Post by keith on Jun 26, 2011 19:41:23 GMT -5
The story has been rewritten again. (July 15, 2011)
Blood
From Brother Jesse's Tale, Monk In The Cellar
monkinthecellar.blogspot.com
I had not been sleeping well, fitfully tossing to and fro as my mind refused to leave the problem of whether we should stay at the farm or go elsewhere, but where I didn't know. As the new abbot I wasn’t making much headway toward a solution. I wriggled about in my sleeping bag and remembered a visit to Uncle Hank’s farm when I was a boy. Perhaps where I lay brought back the memory. Unable to sleep, I had dragged myself around the big farm house half the night and finally stretched out on the large table in the center of the wash room across from the kitchen. The massive seven by ten foot surface was supported by six stout legs that I'm sure would support a small truck. Above me on racks hung large round wash tubs and an array of huge cooking pots. From the knife marks and wide gouges beneath me on the gritty surface, I guessed the heavy block table had been used for butchering, to carve up large animals after shooting the poor beasts outside in the yard. Hauled inside and up where I now lay, the carcasses would be cut up and parts could be tossed into various pots and set to boil. Afterward, the workers' bloody shirts and pants were scrubbed on the table surface with sand and thrown into other pots to boil before washing in the big tubs. This was the farm's indoor abattoir and laundry, no doubt a useful combination when the old house served as a home to a large crew of farm hands. I lie there imagining myself as a sacrifice, waiting for the haruspex to cut me open and to divine the future from my entrails, a quick but gory way for me to determine our prospects. Only slightly less painful would be inquiring of my Brothers for their advice, but I wouldn’t ask because I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t figure it out.
Twisted up in my sleeping bag like a victim strapped to the table, I lay there thinking of blood. Isaac, the son of Abraham came to mind. His father had been willing to sacrifice the boy on an altar, a holy butchering block, as he played Chicken with a God who demanded a loyalty that bordered on mania. If you love me, kill the one you love.
Blood can mean death, but also birth. Blood is sacred. In dreams it can signify transformation. When it begins to flow in a young woman, it is the dawning of her adult life. When it stops, it’s the beginning of a new life. Down through the ages, one squalling infant after another, blood has lived on through the unions driven by a joyous clasping of boys and girls together, a more effective design than the careful plans of their elders.
What is it about the blood? Despite those awful 19th Century church hymns with dripping names like Covered With The Blood and Fountain of Blood, there does seem to be what one song says is Power In The Blood.
On the long ago visit to Uncle Hank’s farm, after the ladies left the living room he told a story about himself and Aunt Eva butchering a pig. My father coughed uncomfortably as I lay on the floor and continued to read a comic book, pretending not to listen. Uncle Hank said he and Eva were third cousins and hadn’t any romantic interest in each other until they found themselves smeared with the pig’s blood. That aroused their interest in each other, he said with a wink in his voice. While the rest of the family was in town that afternoon, Uncle Hank and Aunt Eva found their way to ecstasy in the barn as easily and quickly as every one of their ancestors had back to Adam and Eve.
"Well," sighed Uncle Hank, "we went right down to the minister the next day and told him we wanted to get married. The man asked me how soon? And I said,'Before the train comes in, Pastor.’"
My father chuckled and Uncle Hank continued, "The Pastor looked at me and he said, 'Buying your ticket a little late, ain'tcha son?’"
The men in the room laughed. I hadn’t understood the punch line and I kept my face in my comic book. Even if I thought they would have offered an explanation, I wouldn’t have asked, because I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t figure it out.
In my sleeping bag, I flipped over on my other side, trying to get comfortable. I wanted us to stay on this farm at Mucky Run. Though we’d only been here the past two weeks, I was captured by the rolling hills and green pastures. To have such open space around me was a great blessing after being closed away for so long in the woods of West Saugerties. But I wanted to choose a course based on what was best for all of us and what God might want us to do in his service. After all, I was the abbot.
Frankly, I didn’t know if the Creator of the Universe cared about our puny efforts. I wanted him to know we were willing to be his hands, but as Augustine said, there isn’t anything he really needs to hear from us. Yet the great disappointment of my life would be if I found that none of my efforts had mattered. My Golgotha would be to see my work crucified.
It seemed to me I was wasting time and I wanted to have a plan for us and I wanted an answer as to where we should go. I wanted to buy my ticket before the train arrived. But sometimes the train never comes. Uncle Hank and Aunt Eva got married and built a house with many rooms. But Eva was never able to have any children.
“We were disappointed to have not been blessed with little ones,” Uncle Hank said on another occasion. “But the only thing to do in life is the next thing waiting to be done,” he said. “Otherwise, you might start thinking you’re in charge.”
I could live my life working toward my laudable goals without knowing if they would bear fruit. Or like the old song I hate, I could cover myself with the blood. The blood I carry in my veins links me all the way back to those who were so like me and who I will never know. But their blood runs in me and with it their faith bangs around in my heart. The blood I carry in my soul was shed for me by the one who redeems me from myself.
Lying on the butchering table I thought how easy it was when I simply did as I was told by my superiors. Now, as the abbot I had to advise the others what to do, but only after I offered my will as a sacrifice.
I didn’t need a plan. I needed a lot more humility and trust. I would wait and listen.
copyright 2010 by David Griffin
Thanks to Keith for this one - Are You Washed In The Blood Of The Lamb
================================================================================
Dave, I'm not sure what prompted the return to blood but it is well worth reading. I tried to find a Youtube video of the original version of Highway 61, but I'm sure the Derek Trucks version is a worthy substitute.
Nostalgic note: Barb & I had our first apartment just a few blocks uphill of Highway 61. Sunday mornings we would walk to mass at the chapel the Church maintained for travelers on the highway.
Blood
From Brother Jesse's Tale, Monk In The Cellar
monkinthecellar.blogspot.com
I had not been sleeping well, fitfully tossing to and fro as my mind refused to leave the problem of whether we should stay at the farm or go elsewhere, but where I didn't know. As the new abbot I wasn’t making much headway toward a solution. I wriggled about in my sleeping bag and remembered a visit to Uncle Hank’s farm when I was a boy. Perhaps where I lay brought back the memory. Unable to sleep, I had dragged myself around the big farm house half the night and finally stretched out on the large table in the center of the wash room across from the kitchen. The massive seven by ten foot surface was supported by six stout legs that I'm sure would support a small truck. Above me on racks hung large round wash tubs and an array of huge cooking pots. From the knife marks and wide gouges beneath me on the gritty surface, I guessed the heavy block table had been used for butchering, to carve up large animals after shooting the poor beasts outside in the yard. Hauled inside and up where I now lay, the carcasses would be cut up and parts could be tossed into various pots and set to boil. Afterward, the workers' bloody shirts and pants were scrubbed on the table surface with sand and thrown into other pots to boil before washing in the big tubs. This was the farm's indoor abattoir and laundry, no doubt a useful combination when the old house served as a home to a large crew of farm hands. I lie there imagining myself as a sacrifice, waiting for the haruspex to cut me open and to divine the future from my entrails, a quick but gory way for me to determine our prospects. Only slightly less painful would be inquiring of my Brothers for their advice, but I wouldn’t ask because I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t figure it out.
Twisted up in my sleeping bag like a victim strapped to the table, I lay there thinking of blood. Isaac, the son of Abraham came to mind. His father had been willing to sacrifice the boy on an altar, a holy butchering block, as he played Chicken with a God who demanded a loyalty that bordered on mania. If you love me, kill the one you love.
Blood can mean death, but also birth. Blood is sacred. In dreams it can signify transformation. When it begins to flow in a young woman, it is the dawning of her adult life. When it stops, it’s the beginning of a new life. Down through the ages, one squalling infant after another, blood has lived on through the unions driven by a joyous clasping of boys and girls together, a more effective design than the careful plans of their elders.
What is it about the blood? Despite those awful 19th Century church hymns with dripping names like Covered With The Blood and Fountain of Blood, there does seem to be what one song says is Power In The Blood.
On the long ago visit to Uncle Hank’s farm, after the ladies left the living room he told a story about himself and Aunt Eva butchering a pig. My father coughed uncomfortably as I lay on the floor and continued to read a comic book, pretending not to listen. Uncle Hank said he and Eva were third cousins and hadn’t any romantic interest in each other until they found themselves smeared with the pig’s blood. That aroused their interest in each other, he said with a wink in his voice. While the rest of the family was in town that afternoon, Uncle Hank and Aunt Eva found their way to ecstasy in the barn as easily and quickly as every one of their ancestors had back to Adam and Eve.
"Well," sighed Uncle Hank, "we went right down to the minister the next day and told him we wanted to get married. The man asked me how soon? And I said,'Before the train comes in, Pastor.’"
My father chuckled and Uncle Hank continued, "The Pastor looked at me and he said, 'Buying your ticket a little late, ain'tcha son?’"
The men in the room laughed. I hadn’t understood the punch line and I kept my face in my comic book. Even if I thought they would have offered an explanation, I wouldn’t have asked, because I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t figure it out.
In my sleeping bag, I flipped over on my other side, trying to get comfortable. I wanted us to stay on this farm at Mucky Run. Though we’d only been here the past two weeks, I was captured by the rolling hills and green pastures. To have such open space around me was a great blessing after being closed away for so long in the woods of West Saugerties. But I wanted to choose a course based on what was best for all of us and what God might want us to do in his service. After all, I was the abbot.
Frankly, I didn’t know if the Creator of the Universe cared about our puny efforts. I wanted him to know we were willing to be his hands, but as Augustine said, there isn’t anything he really needs to hear from us. Yet the great disappointment of my life would be if I found that none of my efforts had mattered. My Golgotha would be to see my work crucified.
It seemed to me I was wasting time and I wanted to have a plan for us and I wanted an answer as to where we should go. I wanted to buy my ticket before the train arrived. But sometimes the train never comes. Uncle Hank and Aunt Eva got married and built a house with many rooms. But Eva was never able to have any children.
“We were disappointed to have not been blessed with little ones,” Uncle Hank said on another occasion. “But the only thing to do in life is the next thing waiting to be done,” he said. “Otherwise, you might start thinking you’re in charge.”
I could live my life working toward my laudable goals without knowing if they would bear fruit. Or like the old song I hate, I could cover myself with the blood. The blood I carry in my veins links me all the way back to those who were so like me and who I will never know. But their blood runs in me and with it their faith bangs around in my heart. The blood I carry in my soul was shed for me by the one who redeems me from myself.
Lying on the butchering table I thought how easy it was when I simply did as I was told by my superiors. Now, as the abbot I had to advise the others what to do, but only after I offered my will as a sacrifice.
I didn’t need a plan. I needed a lot more humility and trust. I would wait and listen.
copyright 2010 by David Griffin
Thanks to Keith for this one - Are You Washed In The Blood Of The Lamb
================================================================================
Dave, I'm not sure what prompted the return to blood but it is well worth reading. I tried to find a Youtube video of the original version of Highway 61, but I'm sure the Derek Trucks version is a worthy substitute.
Nostalgic note: Barb & I had our first apartment just a few blocks uphill of Highway 61. Sunday mornings we would walk to mass at the chapel the Church maintained for travelers on the highway.
