#54.9, Thurs., March 21, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. Along the creek in the Vosges

         This is the season when brittle winter softens to life.  Ana and I are hearing the grandchildren tell us things they remembered of the creek last summer. One turns over a rock just now at the edge of the water and a little crayfish is found to be wintering in that place. Suddenly, exposed and vulnerable it scurries deeper into the creek. 

         Hannah comes down and reminds me it’s time to go up the hill by the fireside to listen to all the versions of events that have mattered over these missing years. One-by-one each of my children takes the bench across from my chair and we whisper in threads of story, mending our gap in time.

         Haberd and his wife are the first.  He works the farm and his wife keeps it all in order. His wife’s report is of crops and beasts and successes.  Haberd’s report is of drought and flood. His concern is the factors beyond the control of a farmer.

He tells me, “So much dampness last season the weeds grew faster than the crops and it would have led to spoilage of all our straw. But,” he explained, “The sun shelters I had to put out in the pasture a year ago when we had too much heat made useful racks for drying all that straw this year.”

         “That’s your gift, Haberd, to work one problem to solve the next. You always seem to find the creative resources.”

         “Yes, but Papa, the problem that I have now is something I wish you would mention to Greg. This farm requires an inordinate amount of dry straw because Greg comes here at any random time, such as now, bringing large numbers of beasts – horses and mules. I said that’s a lot for one farm to take on, and he just suggests I should be glad he isn’t leaving herds of camels or even elephants.  He expects me just to accept this extra burden.

         “Should I suggest Greg find another pasture for so many beasts?”

         “No, Papa. That isn’t really the problem.  We aren’t even depending on that particular pasture area anymore.  We just have the one mule, and the donkey goes with the goats in the walled in area. So really the pasture is just for these visitors — but ten horse and ten mules is a lot. I just want him to know.”

         “When I speak to him, I’ll suggest some gratitude in place of threats of camels.”

         Greg is next up.

(Continues Tues. March 26)

#54.8, Weds., March 20, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. the family farm in the Vosges

I have an agenda already for my first day at home. Everybody has something to tell me so Hannah scheduled my day as though I were a king sitting at court. I will see all my children by appointment today.

         But I find something important to me was apparently overlooked. I will need some time with the grandchildren. Gone away for a couple of years I imagine that’s the particular place in this household where the most has changed. I want to see them now, two years older. I want to know what they wonder about and what they can tell me that I might have forgotten to notice.

         Hannah allows me this time she schedules as “soon.”  Now Ana and I meet Haberd’s three children, racing, rolling, romping down the hill path to our door. They are eight, five and four now, each a unique personality, each venturing into the nature of earth with new eyes on life itself.  These are the things I want to know about. What is new and fresh as God awakens the world into life nearly into the season of spring? What was new this morning? What had we, in our old ways, let go of by just assuming it was mundane, but through children’s eyes is precious.

         I ask the oldest if she’s been to this creek in the summertime to see dragonflies here. She seems miffed and asks why I want to know about something like that. Ana tells me the children have been encouraged to prepare for my return by practicing a show of excellence in letters with recitations. But those are things I already know. Presentations are lovely, though they are simply young voices trying to get old things properly aligned.

“What happened last summer?  Did anyone see dragonflies?”

“Last summer there were lots of them – little bright blue sticks hovering over logs, snatching up gnats.” That’s the knowledgeable word from the oldest.

“I saw a red one once.” ventures the four-year-old.

“You did not! They are always blue except for the white ones with brown stripes.  They aren’t red.”

“Maybe it was just too hot and it turned red?” suggests the five-year-old.

I add my actual words of wisdom, “Red ones are very rare, but they are known to exist.”

“I told you so,” agrees the red dragonfly denier, as though she thought that all along.

(Continues tomorrow)

#54.7, Tues., March 19, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. The creek cottage in the Vosges

         In the moonlit night Hannah hears the horses at the door and she comes out to tell Brandell and Gaia to keep quiet so Ana can sleep. Then she sees me here, wrapped in Brandell’s cloak, waiting for him to help me down from the horse. Hannah really means to be her stoic self, but she is so silently and deeply happy to see me, I realize this joyful reunion is not mine alone. Hannah, being Hannah, immediately has an elaborate plan for this revelation of my return. She brings me my night shirt. And now, with my strength returning a bit too slowly Brandell walks with me into the house, and there is Ana still sleeping as though this were simply another night alone for her. I slip into the covers next to her, and Hannah and Gaia and Brandell leave the house with the same stealth they just entered.

Ana is waking now with the streaming moonlight filling the room. I see she is transfigured by these years of worry and waiting, now, with silken white hair, pure white, whiter than any whiteness. All of her life’s joys and sorrows are etched into her face with age. She is still strong as always, and here, in her arms, it is I who may seem frail just now.

There is nothing to say that can’t be said in the morning. So this beautiful night is just warm and tender, fragranced familiar. Would you call that sound an owl’s song? Do owls sing? Even that is the calming for enchanted sleep.

On this new day Ana and I just sit and stare at one another in silence, maybe in awe. I see Ana is still beautiful, and I’m sure she sees however I am. We savor the changes and sameness in this quiet morning, until Hannah arrives with the complete plan for the day. So now we have a plan.

Hannah has a roster of family members who want to talk with me. Haberd has questions and his wife has necessary updates about the farm. Gabe has already sent a bird in response to say he is allowed to  come join us for this feast which Hannah has completely arranged.  And Greg and Gaillard are in the area now, again they are staying at Luxeuil, so they will be at the family table too. 

(Continues tomorrow)

#54.6, Thurs., March 14, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. near Trier

         A long sleep. Now, in the dark of this morning the vintner’s widow serves boiled oats and honey. A few minutes with a blade and a washbasin and now my hair and beard are normal length again, though Brandell clearly owns this look now.

         I have asked this chatty vintner’s widow about the peace negotiations Brandell and Gaia instigated with the wine growers on both sides of the river. She assured me, my version of pacifism continues to be foolish even though she has become more favorable to peacemaking in general. Apparently, Brandell’s way of peace is much more appealing, since he considers a plan where each side will get something from it, besides the usual benefits of peace: life continuing and good neighbors and God’s blessings – and not having everyone dead and all the land burned.

She explains it, “Since the Jews have no vineyards over there yet, and because they plan to plant them, in order to make peace here they must plant only Frankish grapes, so the wine they make won’t be foreign wine no matter how it gets blessed.” She goes on with the theology of it, “They still want to bless it Jewish even though they were baptized at Trier. Then while their vines are not yet producing, those of the Jews who know the ways of grapes and wines will help restore our vineyards on this side. That is a plan that has something for us in it. So maybe it is good plan, we’ll see.”

Brandell readies the horses, and at sunrise we start out for home. I find I‘ve hardly recovered strength enough for a long ride, but at least I have sense enough to know it will be a long ride.  Brandell helps me onto Gaia’s horse which is well accustomed to following after Brandell’s. And he puts Gaia on his own horse. Sometimes they ride two together, and sometimes he just walks both horses. It is a slow ride. We stop often wherever the brook runs pure, so the most stress of this day is the wonderful anticipation of home.

With the sunset, there is nothing from the beautiful heavens for warmth. I’m still wrapped in Brandell’s cloak, so we are all shivering. Now a bright moon rises early, and we are in our own familiar forests. We’ve turned to follow the creek we know so well. We are just continuing on regardless of the darkness until we are home.

(Continues Tuesday, March 19)

#54.5, Weds., March 13, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. near Trier

         Brandell and some others come here where I am waiting for help to pull me to my feet, useless as my feet may be. I have one arm around the shoulders of Brandell, and the other arm around a stranger. With all my wooly beard and long hair, no one is mistaking me for this tidy and powerful son of mine. These two who came to help are known to Gaia and to Brandell. The one who goes ahead of us, guiding the blind Gaia is Zachariah. We go through a tent village, then through a meadow toward the river. I have a memory now, this is the meadow that once was a newly planted vineyard that wouldn’t burn when it was torched. It became the battlefield.  I was staying with the boat staying out of the fight.

         Now I am starting to get my feet under me, as we move along, and when they slow the pace a bit, I can be more helpful, nearly taking my own weight if they would give me moment. So, we stop here, I can see the river now, ahead of us.  I can take a step and if we go slowly, I can walk with them, somewhat.  I’m glad to find a place to sit on the floor of the rowboat. Gaia is seated in the front and Brandell is at the oars. He thanks the men who helped us, and they push us off from the bank.

         On this side of the river now, we are at the vintner’s cottage marked with three barrels for hospitality, though I know the last time I was here hospitality had worn very thin with all my talk of peace making.  Has anything changed?  Gaia tells me Brandell has been helping negotiate a peace. And now that I hear one language on one side of the river, and another on the other, and knowing of Gaia as a translator, I can guess both Gaia and Brandell had a part in the peace negotiations.

         We seem to be welcome here, though the chatty vintner’s widow perceives my presence, not as a miracle by Jesus, but more as the annoying fool who once believed in peace for the sake of peace, even though no one seemed to get anything from it. 

         “So what use is this possibility for peace with your neighbors now?”

I ask her.

(Continues tomorrow)


#54.4, Tues., March 12, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. A near Trier

         Gaia, this woman, betrothed to Brandell, already knows my odd notions of peace, “Your pacifistic demands are known by everyone.” She tells me.  And it doesn’t even seem to bother her that I am laid out as a dead man in a cemetery.  

          She explains it all to me, “Brandell and I went searching for you because Brandell believed in the Lazarus myth of his papa ever healing back into life.  We learned that you had gone to see the vintner at the place with the three barrels.  And then, we learned there was a terrible battle with the established wineries that were Christians, fighting against the Jewish newcomers across the river. After that battle, only a few were left on the Christian side of the river – widows they were.  The widow of the vintner whom you had visited on the day of the battle mistook Brandell for you. And she went off on a little rant telling you how foolish you were. 

         “It seems when Haberd came asking for information about what had happened to you, she wouldn’t tell him because she didn’t want to tell your son his dead father was, what she called, a fool.

         “But then, thinking Brandell was you, but without a memory of that day, she told him everything that happened that day, even the clue he needed to find you here. She didn’t realize it was an important detail that you were born Jewish. But she said after the battle the few who were left living on the other side stripped the clothing off the bodies of the men left on the battlefield and buried only the Jewish bodies. Then, Brandell realized you would be marked with the sign, the scar of the briss. So, we realized then, we would find you here with the war-dead on the Jewish side.

         “And now today, just as Brandell expected, you are not only found, but found to be living. And that so-called foolishness of peacemaking that won for you that Christian slashing and a Jewish hammering is a peace that Brandell and I hope can rescue all these people from their own hates. We have been negotiating with winegrowers on both sides of the river. Peace is really what everyone wants. Not having peace here has cost these people everything.”

         So now I find I’m gaining back strength enough to appreciate relentless pacifism. But I wonder why would this woman ever want to be wed into such a stubborn family?

(Continues tomorrow)

#54.3, Thurs., March 7, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. near Trier

         Gaia tells me things. “Papa Lazarus! You’ll be proud of Brandell!

         “We’ve journeyed in a caravan all this way across the plains and mountains with the families of new settlers bringing their little shoots of vines kept in their tender care all the way here. They came with dreams. No one heard of the battle.”

         I can nearly speak now, “What of those vineyards and the people over there? I have enough hurts to know they are brutal antiSemites.”

         “No, Papa Lazarus, back when the battle was blundered they were only afraid of strangers.  Think of it?  All that brutality, all that killing, all that grief just because no one knew how to greet strangers. They were afraid everything they had would be taken from them, and then it was all taken from them by the war they thought would save it. The only people left were the women and children and elders on both sides of the river who had no weapons left and no tools. Now on both sides all are widows and orphans. The vines grew wild and untended, and no one was harvesting anything or making any wine.”

         Now I remember some things of this vintner’s battle.

         She goes on, “And now, Zachariah of the Jews arrived here with another band of settlers who had heard nothing at all of the battle and had no thoughts at all of the hatred of the vine growers across the river.  The refugees were told they only had to go to the Church in Trier to get their names in the book there, and then they could join with the other refugees and use this land for their own vineyards. But there was nothing here.”

         I have enough clarity of thought now to worry over that, “So now will there be more fighting?” I ask.

         Gaia explains, “The settlers arrived here only a day ago. Brandell and I had been traveling with them. We went on to Brandell’s family before we came searching for you.”

         “So, this new band of refugees are here now?”

         “Yes, Papa Lazarus, and your demands for making peace are well-known on both sides of the river. You will be very proud of Brandell.”

         “I always am.”

         “He did a particularly fine thing I can tell you all about while we wait here for the men to take you back to the boat.”

(Continues Tuesday, March 12)


#54.2, Weds., March 6, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. near Trier

         I’m only starting to gather my wits and wonders. I asked these women where is this, “here”?

         The older woman answers in a strange mix of old languages, “You are in a land of Burgundy of Gaul set aside for the Jewish refugees.”

I understand the words but not the meaning. Gaia, the younger woman, senses my confusion, and she repeats the older woman’s words to me but in the vernacular most familiar in Gaul, as though she is translating this mix of Old Greek and Yiddish.

          I ask again, “But I don’t know where I am.”

         “Papa Lazarus, with this woman’s help, Brandell found you in the soil here in a Jewish cemetery.  We are near the vineyards where the vintners of Gaul battled with the Jewish refugees some seasons passed. Now that we’ve found you your family will come for you soon.”

         The older woman leaves to get a flask of water. I hear her slow steps as I close my eyes.

         At this waking my familiar thoughts of Brandell don’t explain very much. This woman, Gaia, is said to be his betrothed. She is here alone with me, and I don’t think she sees. She doesn’t know I am awake here. She reaches for the cloak, and pulls it to my chin.

         I ask, “Brandell?”

         “Yes, Papa Lazarus, he will be back soon. He went with the men who are settling on this side of the river. Our horses are on the other side, so they will take you to the boat when they come.”

         “Gaia,” I remember I’d heard Brandell speak her name, “tell me all the things.”

         “All what things?”

         “Why are we here?”

         “Is it because God made us, and loves us and put us here on earth to love one another?  That’s what Brandell thought you would want me to know.”

         “I mean why are we in the Jewish burial place?”

         “Brandell remembered you had a mark of the Jewish root. So, then he imagined you would be here, and, here you are. We found you after all this searching.”

         Some glimpses of memory tell me of a battle with hammers and scythes not swords, with tunics, not uniforms, with vintners, not soldiers, driven by fears, not by king’s orders. I, apparently, ended here in the Jewish ground.

         I ask, “And what of the battle?”

(Continues tomorrow)

#54.1, Tues., March 5, 2024

Historical Setting, 629 C.E. A burial place near Trier

         In an aching darkness from nightmares in shadows, I imagine rising from a timeless cavern, maybe to consciousness, or possibly a better dream. I must be waking now in this darkness, in cold, hurt and hunger — voices of earth, not heaven, shout for shovels.

         “Papa, it is me, Brandell. Can you hear me?”

         If this is earth it shouldn’t be the voice of Brandell.  That barefaced child passed over the mountains to the sea. He’s gone now. An anxious familiar face is looking – he is face-to-face here by me. I know him well, as though I see my own self looking back. This isn’t my child, Brandell, it must be a dream caught up in the currents between spirit and dream.

         “Papa, Momma has been waiting for you these years.  I will leave Gaia here to wait with you, while I go find someone to help.”

         Whatever does he mean “all these years?” Is now, not now, now? Have I been reborn into someone else’s then?  Is this what it is to become old?

         Glimpsing at daylight now, what I know is that this is some place on earth. There is the earthly order to it with sky above, and this grounding where we cling with a rock and a tree. All this good pattern can overwhelm the oddities of dream if I let it be enough, but I don’t know where I am. I have Brandell’s cloak over me, but he doesn’t seem to be nearby. I don’t remember coming to a place with this tree, and these stones marked with names for the dead. It is the dead who have names here.

         A woman’s voice speaks to me, “We will take you home soon. Brandell’s momma is older now, but she still waits for you in life. You will be able to see her soon, I know.”

         Waiting in life, is that what Ana is?  Is that what aging is for humankind? 

         Now I can focus my eyes on the things in daylight. There is a young woman right here beside me with dark hair and wandering eyes, and I see behind her stands a very old woman also in Eastern dress, with graying hair.

         The young woman speaks, “Papa Lazarus, I am Gaia, Brandell’s betrothed.”

         “Betrothed?”

         “I’ve come with him from my old home in Constantinople to make a new life with Brandell, here in Gaul.”

         She says here, like I know where we are. I ask, “Where is this?”

(Continues tomorrow)

#53.13, Thurs., Feb. 29, 2024

Historical Setting, 626 C.E. On the River near Trier

         If no one should appear from the little village of refugees’ houses, that would be fine with me. We could leave now. I pull the boat I rowed over onto the shore with the bow pointed into the river for the retreat.  But now, as the sun is already staining the eastern darkness, someone comes from one of the houses across the vineyards, then goes back, and now there are others coming out. The vine growers from the Western side of the river extinguish their torches, and stand with their sharpened tools in hand bracing for a fight.

         Though I learned my pacifism from a Jewish teacher, it is not the nature of Judaism to value this personal choice of not fighting back. Maybe this new Christianity did take something from the ancient Jewish root. But it wasn’t pacifism.  Neither these Christians nor these Jews are considering the Jesus peace just now.

         One from the other side shouts something in an Eastern language more Greek than Yiddish or even Aramaic. I’ve known these languages and accents all my years, so deciphering this is an easy task for me. I hear them shouting over, asking who these people are. They’ve had no idea they have enemies here standing before them with tools as weapons crossing over from the other shore.

         Now I step out of the boat and go to the captain preparing for mayhem and I tell him, “they are just asking who you are.”

         “So, you speak Jewish!  Is that who you are?”

         “They aren’t speaking Jewish, they are speaking in mix of language. Answer them in Greek. They will hear you.  Tell them you are plesios, ‘neighbors!’ Put your weapons away and I will go with you and you can talk together about which vines grow best here.”

         “How can we trust a stranger to speak for us?”

         Another from this side shouts over to the strangers, “If you want to talk to us speak in Roman!”

         I beg these men, “Put your weapons away, and spread your hands like this so they can see you are peaceful.” I show them the example.  I spread my hands out wide with my palms up in a welcoming stance to show friendship. Then I feel a Christian blade severing a circle around my neck, and the mayhem is loosed.  Everyone, Christian and Jew alike are rushing with their tools as weapons. Everyone facing the pruning blade is bleeding now. And the Jewish hammer that sets new grape arbor posts deep into the earth is coming right toward me, ..I can’t raise my arm to shield…

(Continues Tuesday, March 5)