#47.10, Tues., Aug. 22, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         I’ve learned from Greg how the Bishop of Metz has, in a way, honored my request that my son be allowed to choose pacifism. Though Greg would be a soldier, his mission could be the Jesus peace.  I would’ve said the “Christian” peace, since Jesus is known only as the humanity, my friend, while the all-encompassing Trinity personage, I would call Christ, seems to have been forged into a new metal by the warring culture that we are. The plowshares are hammered into the swords as armies are named “Christian.”

         Ana suggests the boys just stay with us here, because “your Papa can teach you the Greek language of the Christians in the east. He knew the spoken languages of the Persians living in the regions where Jews and Christians fled after the Temple in Jerusalem was raided and smoldered by the Roman soldiers.”

         Greg objects, “No Momma, Gaillard doesn’t know about Papa.”

         Gaillard stares at me with a curiosity tinged in awe.

         I can explain myself. “I used to know an old Roman soldier, we often talked of the history of faraway places.”        

         Ana gets the hint to speak no more of my strange circumstance. “Oh, yes” She agrees, “Old Nic was a soldier before he joined the brothers at Legugè.”

         “I do remember things of languages in far places.  And the monasteries keep links between the Greek and the Roman vernacular so that the churches in the east and the churches in the west can keep the same doctrine. [Footnote] Surely your uncle who is the teacher at Luxeuil, or maybe the Bishop of Metz would also know of this. Your uncle may even have the scribe’s copies of these language guides the church officials use to bind the east to the west. I have some knowledge, but wouldn’t it be better to learn, first, what is already known and used by the churches?”

         “But Papa, what use would it be for us to learn the varieties of languages if we have no one to speak them with.  I think we need to actually go to the places in the east. We will use the fast horses from the stables of the Waldalenus. The dux says he will send us when Gaillard is fully literate in our own vernacular.”

         Gaillard adds,  “…and when Greg reaches his full stature because we may need to ride on camels and they say camels are quite large.”

[Footnote] Herrin, Judith, Byzantium: The surprising life of a medieval empire. (2007) Penguin, Random House UK. pp 22-23.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.9, Thurs., Aug. 17, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Greg and Gaillard are in from the stable.  The morning chores are light these days, and we have time to talk with these boys who are in the midst of the amazing dreams of youth facing a star-field of possibilities for their years to come.

         “So, Gaillard,” I ask, “when you are fully a capable writer, what is it you hope to write?”

         “I will write all the answers to the questions we haven’t yet learned to ask.” His grin belies a glint of wisdom.

         Going deep, Hannah fears, and she takes Layla by the hand and they follow the wanderings of little Haberd and Brandell out exploring the gardens in case there are new blooms today.

         Greg tells us flat out, “When I am as skilled with the sword as Lord Gaillard, and he is as literate as I, a commoner, then his uncles have a special assignment for us.

         Gaillard explains, “We are supposed to travel east, not as soldiers but as students, to learn the languages of Christians there, and of the Persians too. My uncles of the house of Waldalenus suppose the empires of the east are gathering armies to come across these mountains for war with the Franks.”

         “What makes your uncles so fearful?”

         Gaillard answers, “Not fearful, but ready. The days of our legendary kings are behind us now, my uncle, the Mayor tells us.

         “The nobility of Metz ride with more glory than the king of Burgundy, and who is there even known to rule Austrasia?”

         They say every nobleman will need to host his own army in these times. And maybe we will learn that this place where we are on the eastern border of the Frankish lands leaves us most vulnerable to a new horde of warriors planning to sweep across the Vosges.  We are at the first land to fall if war comes from the East. So my uncles are sending us out to be the vanguard for this preparation, not as soldiers, but as students of the enemy.”

         “So, Papa, you see how the nobility of Metz has honored your wish that I not become a soldier?  Here I will be a spy for our soldiers in the foreign lands. Isn’t that wonderful news, Papa? Momma? Wouldn’t you rather have a spy with a sword, than a soldier, or some defenseless Christian messenger?”

         “Was there no option to be a messenger of peace?”

         “No, Papa, that wasn’t offered.”

(Continues Tuesday, August 22)

#47.8, Weds., Aug. 16, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         In the dark of morning I waken and I see Ana there sitting by the fireside reading the letter on fine vellum from Gabe.  It’s a short letter — she must be pondering.

         “Did Gabe tell you how he’s doing?”

         “He didn’t have to. The inks are smudged with his tears. He’s learning all the proper words and scripture references a churchman uses to speak of grief,” Ana answers. “It looks a bit like his teacher was telling him what to write.”

         “Well, he is a child in the care of an adult who hasn’t known him from birth. So how else might it be done?  Clearly his teacher didn’t ignore his grief altogether or even disavow his tears. And they allowed him the very best vellum for this.”

         “But Laz, he just doesn’t sound like himself. He sounds like a stuffy old priest preaching doctrine.”

         She hands me the precious scroll and I have to agree.  This sounds like one of those pronouncements spoken at the funeral of a stranger.  We’re not even sure if this soul discussed here is being committed to heaven or elsewhere.  But really, committing a soul isn’t the work of an older brother. It is one of those things I would only entrust to God. But Ana is hurt by all this incantation of holy committal.

         I try to resolve it for her. “These kinds of words are offered by earthly priests to fill the emptiness of earthbound longings. And isn’t it the task of the priest to bridge the divide between earth and heaven?”

         “Gabe is our child, Laz. I wanted to keep this letter as a precious remembrance now that he is off with the monks. I wanted something of him to read and read again.”

         “The cow bellowed long and loud when her calf was taken from her for this swath of vellum. We shouldn’t waste it. Let’s take up our own inks and make the verso of this scroll with prayers of gratitude for these beautiful children we once thought belonged only to us.”

         “I can’t do that Laz.”

         “Not today. But keep it in the place for precious things and sometime, when the time is right, we can add our words. The pain of grief is the empty side of the love we’ve known every day. Thank you, God for family love.”

          “Greg and his friend will be at this hearth soon.  I need to be ready.” Ana offers no Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.7, Tues., Aug. 15, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         This night our little children are asleep in the loft above us, and Greg and his guest, Gaillard, are sleeping in the hayloft above the stable.

         Ana whispers her retort to my silent worry. “You have the worst thoughts of that fellow, Gaillard, I just know you don’t like him.”

         “I’ll just keep that to myself, Ana. Greg is infatuated with him. I don’t want to argue and then send them off without my blessing.”

         “What worries you Laz?  Is it that church rule for the chastity of monks?”

         “Ana, you know well I follow God, not the utilitarian edicts of religion.”

         “Okay, Laz, you pray silently about it, and don’t mind me talking on about what a nice young man he is.  He is a little bit of a tender flower though. I mean, when you were still off doing the chores and Greg was telling his tall tales to Haberd and Brandell, Gaillard came and offered to help Hannah and me at the hearth. So I sent Hannah and the young man out to fetch a chicken. He has a sword. I thought he would make quick work of it. But Hannah came in and said he has the whole coop all riled, and none can be caught and he has no idea to use his sword for that.  So I went out and got an old fat hen, and then took it around to the other-side of the shed to whack it and pluck it.  He followed me, so he could apologize. He said he never killed anything before. That was odd, so I asked, ‘do you not eat meat?’ And he said he loves to eat meat. He just never saw it dead before. Then I realized he has a lot to learn about the real life of a commoner. And like a woeful kitten he purred on and on about the strength and beauty of his young teacher, Greg.  I realize you are thinking Gaillard’s an old Roman soldier raping your child, but really, he and Greg are simply in love.”

         She stopped her whispering now. I have a moment to think about this.

         Dear God, give me wisdom.

         Ana intrudes on my silence, “So if it is what it is, Greg won’t give us grandchildren, but then Gaillard’s family probably considers theirs the greater loss because titles can’t be kept without grandchildren.”

         It seems everyone makes rules about this except Moses and Jesus.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.6, Thurs., Aug. 10, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

          “Papa, Momma,” Greg presses Ana against his iron breast. “I heard about Simon.”

         His sobs are contagious. Even this young stranger Greg has brought, steps away to obscure his own tears.

         “It’s a terrible loss.” I say, “It was good you came. We need you with us in this time, and you and Gabe meant so much to Simon.”

         Greg tells us they stopped off on their way here at Luxeuil and they told Gabe what had happened. He couldn’t be excused for this, but he was allowed to send a letter. Greg hands Ana Gabe’s small vellem scroll. She just takes it close to her, not even untying it just now.

         Greg says, “This fellow with me is Gaillard.”

         Greetings are passed around.

         Greg mentions, “Gaillard’s uncle, Eustasius,[Footnote] is Gabe’s teacher at Luxeuil.”

         Gaillard adds, “And Greg has been assigned to be my teacher in reading and in the inks. He’s a very good teacher because he never even beats me with a stick.”

         Laughter is obnoxious and exaggerated by grief, but we all laughed together at this image of a willowy young soldier being driven to his studies by this child here in oversized armor. Greg is not even thirteen-years-old, yet he’s already a teacher.

         I walk with them to the stable with the horses as Ana prepares the table for our guests.

         “So,” I ask, “how is it Greg, you go off to get your training with the sword, and immediately you are a teacher of letters?”

         “Papa, I know you are hoping to hear my soldier training was failing and I will always just be an ambassador for peace. It’s true the bishop remembered your request to make me a pacifist too, but really, I’m still learning the weapons of war.”

         Gaillard adds, “Greg was already an excellent archer and horsemen, so the only things new for him were the swords and the spears. He only needs to practice those things part of the time with the others, and that allows us these times together for learning. So, with Greg’s help I can advance my reading, and practice with the inks.”

         I look at this young teen, elder to my son, with his slight fuzz of a beard. This explanation only leaves me more wonder about this arrangement. Why is a young aristocrat speaking of “times together” with a commoner’s child?  As Greg’s father I fear my son may be the victim of abusive power and not in a relationship of partnered “learning.”

[Footnote] Exploring the line between history and fiction, the fictional character Gaillard is woven into the nobility through the historically prominent House of Waldelenus

(Continues Tuesday, August 15)

#47.5, Weds., Aug. 9, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Charlie takes me aside to talk. He said he saw Greg riding with the landowner’s guards.

         He explained, “The fellow who will be the lord of the castle when it is made was reading edicts to all of us who were gathered in from the woodlands. We were standing in a crowd. I couldn’t just talk to Greg. So I made my way through the back of the crowd to a place near his horse. I pretended not to be speaking to him, looking away and saying it to the ground. I just said, ‘Simon drowned in the creek.’ Then I moved back to the place with my family.

         “I looked at Greg. He was wearing one of those iron heads of a soldier.  He bowed his head and pulled down the iron mask to hide his tears. But he was shaking with sobs.”

         Before the sun set last night, the hunters left. We were so few then, just six of us, Ana and I, and our four small children on a full farm with animals and fields and gardens, when the village of our neighbors are seeing their forests cut and parceled into small patches for planting. Those, who are hunters are “endowed” the dux says, with the opportunity to make our noble lands into gardens and grain patches.

         Our own pain in grief is spread wide and thin with empathy, hurting for their loss of all they’ve ever known of a way of life, without even a war to take it from them. We’ve known for a long time that the varieties of critters for the hunt is dwindling as the forests have thinned with so many generations of people taking from the abundance. And these hunters knew they would be planting fields soon. But now the ones calling themselves landowners, lords, have come to cut the trees and build the castle.

         It’s only a few days now and Greg and another young fellow arrive on horseback.  I knew one day we would see this — our oldest son dressed in smelted iron as a soldier. I thought he would have a few years yet as a child in training. But here he is, riding with the guard of aristocracy.  This other youth he is with here, is long fingered, a pale and delicate son of wealth.

         Greg dismounts from his horse and is standing in the place where only flowers may grow when Ana and I go to greet them.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.5, Weds., Aug. 9, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Charlie takes me aside to talk. He said he saw Greg riding with the landowner’s guards.

         He explained, “The fellow who will be the lord of the castle when it is made was reading edicts to all of us who were gathered in from the woodlands. We were standing in a crowd. I couldn’t just talk to Greg. So I made my way through the back of the crowd to a place near his horse. I pretended not to be speaking to him, looking away and saying it to the ground. I just said, ‘Simon drowned in the creek.’ Then I moved back to the place with my family.

         “I looked at Greg. He was wearing one of those iron heads of a soldier.  He bowed his head and pulled down the iron mask to hide his tears. But he was shaking with sobs.”

         Before the sun set last night, the hunters left. We were so few then, just six of us, Ana and I, and our four small children on a full farm with animals and fields and gardens, when the village of our neighbors are seeing their forests cut and parceled into small patches for planting. Those, who are hunters are “endowed” the dux says, with the opportunity to make our noble lands into gardens and grain patches.

         Our own pain in grief is spread wide and thin with empathy, hurting for their loss of all they’ve ever known of a way of life, without even a war to take it from them. We’ve known for a long time that the varieties of critters for the hunt is dwindling as the forests have thinned with so many generations of people taking from the abundance. And these hunters knew they would be planting fields soon. But now the ones calling themselves landowners, lords, have come to cut the trees and build the castle.

         It’s only a few days now and Greg and another young fellow arrive on horseback.  I knew one day we would see this — our oldest son dressed in smelted iron as a soldier. I thought he would have a few years yet as a child in training. But here he is, riding with the guard of aristocracy.  This other youth he is with here, is long fingered, a pale and delicate son of wealth.

         Greg dismounts from his horse and is standing in the place where only flowers may grow when Ana and I go to greet them.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.4, Tues., Aug. 8, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Here, I play a simple tune on Simon’s harp.  It’s a song Simon invented to please the cuckoo nesting near this place where only flowers may grow. Brandell is delighted. For just a moment the tones of cooing cuckoo sullies the sorrows of us humankinds. It is a rustling breeze in the stillness of grief like the rings on still waters spreading out from the hole in the center.

         Ana and I have these, our four youngest children with us here, and now our neighbors have come up from the forest. Charlie is leading them, towing the handcart with his grandmother. This is the old woman who so often rails and rants against strangers, now coming to Ana, reaching her bony arms around her to share a touch of understanding in the loss of a child. The old woman’s impervious wall against strangers is broken into with this window of shared grief.

         Our neighbors stay awhile. Hannah takes all of the children to the place by the door where Haberd makes up games with his heap of favorite stones. Hannah insists Haberd share his games with Charlie’s little cousins. At first Haberd resists, then the game is more interesting than keeping his own rock finds from other’s hands. Isn’t that how it is?  Each in our own ways, each in our own times and ages find this welcoming peace in making windows and doors in our walls. Children sharing a game seems so simple.

         The neighbors brought biscuits and now Ana asks me to break off her favorite leaves of mint while she prepares to make us all a tea. Charlie brings a fresh pail of water. He knows the routines of our household.

         We have a few remembrances of Simon to share, but this family also has remembrances of their own children lost. Ana shows the old grandmother the book Simon left. The old woman knows nothing of books, but recognizes Ana’s appreciation of the tattered little pages.

         Then it is a conversation about these changing times.  The land parcel where hunting is thin was granted to an aristocrat from Metz. His men are already taking down the forests to build a house, a castle really, with a walled fortress as though everyone is planning for wars. This is already happening.  There is no going back to “once upon a time, in the forest primeval.”

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.3, Thurs., Aug. 3, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Simon played this little harp we made with gut strings on a bent ash root. From these hardened leftovers of life-things Simon made music and Brandell believed Simon had magical power. Maybe a two-year-old notices the “hole in the music” when someone is missing, and Simon’s ability to move his fingers in space could fill that emptiness with the song.

         But it was Simon who named the emptiness the “hole in the music.”  He said that to tell me he missed his older brothers and me in the singing at the church. He missed my harp those days so we made this harp for him to play.

         But how can music have a hole?  Music flows like a river, and when it isn’t flowing it isn’t music. How could there ever be a hole in a river?  A fish swims up and touches the surface from beneath, and there is, for only a brief moment, a hole in the flow, but then it is gone and no one knows it was ever there.  Maybe a heavy earth object, such as a rock, could crash through the surface and make a big hole with a splash all around sending out ripples in rings in ever-wider circles.  And yet the rock only sinks to the bottom and the hole seems healed.

         So now, a heavy rock has landed in the middle of the music.  We are trying to navigate the rings of hurt moving out across the surface.

         We should walk outside on this exceptional day and find the beautiful things Simon understood so well. I take Brandell by the hand, and in my other, Simon’s harp. Ana carries Layla in her arms, and Hannah watches out for her little brother Haberd, as always. This is who our family is now.  It is Ana and I and these four tiny little children, and our thoughts of the oldest who are away. And here are two sons we remember in this quiet place we have made on our farm just for the grief part of life.

         As we are all out here in this sacred place, our neighbors, the hunters, come walking. They are bringing the elders in a handcart and all the children are here, the young men with their bows, and the old men with their stories. Charlie has brought his whole wide family to share our grief with us.

         It is good.

(Continues Tuesday, August 8)

#47.2, Weds., Aug. 2, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         People like Simon would seem ordinary, or common, amid the great heroic tales that are told by the fires of soldiers gathering for wars. The ordinary aren’t mentioned. Great stories are spun around the likes of Greg or Gabe. And I can imagine little dark-haired Layla, our baby, could be the mysterious woman of legends one day.  Mystery is already her nature.

         But what is there to say about Simon, except that we love him, and we miss him now?  We miss the constancy of his listening, and his ever-intense care for details. The hens and the pigeons miss Simon. The mule and the donkey miss Simon. But what do they know of grief — the hens and pigeons, the cuckoo in the trees, a turtle on the log at the creek? Now the whole earth grieves for Simon. And as he found his lost brother Samuel we can still know his warm spirit flowing in the vastness of all love, invisible.

         Ana takes my hand as she is powerless to dam her flood of tears. We watch our children gathered here for their daily lessons. But we have no lessons for them today. Now, the lesson for me is that learning new things is a celebration of life itself, and in this time of grief, forcing that celebration seems raw.  Haberd expects Hannah to fix this sorrow by playing one of Simon’s games with him – stacking rocks – pressing funny pictures into the writing board – Hannah is of no mind to play. She has never seen her mother’s tears and she is at a loss for how to fix it.

         Layla is nearly sleeping in Ana’s arms, and Brandell waddles over to me, and I pick him up and hold him close to me and hum a chant to fill the empty place. A sad song has a place just now.  The woeful futility of Ecclesiastes shines as hope amid grief.

         “A time to break down, and a time to build up.

         A time to weep and a time to laugh;

         A time to mourn, and a time to dance.

         A time to throw away stones,

                  And a time to gather stones together…”

[Ecclesiastes 3:3:5]

         Brandell pushes away, and waddles over to get Simon’s harp down, and he brings it over to me.

(Continues tomorrow)