Friday, June 10, 2005
Women in Leadership Roles in the Church
Women in Leadership Roles in the Church
By
Phoenix Mary Grace Hocking
Let me begin by submitting for your prayerful consideration a few of the basic premises from which I proceed. First, that Paul was just as influenced by the cultural biases of his time as we are influenced by the cultural biases of our own time. Next, that if we allow the cultural biases of the Middle East of two thousand years ago to deny women the ability to use their God-given gifts and talents of administration and leadership, then we are rather effectively making null and void the freedom that Jesus Himself bestows on all people.
Women have held leadership roles in the church from Biblical times up to the present day. Which of us would deny that Mother Teresa of Calcutta was a leader? Even the Catholic Church, which is not known for its overly compassionate view of women, saw the folly of denying what was to become her life’s work. Is Billy Graham’s daughter, Anne Graham Lotz, not considered a leader and teacher?
But, I proceed into the present too quickly. Let us examine the women of the Bible and the women of the early church who held roles of leadership, shall we?
Let us look first at Genesis 1:26,27 – “Then God said, ‘Let us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness; let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.’ So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him, male and female He created them.” So, all humans are created in the image of God.
Moving on: James 2 and Acts 10:34 state that God shows no favoritism for one group of people over another. Acts 10:34 – “Then Peter opened his mouth and said, ‘In truth I perceive that God shows no partiality.” James 2:1 – “My brethren, do not hold the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory, with partiality.” James 2:8 – “If you really fulfill the royal law according to Scripture, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself,’ you do well, but if you show partiality, you commit sin.”
How much more clear can it be than Galatians 3:26-28: “For you are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus. For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
What about 1 Peter 2:5? “…you also, as living stones, are being built up a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.” And 1 Peter 2:9 – “But you are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light.” Is Peter only speaking to men?
I quote here from “Gender Equality and the Bible” by Rebecca Merrill Groothuis: In speaking of the Galatians 3:26-28 text: “Traditionalists say this text states only that men and women are equally saved, so it has no bearing at all on role differences between men and women. But the context here has to do with the differences wrought by the replacement of the old covenant with the new covenant. It would be superfluous and redundant for Paul to say that women and men, slave and free, Gentile and Jew are now equally saved under the new covenanat, when the fact was that salvation was available to members of all these groups under the old covenant. The point of this text is that something has changed with the coming of the new covenant. What is this change? Under the old covenant, free Jewish men were granted a number of religious privileges that women, slaves, and Gentiles were denied (for example, the priesthood was reserved for men), and it is this inequality in religious status that has been rendered obsolete under the new covenant.” (This article is available online at www.cbeinternational.org. The title of the article is “Gender Equality and the Bible” by Rebecca Merrill Groothuis.)
Okay, so what do we do with 1 Timothy 2:11? “Let a woman learn in silence with all submission. And I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man, but to be in silence.” I submit to you that this was spoken to a particular church, at a particular time, about a particular issue. If a woman is not supposed to teach, then whey would Paul commend Lois and Eunice for teaching Timothy the gospel? (2 Timothy 1:5). If a woman is not supposed to lead, then why does Paul particularly single out female leaders of house churches such as Nympha, Junia (who is called an apostle in Romans 16:7), Phoebe and Priscilla for special honor? Obviously, he cannot have meant his injunction against all women teaching and leading for all time in 1st Timothy when he praises them for doing so in many other places!!
The Greek word, “diakonon” (translated today as “deacon”) used to describe Phoebe, by the way, is the exact same word that is used to describe Philip and Steven. If Philip and Steven were seen as deacons, then why is Phoebe not allowed the same honor, when the same word is used to describe her?
Let us go back to the Old Testament for a few minutes and explore the women who held positions of leadership back then.
“For I brought you up from the land of Egypt, and redeemed you from the house of slavery; and I sent before you Moses, Aaron and Miriam.” Miriam was a prophetess; does that make her any less a leader? Especially when she is listed in this passage from Micah 6:4 as being on equal footing with Moses and Aaron. If she was not to be considered an equal, wouldn’t she have been listed differently?
“Then Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Ethiopian woman whom he had married, for he had married an Ethiopian woman. So they said, ‘Has the Lord indeed spoken only through Moses? Has He not spoken through us also?” (Numbers 12:1,2)
Other women leaders in Old Testament days include Deborah (see Judges, chapter 4), Athaliah (a wicked queen, but a queen nonetheless, see 2 Kings 11), and Esther.
Let us look now at the Biblical position of women in leadership roles in the New Testament. The Bible teaches that, in the New Testament economy, women as well as men exercise the prophetic, priestly and royal functions.
Acts 2:17,18: “And it shall come to pass in the last days, says God, that I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. And on My menservants and on my maidservants I will pour out My Spirit in those days; and they shall prophesy.” (Also see Joel 2:28,29, which is virtually the same passage.)
In Acts 9:36, Dorcas is called a “disciple.” “At Joppa there was a certain disciple named Tabitha, which is translated Dorcas. This woman was full of good works and charitable deeds which she did.”
I submit that the few isolated texts that seem to restrict the full redemptive freedom of women must not be interpreted literally and in contradiction to the rest of Scripture.
So, did Jesus think of women? The times in which Jesus lived were difficult times for women. Women were considered little more than chattel and child-bearing machines, easily discarded, and even more easily abused. Jesus, however, rejected the false criteria and double standard of the time, as is evidenced by the many women who followed him. He spoke with the Samaritan woman at the well, (gasp!) alone! (John 4:27) He was friends with Martha, Mary, and Mary Magdalene. He first appeared after His resurrection to women. Women stayed with Him at the cross, while the male disciples ran for their lives. Was it less dangerous for the women to stay at the cross? Hardly.
Jesus in every teaching included and affirmed women as equal beneficiaries of His mercy and grace. Let us look at the well-known incident in which Martha is complaining because Mary isn’t helping her. (See Luke 10:39) Mary is sitting at Jesus’ feet, learning and soaking up the lessons of the Master. Why? If she is not supposed to teach what she has learned, why bother to teach her at all? When the woman with the issue of blood touched the hem of His garment, thereby “defiling” Him according to Jewish law, He didn’t condemn her for doing so, but instead told her, “Your faith has saved you!” (Mark 5:25-34) Hardly the response of someone for whom women were second-class citizens!
Let us explore now some women leaders in the early church. In the Roman catacombs women are shown in frescoes as leading worship, even serving communion, acting as priests. The fresco, from the Priscilla catacomb in Rome, dated to the 1st century, clearly show women in positions of leadership in the early church.
The early church considered Mary Magdalene an “apostle to the apostles,” and Luke relied heavily on the testimony of women as he wrote both Luke and Acts. A number of women served as leaders of house churches, including Priscilla, Phoebe, Chloe, Lydia, Apphia, Nympha, the mother of John Mark, and possibly the “elect lady” of John’s second epistle.
In the 2nd century, Clement of Alexandria wrote that women missionaries accompanied male missionaries “that they might be fellow-ministers in dealing with housewives. It was through them that the Lord’s teaching penetrated also the women’s quarters without any scandal being aroused. We also know the directions about women deacons which are given by the noble Paul in his letter to Timothy.”
Church leader John Chrysostom wrote of Junia, noted by Paul in Romans 16 as being “of note among the apostles,” “Indeed, to be an apostle at all is a great thing, but to be even amongst those of note; just consider what a great encomium that is…Oh, how great is the devotion of this woman, that she should even be counted worthy of the appellation of apostle.”
In Romans 16 Paul calls Phoebe “a deacon of the church at Cenchreae.” He calls her a prostates or overseer. This term in its masculine form, prostates, was later used by the Apostolic Fathers to designate the one presiding over the Eucharist. Paul uses the same verb, the passive of ginomai (to be or become), as he uses in Colossians 1:23, “I was made a minister.” In the passive, the verb sometimes indicated ordination or appointment to an office. Did Paul ordain Phoebe a minister?
Clement of Alexandra, in referring to Phoebe, writes: This text teaches with the authority of the Apostle that even women are instituted deacons in the Church. This is the function which was exercised in the church of Cenchreae by Phoebe, who was the object of high praise and recommendation by Paul…and thus this text teaches at the same time two things; that there are, as we have already said, women deacons in the church, and that women, who by their good works deserve to be praised by the Apostle, ought to be accepted in the deaconate.”
Crescens and Grapte, male and female ministers, are entrusted to deliver the message of the gospel to Philippi around the year 148 A.D. And in 112 A.D. Pliny the Younger interrogate two women ministrae, two women who apparently were considered deacons in the church at that time.
The list of women leaders in the early church is long. Catherine of Alexandria lived in the 2nd century was seen as a spiritual and intellectual leader of the church. Mary of Cassobelae was overseer of a community of both men and women.
St. Thecla is perhaps more well-known, a contemporary of Paul, who forsook her own wealth and high-standing to go to Asia Minor where she preaches, teaches, heals and baptizes.
Anthusa lived from 330 to 374 A.D. and was the mother of John Chrysostom, one of the greatest preachers in the 40th century church. While we don’t know much about Anthusa, we certainly know about her son.
Candace, queen of Ethiopa and mentioned in Acts 8:27, used her conversion to Christianity to promote the gospel.
Cecilia was a martyr of the 2nd century, refusing to marry and devoting her life in service to God.
Helena, the mother of Constantine, is credited with sponsoring the building of the Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem as well as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem.
Marthana, a deaconess, was a ruler over a monastic order of men and women at the shine of St. Thecla. Marcella was a 4th century Christian who taught the gospel from her home.
Perpetua was martyred in 203 A.D. having served the Lord unto death.
The Constitutions of the Holy Apostles, a 4th century document, contains a prayer for the ordination of deaconesses: O Eternal God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Creator of man and of woman, who didst replenish with the Spirit Miriam, and Deborah, and Anna, and Hulduh; who didst not disdain that Thy only begotten Son should be born of a woman; who also in the tabernacle of Thy testimony, and in the temple, didst ordain women to be keepers of Thy holy gates – do Thou now also look down upon this Thy servant, who is to be ordained to the office of a deaconess, and grant her Thy Holy Spirit, and “cleanse her from all filthiness of flesh and spirit,” that she may worthily discharge the work which is committed to her to Thy glory, and the praise of Thy Christ, with whom glory and adoration be to Thee and the Holy Spirit forever. Amen.”
Paula and her friend Principia, 3rd century Christians, opened the first convent for women and devoted themselves to strict asceticism and benevolent service. Olympus was a deaconess of the church at Constantinople.
Let us move on the present day, where women who have called of God to teach and preach are still being denied the right to do so by a misunderstanding of Scripture. The accounts are numerous and saddening. Women are still being denied the right to teach, to preach, to serve the Eucharist. Even Anne Graham Lotz, whom Billy Graham called a better evangelist than himself, had Baptist preachers turn their back on her when she stood up to speak because she was a woman!
As we have seen, then, women have held positions of leadership in both Old Testament and New Testament Biblical times, up to the present day. Paul himself praised women leaders in the church, so his injunction against women speaking and teaching could not have been a blanket statement against all women for all time. Jesus held women in high regard, and it was first to women that He revealed Himself after the resurrection.
I submit, then, that to deny women a leadership role in this community simply on the basis of their gender would be a grave injustice to both the women in this congregation and to the Gospel. We have many women here who would be competent leaders, clear in their thinking, excellent examples to us all, and who love the Lord. Shall we deny these women whom God has called simply because they are anatomically different from men, when Scripture and early church history teaches exactly the opposite?
By
Phoenix Mary Grace Hocking
Let me begin by submitting for your prayerful consideration a few of the basic premises from which I proceed. First, that Paul was just as influenced by the cultural biases of his time as we are influenced by the cultural biases of our own time. Next, that if we allow the cultural biases of the Middle East of two thousand years ago to deny women the ability to use their God-given gifts and talents of administration and leadership, then we are rather effectively making null and void the freedom that Jesus Himself bestows on all people.
Women have held leadership roles in the church from Biblical times up to the present day. Which of us would deny that Mother Teresa of Calcutta was a leader? Even the Catholic Church, which is not known for its overly compassionate view of women, saw the folly of denying what was to become her life’s work. Is Billy Graham’s daughter, Anne Graham Lotz, not considered a leader and teacher?
But, I proceed into the present too quickly. Let us examine the women of the Bible and the women of the early church who held roles of leadership, shall we?
Let us look first at Genesis 1:26,27 – “Then God said, ‘Let us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness; let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.’ So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him, male and female He created them.” So, all humans are created in the image of God.
Moving on: James 2 and Acts 10:34 state that God shows no favoritism for one group of people over another. Acts 10:34 – “Then Peter opened his mouth and said, ‘In truth I perceive that God shows no partiality.” James 2:1 – “My brethren, do not hold the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory, with partiality.” James 2:8 – “If you really fulfill the royal law according to Scripture, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself,’ you do well, but if you show partiality, you commit sin.”
How much more clear can it be than Galatians 3:26-28: “For you are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus. For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
What about 1 Peter 2:5? “…you also, as living stones, are being built up a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.” And 1 Peter 2:9 – “But you are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light.” Is Peter only speaking to men?
I quote here from “Gender Equality and the Bible” by Rebecca Merrill Groothuis: In speaking of the Galatians 3:26-28 text: “Traditionalists say this text states only that men and women are equally saved, so it has no bearing at all on role differences between men and women. But the context here has to do with the differences wrought by the replacement of the old covenant with the new covenant. It would be superfluous and redundant for Paul to say that women and men, slave and free, Gentile and Jew are now equally saved under the new covenanat, when the fact was that salvation was available to members of all these groups under the old covenant. The point of this text is that something has changed with the coming of the new covenant. What is this change? Under the old covenant, free Jewish men were granted a number of religious privileges that women, slaves, and Gentiles were denied (for example, the priesthood was reserved for men), and it is this inequality in religious status that has been rendered obsolete under the new covenant.” (This article is available online at www.cbeinternational.org. The title of the article is “Gender Equality and the Bible” by Rebecca Merrill Groothuis.)
Okay, so what do we do with 1 Timothy 2:11? “Let a woman learn in silence with all submission. And I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man, but to be in silence.” I submit to you that this was spoken to a particular church, at a particular time, about a particular issue. If a woman is not supposed to teach, then whey would Paul commend Lois and Eunice for teaching Timothy the gospel? (2 Timothy 1:5). If a woman is not supposed to lead, then why does Paul particularly single out female leaders of house churches such as Nympha, Junia (who is called an apostle in Romans 16:7), Phoebe and Priscilla for special honor? Obviously, he cannot have meant his injunction against all women teaching and leading for all time in 1st Timothy when he praises them for doing so in many other places!!
The Greek word, “diakonon” (translated today as “deacon”) used to describe Phoebe, by the way, is the exact same word that is used to describe Philip and Steven. If Philip and Steven were seen as deacons, then why is Phoebe not allowed the same honor, when the same word is used to describe her?
Let us go back to the Old Testament for a few minutes and explore the women who held positions of leadership back then.
“For I brought you up from the land of Egypt, and redeemed you from the house of slavery; and I sent before you Moses, Aaron and Miriam.” Miriam was a prophetess; does that make her any less a leader? Especially when she is listed in this passage from Micah 6:4 as being on equal footing with Moses and Aaron. If she was not to be considered an equal, wouldn’t she have been listed differently?
“Then Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Ethiopian woman whom he had married, for he had married an Ethiopian woman. So they said, ‘Has the Lord indeed spoken only through Moses? Has He not spoken through us also?” (Numbers 12:1,2)
Other women leaders in Old Testament days include Deborah (see Judges, chapter 4), Athaliah (a wicked queen, but a queen nonetheless, see 2 Kings 11), and Esther.
Let us look now at the Biblical position of women in leadership roles in the New Testament. The Bible teaches that, in the New Testament economy, women as well as men exercise the prophetic, priestly and royal functions.
Acts 2:17,18: “And it shall come to pass in the last days, says God, that I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. And on My menservants and on my maidservants I will pour out My Spirit in those days; and they shall prophesy.” (Also see Joel 2:28,29, which is virtually the same passage.)
In Acts 9:36, Dorcas is called a “disciple.” “At Joppa there was a certain disciple named Tabitha, which is translated Dorcas. This woman was full of good works and charitable deeds which she did.”
I submit that the few isolated texts that seem to restrict the full redemptive freedom of women must not be interpreted literally and in contradiction to the rest of Scripture.
So, did Jesus think of women? The times in which Jesus lived were difficult times for women. Women were considered little more than chattel and child-bearing machines, easily discarded, and even more easily abused. Jesus, however, rejected the false criteria and double standard of the time, as is evidenced by the many women who followed him. He spoke with the Samaritan woman at the well, (gasp!) alone! (John 4:27) He was friends with Martha, Mary, and Mary Magdalene. He first appeared after His resurrection to women. Women stayed with Him at the cross, while the male disciples ran for their lives. Was it less dangerous for the women to stay at the cross? Hardly.
Jesus in every teaching included and affirmed women as equal beneficiaries of His mercy and grace. Let us look at the well-known incident in which Martha is complaining because Mary isn’t helping her. (See Luke 10:39) Mary is sitting at Jesus’ feet, learning and soaking up the lessons of the Master. Why? If she is not supposed to teach what she has learned, why bother to teach her at all? When the woman with the issue of blood touched the hem of His garment, thereby “defiling” Him according to Jewish law, He didn’t condemn her for doing so, but instead told her, “Your faith has saved you!” (Mark 5:25-34) Hardly the response of someone for whom women were second-class citizens!
Let us explore now some women leaders in the early church. In the Roman catacombs women are shown in frescoes as leading worship, even serving communion, acting as priests. The fresco, from the Priscilla catacomb in Rome, dated to the 1st century, clearly show women in positions of leadership in the early church.
The early church considered Mary Magdalene an “apostle to the apostles,” and Luke relied heavily on the testimony of women as he wrote both Luke and Acts. A number of women served as leaders of house churches, including Priscilla, Phoebe, Chloe, Lydia, Apphia, Nympha, the mother of John Mark, and possibly the “elect lady” of John’s second epistle.
In the 2nd century, Clement of Alexandria wrote that women missionaries accompanied male missionaries “that they might be fellow-ministers in dealing with housewives. It was through them that the Lord’s teaching penetrated also the women’s quarters without any scandal being aroused. We also know the directions about women deacons which are given by the noble Paul in his letter to Timothy.”
Church leader John Chrysostom wrote of Junia, noted by Paul in Romans 16 as being “of note among the apostles,” “Indeed, to be an apostle at all is a great thing, but to be even amongst those of note; just consider what a great encomium that is…Oh, how great is the devotion of this woman, that she should even be counted worthy of the appellation of apostle.”
In Romans 16 Paul calls Phoebe “a deacon of the church at Cenchreae.” He calls her a prostates or overseer. This term in its masculine form, prostates, was later used by the Apostolic Fathers to designate the one presiding over the Eucharist. Paul uses the same verb, the passive of ginomai (to be or become), as he uses in Colossians 1:23, “I was made a minister.” In the passive, the verb sometimes indicated ordination or appointment to an office. Did Paul ordain Phoebe a minister?
Clement of Alexandra, in referring to Phoebe, writes: This text teaches with the authority of the Apostle that even women are instituted deacons in the Church. This is the function which was exercised in the church of Cenchreae by Phoebe, who was the object of high praise and recommendation by Paul…and thus this text teaches at the same time two things; that there are, as we have already said, women deacons in the church, and that women, who by their good works deserve to be praised by the Apostle, ought to be accepted in the deaconate.”
Crescens and Grapte, male and female ministers, are entrusted to deliver the message of the gospel to Philippi around the year 148 A.D. And in 112 A.D. Pliny the Younger interrogate two women ministrae, two women who apparently were considered deacons in the church at that time.
The list of women leaders in the early church is long. Catherine of Alexandria lived in the 2nd century was seen as a spiritual and intellectual leader of the church. Mary of Cassobelae was overseer of a community of both men and women.
St. Thecla is perhaps more well-known, a contemporary of Paul, who forsook her own wealth and high-standing to go to Asia Minor where she preaches, teaches, heals and baptizes.
Anthusa lived from 330 to 374 A.D. and was the mother of John Chrysostom, one of the greatest preachers in the 40th century church. While we don’t know much about Anthusa, we certainly know about her son.
Candace, queen of Ethiopa and mentioned in Acts 8:27, used her conversion to Christianity to promote the gospel.
Cecilia was a martyr of the 2nd century, refusing to marry and devoting her life in service to God.
Helena, the mother of Constantine, is credited with sponsoring the building of the Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem as well as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem.
Marthana, a deaconess, was a ruler over a monastic order of men and women at the shine of St. Thecla. Marcella was a 4th century Christian who taught the gospel from her home.
Perpetua was martyred in 203 A.D. having served the Lord unto death.
The Constitutions of the Holy Apostles, a 4th century document, contains a prayer for the ordination of deaconesses: O Eternal God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Creator of man and of woman, who didst replenish with the Spirit Miriam, and Deborah, and Anna, and Hulduh; who didst not disdain that Thy only begotten Son should be born of a woman; who also in the tabernacle of Thy testimony, and in the temple, didst ordain women to be keepers of Thy holy gates – do Thou now also look down upon this Thy servant, who is to be ordained to the office of a deaconess, and grant her Thy Holy Spirit, and “cleanse her from all filthiness of flesh and spirit,” that she may worthily discharge the work which is committed to her to Thy glory, and the praise of Thy Christ, with whom glory and adoration be to Thee and the Holy Spirit forever. Amen.”
Paula and her friend Principia, 3rd century Christians, opened the first convent for women and devoted themselves to strict asceticism and benevolent service. Olympus was a deaconess of the church at Constantinople.
Let us move on the present day, where women who have called of God to teach and preach are still being denied the right to do so by a misunderstanding of Scripture. The accounts are numerous and saddening. Women are still being denied the right to teach, to preach, to serve the Eucharist. Even Anne Graham Lotz, whom Billy Graham called a better evangelist than himself, had Baptist preachers turn their back on her when she stood up to speak because she was a woman!
As we have seen, then, women have held positions of leadership in both Old Testament and New Testament Biblical times, up to the present day. Paul himself praised women leaders in the church, so his injunction against women speaking and teaching could not have been a blanket statement against all women for all time. Jesus held women in high regard, and it was first to women that He revealed Himself after the resurrection.
I submit, then, that to deny women a leadership role in this community simply on the basis of their gender would be a grave injustice to both the women in this congregation and to the Gospel. We have many women here who would be competent leaders, clear in their thinking, excellent examples to us all, and who love the Lord. Shall we deny these women whom God has called simply because they are anatomically different from men, when Scripture and early church history teaches exactly the opposite?
The Passion of the Christ
The Passion of The Christ
By
Phoenix Mary Grace Hocking
It is not my intent in this article to “review” Mel Gibson’s film The Passion of The Christ. It is more a searching of my own heart to discover the film’s meaning for me, personally. I know I walked away from the theatre a changed woman and seeing my life and my faith in a new way.
Initially I was amazed, even mortified, to see people walk into the theatre with bags of popcorn and candy and sodas, as if they were going to see just some ordinary Hollywood film instead of attending the crucifixion of our Lord. Did they not know? Did they not understand the import of what was to come? Apparently not, and I could only pray, “God, forgive them, because they don’t know what they are doing.”
The movie begins in the Garden of Gethsemane, with Christ’s earthly flesh in terror of the torture He knew was coming. A chilling Satan, smooth-voiced, tries to talk Him out of it. “No man can bear the sins of the world; its too much to ask,” he says, or words to that effect. But when Christ arises from his knees, decision made, He is strong and resolute.
I have seen “Jesus films” before. I have seen Hollywood’s depiction of the crucifixion. Even my favorite Jesus film, Matthew, cleaned up the crucifixion scene to maintain their PG rating. There is no “cleaning up” in The Passion, and the movie is not rated R for nothing.
I have read the Bible. I have read that He was crucified for my sins, and rose again that I might have eternal Life with God. I knew that. My head knew that. But until I saw The Passion my heart didn’t know it. To know He was crucified is one thing. To see it is another.
Compressed into a movie of two hours or so is twelve hours of torture. Unbelievably cruel torture, and watching my Lord be whipped and beaten until he was naught but a bloody mass broke my heart. And even so, even so, what was depicted on the screen was not how it was in real life. In real life, Isaiah says, He was beaten so badly as to not be recognizable as a human being.
In the movie, it is clear in the very beginning the purpose behind Christ’s death. Isaiah 53:4-6: But he took our suffering on him and felt our pain for us. We saw his suffering and thought God was punishing him. But he was wounded for the wrong we did; he was crushed for the evil we did. The punishment, which made us well, was given to him, and we are healed because of his wounds. We all have wandered away like sheep; each of us has gone his own way. But the Lord has put on him the punishment for all the evil we have done.” (The Everyday Bible, New Century Version)
There is more! Get out your Bibles and read the rest of Isaiah 53! There is more! He willingly gave his life and was treated like a criminal. But he carried away the sins of many people and asked forgiveness for those who sinned.
It is Mel Gibson’s hands who nail Christ’s hands to the cross. It was his way of acknowledging his role in Christ’s death. But it could easily have been my own. Or yours. For Christ went to the cross for me; He took my sins upon Himself and went through horrible pain and suffering for me, and with each whip that tore His flesh and each fall and each blow, I flinched. And I cried. I cried for my Lord and my Master, Who did this for me, willingly, lovingly, that I might be saved.
It is almost a relief when He finally makes it to the cross. He had been through such torture, such pain, such humiliation. Once He came to the cross, at least I knew that it was almost over. We, the audience, were spared the hours and hours and hours of watching Him gasp for every breath, blood dripping from His hands and wounds. But He was not spared. He lived through every hour of torture, for me. And for you. His mortal flesh was in agony for us, and yet He was very clear. “No one takes my life from Me,” He says. “I give it up willingly.”
If I have a criticism of the movie, it is that I wish they had spent a little more time on the Resurrection. For Christ not only suffered for us, to take our sins upon Himself, but He rose again, to gain our entrance into Heaven, saved and washed clean.
I would not take a young child to see The Passion. In fact, I would be circumspect about taking any person under the age of perhaps 15 or 16, and even then only if their emotional and spiritual maturity was sufficient. Do not expect to come out of the movie unchanged.
As a side note…I had decided to fast on Fridays as my Lenten discipline this year, and yesterday, every time my wicked earthly flesh started to look for ways to weasel out of the fast, I saw Jesus, beaten and bloody, making His slow painful way to the cross, and I was struck with sorrow. My tiny sacrifice, my little giving up, is nothing, less than nothing, compared to what Christ did for me.
Grateful is too small a word for how I feel. Humbled, and saddened, and profoundly thankful that because of Christ’s sacrifice, I am a child of God. Because of what Christ went through on the cross, because I have seen with my own eyes what He suffered for me, I know that His was no cheap Hollywood death. His was the death that I deserve; and He took it upon Himself, that I might live.
What is man that You are mindful of him? wrote David. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me!
I now have a better understanding of what I mean when I say that Christ died for me. Because I saw it happen, and I know the cost. And because of the price He paid, I am free.
By
Phoenix Mary Grace Hocking
It is not my intent in this article to “review” Mel Gibson’s film The Passion of The Christ. It is more a searching of my own heart to discover the film’s meaning for me, personally. I know I walked away from the theatre a changed woman and seeing my life and my faith in a new way.
Initially I was amazed, even mortified, to see people walk into the theatre with bags of popcorn and candy and sodas, as if they were going to see just some ordinary Hollywood film instead of attending the crucifixion of our Lord. Did they not know? Did they not understand the import of what was to come? Apparently not, and I could only pray, “God, forgive them, because they don’t know what they are doing.”
The movie begins in the Garden of Gethsemane, with Christ’s earthly flesh in terror of the torture He knew was coming. A chilling Satan, smooth-voiced, tries to talk Him out of it. “No man can bear the sins of the world; its too much to ask,” he says, or words to that effect. But when Christ arises from his knees, decision made, He is strong and resolute.
I have seen “Jesus films” before. I have seen Hollywood’s depiction of the crucifixion. Even my favorite Jesus film, Matthew, cleaned up the crucifixion scene to maintain their PG rating. There is no “cleaning up” in The Passion, and the movie is not rated R for nothing.
I have read the Bible. I have read that He was crucified for my sins, and rose again that I might have eternal Life with God. I knew that. My head knew that. But until I saw The Passion my heart didn’t know it. To know He was crucified is one thing. To see it is another.
Compressed into a movie of two hours or so is twelve hours of torture. Unbelievably cruel torture, and watching my Lord be whipped and beaten until he was naught but a bloody mass broke my heart. And even so, even so, what was depicted on the screen was not how it was in real life. In real life, Isaiah says, He was beaten so badly as to not be recognizable as a human being.
In the movie, it is clear in the very beginning the purpose behind Christ’s death. Isaiah 53:4-6: But he took our suffering on him and felt our pain for us. We saw his suffering and thought God was punishing him. But he was wounded for the wrong we did; he was crushed for the evil we did. The punishment, which made us well, was given to him, and we are healed because of his wounds. We all have wandered away like sheep; each of us has gone his own way. But the Lord has put on him the punishment for all the evil we have done.” (The Everyday Bible, New Century Version)
There is more! Get out your Bibles and read the rest of Isaiah 53! There is more! He willingly gave his life and was treated like a criminal. But he carried away the sins of many people and asked forgiveness for those who sinned.
It is Mel Gibson’s hands who nail Christ’s hands to the cross. It was his way of acknowledging his role in Christ’s death. But it could easily have been my own. Or yours. For Christ went to the cross for me; He took my sins upon Himself and went through horrible pain and suffering for me, and with each whip that tore His flesh and each fall and each blow, I flinched. And I cried. I cried for my Lord and my Master, Who did this for me, willingly, lovingly, that I might be saved.
It is almost a relief when He finally makes it to the cross. He had been through such torture, such pain, such humiliation. Once He came to the cross, at least I knew that it was almost over. We, the audience, were spared the hours and hours and hours of watching Him gasp for every breath, blood dripping from His hands and wounds. But He was not spared. He lived through every hour of torture, for me. And for you. His mortal flesh was in agony for us, and yet He was very clear. “No one takes my life from Me,” He says. “I give it up willingly.”
If I have a criticism of the movie, it is that I wish they had spent a little more time on the Resurrection. For Christ not only suffered for us, to take our sins upon Himself, but He rose again, to gain our entrance into Heaven, saved and washed clean.
I would not take a young child to see The Passion. In fact, I would be circumspect about taking any person under the age of perhaps 15 or 16, and even then only if their emotional and spiritual maturity was sufficient. Do not expect to come out of the movie unchanged.
As a side note…I had decided to fast on Fridays as my Lenten discipline this year, and yesterday, every time my wicked earthly flesh started to look for ways to weasel out of the fast, I saw Jesus, beaten and bloody, making His slow painful way to the cross, and I was struck with sorrow. My tiny sacrifice, my little giving up, is nothing, less than nothing, compared to what Christ did for me.
Grateful is too small a word for how I feel. Humbled, and saddened, and profoundly thankful that because of Christ’s sacrifice, I am a child of God. Because of what Christ went through on the cross, because I have seen with my own eyes what He suffered for me, I know that His was no cheap Hollywood death. His was the death that I deserve; and He took it upon Himself, that I might live.
What is man that You are mindful of him? wrote David. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me!
I now have a better understanding of what I mean when I say that Christ died for me. Because I saw it happen, and I know the cost. And because of the price He paid, I am free.
the Doorkeeper's Lament
The Doorkeeper’s Lament
By
Phoenix Mary Grace Hocking
Narrow the door is, like the eye of a needle, and few there are that find it, no matter how lustily I call and wave my arms. I can shout or I can whisper, it makes no difference. The world passes by unseeing, unknowing, not wanting what lies on the other side.
It’s not that the door is all that difficult to find. It’s right here in plain sight. It stands on every street corner, in every church, in every bar, in every bedroom. It stands high on the hills, and down in the gutters. The door stands open, ready, waiting. And I stand at the door, calling, calling, calling.
No, the door is not difficult to find. It’s just that there are other doors so much more attractive, more numerous, not to mention wider. Doors surrounded by bright lights and neon signs, doors that promise wealth and success, pleasure and ease, even doors that promise service in the great army of God. The wide paths leading to these wide doors are bordered with flowers and beautiful statuary.
Ah, but the path that leads to this door, well, that’s another story. This path is rocky and flanked with thorn bushes. It is a lonely path, a path meant for single-file,
Hocking – 2
unlike the wide paths that lead to wide doors that swallow whole groups of souls with barely a burp.
No, this path is so narrow it requires those who walk it to leave everything behind, possessions and people alike. And what modern person in his right mind would willingly choose such a path, when others stand beckoning on either side for miles around? Why, a camel with its pack could not enter this door; only a single soul, naked and bare may enter, and who wants that?
Some find the door in their youth and walk right in. For others, the search takes a lifetime and some only find it at the very last second. Either way, the door stands open and ready to receive; all that is required is acceptance of the Gift offered.
Ah, but sometimes it seems a lonely job, this, but not a thankless one. For occasionally, someone hears my call. Someone stops his mad rush towards the wider door and pauses to listen. This someone listens for that still, small voice, the voice that says, “Come. Come unto Me. Come.” And that someone turns and, ignoring the gaping maws that promise success and pleasure, this person chooses the rocky path, the narrow path, the thorny path.
You see, as Doorkeeper, I know what is on the Other Side of the door, both this door and the others. Wide are the paths that lead to the wide doors that lead to emptiness. Attractive and pleasant and beautiful are they, until you get inside and find all is darkness.
Hocking – 3
The good news is that those doors swing both ways. Some who enter discover that all that glitters definitely is not gold, and somehow manage to find their way back out again. It happens; it happens. Not often enough to suit me, but it happens.
Sometimes they choose another wide door, and another, and another, until finally, exhausted and empty, they sit at the roadside and cry.
And their Father hears their cry; He always does. He hears and He answers, and He shows them the narrow path that leads to the narrow door. And sometimes, sometimes, they hear and they listen and they follow.
It’s a rocky path, flanked with thorn bushes, and sometimes a person starts on the path and gives up. They turn around and go back to the wide doors, the easy paths. And then I cry, because if they had only continued on, they would have found the door that leads to Life.
And sometimes, oh sometimes, a person picks his way along the rocky path, and braves the thorns and suffers through the scrapes and bruises and pains until he or she stands before the narrow door, naked and bleeding and empty.
That is when my job as Doorkeeper becomes a position of pure and utter joy. For then I can wrap this weary soul in a robe, white as snow, and put My arm around them, and say, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.”
By
Phoenix Mary Grace Hocking
Narrow the door is, like the eye of a needle, and few there are that find it, no matter how lustily I call and wave my arms. I can shout or I can whisper, it makes no difference. The world passes by unseeing, unknowing, not wanting what lies on the other side.
It’s not that the door is all that difficult to find. It’s right here in plain sight. It stands on every street corner, in every church, in every bar, in every bedroom. It stands high on the hills, and down in the gutters. The door stands open, ready, waiting. And I stand at the door, calling, calling, calling.
No, the door is not difficult to find. It’s just that there are other doors so much more attractive, more numerous, not to mention wider. Doors surrounded by bright lights and neon signs, doors that promise wealth and success, pleasure and ease, even doors that promise service in the great army of God. The wide paths leading to these wide doors are bordered with flowers and beautiful statuary.
Ah, but the path that leads to this door, well, that’s another story. This path is rocky and flanked with thorn bushes. It is a lonely path, a path meant for single-file,
Hocking – 2
unlike the wide paths that lead to wide doors that swallow whole groups of souls with barely a burp.
No, this path is so narrow it requires those who walk it to leave everything behind, possessions and people alike. And what modern person in his right mind would willingly choose such a path, when others stand beckoning on either side for miles around? Why, a camel with its pack could not enter this door; only a single soul, naked and bare may enter, and who wants that?
Some find the door in their youth and walk right in. For others, the search takes a lifetime and some only find it at the very last second. Either way, the door stands open and ready to receive; all that is required is acceptance of the Gift offered.
Ah, but sometimes it seems a lonely job, this, but not a thankless one. For occasionally, someone hears my call. Someone stops his mad rush towards the wider door and pauses to listen. This someone listens for that still, small voice, the voice that says, “Come. Come unto Me. Come.” And that someone turns and, ignoring the gaping maws that promise success and pleasure, this person chooses the rocky path, the narrow path, the thorny path.
You see, as Doorkeeper, I know what is on the Other Side of the door, both this door and the others. Wide are the paths that lead to the wide doors that lead to emptiness. Attractive and pleasant and beautiful are they, until you get inside and find all is darkness.
Hocking – 3
The good news is that those doors swing both ways. Some who enter discover that all that glitters definitely is not gold, and somehow manage to find their way back out again. It happens; it happens. Not often enough to suit me, but it happens.
Sometimes they choose another wide door, and another, and another, until finally, exhausted and empty, they sit at the roadside and cry.
And their Father hears their cry; He always does. He hears and He answers, and He shows them the narrow path that leads to the narrow door. And sometimes, sometimes, they hear and they listen and they follow.
It’s a rocky path, flanked with thorn bushes, and sometimes a person starts on the path and gives up. They turn around and go back to the wide doors, the easy paths. And then I cry, because if they had only continued on, they would have found the door that leads to Life.
And sometimes, oh sometimes, a person picks his way along the rocky path, and braves the thorns and suffers through the scrapes and bruises and pains until he or she stands before the narrow door, naked and bleeding and empty.
That is when my job as Doorkeeper becomes a position of pure and utter joy. For then I can wrap this weary soul in a robe, white as snow, and put My arm around them, and say, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.”
The Christmas Castle
THE CHRISTMAS CASTLE
BY
PHOENIX MARY GRACE HOCKING
Emery Grimsby finished staining the drawbridge on the music box he had completed for his mother. It wasn’t anything like what his famous father would have made, but it was as good as Emery’s twelve-year-old hands could construct, and he was proud of it. A box exactly the right size, with Styrofoam peanut packaging beside it, waited for its treasure on the workbench.
It really was a stunning piece of work, far better than most twelve-year-old boys would have even attempted. But Emery wasn’t Horace Grimsby’s son for nothing, and he had learned to shape and whittle and coax bare wood into works of art at his father’s knee.
The music box resembled a medieval castle, and stood almost as high as Emery’s waist. For an entire year Emery had worked on the castle, shaping turrets and drawbridge and moat, complete with tiny crocodile sticking its snout out of the plastic water. Flags resplendent with lions flew from the turrets, and a fair maiden leaned out of one of the windows, apparently seeking the horizon for her wayward knight.
When the drawbridge was raised, a tune would play, but so far Emery had not decided exactly which tune. He wanted something medieval, but so far no medieval piece had spoken to his heart, and it was almost Christmas. He would have to decide soon.
“Emery!”
He walked to the workshop doorway. “Yes, Mom?”
“Time for lunch.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Emery carefully replaced the lid on the can of stain and put it back in its assigned place on the shelf. His father, Horace Grimsby, might still look like the Sheriff’s Deputy he once had been, with a chaw of tobacco in one cheek and the vocabulary of a seventh-grader, but he knew how to care for his tools and had passed that on to his son. Horace Grimsby was now a renowned sculptor and artisan and his workshop was clean as a whistle, with every tool in place and not a wood shaving in sight on the floor.
Emery slid the bolt of the workshop door into place and headed for the kitchen. Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. He’d been out in the workshop since early morning, with only a piece of toast with peanut butter and jam on it for breakfast. His stomach rumbled as he walked through the back door, stopping the screen just before it slammed.
Annie Grimsby couldn’t have looked more like an Arkansas housewife if she had made the mold for one herself. Tall and slightly plump, her skin had been darkened by many a long summer, and the lines in her face showed character and strength. She had fallen in love with her husband in grade school and neither cared much for book-learning, but instead loved the land and the outdoors and four-legged creatures.
Today, she stood at the kitchen island, four slices of homemade rye bread on the counter, Sweet Lebanon Bologna and a block of Cheddar cheese fresh from the Mennonite deli in town waited for Emery to wash his hands. Quickly, she spread her bread with Miracle Whip, and his with mustard, added some Romaine and a few slices of tomato, put the sandwich together and placed the two plates on the table.
Annie sat opposite her son and they both bowed their heads. “Dear Lord,” Emery began, “thank You for this food, and bless us as we go about Your business this day. Amen. Where’s Dad?”
“He went into town to get some supplies,” Annie answered. “I think he needs to finish one project for a client before Christmas. Have you seen what he’s working on?”
Annie was not allowed in the workshop, which was fine with her. Annie’s province was the house, the kitchen, and the garden and she was perfectly content there. She was a housewife down to her socks, and never felt the less for it. She kept a clean house, cared well for her husband and son, and provided many a comforting word for friends and neighbors, and that was all she felt God required of her.
“Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful!” Emery chewed his sandwich quickly. His Mom did not like to see half-masticated food in someone’s mouth at the table, so he chewed and swallowed, then took a drink of milk. “You remember Mrs. O’Hanlon’s little boy, Tommy? The one that died? Well, Dad has made a sculpture of him, and Mom, you’d think it was going to breathe and laugh it looks so real.”
“What’s Tommy doing?” asked Annie, for Horace never made a sculpture of anybody just standing there, doing nothing for all eternity. Horace’s sculptures were always doing something.
“Playing marbles.”
Annie laughed. “Of course!” she said. “That’s what Tommy liked to do best!” She took a sip of her own coffee, laced with Hazelnut creamer and a touch of sugar. “And what are you working on, out there in the workshop?” she asked with a grin.
“Ah, Mom,” Emery said. “You know I can’t tell you. It’s almost Christmas!”
Annie smiled. “I know.”
When Emery was just five he had made her a birdhouse for Christmas. Just slightly better than crude, it still showed promise. Horace insisted that all the work be done by Emery, with only pointers being given by himself. When Emery was six he painted some readymade pottery for her, and at seven he had graduated to throwing pots himself.
By nine he was experimenting with woodcraft, learning to whittle and sand and paint. That year he had made her another birdhouse, significantly better than the first, with rooms for more than one bird family.
At ten he learned to use power tools, but he didn’t like them much. He preferred to feel the wood in his hands, a living, breathing thing that just waited for his touch to make it come alive. He said he felt like a surgeon, gently removing parts that did not belong and healing those that did. That year he whittled an entire Nativity set for Annie, and she was stunned at the detail and life he had placed in the figures.
Last year he tried sculpting, but managed only a mediocre piece of a small dog. The dog, jumping up in the air for a Frisbee, hair flying and open-mouthed, should have been beautiful, but it lacked life and he was not pleased with it. To Annie it was lovely, but to Emery it wasn’t even close to the works of his father, so for him it was only okay.
Ah, but this year! He had begun in January, assembling the wood needed for the castle, whittling by hand the small figures placed in and around the castle. He had finished putting the last coat of stain on the drawbridge this morning, and all that remained was to find just the right tune.
“Thanks, Mom,” Emery said, rising to put his plate in the sink. “I’m going to go do some research.”
Upstairs, Emery turned on the computer and logged on to the Internet. Maybe some tune would present itself there. He typed “Medieval Music” into Google, and waited. Amazingly, a number of website appeared, many with music he could listen to, and listen he did, until his brain reeled with conflicting sounds.
And finally, finally, “Aha!”
Back downstairs, Emery rushed to the workshop. It was only a week until Christmas, and now he not only had the perfect tune, but had one more project to go with it.
Horace and Annie barely saw Emery all week. He was up before dawn, barely ate at meals, and only staggered in from the workshop when Annie came to the door and threatened to look at the project. Ah, but this! This! This would be his crowning achievement, his glory! This would be perfect!
And finally, Christmas Eve day. Emery had been in the workshop since before the rooster first stirred. About noon, he came in from the workshop, a satisfied look on his face. “It’s finished,” he said. “I think I’m going to take a nap.”
Dinner was a brief affair, consisting of leftover spaghetti and garlic bread. They went to the early service at church and were home around 10:00. Emery fairly danced around the room in excitement. He and Horace had had their heads together all day, coming in and out of the workshop, both with silly satisfied grins on their faces. It was driving Annie crazy.
“Well,” she finally said. “ I guess maybe I’ll hit the hay. Are you guys coming up?”
Horace and Emery just smiled. “Oh, maybe in a few minutes,” Emery said. “You go ahead on up. We’ll see you in the morning.”
Well, it was more than a few minutes. It was more like midnight before two sets of tired feet came up the stairs and whispers on the landing took place. Annie was bursting with curiosity, but forbear to listen. She simply turned her radio up just a little louder, and let Christmas music lull her to sleep.
Annie woke to the aroma of coffee and bacon, a family tradition. She put on her robe and slippers, and clumped noisily down the stairs, to let them know she was coming. Emery met her at the foot of the stairs, as she had known he would. “Close your eyes,” he said, and took her hand.
Emery led Annie into the living room, and sat her in her favorite chair. “Not yet!” he said, as she attempted to open her eyes. “First, I have a story to tell.”
She listened as he positioned himself in front of her. “It was the year 1223, and St. Francis of Assisi wanted to know just what the scene at Christ’s birth must have looked like. He wanted to know the scent of the hay, and the noise of the animals, and the first cries of the Christ child. Thomas of Celano, when he chronicled the event, said that the surrounding woods rang out with holy songs.”
A sound, a tune, a gay and definitely Medieval melody suddenly surrounded Annie and she gasped with pleasure. La Quinte Estampil Real was her favorite of all medieval music, and there was no way Emery could have known that. Then she heard a cow’s soft lowing, and a goat bleating, and even a baby’s tiny cry.
“Ok,” Emery said, “you can open your eyes now.”
Annie opened her eyes, and Emery moved away from in front of her. Annie put her hand to her throat and immediately burst into tears. Before her was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Emery’s castle had been transformed. Yes, it was as beautiful as before, flags waving from the turrets and the moat’s plastic water seeming to ripple and shine. The fair maiden continued to look out the window, but no longer for her knight. Instead her gaze was directed to the newly constructed courtyard.
Francis’ vision, his “new Bethlehem” was carved in minute and exquisite detail. Mary’s face radiated a peace and joy that was so real Annie almost expected her to start singing. Joseph stood protectively nearby, eyes fixed on the Child. Shepherds, Wise Men, the little Drummer Boy, all were there to worship the Child.
The crowning glory, though, was St. Francis, watching the scene as he had recreated it in The Year of our Lord, 1223. Francis’ face shone with a joy beyond understanding. His tonsured head was carved to show the very hairs, the folds of his simple gown seeming to move in the breeze. And all the soft sounds of a Holy Night, interspersed with Crusader music spun Annie’s soul around the room in a Heavenly dance, transporting her to a Night and a Time long ago, when God came to earth.
Annie stood up and wrapped her son in an embrace, tears flowing freely. “Oh, Emery,” she breathed. “It’s so beautiful.”
So Christmas Day came and went; and many times throughout the year Annie would lift the drawbridge and smile as the strains of La Quinte Estampil Real filled the room, and consider herself just very possibly the luckiest woman in the entire universe.
The End
2042 words
BY
PHOENIX MARY GRACE HOCKING
Emery Grimsby finished staining the drawbridge on the music box he had completed for his mother. It wasn’t anything like what his famous father would have made, but it was as good as Emery’s twelve-year-old hands could construct, and he was proud of it. A box exactly the right size, with Styrofoam peanut packaging beside it, waited for its treasure on the workbench.
It really was a stunning piece of work, far better than most twelve-year-old boys would have even attempted. But Emery wasn’t Horace Grimsby’s son for nothing, and he had learned to shape and whittle and coax bare wood into works of art at his father’s knee.
The music box resembled a medieval castle, and stood almost as high as Emery’s waist. For an entire year Emery had worked on the castle, shaping turrets and drawbridge and moat, complete with tiny crocodile sticking its snout out of the plastic water. Flags resplendent with lions flew from the turrets, and a fair maiden leaned out of one of the windows, apparently seeking the horizon for her wayward knight.
When the drawbridge was raised, a tune would play, but so far Emery had not decided exactly which tune. He wanted something medieval, but so far no medieval piece had spoken to his heart, and it was almost Christmas. He would have to decide soon.
“Emery!”
He walked to the workshop doorway. “Yes, Mom?”
“Time for lunch.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Emery carefully replaced the lid on the can of stain and put it back in its assigned place on the shelf. His father, Horace Grimsby, might still look like the Sheriff’s Deputy he once had been, with a chaw of tobacco in one cheek and the vocabulary of a seventh-grader, but he knew how to care for his tools and had passed that on to his son. Horace Grimsby was now a renowned sculptor and artisan and his workshop was clean as a whistle, with every tool in place and not a wood shaving in sight on the floor.
Emery slid the bolt of the workshop door into place and headed for the kitchen. Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. He’d been out in the workshop since early morning, with only a piece of toast with peanut butter and jam on it for breakfast. His stomach rumbled as he walked through the back door, stopping the screen just before it slammed.
Annie Grimsby couldn’t have looked more like an Arkansas housewife if she had made the mold for one herself. Tall and slightly plump, her skin had been darkened by many a long summer, and the lines in her face showed character and strength. She had fallen in love with her husband in grade school and neither cared much for book-learning, but instead loved the land and the outdoors and four-legged creatures.
Today, she stood at the kitchen island, four slices of homemade rye bread on the counter, Sweet Lebanon Bologna and a block of Cheddar cheese fresh from the Mennonite deli in town waited for Emery to wash his hands. Quickly, she spread her bread with Miracle Whip, and his with mustard, added some Romaine and a few slices of tomato, put the sandwich together and placed the two plates on the table.
Annie sat opposite her son and they both bowed their heads. “Dear Lord,” Emery began, “thank You for this food, and bless us as we go about Your business this day. Amen. Where’s Dad?”
“He went into town to get some supplies,” Annie answered. “I think he needs to finish one project for a client before Christmas. Have you seen what he’s working on?”
Annie was not allowed in the workshop, which was fine with her. Annie’s province was the house, the kitchen, and the garden and she was perfectly content there. She was a housewife down to her socks, and never felt the less for it. She kept a clean house, cared well for her husband and son, and provided many a comforting word for friends and neighbors, and that was all she felt God required of her.
“Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful!” Emery chewed his sandwich quickly. His Mom did not like to see half-masticated food in someone’s mouth at the table, so he chewed and swallowed, then took a drink of milk. “You remember Mrs. O’Hanlon’s little boy, Tommy? The one that died? Well, Dad has made a sculpture of him, and Mom, you’d think it was going to breathe and laugh it looks so real.”
“What’s Tommy doing?” asked Annie, for Horace never made a sculpture of anybody just standing there, doing nothing for all eternity. Horace’s sculptures were always doing something.
“Playing marbles.”
Annie laughed. “Of course!” she said. “That’s what Tommy liked to do best!” She took a sip of her own coffee, laced with Hazelnut creamer and a touch of sugar. “And what are you working on, out there in the workshop?” she asked with a grin.
“Ah, Mom,” Emery said. “You know I can’t tell you. It’s almost Christmas!”
Annie smiled. “I know.”
When Emery was just five he had made her a birdhouse for Christmas. Just slightly better than crude, it still showed promise. Horace insisted that all the work be done by Emery, with only pointers being given by himself. When Emery was six he painted some readymade pottery for her, and at seven he had graduated to throwing pots himself.
By nine he was experimenting with woodcraft, learning to whittle and sand and paint. That year he had made her another birdhouse, significantly better than the first, with rooms for more than one bird family.
At ten he learned to use power tools, but he didn’t like them much. He preferred to feel the wood in his hands, a living, breathing thing that just waited for his touch to make it come alive. He said he felt like a surgeon, gently removing parts that did not belong and healing those that did. That year he whittled an entire Nativity set for Annie, and she was stunned at the detail and life he had placed in the figures.
Last year he tried sculpting, but managed only a mediocre piece of a small dog. The dog, jumping up in the air for a Frisbee, hair flying and open-mouthed, should have been beautiful, but it lacked life and he was not pleased with it. To Annie it was lovely, but to Emery it wasn’t even close to the works of his father, so for him it was only okay.
Ah, but this year! He had begun in January, assembling the wood needed for the castle, whittling by hand the small figures placed in and around the castle. He had finished putting the last coat of stain on the drawbridge this morning, and all that remained was to find just the right tune.
“Thanks, Mom,” Emery said, rising to put his plate in the sink. “I’m going to go do some research.”
Upstairs, Emery turned on the computer and logged on to the Internet. Maybe some tune would present itself there. He typed “Medieval Music” into Google, and waited. Amazingly, a number of website appeared, many with music he could listen to, and listen he did, until his brain reeled with conflicting sounds.
And finally, finally, “Aha!”
Back downstairs, Emery rushed to the workshop. It was only a week until Christmas, and now he not only had the perfect tune, but had one more project to go with it.
Horace and Annie barely saw Emery all week. He was up before dawn, barely ate at meals, and only staggered in from the workshop when Annie came to the door and threatened to look at the project. Ah, but this! This! This would be his crowning achievement, his glory! This would be perfect!
And finally, Christmas Eve day. Emery had been in the workshop since before the rooster first stirred. About noon, he came in from the workshop, a satisfied look on his face. “It’s finished,” he said. “I think I’m going to take a nap.”
Dinner was a brief affair, consisting of leftover spaghetti and garlic bread. They went to the early service at church and were home around 10:00. Emery fairly danced around the room in excitement. He and Horace had had their heads together all day, coming in and out of the workshop, both with silly satisfied grins on their faces. It was driving Annie crazy.
“Well,” she finally said. “ I guess maybe I’ll hit the hay. Are you guys coming up?”
Horace and Emery just smiled. “Oh, maybe in a few minutes,” Emery said. “You go ahead on up. We’ll see you in the morning.”
Well, it was more than a few minutes. It was more like midnight before two sets of tired feet came up the stairs and whispers on the landing took place. Annie was bursting with curiosity, but forbear to listen. She simply turned her radio up just a little louder, and let Christmas music lull her to sleep.
Annie woke to the aroma of coffee and bacon, a family tradition. She put on her robe and slippers, and clumped noisily down the stairs, to let them know she was coming. Emery met her at the foot of the stairs, as she had known he would. “Close your eyes,” he said, and took her hand.
Emery led Annie into the living room, and sat her in her favorite chair. “Not yet!” he said, as she attempted to open her eyes. “First, I have a story to tell.”
She listened as he positioned himself in front of her. “It was the year 1223, and St. Francis of Assisi wanted to know just what the scene at Christ’s birth must have looked like. He wanted to know the scent of the hay, and the noise of the animals, and the first cries of the Christ child. Thomas of Celano, when he chronicled the event, said that the surrounding woods rang out with holy songs.”
A sound, a tune, a gay and definitely Medieval melody suddenly surrounded Annie and she gasped with pleasure. La Quinte Estampil Real was her favorite of all medieval music, and there was no way Emery could have known that. Then she heard a cow’s soft lowing, and a goat bleating, and even a baby’s tiny cry.
“Ok,” Emery said, “you can open your eyes now.”
Annie opened her eyes, and Emery moved away from in front of her. Annie put her hand to her throat and immediately burst into tears. Before her was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Emery’s castle had been transformed. Yes, it was as beautiful as before, flags waving from the turrets and the moat’s plastic water seeming to ripple and shine. The fair maiden continued to look out the window, but no longer for her knight. Instead her gaze was directed to the newly constructed courtyard.
Francis’ vision, his “new Bethlehem” was carved in minute and exquisite detail. Mary’s face radiated a peace and joy that was so real Annie almost expected her to start singing. Joseph stood protectively nearby, eyes fixed on the Child. Shepherds, Wise Men, the little Drummer Boy, all were there to worship the Child.
The crowning glory, though, was St. Francis, watching the scene as he had recreated it in The Year of our Lord, 1223. Francis’ face shone with a joy beyond understanding. His tonsured head was carved to show the very hairs, the folds of his simple gown seeming to move in the breeze. And all the soft sounds of a Holy Night, interspersed with Crusader music spun Annie’s soul around the room in a Heavenly dance, transporting her to a Night and a Time long ago, when God came to earth.
Annie stood up and wrapped her son in an embrace, tears flowing freely. “Oh, Emery,” she breathed. “It’s so beautiful.”
So Christmas Day came and went; and many times throughout the year Annie would lift the drawbridge and smile as the strains of La Quinte Estampil Real filled the room, and consider herself just very possibly the luckiest woman in the entire universe.
The End
2042 words
Portfolio of Published Works
Portfolio of Published Works
Phoenix Mary Grace Hocking
BOOKS
Living With Your Selves –
A Survival Manual for People with Multiple Personality Disorder
Launch Press, 1992
Someone I Know Has Multiple Personalities –
A Book for Significant Others: Family, Friends
And Caring Professionals
Launch Press, 1994
37 to One – Living as an Integrated Multiple
Safer Society Press, 1996
PUBLISHED WORKS
The Mask of the False Fine-Fine
Poems to Our Therapists, Many Voices, 1996
Where I’ve Been, Where I’m Going
Mending Ourselves, Many Voices, 1993
You Think You Know Me
Many Voices, October, 1991
Musings About A Therapist’s Touch – In Three Parts
Many Voices, August, 1991
The Dream
Beyond Survival, Volume 3, #2, 1992
Multiple Personality Disorder and Massage
Massage and Bodywork, Fall 1995
Submissions
The Final Draft Newsletter, April 1998
Please Help Rescue Pets From Death
Redding Record Searchlight, February 1997
Answers
For Crying Out Loud, Winter, 1990
Real Reform Could Change Prisons
Redding Record Searchlight, February, 1996
The Passion of The Christ
Redding Record Searchlight, March, 2004
CHRISTIAN QUARTERLY ARTICLES
Journeys – Reflections On The Book Of Ruth
Spring, 1997
What Is An Oblate?
Winter, 1999-2000
The Jericho Project
Summer, 1999
The Green Mile
Spring, 2000
Let’s Talk About The Boy
Summer, 2000
Follow Me
Spring, 1999
Daughter of Abraham
Spring 2003
What’s In A Name?
Spring, 2003
Names and Voices, A Spiritual Autobiography
Spring, 2003
SELF-PUBLISHED WORKS
Love Across The Miles and Other Poems
1984
Whitehall Inn and Other Poems
1991
Give Me Wings!
1990
The Old Woman and Other Stories
1994
The Tails of Maximillion Mouse
1996
Nothing More and Nothing Less
2000
Summer Storm and Other Stories
2003
Phoenix Mary Grace Hocking
BOOKS
Living With Your Selves –
A Survival Manual for People with Multiple Personality Disorder
Launch Press, 1992
Someone I Know Has Multiple Personalities –
A Book for Significant Others: Family, Friends
And Caring Professionals
Launch Press, 1994
37 to One – Living as an Integrated Multiple
Safer Society Press, 1996
PUBLISHED WORKS
The Mask of the False Fine-Fine
Poems to Our Therapists, Many Voices, 1996
Where I’ve Been, Where I’m Going
Mending Ourselves, Many Voices, 1993
You Think You Know Me
Many Voices, October, 1991
Musings About A Therapist’s Touch – In Three Parts
Many Voices, August, 1991
The Dream
Beyond Survival, Volume 3, #2, 1992
Multiple Personality Disorder and Massage
Massage and Bodywork, Fall 1995
Submissions
The Final Draft Newsletter, April 1998
Please Help Rescue Pets From Death
Redding Record Searchlight, February 1997
Answers
For Crying Out Loud, Winter, 1990
Real Reform Could Change Prisons
Redding Record Searchlight, February, 1996
The Passion of The Christ
Redding Record Searchlight, March, 2004
CHRISTIAN QUARTERLY ARTICLES
Journeys – Reflections On The Book Of Ruth
Spring, 1997
What Is An Oblate?
Winter, 1999-2000
The Jericho Project
Summer, 1999
The Green Mile
Spring, 2000
Let’s Talk About The Boy
Summer, 2000
Follow Me
Spring, 1999
Daughter of Abraham
Spring 2003
What’s In A Name?
Spring, 2003
Names and Voices, A Spiritual Autobiography
Spring, 2003
SELF-PUBLISHED WORKS
Love Across The Miles and Other Poems
1984
Whitehall Inn and Other Poems
1991
Give Me Wings!
1990
The Old Woman and Other Stories
1994
The Tails of Maximillion Mouse
1996
Nothing More and Nothing Less
2000
Summer Storm and Other Stories
2003
The Police Report
THE POLICE REPORT
by
Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking
The deputy leaned forward and shot a stream of brown tobacco juice directly bull's-eye into the middle of my clean kitchen sink. It splashed and splattered all over the sink and counter spraying onto the white Sugar canister nearby.
"Horace Grimsby!" 1 said tightly, "I will thank you not to use my kitchen as a
spittoon!" 1 wet the sponge and began to clean up the mess, grimacing as 1 did so. "Now, you just get rid of that!"
"Yes, Ma'am." Horace got up, hitched up his belt so you couldn't see the elastic of his boxer shorts anymore, and sauntered to the screen door. He looked around for a minute, and
then spat his wad into my flowerbed.
"Horace!"
"Well," he exclaimed defensively, "Lily says its good for the roses."
1 sighed. "They aren't roses; they're Sweet William. And tobacco juice is definitely not
good for them!"
"Ah, Miz Collins, all flowers is roses to me."
1 sighed again. Of all the people in God's green earth 1 did not want to have to tell my
story to, it was Horace Grimsby. Horace was positively the most uncouth man 1 had ever laid eyes on, and 1 couldn't imagine how John Parker (that's the sherift) kept him on. Pity, maybe. Even so, Horace is who came in response to my call, so Horace is whom I got.
I'd had Horace in my seventh grade class some years ago, and he wasn't any better then than he was now. Horace was a slob in high school, and it looked like time hadn't done him an) favors in that regard.
Why, 1 remember once, when 1 spoke to him about how low he was wearing his pants, he leered at me and said, "All the better to moon you with, my dear!" Then he dropped his drawers right there in front of God and everybody, and shook his frogbelly white butt at me!
Well, you can be sure 1 snatched him up by his ear, pants flopping around his knees, marched him directly into the Principal's office and got that boy suspended for a week!
And now Horace was leaning back on the two back legs of my kitchen chair, minus the wad of tobacco that seemed to have permanently disfigured his face, and got out his pad and pel Sunset was just golding up the sky outside, and the neighborhood was quiet. "Now, Miz Collins what seems to be the trouble?"
"First off," 1 started, but he intercepted my reproach and bam! the two front legs of my
chair came down and Horace was sitting up proper. "That's better."
"Yes'm?"
Of all the dadblammed idiots to have to tell this to. 1 was tempted to just say, never mind it's not important, and ask John Parker to send me somebody else. But Charlie Scott was worse if that were possible, than Horace. And that new little girl, Maybelle Manners, was just a little too young and green to be of much help here.
"Well, Horace," 1 began, "it's like this."
Pen poised, Horace looked up expectantly. His mouth worked like he still had a wad in
it, and for a moment 1 was fascinated watching his jaw worry something that wasn't there. You're procrastinating.
"Okay, here's what happened." 1 took a deep breath. "I saw a man."
"Yes'm?"
Lordy, was he going to make me spell it out for him?
"I saw a man, I said."
Horace looked puzzled. "And where was the man, Ma'am?"
I lowered my voice. "In my bedroom."
"In your bedroom, Ma'am?" Horace sounded as if that were the most unlikely place for a man to be found, and in that he was one hundred percent correct. I had not had a man in my
bedroom in my entire life, and at sixty-seven I certainly was NOT going to start now!
"And what was the man doing in your bedroom, Miz Collins?"
"Sleeping. "
"Sleeping?" Now Horace really was puzzled. "Why was a man sleeping in your
bedroom, Miz Collins? You all got comp'ny?"
"If he were company, I would not have called you, now would I?" The man really was
an idiot.
"Now, Miz Collins, ain't no call to talk to me like that." Horace sounded offended. "I'm just trying to find out why you called the po-lice." He made the word into two very separate syllables, and I wondered at my skills as an English teacher all those years ago.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I was. I was just so rattled I could hardly think, and having to deal with Horace didn't make things any easier. His jaw worked the nonexistent wad oftobacco
and his eyes were bright with curiosity.
"And where is the man now, Miz Collins?"
"Well, unless he's moved, he's still there."
Horace jumped up out of the chair like a snake had crawled out ftom under the reftigerator. "What?!" He reached for his gun and made for the door. "You mean we been sitting here talking about this stranger and he's still in the house? Land sakes, Miz Collins, are you crazy?"
"Oh, its okay, Horace, he's not going anywhere." I led the way into my bedroom, where no man had ever entered, until today anyway. Well, first time for everything, I thought. Might a well have two men in the bedroom as one.
My bedroom looks pretty much like you'd expect a sixty-seven year old woman's bedroom to look. The furniture is dark and a little too large for the room. Have my dresser against one wall, and the vanity with mirror against another. The closet door was open, and I closed it as I walked by. No sense in letting Horace Grimsby see what didn't pertain to him.
I have a nice bed. It matches the dresser and the vanity and once belonged to my own mother, God rest her soul. Normally, this time of a morning, the bed would be made and my coverlet would be its crowning glory, hand-crocheted by yours truly one cold winter a few years back.
Instead of seeing my handiwork, though, what you saw when you entered was a smallish, stoutish, angry and scared young man, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in the middle of my bed. What I had told Horace was true enough, though. He wasn't going anywhere.
The sash of my bathrobe held his ankles together; his wrists were behind his back and snugged up tight by a belt to an old dress I don't wear anymore. Once I had him trussed, I got some rope ftom the garage and attached him to each corner of the bedpost, so the young man lie squirming in the middle of the bed, looking for all the world like some heathen sacrifice.
I had taped his mouth shut with duct tape, and his eyes looked huge and ftightened,
running between Horace and I like he was watching a tennis match.
"Now, young man," Horace said, walking slowly towards him. "I'm just going to take
this tape off your mouth and you can tell us what you're doing in Miz Collins' bedroom, ok?"
Well, the only way to get tape off is to give it a yank, and that's what Horace did, which
sent a stream of profanity cascading into my bedroom like an unholy waterfall.
"That's why I taped his mouth shut in the first place," I eXplained to Horace.
"Settle down, settle down!" Horace told the young man, who seemed to be running out
of steam. "Just tell us who you are and what you're doing in here."
"Names Buck Johnson," he began. "I live down McKinleyville, 'cross the holler. Come
over to see my girlftiend."
"And how did you end up in Miz Collins' bedroom?"
Buck looked a bit sheepish, as well he should. "Well, I had a bit to drink afore I got hen
you see, and I thought I was in Matilda's house. She said she'd leave the back door open for m( and I should wait for her in her bedroom. So that's what I did. Except I guess I didn't get the
right house, did IT'
"Matilda?" I asked. "Are you talking about Matilda Sawyers, the little girl who lives
next door?"
"Yes, Ma'am!" Buck said. "We's gonna get married when we gets outta high school,
Ma'am. Taint's like we's doing anything wrong."
"You most certainly are!" I snapped. "Don't you have any upbringing at all?" I turned to Horace. "Horace, you untie this little heathen while I go next door and talk to Matilda's mother. "
Horace went about the business of getting all the knots out of the various ties, sashes an, ropes that bound Buck Johnson, and I made my way through the house, down thy steps, and across the lawn.
It was a fruitful meeting, since not one week later, I was asked for the honor of my presence at the wedding of one Herbert Samuel Johnson and Matilda Alice Sawyers; and very much enjoyed seeing the young couple get hitched, Mr. Sawyers' shotgun draped over one arm, notwithstanding.
Horace looked downright dapper in his police uniform, and right smack dab in the middle
of the ceremony, he looked over at me and winked.
Cheeky boy! Some things, I reckon, never change.
by
Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking
The deputy leaned forward and shot a stream of brown tobacco juice directly bull's-eye into the middle of my clean kitchen sink. It splashed and splattered all over the sink and counter spraying onto the white Sugar canister nearby.
"Horace Grimsby!" 1 said tightly, "I will thank you not to use my kitchen as a
spittoon!" 1 wet the sponge and began to clean up the mess, grimacing as 1 did so. "Now, you just get rid of that!"
"Yes, Ma'am." Horace got up, hitched up his belt so you couldn't see the elastic of his boxer shorts anymore, and sauntered to the screen door. He looked around for a minute, and
then spat his wad into my flowerbed.
"Horace!"
"Well," he exclaimed defensively, "Lily says its good for the roses."
1 sighed. "They aren't roses; they're Sweet William. And tobacco juice is definitely not
good for them!"
"Ah, Miz Collins, all flowers is roses to me."
1 sighed again. Of all the people in God's green earth 1 did not want to have to tell my
story to, it was Horace Grimsby. Horace was positively the most uncouth man 1 had ever laid eyes on, and 1 couldn't imagine how John Parker (that's the sherift) kept him on. Pity, maybe. Even so, Horace is who came in response to my call, so Horace is whom I got.
I'd had Horace in my seventh grade class some years ago, and he wasn't any better then than he was now. Horace was a slob in high school, and it looked like time hadn't done him an) favors in that regard.
Why, 1 remember once, when 1 spoke to him about how low he was wearing his pants, he leered at me and said, "All the better to moon you with, my dear!" Then he dropped his drawers right there in front of God and everybody, and shook his frogbelly white butt at me!
Well, you can be sure 1 snatched him up by his ear, pants flopping around his knees, marched him directly into the Principal's office and got that boy suspended for a week!
And now Horace was leaning back on the two back legs of my kitchen chair, minus the wad of tobacco that seemed to have permanently disfigured his face, and got out his pad and pel Sunset was just golding up the sky outside, and the neighborhood was quiet. "Now, Miz Collins what seems to be the trouble?"
"First off," 1 started, but he intercepted my reproach and bam! the two front legs of my
chair came down and Horace was sitting up proper. "That's better."
"Yes'm?"
Of all the dadblammed idiots to have to tell this to. 1 was tempted to just say, never mind it's not important, and ask John Parker to send me somebody else. But Charlie Scott was worse if that were possible, than Horace. And that new little girl, Maybelle Manners, was just a little too young and green to be of much help here.
"Well, Horace," 1 began, "it's like this."
Pen poised, Horace looked up expectantly. His mouth worked like he still had a wad in
it, and for a moment 1 was fascinated watching his jaw worry something that wasn't there. You're procrastinating.
"Okay, here's what happened." 1 took a deep breath. "I saw a man."
"Yes'm?"
Lordy, was he going to make me spell it out for him?
"I saw a man, I said."
Horace looked puzzled. "And where was the man, Ma'am?"
I lowered my voice. "In my bedroom."
"In your bedroom, Ma'am?" Horace sounded as if that were the most unlikely place for a man to be found, and in that he was one hundred percent correct. I had not had a man in my
bedroom in my entire life, and at sixty-seven I certainly was NOT going to start now!
"And what was the man doing in your bedroom, Miz Collins?"
"Sleeping. "
"Sleeping?" Now Horace really was puzzled. "Why was a man sleeping in your
bedroom, Miz Collins? You all got comp'ny?"
"If he were company, I would not have called you, now would I?" The man really was
an idiot.
"Now, Miz Collins, ain't no call to talk to me like that." Horace sounded offended. "I'm just trying to find out why you called the po-lice." He made the word into two very separate syllables, and I wondered at my skills as an English teacher all those years ago.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I was. I was just so rattled I could hardly think, and having to deal with Horace didn't make things any easier. His jaw worked the nonexistent wad oftobacco
and his eyes were bright with curiosity.
"And where is the man now, Miz Collins?"
"Well, unless he's moved, he's still there."
Horace jumped up out of the chair like a snake had crawled out ftom under the reftigerator. "What?!" He reached for his gun and made for the door. "You mean we been sitting here talking about this stranger and he's still in the house? Land sakes, Miz Collins, are you crazy?"
"Oh, its okay, Horace, he's not going anywhere." I led the way into my bedroom, where no man had ever entered, until today anyway. Well, first time for everything, I thought. Might a well have two men in the bedroom as one.
My bedroom looks pretty much like you'd expect a sixty-seven year old woman's bedroom to look. The furniture is dark and a little too large for the room. Have my dresser against one wall, and the vanity with mirror against another. The closet door was open, and I closed it as I walked by. No sense in letting Horace Grimsby see what didn't pertain to him.
I have a nice bed. It matches the dresser and the vanity and once belonged to my own mother, God rest her soul. Normally, this time of a morning, the bed would be made and my coverlet would be its crowning glory, hand-crocheted by yours truly one cold winter a few years back.
Instead of seeing my handiwork, though, what you saw when you entered was a smallish, stoutish, angry and scared young man, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in the middle of my bed. What I had told Horace was true enough, though. He wasn't going anywhere.
The sash of my bathrobe held his ankles together; his wrists were behind his back and snugged up tight by a belt to an old dress I don't wear anymore. Once I had him trussed, I got some rope ftom the garage and attached him to each corner of the bedpost, so the young man lie squirming in the middle of the bed, looking for all the world like some heathen sacrifice.
I had taped his mouth shut with duct tape, and his eyes looked huge and ftightened,
running between Horace and I like he was watching a tennis match.
"Now, young man," Horace said, walking slowly towards him. "I'm just going to take
this tape off your mouth and you can tell us what you're doing in Miz Collins' bedroom, ok?"
Well, the only way to get tape off is to give it a yank, and that's what Horace did, which
sent a stream of profanity cascading into my bedroom like an unholy waterfall.
"That's why I taped his mouth shut in the first place," I eXplained to Horace.
"Settle down, settle down!" Horace told the young man, who seemed to be running out
of steam. "Just tell us who you are and what you're doing in here."
"Names Buck Johnson," he began. "I live down McKinleyville, 'cross the holler. Come
over to see my girlftiend."
"And how did you end up in Miz Collins' bedroom?"
Buck looked a bit sheepish, as well he should. "Well, I had a bit to drink afore I got hen
you see, and I thought I was in Matilda's house. She said she'd leave the back door open for m( and I should wait for her in her bedroom. So that's what I did. Except I guess I didn't get the
right house, did IT'
"Matilda?" I asked. "Are you talking about Matilda Sawyers, the little girl who lives
next door?"
"Yes, Ma'am!" Buck said. "We's gonna get married when we gets outta high school,
Ma'am. Taint's like we's doing anything wrong."
"You most certainly are!" I snapped. "Don't you have any upbringing at all?" I turned to Horace. "Horace, you untie this little heathen while I go next door and talk to Matilda's mother. "
Horace went about the business of getting all the knots out of the various ties, sashes an, ropes that bound Buck Johnson, and I made my way through the house, down thy steps, and across the lawn.
It was a fruitful meeting, since not one week later, I was asked for the honor of my presence at the wedding of one Herbert Samuel Johnson and Matilda Alice Sawyers; and very much enjoyed seeing the young couple get hitched, Mr. Sawyers' shotgun draped over one arm, notwithstanding.
Horace looked downright dapper in his police uniform, and right smack dab in the middle
of the ceremony, he looked over at me and winked.
Cheeky boy! Some things, I reckon, never change.
I'm Glad I Told Her
I’m Glad I Told Her
I’m glad I told her that I loved her
Before death closed its stony door
Glad the injuries were forgiven
They don’t seem to matter much any more.
I’m glad her end was peaceful
That she stayed independent to the last
No nursing home or hospital
Just lay down, and in her sleep she passed.
I’m glad I told her that I loved her
I’m glad my Mom became my friend
I’m glad I didn’t wait to love her
And to tell her so, before the end.
I’m glad I told her that I loved her
Before death closed its stony door
Glad the injuries were forgiven
They don’t seem to matter much any more.
I’m glad her end was peaceful
That she stayed independent to the last
No nursing home or hospital
Just lay down, and in her sleep she passed.
I’m glad I told her that I loved her
I’m glad my Mom became my friend
I’m glad I didn’t wait to love her
And to tell her so, before the end.
Feeding The White Dog
Feeding the White Dog
By
Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking
Two dogs war inside my breast
One shrieks anguish, the other breathes rest.
One dog black, the other dog white,
Which of them will win the fight?
The black dog snarls in fleshly anger,
The white dog gently sighs, “Surrender.”
Two dogs war within my breast,
One called “Spirit,” the other named “Flesh.”
The dog I feed is the one who will rise,
While the other starves, and shrinks, and dies.
What will I feed this dog of mine?
How do you feed a dog Divine?
Spirit demands a daily diet
Of prayer, and service, and lots of quiet,
A daily bath in the Word of God,
Is what is needed for my white dog.
Spirit settles at my feet at night,
Rises, too, with the morning light.
Flesh rises too, but Spirit is stronger,
And I long for the day when Flesh rises no longer.
Two dogs strive for my heart to win,
Spirit or Flesh? God or Sin?
My soul and spirit are both agreed,
The dog who wins is the dog I feed.
Copyright Phoenix Hocking 2004
By
Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking
Two dogs war inside my breast
One shrieks anguish, the other breathes rest.
One dog black, the other dog white,
Which of them will win the fight?
The black dog snarls in fleshly anger,
The white dog gently sighs, “Surrender.”
Two dogs war within my breast,
One called “Spirit,” the other named “Flesh.”
The dog I feed is the one who will rise,
While the other starves, and shrinks, and dies.
What will I feed this dog of mine?
How do you feed a dog Divine?
Spirit demands a daily diet
Of prayer, and service, and lots of quiet,
A daily bath in the Word of God,
Is what is needed for my white dog.
Spirit settles at my feet at night,
Rises, too, with the morning light.
Flesh rises too, but Spirit is stronger,
And I long for the day when Flesh rises no longer.
Two dogs strive for my heart to win,
Spirit or Flesh? God or Sin?
My soul and spirit are both agreed,
The dog who wins is the dog I feed.
Copyright Phoenix Hocking 2004
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