receive.” It was by grace that my sermonizing didn’t earn another punch in the face.

         And today we plow his field.

(Continues tomorrow)


#56.2, Thurs., May 2, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges Mts.

         I plan to take my son-in-law up to the castle to beg a better bag of seed. He’s not gracious so already my lip is bloodied. The water pitcher is empty and he has no rag for washing up my wound. In another version of justice, I would just let my own fist follow my rage and bloody his nose, and then… That is exactly what I didn’t come here for.

         “Will, I have the donkey cart all filled up with family things that belong in your home these days as we all prepare for your new baby.”

         “My what?”

         “Surely you haven’t forgotten that Layla is with child.”

         I wipe my lip on my sleeve and draw back the cloth that covers the cart. Haberd’s oldest daughter crocheted some yarn into a ball for a baby toy. It looks like the work of a child just learning the ways of wool. That’s the first thing he notices and he takes it out and throws it on the ground, smashing it into the dust with his foot.

         “You’ve brought me old trash?” he complains,

         “Some is old.” I pick up the toy, “This was new. It was knitted to be a toy for your baby, a gift from a child to a child. Ana always wants baby things kept clean. But don’t worry, it will wash up clean and fresh before the baby is old enough to hold it in her hand.”

         “Her? My baby is a son!”

         “We don’t know yet.  But whichever, the baby is sure to love a toy that can be tossed and picked up again, by you, when you are playing tender baby games with the tiny little fellow.”

         “I don’t do that.”

         “Oh, maybe you will. The baby will watch everything you do, for a chance to smile and grin to see his papa hiding his face, then peeking out smiling.  That always seems to get any baby grinning.”

         “That’s the woman’s work.”

         “Layla will be tired. She has so much to do. The baby will be crying, and even when it is a tiny baby, her arms will be tired and she will need you to hold the baby, to walk around tenderly with the baby and be the safe strong arms for both Layla and the baby. They will depend on you to give them the kind of strong and gentle love you might never have known yourself. But you will see. Maybe the baby will teach you tenderness, or…”

(Continues, Tuesday, May 7, 2024)

#56.1, Weds., May 1, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges Mts.

         The castle was built where once there was a hunters’ woods and now around its outer walls are little plots of tillable land.  Each tiny field has a little hut on the edge which is the place where the poorest of poor farmers are kept safe from dangers real and imagined. But this arrangement is not as it would seem — a charity for the poor. Rather, the serfs are responsible to provide for the wealthy nobility an abundance of foods that allows the aristocracy to have a grand buffet for every dinner, feasting appropriate for showing off a high station of wealth.

         And now, I’ve discovered my son-in-law, serf, Will, with a clear love of fermented barely, has been granted some barely seed for starting his field. Will, a hunter by birth, knows just how to place an arrow to promise his family can always dine on the best cuts of boar, now finds the changing world has restricted the hunt and left him only a patch of raw earth and a few seeds of barely in a mildewed bag. Now, he has a wife and soon a child to feed, and here I am, his father-in-law come to assess his flaws.

         In his mind, and maybe mine also, I’ve come to be assured that caring for my daughter and the grandchild, yet to be born, requires protecting Layla from him – keeping her safe. Maybe I came here thinking it is my duty to pronounce him unfit and dangerous, a failure of a farmer! Maybe his poverty makes him impotent for the hunt and unworthy for anything else. Let us never forget he was the one who complained when, at our house, we feasted on lamb at Easter and not on pig.

         Now, as I think about what I’m saying, I have a little glimpse of understanding, maybe a prodding at my conscience in answer to my prayer. I can’t blame away the needs of my son-in-law by simply hiding my daughter from him.

         “You have to get up off the straw and come with me now, Will!”

         He wakes knuckles first, “What’re you doing here!  Where’s Layla? You’ve got my wife! You $#%@.!!”

         One blow knocks me down. “No need for another.” I said, “Come with me now Will, we have to get some better seed for your field.”

         If I go home without bruises Layla won’t think I’ve done my work here.

(Continues tomorrow)


#55.13, Tues., April 30, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges

         We ‘ve tucked Layla away in a safe place hidden from Will, safe with her mother and her sister. Now I’ve come to this little land patch where people try to nurture family despite the poverty. It would all be so simple if Layla could just leave Will and let us take care of her and the baby. Will is the epitome of my enemy. So, in my rote and righteous prayer I asked that God would let me love my enemy. I wanted God to fix him more loveable, not change me.  But here I am called to the love-duty myself. Without Layla, I’ve come here with the donkey cart filled with the things from our own family. Why not just fit Layla out with all this, and let Will look on from the outside and see how a real family cares for its own? Layla has already given this numb idiot all the love he deserves and more. Of course, I know it isn’t God’s justice to limit love to only what someone deserves. But since God loves him, and Layla loves him, and he doesn’t even appreciate that, why am I called to care?

         So here he snores in his drunkenness.

         I investigate the state of his field. Nothing has been done here. He has a sack with some barely seed in the bottom of it that is molding and spoiled.  The other serfs on this castle land have already plowed and planted. If he were my son I would …

         Well, in a way, he is my son. His children will be my grandchildren.

         The field next to his is already established, and that fellow sees me here and must assume this mess is mine.

         “Hello Neighbor!”

         My pride scurries me over to explain, I’m not this farmer here and I am a successful farmer from the far hills.

         I excuse myself, “Good morning neighbor! It is my daughter and her husband who live here. I worried they needed some help.”

         “He hasn’t done a lick of work there. He just rants like a mad man.”

         I answer, “I just figured he needs a leg up. But I noticed the only seed he has is spoiled barley seed. How do all of you get your seed for this?”

         “We all had a chance at the seed the landlord gave out. First come, first serve. He was last.”

         “So, the landlord gives the seed? That’s why he has only barely and no oats?”       

(Continues Wednesday, May 1 2024)

#55.12, Thurs., April 25, 2024

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)

#55.11, Weds., April 24, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges Mts.

         Layla thinks she can solve this by postponing the hurt we all know is coming when she returns to Will and accepts his lying apologies. And that’s not a fix for this. When we can see Layla’s bruises and her crushed spirit this is not just Layla’s problem alone. It is shared by everyone who loves her and everyone who might ever love this baby, and even, everyone who loves Will — would there ever be any one of those on earth beyond Layla? And God. So maybe Will has no imagination for love at all. How can someone love a person who doesn’t even know love?

         Dear God, how can I love this enemy? This isn’t some abstract unknown kind of enemy; this is a cruel oaf in our midst.

         So, while we await the slow and timeless work of God to teach love to Will, we have to find a way to keep Layla safe, without endangering everyone here. Gaia has no idea what “place” we are talking about. She assumes it is something we all know of because it was always here and she just hasn’t been led to it yet.  So now we take Layla to the “place,” where Ana and I and Hannah will stay with Layla – and while we are there, we will fit out that little round house of thatch with all the things any house would need – a bed, a loft, a table – quilts and pots – fire and wood —

         Gaia and Brandell will stay at our creek house.  Now we have a plan.

         Now this is what happens next. As we are preparing a house for a newlywedded couple, Layla mentions Brandell and Gaia will maybe one day need a cradle for babies too. Of course, when the need for that becomes a promise, I can carve them a cradle. Haberd’s babies just used the cradle I made  for him, the same that served Brandell and Layla as well.

         Oh, I have a thought. Dear God, thank you for this thought. May I see it through in a very good way. Amen.

         Here are these women preparing all the things for a new household for Brandell and Gaia, but what are we doing to make a comfortable life for Layla and Will, and for this baby?  All we are thinking of is keeping Layla and the baby to be born, safe. What of this whole family, all three of them?

(Continues tomorrow)


#55.10, Tues., April 23, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges Mts.

         It is a brutal necessity just now to make a plan and to find a way to keep Layla safe. In fact, if we hide her away, we probably need to chain her to that safe place, because she is so likely to escape and run right back into the arms of the husband who beats her.

         Ana has encouraged her to accept our help.

         Layla argues, “If I stay with you, I won’t be safe, you know that Momma, and no one here will be safe either.  If Will comes plundering in a rage some dark night he will go first to the farm and Haberd’s children will be in danger. Haberd can’t fight such as man as he. Then he will come down here and who would fight him here?  Papa won’t fight. He always chooses what he calls ‘peace’ even if violence comes to him with fists and blades slashing away. And Brandell’s not much of a fighting man either.”

         Ana answers, “Greg and Gaillard will surely make themselves available and of course they will keep watch over your safety; you are Greg’s little sister.”

         “Of course, Momma. I should be grateful that my pacifist family can wrap me up in a constant vigil of soldiers forever and ever.”

         “It is just until the danger passes.”

         “And when will that be, Momma? Is the danger passed when there are two who need to be watched over when I am rocking his baby? Or will I be safe when he is weakened with age, in about fifty years and then all he could do to me is spit and rage. How long will it take?”

         Outside we’ve been listening to Gaia’s story and we’ve seen this particular darkness through the blind eyes from another who knows it well. There is no universal healing potion for this. There is no commonality among abusers for a healer to simply make up an elixir. If any healing were possible, it would have to be found in the depths of the abuser’s own ability for empathy, and the empathy of the abuser may be deeply obscured by his belief that rage is power. In his mind the powerless must rage.

         It is easy to brush off the command to “love your enemy,” but really that is all we can do, and obviously, love for this man’s wild and senseless tirades is not what a loving God would ask of Layla.

(Continues tomorrow)

#55.9, Thurs., April 18, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges

         The jagged edges of relationship are gnawing at our whole family just now, and Layla is in danger. I listen to Gaia’s own story and I realize this really isn’t something to put aside or pretend away. I would have thought a blind woman could be shielded for pity’s sake.

         “Papa Lazarus, I wasn’t born blind. It happened when I was still nearly an infant, so I don’t remember. But my mother told me things.  She said when she was first wed, my pater had some failings and he hated himself. First, she thought love would fix him, but he was truly a mad man.

         “So, my mater hid her bride’s money away planning when I was old enough, we could buy horses and she would ride away with me.  Mater said that Pater believed hurting whatever he loved most would hurt himself, and it was himself he hated.

         “Then, once when he was in a rage, he grabbed me up and shook me and that was how I became blind.  It was terrible for him because he loved me. He said he would never rage again. But he was a mad man.

         “Whenever he saw how I was broken he just hated himself all the more, and for a mad man, hurting what you love is a way of hurting yourself.

         “He told me my mother died from a fall on the steps. But I know how she died.  Since I was already broken, I guess he didn’t love me enough to hurt me anymore, so in that mad way, I was safe. I took my mater’s job tending the market booth, keeping her horse money hidden away always a secret from him but always a hope for me.

         “Then Brandell came, and Brandell thought my pater was a master artist and teacher and he listened to everything Pater said. He tried so hard to please my pater but I could see that the more Brandell was kind to him, the more dangerous Pater would become. My pater had no imagination for happiness, so if there ever was any kind of goodness or love in our house, his raging self, caused him to destroy it just to keep himself hurting as he thought he deserved.

         “I told Brandell we had to leave. I used my mater’s runaway money and bought us our horses.

         “Maybe Brandell will make a verse for this song of us, because it is a love story. And love is all pain and, when sane and right, all joy—poetic paradox.”

(Continues Tuesday, April 23)

#55.8, Weds., April 17, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Vosges

         “We’ll have to find a place where you are safe here.” Ana tells Layla.

         “I know my husband will be fine tomorrow when it’s a new day. He will say he is sorry and everything will be fine again.”

         “No Layla.”

         “Papa, I’m a married woman now. Hannah took me to the nuns because she isn’t a wife and doesn’t understand men.”

         I argue, “She has the same brothers and father as you; surely her judgment of men is as worthy as yours. Has marriage only taught you pain and hurt?”

         “Sometimes Will is nice to me, Papa. And as my family for example, only you and Haberd have wives, and neither of you manages them well.”

         “’Manages?’ I’m pretty sure your mother won’t agree with you about that. But I can tell you, I do ‘manage’ creatures as you say– and it isn’t people. I manage mules, chickens, bees and critters, but not my wife. And with any living thing at all, even if it were only goats and mules, managing never requires fists or violence. A wife isn’t just some critter on a farm, a wife is a partner in the family.  You know that, Layla. I mean, look at you!  You share this man’s child!”

         Now, here are her tears. “You don’t understand, Papa.” Now she takes her tears to make her plea to her mother.

         Gaia, Brandell, Hannah and I come out of the creek cottage so Layla can talk alone with Ana. Hannah’s been listening to all this. “Papa, you aren’t very respectful of the choice for husband she has made.”

         “How can I possibly respect a choice that puts the life of her and her baby in danger?”

         Now I feel sorry, in a way, that Gaia and Brandell, an innocent and loving couple, has to see this problem right in the midst of their own dreams.

         “Gaia, may you never have to discover this roughened side of Merovingian Gaul in this warring land where violence is perceived as a source of strength and love is a weakness.”

         That was my attempt to apologize to Gaia for this whole brutish way of thinking that must seem so foreign to her.  I fear Layla’s husband isn’t the only Gaulish oaf who would abuse animals then apply that same variety of violence to his wife.

         “Papa Lazarus,” Gaia says, “this problem is far and wide. It isn’t just thugs, or oafish farmers of Gaul. I know of it also.”

(Continues tomorrow)