#44.13, Tues., May 30, 2023

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

         These boys stand here at the end of the bed twisting fingers, looking away from me, apologizing, sorrowfully confessing something. But what?

         “You told Mater Doe you were sorry and she thought you were sorry you tried to kill me. But it was you who rescued my bones. I know what you did, and I’m grateful.”

         “We should have saved you from the guards.”

         “Your best gifts are with words and reason and the guards were acting on orders — not reason. What else could you have done? I told you to stay hidden and you obeyed.  So, you did a soldier’s best to follow orders. I’m grateful you are both so courageous to come back for me, and with a wagon, so I didn’t have to come home a dead man being dragged behind a horse. And here you traveled all that way for days, just the two of you finding your way. I never imagined you could do that.  And yet here we are home. Where did you find so much courage?”

         Gabe said, “When they drove that polearm through, I prayed for God to stay close. But it happened anyway.  So, I told God, that the God we trusted to save you had failed us.”

         Greg said, “We both blamed God for letting it happen. God could’ve saved you, you know. But there was no one to help.”

         I remind them, “God was present. And now we are all safe. Why are you sorry?”

         Gabe answers, “I don’t know, we are just sorry, sorry, sorry.”

         Greg suggests, “Maybe we are sorry that we blamed God.”

         Gabe adds, “And that we didn’t know life from death, so we put you in the wagon under the dirty straw so we wouldn’t have to see you.”

         “I can tell you I didn’t know life from death either at that moment.  While you were blaming God I was praying, ‘Thank you God for these beautiful, brilliant boys, for giving them the courage to do an amazing thing.’ What else do you think God could do when everyone of us everywhere is asking for something different?”

         “Papa, I know what you say, God just loves us anyway.”

         “And God even loves the guards that poked you through. That’s what you say, but how is there any sense in anything then?”

(Continues tomorrow)

#44.12, Thurs., May 25, 2023

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

         This is the stage of my healing my sons seemed to fear most, when their papa is laying around the house, howling woefully and taking all their mother’s attention. May my howls be silenced by courage, since death is not my option. Thankfully my place in this house is in our back room where only Ana comes. I am out of sight of our children so not to tax their tender empathies and ruffle their fears.

         Gabe and Greg are making a plan to return the baro’s horses to Metz, less the brown one they traded for the wagon. But even as I am now, I can still make the necessary demands on my children and it is my rule that won’t allow them to leave ten-year-old Simon with the full harvests of the oats and barley and straw and with the spring plowing and planting yet to do. We’ve already put things off and we’ve burdened that child with so many extra chores at this time.  So now, the twins have employed their cleverness to go to our neighbors, who are hunters in the fall and winter, to recruit Charlie to help with the harvest in return for a worker’s portion of the grains.

         In their teen-aged imaginations they see themselves riding off on horses, while neighbor Charlie leans on the hoe and wistfully watches them vanish heroically into the sunset. Charlie’s awe may only be their own fantasies. Were they to make the logical choice to also deliver the wagon that was traded for the horse, the white horse would have to pull the wagon and Greg would be like any other farmer, driving a wagon. So the wagon will stay where it is behind our shed.

         I ask for them to come in here so I may hear this in their words. I haven’t really talked with them about any of these happenings.  And now they seem fearful — maybe put off — seeing their papa helpless.  Of course, in retrieving me from death, I was simply a pale thing that had been buried in the ground, not a living, breathing elder with an opinion. Now that I’m safely on the breathing side of life they are children again who aren’t always free to make their own choices.

         “I’m sorry Papa.”

         “We are both so sorry …”

         “Why are you sorry?”

(Continues Tuesday, May 30)

#44.11, Weds., May 24, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The secular church in the Vosges

         Hannah is a no-nonsense, eight-year-old. She would be just like Ana was at eight, but that Ana’s own mother had given her away in fear of her special gifts; and for Hannah, we, her family, have an appreciation of these gifts in a girl child. The difference is that Ana was like a stray puppy always longing for any kindness, and Hannah assumes the world is a place of unconditional love. She expects I am always here for her even in my seemingly helpless state. So this isn’t about rescuing me to life but more purposed with getting a good look at a terrible wound as a learning opportunity.

         Now Simon is pondering the immediate problem that we have — one donkey and a cart and also a wagon. Greg and Gabe took both horses home last night and the white horse is what would pull this wagon I am in. But here they are with one donkey and a cart and a wagon. Simon is befuddled.

         Hannah wants me up and out and into the cart so she can get a better look at the wound. And Simon wants nothing to do with this wagon towed here by the white horse, so I’m thinking I will have to move. But thankfully Ana has a better plan.

         “Simon will take the donkey cart home with Hannah and the younger boys, then bring the mule back up here so Papa can stay in the wagon until we have the older boys to help him into bed.”

         Ana’s decision is always one to follow. Simon arrives walking the mule that tows the wagon to take Ana and the baby and me, back to our cottage.

         Greg and Gabe have fully gathered their wakefulness for the day when Hannah sends them out to help me into the house. I can’t really tell if all my neediness is simply pain, or if I really can’t just get up and walk, but right now I’m just happy that two nearly teens have the strength of men.

         Hannah starts to tell her older brothers just how I should be put so that she can get a good vantage point for the medical lesson. But now I’m grateful that Ana notices that what Hannah really needs to learn is something of empathy.

(Continues Tomorrow)

#44.10 Tues., May 23, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The secular church in the Vosges

         Mater Doe has been keeping watch, offering up, through dark hours, prayers and comfort, a sip of water, a warmer blanket all for a healing that might happen regardless of her tireless efforts.

         I have new strength already. And I’m driven to grasp for clarity of mind in spite of the pain and hurting also for another’s empathy. The thought was taunting my sons of a howling, hardly healed papa, hanging around their house. They no doubt feared such a long healing would take their mother’s full attention — I hope not to allow those fears to come to pass.

         Now Ana comes in the darkness with Simon driving the donkey cart. As Mater Doe had commanded, she brings the younger children to be under her watch for this night.

         I can speak a few words now to Ana, “Gabe and Greg?”

         And she answers, “It was starting to get dark when they came on their tired horses so I went out and walked with them. The boys were totally exhausted and I think they were finding release from such a long ordeal. They told me what happened. But their imaginations were still spinning stories of what they could have done were they the full army of powerful men you needed them to be.  I assured them they were already what you needed them to be.”

         I can answer, “Yes, yes.” But whose tears are these I don’t know.

          Ana dries her eyes too. “They said they let the guards push you down face first while they watched from a distance. They were watching when the spear was driven through.

         “They are asking, ‘Why could men whose only purpose is to protect their bishops, without any hate at all for Papa, do something so brutal?’

         Ana went on, “They seemed to expect me to have some reasonable answer. In my silence they talked between themselves and decided the guards were just following orders. They told me they thought they were following orders too. And they begged for forgiveness. Does Mater Doe blame them? Does Papa blame them?  Do I blame them? Does God blame them? They blame themselves. What could I say?”

         Now Hannah is here at my side. She’s been asking me different questions about this than the blame question.

(Continues tomorrow)

#44.9, Thurs., May 18, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The secular church in the Vosges

         Gabe and Greg park the wagon behind the little secular church they’ve always known. Maybe it is her ordained priesthood, or maybe its her deafness, but they hope to find Mater Doe the comforting listener.

         They try to tell her everything that has happened, speaking softly and fast, one speaking over the other.  There is no way she can understand any of this. She does know their fountains of tears have been dammed by their huge obligations of manhood and now the dam has broken and they are flooding, sobbing rivers of tears.  All she hears of this by the time she lifts the cloak off of my face is that they are sorry. She assumes they tried to kill me, but failed.

         Mater Doe tells the boys to go away right now and send their mother up here with the other children to keep them safe from “you would be murderers.”

         I hear them leave on the horses, obedient as they are. Then Mater Doe speaks to me, “Lazarus.”

         I would answer but I can’t make a sound. She thinks I’ve answered her. She tells me she didn’t hear what I said but not to say anything more until I can speak more easily.  She seems to believe in this healing possibility.  I don’t think the plan here is to put a blade to my neck to relieve this suffering. Thank you God.

         This is good, but better would be if I could tell her the one thing she doesn’t know. These boys are the rescuers not the murderers. Like Peter hiding from the trial of Jesus, they are grief stricken at what they think was their own omission.  I know they would’ve tried a rescue but I told them to stay back. Then, these two on their own, put together this whole big plan to obtain a wagon to drag my bones from the grave then take this very long journey traveling more than a week on nothing but faith and obscure obligation.  Now here we all are safe and nearly together again. Thank you God. Thank you for these boys who are my family.

         I hope for strength enough to let Ana know that one thing — the goodness of these boys.

(Continues Tuesday, May 23)

#44.8, Weds., May 17, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Following the creek bed home

         Gabe and Greg return to this wagonload of dirty straw along with their older, and maybe wiser hunter friend, Charlie.

         Charlie asks them why they put their father’s body under all this filth.

         Gabe explains, “We needed a wagon and the stable master traded it for papa’s horse but he made us clean the stalls before we could have the horse collar and the reins.”

         His brother explains the logic, “And it helped us keep the secret. With the wagonload of stable straw we had a reason to go into the woods at night to dump the straw. Then the straw was there to hide the body.”

         “No one gave a thought to what we were doing.”

         “Well let’s clean it out now.” Charlie demands.

         So they do, and now here I am flat-out in the wagon bed shivering in the morning air.

         “You’re right, Greg.  He isn’t stinking of death or even stiffening yet.”

         “It’s Gabe.”

         “Gabe, whatever. He’s got a terrible wound there.”

         Now I feel a cold blade at my neck.  “I can just finish it; put him out of his pain.”

         “No! No, He’s our papa, he’s not just some hunted buck.”

         “Well, then just take him home as he is, Gabe.”

         “It’s Greg.”

         “Greg, whatever.  Your momma will use her blade. She has one. I’ve seen it.”

         “We can’t take him to Momma like this. She loves him.”

         “And besides, he’s our papa.”

         There is a silence. I hope it is for prayer or thought. Or maybe they know something.  The silence is broken with Charlie’s ah-ha, “Take him up to the church!  The gods will know what to do with him.”

          “Yes, that’s a good plan.”

         Somehow, in the hitching of the wagon, and the farewells to Charlie, someone has the kind thought to lay a cloak over me. Thank you.

         The boys steer the wagon along the rocky edge of the creek and with every jostle and bump a new pain.  It terrifies them if I make a sound; all my howls and whimpers only make them stop and worry. All their beautiful empathy now only gives them pain, and doesn’t give me any endurance for this at all.  Through the valley we go on, through so many shadows. When we stop on the hillside the sun is already dipping behind the hills, nearly dusk.

(Continues tomorrow)

#44.7, Tues., May 16, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The road in the valley

         My gifted power is healing. Anyone’s healing is one of those unimaginable events of life like birthing, growing, aging, experiencing. It changes us from our physical being right through our hopes and fears. The healed and the caregivers alike are never the same. But the Creator of this amazement seems to leave it up to each of us to find purpose in this drastic turning.

         As for me, it’s tempting to heap everything I know from all my lives into a mountain of authority where I can stand and shout ancient truths. If they would only listen I would shout to my apparently nonsensical children and tell them what righteousness really is. I find it frustrating just now, to hear my sons considering if it is better to return me to my loving wife as a dead man, or a suffering, but still living man.

         Healing is as much about those who witness it as it is about the wounded. When Jesus healed the man who was blind from birth [John 9] the real story wasn’t about spit and mud but about the wonder of those who witnessed it. Whose sin caused the blindness? The story of the healing of the paralytic [Mark 2:1-12 and synoptics] was about faith of the man’s friends who dug the hole in the roof and lowered the man down. It was the caregivers’ faith that elicited Jesus forgiving the sins of the man. And it was all that forgiving that troubled the authorities. Then Jesus simply asked the man to get up and walk and that made it notable as a healing. It was called a miracle, but it was healing.

         Healing changes everyone — caregiver, roof cutter, mat corner rope holder, witness, healed person, all. Healing encompasses grief and empathy, fear and suffering, amazement and creative awe. Healing turns everyone. So it is painfully true that the long-suffering—the one named for the hurt like the paralytic — has the new identity as the healed person, or perhaps now he has a name. Healing is even a resetting of relationship for both the abused and the abuser.

         Dear God, this morning the bishops’ guards surely found the shallow grave they made for me, abandoned. Stay near them also, in this repentance, this turning, as you stay near my sons, and me. Thank you. Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

#44.6, Thurs., May 11, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A Woods in Gaul

         The guards argue for a moment over who should use the polearm, and they assure one another the spear tip is firmly in place. Now I feel the pain of it, and breath is…

         At this waking I am gasping for breath under a heap of last week’s barn straw. I was expecting forest loam as I knit together a memory of what happened last.

         Oh, this is a terrible pain. I seem to be on the floor of a wagon under this filthy straw and just now we are moving. I mean to speak or howl or cry out. I don’t think I can make a sound, but now the wagon stops.

         “What are you stopping for, Gabe? It’s still my turn to ride the horse you know. Let’s just keep going now!”

         “I thought I heard something in the wagon.”

         “You didn’t. Let’s get on our way – tonight we’ll be home before dark.”

         “It sounded like Papa howling just as I started forward.”

         “We aren’t wee little babies anymore who believe the stories we ourselves make.”

         “I heard something, I’m sure.  I wasn’t even thinking of that Lazarus story.  Really we should look.”

         “Maybe it’s just Papa’s ghost, leaving him… Okay we will take a peek at it but I still get to ride the horse for the last part.”

         I probably look as gory as they fear.  It requires this long silence from them to muster the courage to move this straw from my face. I stay still, Dear God may I not frighten my children just now. In this terrified silence they touch me.

         “He is warm, and … What should we do, Gabe? It was already the worst thing to tell Momma.  I thought we would just bring her a chance to grieve and bury him in the flower place, but now, our dead papa will be hanging around us forever, howling and growling, needy and bleeding and making us always sorry we didn’t fight for him when we could.”

         “He told us to do like Peter, you know. We were supposed to deny him until the rooster crowed. We did as we were told.”

         “We’re so near where Charlie lives, I’ll just take the horse and ride over there and ask Charlie what we should do.”

         “You can’t leave me alone here with him.  Let’s unhitch the wagon and take both horses.”

         Now I’m alone.

(Continues Tuesday, May 16)

#44.5, Weds., May 10, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Woods near Chalôns

         Through darkness, I’m prodded on by the bishops’ guards. It seems one of those ancient skews of justice in response to an unwelcome message is to kill the messenger. Ancient people did it. It was probably born in the wilds before the human imagination could fathom reason. It satisfies a longing for righteousness like the poison hemlock satisfies hunger.

         Another sharp jolt of pain between my shoulder blades — I wonder why people would ever need to inflict hurt on another for a message, or an idea, or simply some contrary thought inked onto a scrap of parchment.

         We seem to be in a place with trees and underbrush and one of these guards must have a shovel in hand and is digging in the fresh spring earth.  It smells mossy and ready for planting, but I fear they are digging a grave for me. They discuss possibilities for brutality and decide torture wouldn’t be worth the trouble since the Celtic Father wouldn’t feel the hurt. It’s decided that, at least, I should be made to dig my own grave. But no one dares loose the rope on my hands or remove the blindfold. Giving me a shovel might make me dangerous. Apparently it is their own guilt that rattles their fears. I’m not fighting them. The lone man with the shovel continues to jab apart roots and sever this earth.

         One reports seeing a stable boy watching from a distance.

         “He’s the fellow who said he wanted to be a soldier. Just let him watch us and learn.”

         So my sons have followed and are seeing all of this and possibly they are considering attacking these guards to rescue me.

         I shout a message to them, “John 18:25 – What Peter believed was his sin actually left him with a voice!”

         With a hard jab of spear tip at my back the guard answered my message “Shouting scripture!? You’re nothing like a Jesus, man.  You don’t even have a sword!”

         Dear God, please guide Greg and Gabe to stay safe.

         Slammed face down onto the damp earth — this is a softer bed than the stone steps of the great hall where first I tripped blindfolded.  But I find this ditch hardly deep enough for a grave.  I guess my vaguely coded message to my sons goaded the guards to hurry. No one wants a preaching victim even when the message is obtuse.

(Continues tomorrow)

#44.4, Tues., May 9, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Chalôns

         Rage ignites these bishops – a flicker of wrath poofs to flaming venom!  Father Columbanus’ suggestion for improving the use of a bishops’ council rings of insolence to these gathered. I assume I will be carrying an angry response back to the Father after they take a cooler moment to put words to their wrath. This message I carried here, no doubt, will bring a hostel rebuttal.

         One bishop rises from the huddle and signals a guard. But they aren’t asking the guards for inks to reply. Instead the guard gathers the others and … Now some come up close around me with swords drawn. One, still at the door, reports that the Baro Dithrum fled into the night.

         Were I the warrior-hero my ever-watching sons wish of their Papa, I would just bolt from this room turning sword on sword creating mayhem to cover a daring escape. But my heroic power is only what I was taught by my friend, Jesus.  I learned neither stealth nor violence, I only know the simply, ever-healing, love. That’s hard to wield just now. May my every-watching sons notice courage in my silence.

         Dear God, I’m afraid. Let me find you near.

         My hands are drawn behind my back — tied together at the wrists. The one who is near for this “capture” stands at my back, out of my sight tying a blindfold. Now I hear the slither of swords into sheaths.  Apparently, what they fear of me can be managed by capturing only my hands and my eyes. No swords are needed just now.

         In the center of my back I feel the sharp point of the spear-tip mounted on one of the polearms they carry. Of course a polearm is needed now, since the intimacy of the sword is distasteful; All these pokes and jabs are drawn up from fears. They must think I’m some kind of horned aurouch that can turn on them any moment.

         I hear the doors open and feel a rush of the night winds as I’m prodded forward by the spear tip. Without my hands to stop the fall I miss the first step out the door and fall on my face. If Greg and Gabe are watching all of this, it must be embarrassing for them to see their papa bound and helpless and now lifted back to standing by hostile soldiers.

(Continues tomorrow)