Crown of Glory:Crown of Thorns (Christian dialogue for Palm Sunday)

one palm

Crown of Glory; Crown of Thorns
Dialogue for Palm Sunday
© 2013 Mollie Pearce McKibbon

crown

Dialogue One: Crown of Glory

Dinah and Shem are a brother and sister in the crowd when Jesus
rode into Jerusalem on a donkey in the beginning of Passover week. Dinah is peering around Shem trying to see Jesus.

Dinah: Shem, do you see him? Has he come through the gate?

Shem: Not yet,Dinah. I can see palms waving though.

Dinah: I wish I were as tall as you are Shem, then I could see over the shoulders. Did you ever see such a crowd?

Shem: Excuse me, excuse me. Come on, Dinah. You stand right here in front. Now you will see too. I’m right here behind you.

Dinah: Thank you, Shem. You are a good brother. Oh Shem, I think I see Simon Peter. And isn’t that Judas and there’s Thomas laying his coat down on the road.

Shem: Yes, and look, behind them is the Master. He’s riding on a donkey! I wonder why he isn’t on a horse. A donkey isn’t a proper mount for a leader.

Dinah: Wasn’t there something in the scriptures about a king coming on a donkey? Oh, look at the crowd of followers. They are singing and shouting, Shem.

Shem: They are shouting “Hosanna in the highest”. Hosanna! Hosanna!

Dinah: Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!

Shem: Hey, don’t shove. My sister is here. What happened to manners?

Dinah: Shem, it’s all right. It’s the temple leaders. Look, they’ve stopped the procession.

Shem: Now what? More trouble? Why do they always have to horn in?

Dinah: Shh! Shem, be careful what you say.

Shem: Well, it’s true, Dinah. Every time the Master tries to teach, those characters are always hanging around, always trying to cause some kind of trouble for Jesus. Can you hear what they are saying?

Dinah: I think they want the Master to quiet the crowd. It’s hard to tell for all the noise, but they keep gesturing at the palms and people. One of the Scribes is telling those people to go home, I think.

Shem: I don’t think he will be successful. We have been waiting for this day a long time. Now the Romans will sit up and take notice. They can’t push us around any more.

Dinah: Shem, you’ve got to be careful. I don’t think the Master wants to start a rebellion. He’s a healer.

Shem:Dinah, he is much more than that. He can raise people from the dead! Remember what I told you about what Saul said happened at Bethany? Don’t you think that the temple leaders will want that hushed up? Look, the Pharisees are backing off. The crowd is getting even larger.

Dinah: Oh, Shem, do you think the centurions will come? Will they try to arrest Jesus?

Shem: Just let them try! Just let them try and they will have to face the whole of Jerusalem! We’ve just been waiting for an excuse and a true Messiah to lead the way.

Dinah: Shem, you frighten me when you talk like that. The Master has never spoken about rebellion. Never have I heard anything but kindness from his mouth.

Shem: He can hold his own against the temple crowd,Dinah. He sees through their tactics, always so cooperative with the Prefects that come from Rome.

Dinah: It’s over now, Shem. We’d better go home.

Shem: This is only the beginning,Dinah. Mark my words.  Things will be different from now on.

crown of thorns #2

Dialogue Two: Crown of Thorns

Shem and Dinah have been caught up and separated in the crowd watching Jesus make his torturous way to the hill of Golgotha.

Dinah: Shem! Shem! Oh Shem, I thought I would never find you!

Shem: I thought you were going to go home,Dinah. I was hoping that you hadn’t seen what happened.

Dinah: I couldn’t go home. I just had to know what was going to happen to the Master.

Shem: Did you see it all,Dinah? It was awful.

Dinah: When Saul told us he’d been betrayed and arrested, I couldn’t believe it. Not after what happened when he entered Jerusalem. How could his friend, his disciple turn on him, Shem?

Shem: Why did the Master let it happen? That’s what I can’t understand. A man of so many miracles and yet he stood there meekly, letting the Roman guard push him around, spit on him, call him names and not a word, Dinah, not a word.

Dinah: But what has happened to his followers? Where did they go? Why didn’t they protect Jesus?

Shem: I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this. We had such hopes, such dreams to be free of this domination.

Dinah: But Brother, the Romans rule the whole world. How can we change that?

Shem: We couldn’t , not by ourselves, but with Jesus leading us, so much would have been possible. And now, it seems, he is just like all the other “messiahs”, a big disappointment.
Dinah: Shem, you can’t mean that. The Master has done so much, taught us so much. He never spoke of revolution… he never talked about changing governments…he talked about us changing, about heaven and God.

Shem: Well, the Sanhedrin certainly made short work of his trial…what a sham that was. Saul was there and he saw the Master’s disciple John there and he thought he saw Simon Peter, but no one spoke up for Jesus, except for the priest, Nicodemus.

Dinah: Did he? He was very brave to do that, Shem.

Shem: Well, too little too late, I’d say. Saul said they soon shut Nicodemus up.

Dinah: Was that when they took Jesus to Pilate? The first time, I mean.
Were you there then?

Shem: Yes, I was. I’m glad you weren’t.

Dinah: Oh, I was there, just not close enough to see anything. I couldn’t hear anything either…too much shouting.

Shem: The soldiers had dressed him in a cloak and put a crown of thorns on his head, I could see the blood trickling down his face. They sent him over to that snake, Herod.

Dinah: Oh brother, you must tether your tongue. It worries me about how outspoken you are. Herod has as many spies as Pilate.

Shem: Yes, my tongue causes trouble all right. I could rip it out right now. I am so ashamed, Dinah.

Dinah: Why, whatever have you said? Are you in trouble?

Shem: No, I’m not in trouble. I am a coward though, after all my brave talk.

Dinah: I’m not very brave, either, Shem. I have discovered this day how very feeble my spine is. All it took was some big centurion near me and when Jesus was brought back in front of Pilate and he offered the crowd the chance to have that horrible murderer freed or Jesus freed, I started to yell for Jesus but, then when everyone glared at me, I yelled for Barabas. I still can’t understand why.

Shem: And when Pilate said he could find no reason to punish Jesus, and the crowd yelled “crucify him” so did I. There was no centurion near me, Dinah. I was just afraid the rabble would turn on me. Why did I do it? Jesus has never done anything to me, except kindness.

Dinah: Oh Shem, we have much to be forgiven. Did you see how he stumbled under the weight of the cross? I shall never forget this day. I feel so awful, so awful. Let’s go home. I want to pray.

Shem: Yes, we’ll go home. I won’t sleep tonight for nightmares. What a terrible, terrible day!

The Beginning, Not the End.

We presented this dialogue instead of a sermon on Palm Sunday. We followed this presentation with a prayer of confession and the assurance of pardon. Then we sang a final hymn.

(Please contact me through this blog for permission to use this dialogue.)

My Cover Art for a Friend’s Book

My Cover Art for a Friend's Book

My Cover Art for “Where Bluebirds Fly” by Shirley Nichol Hellam

I have done cover art for magazines and books before. This is the third cover I have done for my friend Shirley Nichol Hellam. We have known each other for some time, have attended the same lay ministry classes and have worked on a magazine called “s.m.i.l.e.” for seniors in hospice, residences and nursing homes. In the past Shirley has donated all of the funds resulting from her book sales to charity, but this time she has published her book for herself and I applaud her.

Shirley Nichol Hellam is a mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, who served in the Canadian Armed Forces, was the director of a local food bank/thrift shop for many years, and is a lay worship leader.
She pours the wisdom and compassion gained into her sermons and short stories. I am very proud to be the artist she chose to illustrate her book cover. I wish her all the best in her book promotion.

The Sandals

6907easter_lily_crossI wrote this poem 13 years ago (how time does fly) and now I see so many things wrong with it, but I still like the story, so here it is.

The Sandals 

©2000 Mollie Pearce McKibbon

 

I was busy at work on my bench one day,

My leather and tools all around me lay,

When a weathered centurion ventured in

With a pair of sandals, shabby and thin.

 

“Repair these, cobbler, you have one day”

When I disagreed, he said he would pay

A week’s soldier’s wages if he could be sure

That they would be ready in one day, not more.

I nodded my head; it was too much to pass,

Everything else I would take off my last.

He sighed in relief and left in a hurry.

I shrugged as I pondered his manner so surly.

 

What possible use would he have for such shoes,

Ragged and scuffed from miles of abuse?

I considered their obvious poverty state-

Nothing a Roman would value; third rate.

A week’s soldier’s wages was a very high cost

For something most likely a servant had lost.

 

It was late and the shadows were filling my shop.

I had promised my wife, before dinner I’d stop.

As I placed the sandals above on a shelf,

Something inside me prevented myself.

I wrapped up the sandals, unmended and worn,

And carried them home with me until morn.

I laid them carefully by my bed for the night

And slept without stirring, no dreams of great fright.

 

When I woke, my wife asked me why I was giving such care,

To something only a beggar would wear.

I couldn’t explain it and she shook her head,

“They’re not made of gold or silver,” she said.

“They’re worth a soldier’s salary here in my hand”.

Money was something that she’d understand.

But her face turned pale and she recited a verse

From the Torah, and shivered,”Perhaps they are cursed.”

 

“Such shouting we heard in the street yesterday,”

Remember how Romans make everyone pay.

Oh Husband, dear Husband, take care what you do.

Your good reputation may depend on those shoes.”

In spite of her fears, I wrapped them up tight,

And carried them back to my shop at first light.

 

I recovered the soles and strengthened each thong.

As I worked on the leather, my heart filled with song.

If a week’s wages purchased my cobbler’s good name,

What more could I garner, what more could I gain?

When the centurion returned, his wages in hand,

I wouldn’t accept the price that he planned.

He paused and considered, a moment not more,

Then turned on his heels and went out the door.

All day I was angry at my foolish thought;

The sandals were mended, but what had I got?

 

That evening the soldier returned once again,

His gaze it appraised me and he grasped my hand.

He said in a whisper, with tears on his face,

“I have no more money, no way to erase

The pain that I caused an innocent man,

On Friday I hammered the spikes in his hand,

And as He hung there, high on the cross,

I won these sandals with dice that we tossed.

I haven’t slept since that horrible day,

Yet, somehow, I just couldn’t throw them away.

 

As he urgently spoke of his horror and grief,

I remembered the look on the face of a thief

Who passed by my open shop door on the way

To his execution, to die that same day.

I recalled this same soldier was part  of the mob

That marched in the legion in charge of the job.

He paused and I muttered, “No blood money, please,

I saw what you did when He fell to his knees.

I saw His raw back and the blood running down

From the thorns on His head they’d made into a crown.

No money you’d pay me would ever reverse,

My greed and your torture; we both will be cursed.”

 

The soldier, a veteran, as his grave scars attested,

With a sob in his voice, earnestly protested.

“Yes, we’re both sinners, that can’t be denied.

I witnessed his agony and watched while He died.

No amount you demand, nor could I afford,

Would pay for the sandals worn by my Lord,

But Cobbler, I tell you, we both are forgiven,

These sandals are needed because He has risen!”

My Very First Hymn

 

In 2001 I wrote my first hymn.  I have always written, but never did I imagine writing a hymn.  There was a hymn that I wanted to use in our service, but our organist disliked the words.  I said (, thinking “how hard could it be!” ) “Will you play it, Doris, if I write new words for it?”  Doris said she would and so I embarked on a journey that has proved both very exciting and very difficult.  You see, I don’t read music.  I’ve never played an instrument.  But, ignorance is bliss, so I started.  Oh my, the crumpled paper!  The erasures!  The scribbled lines that didn’t make the final draft.  Anyhow, here it is and I am still writing.

In the Beginning

©2001 Mollie Pearce McKibbon

 

In the beginning, all was in silence;

Darkness and water covered the earth.

God’s Word made sunlight, moon-glow and star-shine,

Green grass and flowers, birdsong and mirth.

 

God’s Word is blessed, God’s Word is sacred,

Brought forth as human, caring and kind;

Healer and teacher, prophet and Saviour;

Love resurrected, King beyond time.

 

Word of elation, Word of salvation;

Jesus, beloved, full of God’s grace.

Wonderful counsellor, Manna from heaven;

All that You are God, shines from your face.

 

May the world praise You, O God Almighty,

May we all sing praise, ever to You.

Open our hearts God, to your Word spoken,

Make your Word known, God, all the world through.

 

I was really thrilled when the Southern Ontario Chapter of the Hymn Society  chose this hymn, along with hymns from three other writers, to be sung at a Hymn festival in Toronto.  It was thrilling to hear it sung by a wonderful soprano and then by a full choir.  If anyone would like to use this hymn please contact me through this blog as I do own the copyright.bible in hand

Mrs. Potato Head

Mrs. Potato Head

Mom used to tell me, “Don’t get old.”  Of course, being 92 at the time, she had experience.  I would just laugh and say, ” Hey Mom, it sure beats the alternative.”  Looking back, it seems to me that Mom was always warning me not to “wish my life away”.   Life certainly zips by.  Here I am, hardly believing it, legally a senior and wishing fervently that someone someday will actually card me.  Huh!  The one time I did get carded I was actually 21, trying to enter a club with my fiancee, his brother and girlfriend.  Unfortunately, I had brought everything I could cram into one of those little bitty sequined bags except my I.D.  How humiliating!  The doorman didn’t believe me and we had to go somewhere else.  Now, I’d be thrilled to be thought younger.

Don’t get me wrong, I like being the age I am.  I’m more relaxed about life and as long as I still kind of recognize the woman in my mirror all is well.  However, every morning it takes me longer to get ready for the world.  I need to assemble myself, much like in that game “Mr. Potato Head” that we used to play when we kids.  Makeup is a bit simpler now.  I don’t bother with mascara or eye shadow.  The shadows I have are natural and well-earned.  Still, it takes me awhile to add on my newest accoutrements – my hearing aids, a partial bridge and my bi-focals.  All is usually well, as long as I haven’t put down my glasses in a strange place.  There in lies the rub.  I even tried one of those chains that people put on their glasses so that they are still hanging around the neck when not in use.  My chain kept chafing my neck and getting caught in my coat collar, so I quickly “lost it”.  So every morning I play my version of Mrs. Potato Head, looking for my various parts in all the wrong places.

On the pro side, as Jimmy Fallon would say, once I’m all intact, I remember that the best part of being my age is having grandchildren, even if I sometimes have to be inventive when I’m not sure of what they are saying to me on the phone.  And I’m forgiven for the odd moment of nostalgia, especially by my husband who remembers the same things I do.  If we both forget a name now and then, no problem.  We can be reasonably sure the person we are trying to remember has forgotten our names too.

The other night we attended Randy Bachman’s Vinyl Tap Radio show at the spacious new theater in Algonquin College.  We both enjoyed it tremendously.  Listening to all those Guess Who and BTO hits we shed forty years in two hours as we zapped back to our high school dances.  The joint was rocking to “American Woman” and “Taking Care of Business”. We loved every minute listening to the sound track of our lives.  The only thing that would have made it better is for someone to have asked us if we were really seniors.  Oh well, maybe next time.

A Special Name

Me on Muddie's kneeA Special Name

I was named for my grandmother, Mary Morris.  Her father called her Mollie and that is what I was christened.  I was born at the time when the names Barbara, Judy, Janet, Karen, and Kathy were popular as well as Susan and Carol.  There were no other “Mollies” that I knew of and I was the only one in all thirteen of the schools I attended.  Now Celtic names are more popular and so I often hear my name called out by a mom or dad.   However, when I was in school there was never any doubt who was being called.  My name seemed rather unique then and I have always liked it.

“Mollie” Morris was a lovely person, very talented and generous.  She made dresses for my sister and I when we were young, as well as mittens and scarves.  She was an expert cook and a hospitable hostess who never knew how many were coming to dinner, as my grandfather tended to invite strangers without much notice.  During the war years in St. John’s Nfld. where they lived, he was forever inviting young homesick sailors and soldiers home for lunch or supper.  My grandmother was an easy-going sort who would simply add another potato to the pot.  She was dearly loved by her friends and neighbours for her lovely smile and kind deeds.  She wrote volumes of letters to her two daughters, my mom and my Aunt Georgie (Georgiana) full of all her latest baking and stories of their home in Newfoundland.  She made all her own slipcovers for the furniture and drapes for the windows.  She also embroidered, crocheted and knitted.  I only wish I had inherited her energy and talents.

Naming a child is a big responsibility.   You want to give each child a name that is meaningful and pleasant to the ear, and you must be so careful that it is one that he or she will be proud to answer to.  Last names are inherited of course and the pride in last names is something to be carefully guarded in each generation so that no lasting shame is attached to it.  A first name is a gift from the parents and needs to be wisely chosen.  My husband and I named each child before they were born so that we could say “Well, hello little …..” as soon as they were born.  Some people prefer to save the naming until after they have seen their baby.  Initials are very important as well – parents need to ensure that no embarrassing nick names can be made from them.  Nick names will happen anyhow, but better it not be because a parent’s choices.

It is amazing to think that God Himself has a special name chosen for each of us.   According to Revelation 2:17b “To everyone who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give a white stone and on the white stone is written a new name that no one knows except the one who receives it.”  How wonderful to think that we each have a holy celestial name known only to God.

When I was supply teaching I had many little children in my care and getting to know and remember each name was hard.  I was never in one class long enough to know every child.  I doubt that I could recall any one of them now and yet God who has so many people in his care knows and remembers each of us.  Even when our four children were small, I would sometimes have to go through all the names (including the dog) before I got to the one I needed.

How wonderful that God has a special name set aside for us in heaven.  We will truly be a new creation there and yet still be ourselves – the best we can be.  It is humbling to realize that we are so important to our Creator, just as each of our children is important to us.  We know their strengths and flaws and they are all precious to us.  Being a parent has strengthened my faith.

Adeline’s Journal (January – March 1813)

silohuette of Ada Mae

Adeline’s Journal – a fictional account of a Young Woman’s Life During the War of 1812
© 2012Mollie Pearce McKibbon

January 23, 1813

Thistledown Farm, Edwardsburgh Township

Dear Janetta,

It has been extremely cold, but our little house is cosy.  My brother, William, made a brief visit home two days ago and brought us the mail, a package and news from Fort Wellington.  William said that the mail was a few months old because it had been taken from an English ship by the Americans who had hoped to intercept military information.  It was then discarded by them as it was only family mail for the soldiers and settlers.  That explained why all of the letters had been opened.  

Mother was overjoyed to have a letter from her sister, my Aunt Sadie, from Bath and I received a most happy surprise – a letter from you, Janetta, after all these years.  You apologized for being so negligent in corresponding, but you also told me that a great many things had occurred – both good and bad, since we had left England.  You lost your dear mama to pneumonia and your father had remarried soon afterwards, much to your chagrin.  Your brother was wounded fighting Napoleon and had lost an arm.  However, the good news was that you had your first season in London while visiting your aunt and uncle.  It all sounds so wonderful – all the parties and dances.  Now you are being courted by not just one young man, but three.  That did make me smile.  However will you decide between them?

What shall I write back?  There are so many years to fill in for you.  Will I tell you about Charles?  Evvy says that you have nothing to boast over me because I have three suitors also, but it is hardly the same.  Robert and Arthur Randall are only interested in me because I am the only eligible girl in the vicinity.  There is Kathleen O’Meara, but  she is two years my senior and has shown little interest in any one,  Evvy thinks she is sweet on Arthur, because he spends so much time with her brothers.  There are three O’Meara brothers, Liam, Darnell and Seamus.  I don’t think that Robert or Mr. Randall approve of the O’Mearas.  There have been rumours going around about them and the time they spend on the American side of the river.  Of course, rumours are always circulating about the O’Meara family.  They haven’t lived here in Upper Canada very long and they haven’t been shy about voicing their dislike of the English.  Father says that Mr. O’Meara left Ireland under a cloud (whatever he meant by that) and that he thinks the O’Meara’s aren’t entirely unsympathetic to the Americans.  However, no more gossip.

I also received two letters from Charles.  He asked William to bring them to me and William saw no harm in it.  I think William likes Charles and why ever not!  He is a very fine gentleman , respected by all the other soldiers and militiamen (excepting Arthur of course).  Both Charles’ letters were very kind and amusing.  In the first one, written after our embarrassing scene at the New Year’s Eve party, he begged my forgiveness for causing me to be the topic of gossip.  He also reassured me that he was not involved with any other woman.  He speculated that the picture Robert Randall had seen was of his sister, Persephone, who was also my age when it was painted.  He wrote that his sister was married and had two little girls now and he hoped that one day I would make her acquaintance.  

Charles’ second letter was filled with descriptions of his home in England and his two older brothers, Everett and Bartholemew who are both serving in the army under General Wellington.  They both have commissions of course, but then they are his older brothers.  Evidently Charles’ father and grandfather were both army officers, so military life has been their family tradition going back even to the time of the War of the Roses.  

Our family, the Prices of Yorkshire and Buckinghamshire have always farmed.  There is quite a lot of land in our family as Great Grandfather Price was a squire, but  he had five sons, and my grandfather was the youngest, as is my father the youngest of seven.  Father was managing Grandfather’s land for his eldest brother, but they fell out and now here we are in North America.  I suppose General Houghton would not consider us in his class at all.

Mother’s package hadn’t been opened at all.  Perhaps the Americans were in too much haste to bother.        It turned out to have been sent by Grandmother Benton, mother’s mama.  She sent us some delicate lace capes to wear over our summer dresses on Sundays.  They really aren’t suitable for our summers that tend to be very humid and full of biting insects.  Mother says that perhaps she could apply the lace to a wedding gown for each of us one day or (and she said it quietly so that Elizabeth wouldn’t overhear) to make a christening gown for the family grandchildren.  Elizabeth is still very sensitive about losing her baby.  I think mother had been hoping for something more practical from Grandmother Benson, such as real tea or some spices.  We lack so much now in the way of supplies.  The Americans are constantly harassing our shipping and any boat the comes up the St. Lawrence from Montreal or down the river from York is liable to be threatened.  Mother has to be very careful with the supplies we have and most of our meals rely upon the contents of the root cellar.  Henry rabbit snares and turkey shooting supplies us with meat.  Of course, things haven’t been so good in England either, now that they are at war again.

Lovingly, Adeline 

February 13, 1813

Dear Janetta,

We just seem to dig ourselves out of one snowstorm into another.  The wind has been howling around our little home and piling snow up against the door, so that each morning we have to dig our way out of the house to get to the barn.  There was a bit of a thaw last week and now there are icicles hanging off the roof that almost touch the ground.  We need to melt the snow for water for the animals and believe me, it cools off before we get it to the barn.  

The Americans made another raid, this time against Elizabethtown ( I just can’t get used to calling it Brockville) and they released fifty prisoners, and took several prominent citizens to Ogdensburg as their prisoners.  They are becoming bolder and bolder and we are all worried that Prescott will be next.  Heaven forbid they should capture Fort Wellington!  We are very worried about Father and William.

My sister-in-law, Elizabeth, is staying with us for now.  It is hard enough to keep one home going without having to travel back and forth between two.  William went up to their farm, secured it and brought their cow and horse back with him so our barn is quite full now.  Elizabeth is quite recovered now and so she, Mother, and Evvy look after the house, the meals and the mending.  Henry goes hunting and I care for the animals.  

Father and William spend most of their time at the fort now, going out on patrol.  There is quite a bit of smuggling going on and a few folk have been caught and had their ill-gotten goods confiscated.  I can’t say that I don’t feel any empathy for the people who have relatives on the American side, but I don’t believe that trading with the enemy is anything but treasonous.

Faithfully, Adeline

February 15, 1813

Dear Janetta,

If much more snow falls, I doubt we will have arms long enough to pile it up.  When I go out now, I bundle up like Father.  Mother insists I put on Father’s heavy wool leggings on over my woolen stockings under my woolen skirt.  I do look a fright when I go to the barn, I suppose the cows mind it little.  I only wish there was some way to make my leather boots resistant to the wet snow.  After the chores, my feet are cakes of ice.

I think that I shall have to purchase some winter moccasins from Grandma MacTavish.  We all call the elder Mrs. MacTavish, Grandma because she is a dear old lady who lives with her son and his family in Johnstown.  She lived with the Algonquins when she was just as small girl about six years old until she was 14.  She learned how to sew moccasins which she sells to the settlers now.  She says they are much warmer than our leather boots.  I believe we settlers could learn a great deal from the native tribes about survival in the harsh winter.  

I have become better acquainted with Charles over the past weeks through our correspondence.    Mr. Randall , who is too old to be in the militia, goes back and forth to the fort each week to take their meat supplies from the farmers in the area and he fetches the mail and he has been very obliging to deliver our letters to our men at the fort.  

Charles has been circumspect in all his letters, telling me about his home in England and regaling me with amusing stories his dog, Plato and his horses.  I have told him all about where we farmed in Buckinghamshire and how we came to live here.  He mentioned in his last letter that the whole fort was being kept to a very high standard of readiness in anticipation of another attack by the Americans.  

Mr. Randall says that the Governor-in-chief is expected soon for inspection and “Red George” MacDonell is fighting mad because the American commander, Forsyth, has insulted the capabilities of our troops.  Sometimes, I wish I was a man I feel so angry, but then I am glad I don’t actually have to shoot at anyone.   

Your friend, Adeline

February 16, 1813

Dear Janetta,

Henry came back from hunting today with some disturbing news.  He was following a white tail deer just south of William’s property when he noticed smoke.  He wanted to go and investigate , but he knew that he needed to return home with some meat.  He didn’t manage to get the deer but his snares caught two fat rabbits.  He and I will go and investigate the source of the smoke on William’s property tomorrow.  Elizabeth is concerned that we might be putting ourselves in harm’s way, but she is naturally perturbed about anything or anyone putting their home in jeopardy.  I speculated that perhaps some Iroquoin hunting party had simply camped overnight and that seemed to mollify her, but Henry and I will take the utmost caution as I have assured Mother.  She is not in favour of our expedition at all, but she understands our concern for the security of William’s and Elizabeth’s home.

Adeline

The following excerpts are from Evaline Price’s Journal:

February 20, 1813

It has been three days since Henry came rushing in the door in great anguish calling ” Addie’s been taken…Addie’s been taken!”  

Still we have no word of what has happened to my dear sister excepting what Henry was able to tell us which wasn’t very much.  He and Adeline went out to William’s property to be certain that all was well because Henry had observed some smoke coming from that direction while out hunting the day before.  Adeline suggested that Henry circle the perimeter of the property while out hunting the day before.  When Henry finally came back to where they had parted, there was no sign of Adeline where they had planned to meet.  Henry approached the cabin, observed that the door was partly opened and there were signs of a struggle inside with the table and chairs pushed over and a broken jug against the wall.  Someone had used the hearth recently and there were some soiled bandages in the ashes.  

When Henry looked in the barn he said that there had been at least three, maybe four horses in there, judging by the all the disarray and horse dung left behind.  Henry rushed to the road to see if he could find any sign of a party on horseback and though he called out Adeline’s names there was no answer.  He did find one of Adeline’s hair ribbons in the snow near the cabin, so he knew that she had been there.  

Mother is terribly distraught and Elizabeth is blaming herself for allowing Adeline and Henry to go up to the property, which is silly.  Once Adeline decides on a course of action, none can deter her from it, except Father.  Mr. Randall and Henry went back to the cabin on the following day and found nothing more.  Mr. Randall called on our nearest neighbours, the O’Meara’s and the Willins, to no avail.  No one had seen Adeline.  

Father and William have been told, but are unable to leave the fort as “Red George” has them on alert, but the whole contingent is aware of Adeline’s disappearance and will be looking for any sign of her.  I have bitten my nails down to the quick with worry.  The best thing to do, Mother says, is to keep busy, however I have seen her going to the orchard where you can just see Virginia’s grave stone above the snow and Uncle Andrew’s not far from it.  I know she is grieving and there is naught that I can do to help.

Sadly, Evvy

March 3, 1813

Praise the Lord, our sister has returned!  She is pale and thin, wounded slightly and exhausted.  All we know of her ordeal is that she was rescued from imprisonment in Ogdensburg by our gallant militia men and the soldiers who carried out a surprise attack on that town and its armories on February 22.  Our brave commander, “Red George” MacDonnell, defied the orders of Sir Prevost, and led our men across the frozen St. Lawrence under the cover of darkness.  How Adeline got to Ogdensburg and what happened there will have to wait until she tells us.  At the moment, all she can do is sleep and recover, with us tenderly watching over her. 

Cpl.  Houghton has been most anxiously waiting an opportunity to speak to her and, as he was greatly involved in her rescue, Father and Mother can hardly refuse him.  Father also is recovering from a head wound he received when an American soldier hit him with his rifle butt.  William, thank the Lord, has suffered no more than frostbite to one of his toes and has returned to duty at the fort.  

Sir Prevost is, of course, taking full credit for the raid on Ogdensburg, even though Red George went totally against orders to carry it out.  More about that much later.  I must hurry now and see to Adeline’s comfort before bedtime.  Thank God, all are well.

Evvy.

Dogs I Have Known and Loved

Dubbie as a pup
I’m holding Dublin at the cottage.
Dublin in the snow
Dublin at 17 years old.

I was terrified of dogs until I was ten years old. I always wondered why, and one day, several years ago, I asked my elderly mother what she thought the reason might have been. She considered the question for a few moments, and then told me it might have been something that had happened to me when I was about a year old. My parents had taken me to visit some friends of theirs who owned a big German Shepherd. They had left the room for just a few seconds, when they heard me wailing and came into to find me flat on my stomach with the big dog’s paws on my back. The dog was either being playful or (more likely) showing this little “scene-stealer” just who was boss. Naturally, ever after that I gave dogs, big or small a wide berth. Until I was ten years old.

By the time I had my tenth birthday, my father, a naval officer, had been posted to Aklavik in the Northwest Territories. The home we moved into there had a dog and a cat whom we “inherited” from the family who’d just moved out. They were moving to the “outside”, as people up there referred to anywhere south. Just about everywhere was south of Aklavik which is on the Peel channel of the MacKenzie River, about fifty miles south of the Arctic Ocean. Since I had to cohabit with a cat and a dog, I had to get over my fear quickly. “Corky” was a golden haired cocker spaniel with a very gentle disposition. As a matter of fact, the poor fellow was harassed by PussPuss, the cat, into grooming her whenever she wished. If he refused she would swat him with her paw. Occasionally, she would even ride around on his back. I think he was much relieved when PussPuss had to be put down after contracting distemper. I really came to love that dog. He seemed to know how to comfort me when I was upset and he loved chasing a stick. He also joined in the husky howling chorus when the evening curfew horn sounded. Sadly, we had to leave Corky behind when we were posted out of Aklavik. He would never have been able to adjust to traffic after living in the north.

My next close encounter with a dog was when my husband and I lived above a garage north of Toronto. “Shandy” came into our lives accidently. We had been hearing a whining noise outside our apartment. Bud went down to investigate and found a dog, about a year old, that looked a bit like a German Shepherd, but was a slimmer build, blond in colouring with black around her ears, on the tip of her tail and around her mouth. We kept her overnight and then searched the newspaper ads for lost dogs. Finally we took her to the local dog shelter and asked them to call us if anyone claimed her. After a sleepless night, we gave Bud’s father a call and asked him if he would be interested in owning a dog. He’d had a wonderful dog called, Rinty, growing up and so he was very interested. We then returned to the shelter and paid for the dog’s keep. I named her on the way home, not realizing how appropriate her name was until later. “Shandy” evidently refers to a lively, mischievous character as well, of course,to a combination of beer and gingerale.

Shandy had an unfortunate habit of chasing cars, probably because a car had let her out and sped off. It happens often, sadly, because some ignorant and cruel people seem to think that farmers have a continual need for stray pooches and that dropping a dog off on a country road is preferable to leaving them at an animal shelter. Obviously, some people forget that cute puppies eventually grow into adult dogs. Eventually, we broke Shandy of her car chasing and took her home to Bud’s father, who just loved her. She was a good companion for Bud’s parents and lived to the ripe old age of 13.

Bud and I were not in a position to own a dog until we had our own home in the country. Again, we became dog-parents accidently. We had two little boys and another baby on the way. I used to walk our sons down to the local cheese factory to buy treats (and cheese of course). There were apartments above the cheese factory and one of the renters had a lovely border collie dog who had just had a litter of puppies. Boys and puppies have a natural attraction to one another. We were invited to “see” the puppies who were the offspring of “Sparky”, the mother, and the dog that belonged to the owner of the factory. One black puppy, the rascal of the litter, took a particular shine to me and the boys. He began following us down the road when we made the return trip home.
Mama Sparky came right after us, grabbed the pup in her mouth and marched him right back home. It became a game for the pup and each time we went to the factory we would be followed part way by the pup and mama. Finally, with Bud’s agreement, we brought “Jet” home with us.

Jet was a great playmate for the boys, but he was also, as they called him, a “berserker”. Jet would tackle any animal that invaded our property, especially groundhogs. He had one fight that was very violent and I had to ask a neighbour to help me get them separated. Jet had a very badly slashed nose as a battle wound. Another time he chased a groundhog up a tree. He chased squirrels, mice, cats, anything that would run or fight. He even attempted to face down some escaped horses and a few dogs larger than he was. Doing so on our property was one thing, but on someone else’s property was a whole different story. You see, he had inherited one bad trait from his father, he liked chicken. That habit, you see, brought about the death of his father. We didn’t want Jet to expire from a bullet. Once he trotted back home with the carcass of our neighbour’s chicken. Another time Bud went to find him in the neighbour’s feather-covered yard just as Jet rounded the corner of the barn with the chicken in his jaws. It took him awhile to get over the shock of being discovered red-pawed, but Bud persuaded him to break that bad habit. Jet lived to be 15 years old, died of natural causes and was buried in our home pet cemetery.

It took us quite awhile to grieve over Jet, but I was looking up ads for dogs a long time. One day, our daughter, came home with the news that her friend had just got a border collie pup from a farm about thirty miles away and there was still one left of the litter. Of course, we went to see it. The address was a pretty farm that was a few miles west of a kennel that raised black labs.
After we met the small border collie mother, the owner took us to find the last pup. He was sitting under an old car in the garage. Having seen all his sisters and brothers disappear, this one was not about to share their fate. Finally “Rambunctious”, as they had named him, was coaxed out from under the car. He was a cross between border collie and black lab, though the farmer’s wife said she had no idea how that had happened. Obviously mama had gotten under the fence around the kennel down the road or daddy had managed to get over it. However it had happened, Rambunctious was re-named “Dublin” and came home with us.

Dublin was the most intelligent dog I have ever known. He responded to at least one hundred words and learned how to sit, stay and come very quickly. He was not another Jet, however. Dublin was a lover, not a fighter. He had an on-going romance with the neighbour’s dog,Rip, a jack russell, even after he had his operation. She often stopped by for a dog biscuit. Bud called her the “Toll Queen” because every time he went for a walk with Dublin, she was waiting for her dog biscuit at the side of the road. When it came to showdowns with other dogs or animals, Dublin preferred to exercise the greater part of valour. I think he just figured fighting was a losing proposition and avoidance was his best course of action. As Dublin grew, he resembled a small black lab with a head that was smaller in proportion to his body. However, he obviously used all his brain cells. He learned to go and get my slippers and if he only came back with one, all I had to do was point to the foot without a slipper and he would go get it also. We would hide bits of dog biscuit around the living room and he would find each one on command. He played dead when we pointed our finger and said “pow pow”. Sometimes though his tail would be moving so we would say “hey, your tail is moving” and immediately it would stop. He knew which was his right paw and which his left when we asked him to shake one or the other. He was a great companion and lived for 17 years.

While we had Dublin, when he was about six years old, our neighbours jack russell had puppies sired by a border collie down the road. Of course, we went to see them. One of the puppies was a black and white ball of fluff who kept her brothers and sisters in line. Our neighbour called her the “devil’s daughter” because she was so bossy. I fell in love with her and we adopted “Panda”. Panda was a lovely pup who grew up to look like a border collie with very short legs. I think she was convinced we had “dognapped” her because she continued to visit her mother next door even after all her brothers and sisters were gone. Whenever her mother, Rip, came over for her biscuit, Panda’s deep border collie bark would change to the high pitched yip, yip, yip of a puppy. Poor Rip was half the size of Panda, so when she saw Panda charging joyfully towards her, she backed up with an expression of doggie alarm that was truly comical. She didn’t stop coming for that biscuit though.

Panda was a joy. She was very affectionate and although she still ruled the roost, she allowed Dublin to be number one dog in our house. She and Dublin were a great deal of fun to watch. They often argued over the same toy and vied for our affection and attention. Dublin, however, outsmarted her often, by feigning interest in a toy to distract her from us and then while she took over the toy he would cuddle up to one of us. They would often chase the same stick. One time they grabbed the opposite ends and tried to go around a tree trunk, each coming out with half the stick. We had some wonderful laughs at their antics. Panda, unlike Dublin, was a bit of a berserker when it came to squirrels. She would sit on the living room bay window sill and begin to bark whenever the squirrels dared to climb one of the trees in our front yard. They would scatter when she launched from the front step. She loved playing frisbee and could jump to amazing heights after them. Once she even climbed part way up a tree. We loved that little dog. Unfortunately we only had her for four years. She was hit by a car coming back from visiting her mother one winter night and sadly, Bud found her on the way home from work. We were heartbroken.

It took us a long time to get over losing Panda. Now there were two graves in our pet cemetery. The year of the ice storm we found a jack russell wandering the road. We tried to make enquiries, but to no avail, so we took her in. We named her “Belfast” , “Bel” for short. She was very cuddly, but not a traveler. Whenever she was in the car she got very carsick. Other than that she was a good companion for Dublin. We found her around Christmas and had her all during the ice storm. At night, with electricity, we all bundled up in sleeping bags in the warmest room in our house and the two dogs settled down there with us at night. It got very chilly. At one point when the electricity was restored, our oldest son saw a sign at the local gas station/convenience store which indicated that someone was looking for their jack russell. We sadly returned Bel to her owners.

This experience convinced us that it was time for us to get another dog. We read an ad about a border collie/boxer mix female and decided to go and check her out. She was staying at the home of some people who rescued dogs. She was not a rescue dog, but the result of a “mistake”. Evidently, someone had a boxer they wanted to breed for boxer puppies, but a border collie got to her first.
Those border collies are obviously no slouches when it comes to doggy romance (ambitious too). Anyhow, we fell in love with “Ceilidh” right away and adopted her. I think poor Dublin’s nose was out of joint for quite a while, but he and she eventually became buddies. Ceilidh is a lovely girl, very gentle and playful. She is definitely border collie in appearance with her silky long coat, fringes on her legs and white bib but she is taller like a boxer. She is 5 years going on 6 now and loves to play with anything she can. We had some bumpy roads to begin with as she took a long time to house train, but she seemed to learn how to come, stay and sit by observing Dublin. She’s a good watch dog but uses her border collie bark only when she needs too. We are very fond of her and can’t imagine life without her.

I often think gratefully of Corky. If it hadn’t been for that sweet dog, I might never have learned the joy of canine companions. How unfortunate that would have been.

Praise for Trees

 

 

Birches- watercolour
Painted at Johnston Lake, Quebec.

I painted the picture above at the cottage owned by my late mother-in-law. I was sitting on the dock when I painted it. I loved those trees and I am happy to say that they are still there, although we are not. The cottage was sold when my mother-in-law moved into the nursing home. The new owner has changed it a bit, but not so drastically that it is unrecognizable. In fact she even framed some of my father-in-laws fishing flies. She let us go through the cottage one day and I was heartened to see how much of it remained unchanged. Especially the trees.

Whatever caused God to imagine trees? They are so amazing with their beautiful boughs giving us shady places to sit in the summer and giving us shelter from the winter winds. They provide squirrels and birds with homes and food. They start out so small, the size of an acorn or a maple key, and within a few years grow to tower above us. When we look at trees we have to lift our heads and look up. In looking up we see the sky and are reminded of how very immense God’s artistry is and how small we humans are.

The perfume from trees is wonderful. Lilac bushes are sweet smelling, pine trees have a spicy scent and fruit trees have such a variety of aromas, depending on their fruit. Trees come in so many varieties from the ancient old forest giant redwoods to the swaying palms and vivid maples. The sound in the woods is so very musical with the wind moving the branches and leaves.

Most of all, God provided us with a unending supply of oxygen, the breath of life, from trees. Don’t you notice how easy it is to breath deeply in a forest?

In 1998 Eastern Ontario and western Quebec had a terrible ice storm that brought down so many trees. At first the icicle laden trees shone in the sunlight and the landscape took on the appearance of a crystal fantasy land. As the days wore on, the ice became menacing as we could hear the crash of falling branches and tree trunks all around. I remember in particular, one large tree looking like a huge glass chandelier, hanging over our back yard. Our youngest son, took the dog out for a slippery walk and came back in to warn us about the hanging ice. A short time later we heard what sounded like the crash and splintering of crystal, when the tree branch chandelier fell onto the ice covered snow banks in our back yard. So many trees were damaged it brought us to tears.

We must appreciate our natural surroundings and pass on the value of every living thing to our children. Everything on earth has its purpose and part of ours is to be good caretakers of the temporary home we have been given so that when we leave what we bequeath to our children and grandchildren is what God intended.

Late Nights at My Desk

ernes_mano_con_penna_-_hand_and_pen“So they went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.”     ( John 21:3c)

Sometimes when I sit down to write a sermon I feel a lot like the disciples must have felt after fishing all night and catching nothing.  I get to the point where my weariness overcomes me and I fall asleep on the keyboard only to wake up to zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz… for several lines or a whole page.  At that point, I admit defeat and crawl into bed.  I then pray that the Holy Spirit will inspire me to put my net back into the waters the following day.  The Holy Spirit always comes through.  I think perhaps I sometimes get the process backwards and have neglected to pray before writing.  In any event, Jesus will always prompt me, not for my sake, but for the sake of the people to whom I minister.

It is amazing how I can read the same scripture over and over and something completely new will jump out at me.  Of course, given the same passage, no two ministers will write the same sort of sermon. You just have to believe that whatever you are writing is going to touch someone, to be the message somebody needs that day.

Once in a while I have had to ad-lib a sermon.  Either I have had a revelation on the way to church or I have suddenly felt an overwhelming conviction that what I have prepared just isn’t the right message for that day.  That is when I need prayer the most.  The danger in “flying by the seat of one’s pants” by doing such a thing is that I might be tempted to go overtime and lose the attention of the congregation.  Or I could get hoist by my own petard, so to speak, as I did once when I was asked to do the message for Mothers’ Day for a women’s group in the church.  I struggled with a passage on Martha and Mary and finally went to sleep, promising myself that  I would write it just before leaving for the church.  Needless to say, even on the way there I was not sure what I would say.  Somehow, once in the pulpit, I found the words , although to this moment I cannot remember just what I said.  Whatever it was, everyone seemed pleased.  As a matter of fact, someone from another church asked me if I could possibly come and give that same message for their church women.  Gulp!  Of course, with great chagrin, I accepted the invitation.  I often wonder if what I actually said that day was what that person thought they remembered.

No wonder God wants us to love kindness, seek justice and walk humbly  with Him.

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