Behind the Veil

                Heloise appreciated much of God's creation. However, she found she appreciated the horses the most. She looked after most of them in the parish- the health of the horses kept the fields plowed and wagons running into town for supplies. With the regiments entrusting their tired stock to the stables, the last year had proved profitable for Ervin and Cecily. No matter the number, horses were magnificent animals. They were strong yet calm, and acted on instinct that was brash one moment and graceful the next. Under Ervin's tutelage, she could doctor gashed legs or sore teeth. He had also taught her much about living alongside these creatures; establishing domain without crushing their spirits.
                A balance we all could strife for. Heloise considered, digging her comb through Claudia's mane. Keeping their coats free of dirt and ticks was the start of her every day, before they were hitched to the plows or saddled for a hard day's ride. Heloise always saved Claudia for last. The mare was their oldest and deserved a little pampering. That, and a well-groomed animal against the sun was a beautiful sight.
                "Heloise."
                His voice warmed Heloise now like the spring sun to the back of her neck. Heloise turned to eye Preban over the fence. "Preban."
                Dark hair rested in clumps over his forehead, sweaty and smokey from the blacksmith fires. The work made it darker then it really was, but Preban's piercing blue eyes revealed his true Anglo coloring. Her own hair was wrapped beneath her shawl, tied snug around her head. She brushed it back anyway. "How are you?"
                He nodded, a common answer for doing well. "A soldier brought three horses for new shoes last evening. The shoes are ready."
                "I turned them into the southern pasture." Heloise told him, scratching Claudia's chin. She watched Preban come through the gate, eyes on Ervin's twin geldings, born in the harsh winter. He and Heloise had fought side by side to bring them into this world. In doing so, she had witnessed a deep tenderness beneath Preban's stern exterior. Preban had entered the parish like a dark shadow, at a loss of a smile or much else beyond hard work. That satisfied everyone, even Heloise. Until she realized there was more. Something that gave direction to her relentless need for action.. and had her heart racing and Preban's eyes lighted whenever they were close.
                Yet, in this moment, there was no light. Heloise left Claudia and caught the gelding's rope halter before Preban could undo it. "What troubles you?"
                Preban's pause before answering was long. "I had confession today with Father Jerome."
                "Of course." Heloise nodded, though her stomach started churning. He usually had those with Father Quintius.
                Preban spoke like he wasn't believing the words coming out. "He advises me... not to marry you. That you are not who you say you are."
                Sweat popped from her skin, another layer to the mud and horse hair that disguised Heloise.    "What did you tell him?"
                "That neither am I."
                Heloise's throat closed, close knit as Preban was around his past. He had been a soldier. Heloise had caught his glances to the frontlines... they weren't of longing or curiosity like the rest, but fear- terror that any day they'd draw closer. Bringing the Mongols with them. Heloise pretended she had not seen Preban's scars, but they followed her thoughts often. Even now, she watched the thin crack down his cheek turn white. "Why would he say this of you?"
                Wind rustled through the corral, the horses stirred in the uncomfortable moment. Heloise recalled the deep assurance within the church that morning. Only hours before. She was at a loss for that now.
               "Is it about yesterday?" Preban guessed, taking the rope of the horse in need of shoeing. "When you spoke out against the father, we knew something might happen-"
               "Father Jerome was not in the right." Heloise stated, taking defense behind the change of topic. "You heard how he was speaking. How he speaks to our friends, to Father Quintius, even to his own brothers."
               "He is the head of the church." Preban shook his head. "Second only to the bishop."
                Heloise set her jaw. "Father Quintius leads our flock. Have you ever know him to deal so harshly? With any of us?"
               "Not all can be as gracious as he." Preban released the horse, who happily trotted to the opposite of the corral. "Heloise, those boys are wards of the church. Who are we to question the church? Father Quintius calls it the bridge between us and God."
               "And who walks the bridge?" Heloise was asking before thinking. "Us or the priest?"
               "What?"
               She touched Preban's chest, keeping her words as careful as the action. "The earth and the fullness thereof is the Lord's; the world and all who dwell therein. Does that not include the monks? They are only human-"
               "You know what Father Quintius' absolution means to me!" Preban's hand was on her arm now, in the loving squeeze she was familiar with. "There... there are things I can not tell you. Things that I want washed away before our life together."
               Heloise's chest burned again.
               "How do you know the Scriptures so well?" Preban stepped back. "Why do you always question Father Quintius? And you have only challenged Father Jerome since he arrived."
               His questions weighted Heloise down, making the air heavy to breathe through. Where had the peace of the morning gone?
               "I know that you are not Ervin or Cecily's daughter." Preban interjected for her.
                "Preban-"
                "Please tell me that is all there is." Preban exclaimed in desperation. He was angry. Anger on him was so rare, as though Preban had denounced it after seeing how it could destroy. What if her next words did just that? She had wanted to tell him this for so long...  Dear God, guide me in these next steps.
                 "I-" Heloise swallowed over a dry throat. "I was a nun."
                 Preban froze, his face becoming blank in disbelief. Heloise didn't want to watch his eyes as she continued. "I entered the convent at sixteen, thinking nothing could be more wonderful then a life at God's feet."
                 I still think that. she could still feel the swelling rise of purpose, kneeling before the cross to pray with her sisters. How simple it had been then, believing anything you wanted was possible.
                 "We had a mother there," Heloise found herself leaning on the fence, this revelation exhausting her. "She always seemed more interested in people's fear of God, rather then their faith of Him. She didn't not approve of me questioning... thinking I knew more about God then she... I was expelled."
                 Heloise wished for something to be said, for any sound to break the silence. But Preban only absorbed the words in his slow, heavy-chested way. Heloise blinked so the tears could hide in her sweat. "My life is still at His feet, Preban. And I still-"
                Her words faded out as Preban walked away.

~To Be Continued~

                

Under The Veil

'And I have made thy name known to them, and shall make known; 

that the love by which thou hast loved me, be in them and I in them.'

~John 17:26~

               The hour was sweet. It was silent. Father Quintius took these hours, barely brushed by dawn, to link his voice to the Lord's. Heloise hoped he wouldn't mind if she lent her own this foggy morning. She'd risen before chores, silently making her way to the church. Its sole light were the candles, sending gentle shadows over the stone walls. Alight throughout the night, they were a claming beacon that all in the parish could spot.
                "My heart is heavy, Father." was all Heloise had said when Father Quintius spotted her. "I can lay it nowhere but here."  
                 Such explanation was hardly necessary. Father Quintius was an understanding soul, beloved by the parish... those who attended his sermons, and those who didn't. Just the same, Heloise wanted him aware. As an elder, mentor, and friend, she welcomed his prayers. So, she stayed kneeled, eyes on the cross and heart upon the stone floor, until Father Quintius rang out the parish bell. Rather then a means of starting the day, the bell was a system which Preben, the blacksmith had proposed.
                 Hills sheltered the parish to the east; a mile past those hills, stood the tents of the soldiers. They'd been placed there against the growing invasion of the Mongols. For three years now, sad destruction had maimed the western border of Europe and the coming and going of soldiers- feeding them, dressing wounds, and stabling their horses- had marked those grisly times. Father Quintius' parish was the only one for six miles and couldn't afford constant militant protection. A ring of the bell at dawn, another at dusk, signaling they'd not be overthrown by the unwashed hordes.
                They fight the battle without. Heloise raised her eyes upon the mark of Jesus; the cross hung behind Father Quintius' pulpit. I must fight that within.
                 Not alone. 
                 The promise did not bring peace. But it did loosen the barren loneliness that had been building on Heloise's shoulders all week. The answer was clear as she stood. "What good is hearing the Word of Truth if it goes unused?"
                 Heloise turned from her whisper to exit the humble church. The door darkened before she had taken two steps. Heloise paused. Ivory robes hovering above the ground, Father Jerome entered, hands clasped in their tender- domineering- way. He had been seen in this posture, moving from hut to the stables, the mill, to another hut. A pale man with thinning hair and gray eyes, he easily faded in and out of the countryside. Father Jerome made his cross, eyes over Heloise to the pulpit. "You came to unburden your heart, my child?"
                 An intuitiveness formidable of a man of the cloth. Heloise kept her face mutual. "It is in the hands of God now. Good day, father."
                 He let her pass, though his eyes bore down on her. "You do not seek absolution?"
                 Heloise didn't dare turn around. She'd found early on that Father Jerome never stopped at one sentence. Sure enough, he stepped closer, his disdain growing in her silence. "You speak against the business of the church and no repentance."
                 Heloise watched the arch of the church door. The threshold of both hope and heartache in the world. Who alone was worthy to bear the responsibility of it? The rage returning from yesterday, Heloise turned her eye to the priest. "The church makes business of heaping insults on children."
                 Father Jerome's lips drew a thin, condescending line. Heloise and the others of the parish had grown accustomed to it. For almost a month now, Father Jerome and his brother monks had been tending the morale of the frontlines. That is, within the relative safety of the parish- all forty acres of it. With them, were two wards of the Holy Roman church; Fernan and his older cousin, Manuel. Heloise did not know their story, but she saw them to be hard-working, eager to please boys. That was why they'd remained silent as Father Jerome had cursed them... in God's name!
                 "They neglected their duties and stole your master's horse." Father Jerome pointed out.
                 "The care of our horses falls to me." Heloise was quick to point back. "They had my permission-"
                 "You permit nothing." Father Jerome stated, cool in his control. "And it seems you understand nothing. Fernan recognizes his need for atonement; Manuel also. The past sins they have to bear-"
                 "You underestimate the devil to measure the sins of one family by one hand." Heloise thought on Fernan's fingers, curled abnormally into his knuckles. A boy of nine and condemned to the spiritual debtor's prison. Nonetheless, a strong rider and a humble soul that flowed with questions.
                 "Who are we to question the mark of past transgressions." Father Jerome insisted, shoulders growing stiff. They'd both taken to guarding their position around each other, the longer he and monks stayed. As Heloise's objections had become louder over the parish, more frequent.
                 "... a jealous God," Father Jerome was speaking, hand clasped adamantly around his rosary. "and I yield the wickedness of the fathers into the sons, into the third and fourth generations..."
                 He looked ahead to the cross, as though it would respond. His whole body jerked when Heloise did. "Forsooth, he was wounded for our wickedness... the learning of our peace was on him and we be made whole by his wanness."
                 There was the burn of conviction in her chest... fear also. Her life here had been built over the ruins of her old one. But as a shallow grave, they could be drawn up in a light storm or with the till. She saw the storm as Father Jerome's eyes narrowed on her. They showed their annoyance, but also their suspicion. "From the book of Isaiah. How well you must listen to Father Quintius' messages."
                 "He is a fine spiritual leader." Heloise barely swallowed. The need to kick herself was great. This was not the first time she had combated with Father Jerome, or the fellow monks. She'd been careful to only quote the scriptures Father Quintius had on hand. But never in Latin.
                 "Quarreling is not my wish, father." Heloise dipped her head, shadowing the humility she was praying for. "Not in His house. I spoke out for the children because I care. Nothing more."
                 Father Jerome seemed to accept this, withdrawing his suspicion. "Rest assured, Heloise. No one cares for the forsaken more then the shepherds of Christ."
                 He raised a hand to hover over Heloise's forehead. Jaw tightened, Heloise knocked it aside.  Father Jerome's face reddened, but it was only Fernan's round face and eager voice that filled Heloise's mind, along Manuel's proud eyes. Heloise had seen many forsaken in her life. It was in neither of those boys. But she kept this behind her lips, turning from Father Jerome and finally exiting the church.

~To Be Continued~

The Day of Love

All I caught of love

Was her long blonde braid

My finger felt a lock,

Around a curl of corn-silk I played

Her head was turned

Away in the gentlest curve

Her face hidden from me,

Never a word

But her braid did speak

A sweet, tiger-lily tone

Whispered a grace

A softness never known

When strands swished

In the wind of her neck

Below the lips

Of love yet met

Then it went too soon,

Her braid flowing away

Leaving a golden trail

I followed through the day

I had to learn

The face, the lips, the eyes

Had to tear this model love 

From its disguise

The lightly braid

I did not stray my sight

But stayed its captive

Under the night

And into the late stars

That caught her curls

As over shoulder 

the flaxen weight she twirls

With membered touch

Of the curl that morn

Was the moment

My soul was born

It searched its mate

To the foot of her door…

She answered and I wondered

At her beauty no more

Beyond any 

My mind had guessed

Her face surpassed

Aphrodite’s test

I passed the night

In the glow of that face

Bathed so sweet

I near feared its taste

Where her lips smiled

And her eyes laughed

Her braid framing them

In its royal shaft

We stayed together

Til God’s morning broke

Rays of pink and orange

Came her cheek to stroke

Composure near lost,

I asked for a kiss

My desire I prayed

Her not to dismiss

She came forward though,

Her lips in part

Faithful God, I cannot tell

How it did my heart

A moment given

From eternity

Was the power her cherry mouth 

Pulled from me

As I caught the curl, a soft feather

Off the wing of my dove

Blessing it in palm

For leading me to love

Sleigh Bells and... Fireworks!

Who doesn't love a good Christmas in July. I know I didn't mind when I was rocking out to yuletide carols while cooking breakfast this morning! Outside of Hallmark enthusiasts though, nobody probably does. 

Yet- to me anyway- it makes sense that the two bi-polars of the year are thrown together. July 4th is a celebration of our American freedom... Christmas celebrates our freedom in Christ. See the connection that I'm hitting you over the head with?

'Blessed is the nation whose God is Lord, 

the people he chose for his inheritance.'

~Psalm 33:12~

God's threads trail through our every day, most of which we don't see, or realize until years later. But the history of Christianity pushing humanity forward has always been there. Through the wars fought, the debates weighted, and the authorities whom our country has followed. Because that is what God desires the most for us... freedom of choice and freedom from sin.

So, God Bless America and Merry Christmas!

Beauty Knows No Pain... Yeah Right!

               

               Wanna hear something funny?

               Of course you do! Who's not looking for a laugh on this sunny day? 

               So come the middle of June, I'm being a total girl. I’m sitting pretty on the edge of the upstairs bathtub, shaving my legs, and talking on my cell with my BFF. I whine about my weight to her and how nothing in my closet suits my shape. She tells me of her biking regiment, asks me for my advice on artistic choices, and we swap grievances over our mothers (even though mine, who is reading this, is a saint). 

              A couple of swipes, I have the first leg done, my weight worries uplifted with my friend's encouraging compliments. I travel to my next leg, returning the favor to her by encouraging her future decisions in her blossoming steam punk jewelry line. That's when I tap my razor against the porcelain of the tub. 

              "What are you doing?" my friend thinks to ask.

              I laugh, turning my foot to reach the start of my calf. "I'm just shaving my le... aaaggghhh!"

              The blade cuts deep. Blood starts to bloom just above that annoying knot on the outside of my ankle.

             "What’d you do?" my friend's voice lifts about ten octaves. 

             "I... cut myself!" I cry, and then proceed to laugh. And by laugh, I totally lose it. I mean, what are the odds? The minute she asks me, the plaque of a woman and her leg hairs strikes. Another point about God having a sense of humor?

             "Ugh, look at the blood." I point at my ankle dumbfounded, even though she can't see it.

             "Do you need help?" she asks and I'm sure she's picturing a gruesome hack job from my hamstring to my Achilles’ tendon. I tone down the dramatics enough to tell her that it's not so bad, but... Face it ladies, no matter how hard we fight it, how delicately we tread the razor over our damp legs, our stroke will be misguided at one time or another. 

Unfortunately, my suffering didn't end there.

         Tissues, tissues, and more tissues try to sop up the blood, to keep it from tinting the water... like when God allowed Aaron to turn the Nile with Moses' staff. I'm attempting this while balancing my phone between my ear and shoulder, my supportive friend laughing right along with me through the wires. I tell her about the blood mixing with the water.

          "How dramatic!" she gushes and I agree. "Good, you think so too. That makes us both freaks... uuggghhh."

          "Now what?" she asks, her voice between caution and exasperation.

          "My skin's just hanging there." I tell her with a moan. "I'm going to have to tear it off... whoa, I never knew skin was that stretchy."

          "I know, right." my friend sighs, her cool, sarcastic response saying a lot about her personality. I shake my head, spinning my legs around to stand and get a Band-Aid. But I don't even make it that far, banging my knee on the bathroom cabinet! A combination of its dull pain and another fit of giggles tip me sideways and I grab the countertop to keep from tumbling over. I continue to laugh, trying to get the story out to my friend. "I... hit... my knneeee..."

             It's hopeless, as I'm lost to my levity in the face of my bleeding ankle and throbbing knee.

             "Well it seems obvious that I'm distracting you." my friend makes the understatement of the day. "We should probably hang up now, while you're still alive."

               I tell her good-bye and tend to my 'battle' wounds. 

               A year and a month later, I still find myself smiling at the memory. My legs (minus the Band-Aid covering my raw dot of exposed tissue) are as light as the air that's been circulating since the beginning of spring. My heart is satisfied at the community I got to have with one of my best girlfriends and the memory we made to tell our kids and grandkids down the road.

          I'm also choosing to smile because I believe I have made a stand in telling the world what it means to be a woman. Men, I hope this piece makes you realize what we go through. The sweat and blood of our efforts, the risks we take with each week, each new shave... all so you can enjoy our seamless legs glowing in the summer sunshine!