Following is a scene from the Novel, Overload. Unfortunately, it is close to possible reality. The book was published in October of 2012.

*************

Chapter 7

Mohamed Gidr Adib was having a bad day.
His journey had been long and punishing, for a son of Allah. He’d dealt with scores of filthy infidels in several countries; walked with drug runners across Mexican deserts and eluded the dogs called police in the country of the Great Satan.
This morning, when his time of glory was at hand, he’d sat on his glasses and broken them. But glory be to Allah, he wouldn’t need them. He could see well enough to find his target.  He needed them only to read. Reading wasn’t necessary any more.
His home in Somalia was in the dry tropics.  This awful place, in Georgia, was wet.  It had been raining for three days and he’d only been here six.  Mohamed hated rain. Hated infidels and hoped the rain would help him in his task.
Allah be praised, Mohamed would strike. His glory, ascending to meet Allah, would be accompanied by the death of numbers of the filthy unbelievers. Maybe even some of their imperialistic soldiers, their wives, and spawn.
The Riverside Mall was new. It had opened only a month before and had attracted crowds from Alabama—across the river—Columbus, and Ft. Benning.  The exhibition this week, especially exciting for kids (no matter the age), was biplanes.  Quarter-size replicas of WWI SPADs, Fokkers and Sopwith Camels hung from the ceilings and seemed to fly, thirty feet above the ground floor.  If visitors went to the second floor, the planes were at, or below, eye level since they were in simulated combat.  A crimson replica of the Red Baron’s Fokker—a triplane—swung from almost-invisible wires above a fountain.
Mohamed had his belt in place. He wore a loose white, short-sleeved shirt and black trousers.  The shirt covered a chain of plastique explosive blocks and a detonator cable.  The button that would take Mohamed to Allah and his virgins was in his left pocket.
His spiritual mentor, the Mullah Yusef, who had schooled him in martyr’s tactics, had told him to wait until the mall began to fill and go to the second floor.  He was to loiter by the guardrail until a crowd of infidels gathered below and then climb on the railing, leap in the air and trigger the explosives. Allah willing, he would kill scores of the filth.
He had ridden an escalator, the first he’d ever seen, to the second floor. As instructed, he’d found the spot the Mullah had designated and stayed there until hundreds of shameless women with uncovered skin congregated in the food court below him.
Mohamed leaped up on the railing, yelled “Allahu Akbar!” and launched himself into the air. His left hand was in his pocket on the detonator.  He’d been trained to wait until he almost slammed into the floor to push the button.
He had not seen, with his faulty vision, the thin—almost invisible—wires that held the Fokker triplane.  He hit the wires, bounced backward toward the mall’s inner walls, fell forward and hit a series of bronze dolphins spewing water into a fountain, then fell into three-feet-deep water.
His left thumb triggered the explosive belt when he splashed into the pool.
The eruption blew out the glass walls of the mall, on both levels, for more than fifty yards. The upper level buckled and sent shoppers falling to the lower level.  The falling statuary crushed three women at a table near the fountain.  Flying shards of bronze and the fountain’s ceramic tiles killed twelve other people, hitting like misshapen bullets. Gushing, uncontrolled waters flooded the mall.
The water in the pool had absorbed much of the suicide bomb’s shock.  The fountain shattered into shrapnel that killed, but its waters buffered the blast, sparing scores of people.
*********
“From your twenty-four-hour, three-hundred-sixty-five day news source, this is the evening’s happenings.”
The blonde woman whose wide, electric blue eyes were fixed on the Teleprompter, began reading the news.
“An explosion rocked the new Riverside Mall in Columbus. Authorities have not yet commented on the cause of the blast, which killed fifteen people, but channel 59 has learned that survivors from the mall report a suicide bomber yelling something in a foreign language as he jumped off a railing.  The sheriff’s office of Muscogee County says the investigation is ongoing and has refused to comment on reports saying the FBI has been called into the case,”

This is a bit of a departure for the site. Although I’ve posted poetry here, I haven’t posted any song lyrics.  I’ve written lyrics for several songs, this was the first.  It may have been given to me to help as I was going through a tough period of time. Maybe it’ll help someone else, too.

This song was performed only once, at the Meridianville Baptist Church.  The music, for the first two verses, was composed by my son, Michael and his friend, Mike Roden.  It was, and is dedicated to my parents, Tom and Mary Drinkard. Mother was in a wheelchair, but at least she was able to personally hear the song.

The third verse has never been performed in public.

~~~~~~~~~

1

Fear swirled all about me
like dark and hovering wings.
I stumbled, with no compass
in the night.
Despair had choked my throat,
and I could hardly speak,
so I cried out to Him in silent prayer.

“Trust me, ” He said.
His voice, still and strong,
“Trust me, ” He said.
“Your fears will be gone.
Follow the pathway I’ve lighted ahead,
Trust me, just trust me,” He said.

2

Like chill and bitter waters,
misery flooded me.
Brothers, sisters falling from my side.
Loneliness lay on my heart
like cold and heavy stone,
until His voice warmed me through my soul.

“Trust me,” He said.
“They’re here with me.”
“Trust me,” He said,
“They’re safe in my arms,
hold out your hand, you’ll touch them through me,
trust me, just trust me, He said.

3

When my courage falters,
I listen for His voice,
knowing that he’ll comfort and protect.
Then when I hear Him speak,
my joy overflows;
for he restores my soul and cares for me.

“Trust me,” He says,
Be not afraid,
I am your shepherd, have faith in me
and follow, though shadows darken the way,
trust me, only trust me,” He says.

There is heightened concern about terrorists infiltrating the U.S. across our Southern Border.  The book Overload, deals with the possible, frightening consequences in the form of fiction.  Here is the Prologue to the book. How this scene is relevant to the terrorist invasion is to be discovered later in the novel.  Another sample will follow this week—the scene of a terrorist attacking a shopping mall with a suicide bomb.

*********

 Prologue

Rastus Wright screamed, spittle flying and dripping down his red plaid shirt.
His yells nearly drowned out the higher-pitched, frenzied yelping of his daughter.
Wright’s mouth, gaped wide with yelling, showed missing teeth and the yellow of the remaining few. He wore loose, dark-blue denim trousers. The frayed cuffs dragged the muddy cemetery earth at the heels of his hiking boots.

   He carried a professionally printed sign, two by three feet reading, in six-inch tall black letters, “GOD WILL PUNISH QUEERS!” His daughter’s placard of the same size read, “BODIES OF DEAD SOLDIERS ARE LOVELY SIGHTS!”

Wright’s hollering echoed across the open ground, louder than one would expect from a bandy-legged man standing about five-seven.  His narrow chest contrasted with a belly poking out like half a basketball, stretching the bottom button holes on his shirt. He wore a blue baseball cap so dirty the original product or company advertised was illegible.  His hair was yellow-gray and hung in a greasy ponytail four or five inches below his shirt collar. His short beard dripped with drool.

“Filthy warmongers! Your miserable deaths are payback for the country’s fags in power! More are gonna die! The Lord will take them!”

A crowd of mourners stood around an open grave, about a hundred yards away, trying to ignore him.  An American Flag covered the coffin, held suspended by nylon straps over a gaping mouth of dark red earth, waiting to receive the vault at the funeral’s end.

Wright’s daughter, Cora, a short, doughy woman with a ruddy round face and oily brown hair, told the Texas State Trooper, in an adenoidal complaining voice, through snuffling and rubbing her nose on a well-used hanky—her memory of what happened next.

“Daddy was just a’ standing and testifying to them sinners over at the grave. He leaned backwards and drew in a breath to preach louder, and his head blew up.  His ponytail landed about five feet over yonder. Somebody shot him in the mouth.”

  The Trooper grimaced.

“Did you see anyone with a weapon?” He said.

“Them soldiers over by the grave have guns”
She pointed her quivering double chins to where the funeral group hadn’t dispersed.

“Yes, Ma’am they do.  Those are honor guard soldiers.  Their rifles will only fire blanks. We’re currently checking their weapons and interviewing people who were around the grave.  Now, Ma’am, did you see anyone with a weapon pointing toward your father?  Could you tell where the shot could have come from?” the trooper said.

“Naw, daddy was just preachin’ to them sinners.  We gotta stay a ways away from their graves now.  New law.  He was witnessin’ real loud so they could hear what the Lord meant for them,” she paused, “…then his head blowed up.”

“Thank you, Ma’am, I’ll get back in touch with you when we have some leads on the perpetrator,” the trooper said.

  He touched the brim of his “Smokey Bear” hat, turned away and marched back to the State Patrol cruiser.

The grim line of his mouth almost hurt. Laughter bubbled behind clenched teeth.

This is the beginning of a work I now call Bitterweed.

    It was a time when small boys in southern towns, listened for distant whistles and ran to long tracks.  Enormous dragons, spitting foul-smelling, steam slowed to reach steel claws snatching grimy canvas mail pouches, like stealing bags of knights’ armor from an enemy castle. Engineers, with grimy faces and striped blue caps, waved before giving an extra toot of the whistle, answering the arm-jerking signals as short legs tried to keep pace with accelerating iron wheels. Remembrance of tiny cinders still stings the eyes.

Mama Lou’s house was comfortable. White frame, with broad porches that invited breezes up from the creek we called Panther Branch. Everyone—eight brothers, sisters and their broods—could sit at Thanksgiving and Christmas tables with overloaded stomachs, or later, the porch swing, on green wooden slats, laughing above the squawk of metal chains.

Family gathered there. Not just for major holidays showing on the big insurance company calendar. A day of gathering wasn’t always printed under the calendar’s number. One of the aunts could always call and ask Johnny Cloud’s grandmother, who operated town’s switchboard, to get everyone on the line. After the get-together on the wires, assembling would be soon.

Many quickly-called gatherings I remember, or maybe I’ve heard the stories so many times I think I was there, were all attended by adult women in the family.  The men were at war. Two Rowe brothers who were my mother’s brothers and a Rowe cousin and in-laws. Two other close cousins from my maternal side of the family, were brothers in all but genes.
My dad was 4F, so he couldn’t be drafted. He worked in the Fire Department on Redstone arsenal.  There were no adult men at the gatherings.

Voices, higher in pitch than usual, swirled through the room like tobacco smoke and there many of the women smoked. News from the front; news from ships at sea; news from secret locations.

“… has anyone heard….?” an aunt.

“…do you know about…?” Mama Lou.

And so the news was spread. Each woman held, usually in one hand, at least one Victory    Letter, those single sheets of almost-transparent blue paper that were essentially thin envelopes with writing inside.
The women held the letters across their chests, over their hearts, like cradling a baby; like shields from the world, or a pledge of allegiance. For their men.
~~~~~~~~~~
“What did Louis tell you in the letter you got this morning?” Mama Lou said.
We were sitting in the swing on her side porch.
“He said he couldn’t tell me where he was, but he was doing well. He said it was hot.”
Mother had read the letter to me, but kept it safe to show my father. Louis was Mother’s cousin who was more like an uncle. I’d walked to the post office to pick up the mail.  I couldn’t work the combination, but the stern; unsmiling postmistress, with white hair curled against her scalp, stared briefly through her rimless glasses and gave me the V-Letter because it was addressed directly to me.

Home, Mama Lou’s house—Mother, Dad and I were living in half her house—was about half a mile from the post office. When I slammed, panting, through the door, Mother circled her arms around me and lifted me to her lap. Barely was I there when she took the thin letter and read it to me.
“Go tell Mama Lou. She’ll want to know. I’ll read it again and show it to her later.”
On the front porch I climbed into the swing with my grandmother. She pulled me close to her before talking. Finally, after I told her about the letter, she relaxed her enfolding embrace, but held my hand and combed long fingers through my hair and looked out across the
“They’re all so precious,” she said.
She was a woman who had grown up in a middle-class Irish family. Her hair had once bee rich auburn that fell to her waist.  A sepia- tone picture, on heavy cardboard, showed her with five others—three men and two women— she held a tall guitar leaned against her leg daring the camera with direct green eyes. Her hair, slightly wavy, dropped past a wide belt. When I asked who the others were, she pointed and named each one.  They were her classmates at Falkville Normal College.  There were only six students in her class, I wasn’t old enough for First Grade and there wasn’t a kindergarten, so only six students in her class didn’t seem remarkable.
She took off her glasses and touched each eye with a corner of her apron.
“What’s wrong, Mama Lou?”
“One day, we’ll lose one of them,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s war, Thomas. Men kill each other. We can’t be forever safe.”
I’d seen the posters in the post office when I picked up the letter and in the general store windows. Powerful American men and women fighting brutish Nazis and snarling Japanese. Could one of those rat-faced brutes kill my uncles or cousins? It seemed unlikely.
“The Germans and the Japs want to take over the world. The Americans and the English-speaking countries have to stop them,” she said.
She held her left hand up between us, fingers splayed and ticked years off each finger and thumb.
“You were only sixteen months old, when the Japs made a sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. They had no reason to attack our ships; they want to rule everything.  We’ve got to stop them,” she said.
“Go on and play.  I need to do some sewing and the rolls for our supper are rising. Tell your mother where you’re going so she won’t worry,” she said.
I was a happy boy, with a tide of saliva rising in my mouth, whenever the aroma of bread rising, curved across my nostrils then up to the food pleasure centers of my brain.
It would be hours before supper was ready, though.
I went to find my buddy.

Marge and I visited Dachau in May of 1971. It was years later, before I could write about it.

*********

1

ARTIST’S CENTRE

“Visit Dachau, the 1200 years old artists’ centre with its castle and surrounding park offering a splendid view over the country.”
Sign along the autobahn, May 1971.

It seemed appropriate -
driving North,
after Munich’s beer halls,
toward the marching torchlights of Nuremberg,
filled with Bavarian spring glory;
pause,
- as a traveling artist might
for schnitzel and beer;
visit,
-for a May afternoon,
where so many lived their lives
too short
or long.

THE GASTHAUS

“We have been silent witnesses of evil deeds . . ..” Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Houses and shops stand like unmoving spectators
edging medieval streets
whose cobbles pound our tires,
slamming in rhythmic thumps,
echoing from claustrophobic walls
like jackboots at quick march.

The gasthaus windows hold blurry leaded panes,
ancient as its yellowed mortar and bricks.
It slumbers the days beside shops with newer glass
-a comfortable quiet neighbor,
as old as evil.

Our host, bespectacled and fat,
knows  us for Americans,
and waves aside our bookish German,
welcoming in robust English.
We sit in thick oak chairs,
before a round  hand-made table
under shelves crowded with pewter plates and tankards
high above, on clean white walls.

Dark lager (cold for tourists),
and bratwurst with potato dumplings
blend with holiday gemutlichkeit,
fill us with stealthy languor
until the question
stops genial smiles,
stops talk
that had eddied in holiday air
like swirls of pipe smoke.

The camp,
yes,
where is the prison camp?

The concentration camp.

He doesn’t know,
can  hardly understand;
-business keeps him close,
perhaps another can tell,
good-bye, thank you,
good-bye.

The waitress has heard;
-is young, with a dirndl only for work.
Follow the old railroad;
look where a branch splits in weeds to a siding
where things were once unloaded.

We will see chimneys,
then, the road inside is near.

She tells us a story she had heard;
…the host,
when only a youth,
had crept in the night
to throw loaves of bread over the walls.

*******

It was always closer than we knew.
From any higher vantage,
-a public building, standing tall
or church with a strong steeple,
we might have seen the camp before,
but persistent soot darkened their windows,
hiding the sight.

We traveled on the prison road
before we knew where it led.
-tracks appeared;
once bright, hard German steel
that barely flexed under loaded cattle cars,
lie obscured now,
camouflaged in rust and silence.

*******

“ARBEIT MACHT FREI”

Work will make you free,
the sign above the gate promised each morning.
Everyone worked then,
The Fuehrer led us to our tasks.

I typed and filed for the SS Doctors;
-precise records:
race, nationality,
crimes against The Reich,
camp discipline,
experiments,
and deaths,
cross-indexed by tattoo number
and name.

All the family has poor vision,
-I’m almost blind without heavy glasses
given me by the party-
but wanted to wear the black shirt;
had envied hordes of SS ranks at Nuremberg,
following swastika standards,
stepping to the pagan roll of kettle drums,
‘blazoned with lightning and death-heads.

That night in thirty-four, my family joined the march;
bearing our torches toward The Fuerher’s stand,
down that dark path
where a column of spotlights pointed skyward,
and disappeared in emptiness.

The doctors gave me the storm trooper shirt
pinned with silver runes and skulls
-made me one of them
as an honor,
after I assisted in a medical experiment.

-I only followed orders;
only kept records.

They called him their Test Pilot,
-laughed at the irony of a Jew
dressed in Luftwaffe flight gear,
testing  North Atlantic water survival
beneath the walls of Dachau.

He sat in a wooden tub,
chained to his task,
submerged to the neck in icy brine
that mocked the life vest he wore.

How long, the doctors had asked,
should we search for pilots
downed at sea in winter?
-How long, they wanted to know,
would it take the Jew to die?

I held the stopwatch.
watching both hands circle,
until his work had made him free.

Late in the night,
as the SS doctors drank and ate,
telling stories and laughing in our gasthaus,
I stole bread from the kitchen,
found my way in darkness,
and threw loaves over the wall.

*******

The picture hangs in the camp museum;
-part of the records we kept-

A doctor counts the Jew’s slowing pulse,
another ensures the water is cold enough.
Two others watch.
I stand away,          to one side,
wearing the SS shirt that doesn’t fit,
looking down at stopwatch and clipboard.
Everyone else looks at the camera.
Everyone smiles
but me
and the Test Pilot.

No one in town knows
-or tells-
who that young clerk was.

*******

THE MUSEUM

Now, the path into the camp;
-a long entranceway,
whose high whitewashed walls,
blank and mute,
keeps all sights enclosed.

One blind guard tower watches the gate.

It could be a schoolhouse,
an innocent white frame building,
where children hang bright crayon drawings
down long hallways with fragrant oiled floors.
It was once camp headquarters.

Inside, we submerge into the Third Reich:
black and white pictures in iron racks,
enlarged beyond reality,
stare back at us.

Hitler points and screams,
his grainy, sightless, long-dead eyes
storm from the poster
with erupting blackness
like a sudden rush of vulture’s wings.

Snapshots:
–a man chained in a wooden tub,
freezes in ice water.
doctors in SS uniforms watch.

–a “Test Person” locked in a steel tank,
- a series of pictures
taken through a small thick window,
panics as his air is sucked out,
claws his face,
contorted in the vacuum,
until his lungs rupture.

–bodies, living and dead,
like stick-figures drawn by an insane child,
stare out from their wooden sleeping bins,
or lie stacked in a pit;
arms, legs, necks jutting in broken angles.

Exhibits:
–Ledger books
written in a precise hand
translated on another book to English,
to French, to Russian,
to Hebrew,
exact transcripts of torture and death
-a daily journal
of ordinary horrors

–a long, slatted oak table,
concave across its breadth,
specially made for beatings,
-stained from its work,
stands highlighted by a sudden shaft of sunlight.

*******
I am only a simple carpenter
my thoughts  lie in my hands,
-my tools,
and follow the grain of German wood.

I could not see the crooked Nazi design
beneath the lines and words that held their plan.

They used my work
…stained my pride,
bloodied  the pores of clear young oak,
shaming the art of my ancient trade.

I am only one man,
…a poor carver of wood,
I made the tables where they drank at night,
-and whipping tables for their prey.

What would you have me do?
Is  a carpenter,
the  son of a carpenter,
-to try to save the world?

*******

We see most all of it now,
tall schoolhouse windows admit the sight.
The May sun is still not warm enough,
but we surface into newer air,
limestone gravel crunches and echoes as we walk.

Only one hut stands,
a replica from new wood,
-a reminder.

For the rest,
empty ranks of concrete foundations,
like indelible footprints from an army of giants,
stand squarely aligned in stone formation;
like casts of dinosaur footprints,
-silent evidence
of what once stood here.

Two chapels at the far end,
grown on this dead ground
like bright fungus
leaching sustenance from a fallen tree,
distance themselves.

Even from this vantage,
where once we would have smelled them,
we still cannot see gas chambers
and ovens.

THE CHAPELS AT DACHAU

Like constructs from an alien reality,
the chapels sit on this barren ground
along the path to gas chambers.
Catholic and Protestant, they lie
unaligned with the vacant, squared foundation ranks.

Their modern concrete,
unstained,
sweeps in flowing curves,
and brown rock from distant quarries,
artfully forms a vertical cylinder,
holding its sheltered crucifix behind a steel fence
with points like tips of bayonets.
No sanctuaries;
comfortable backdrops for pictures,
or sites for occasional brief prayer
by pious tourists who come to visit.

These would have been a place to pause,
where those driven down this trail
could kneel in meager comfort,
before a cross whose arms were not deformed
into a swastika.

But this dead earth lay unblessed,
churches and their architects — distant:
the Vatican tending her own affairs,
and preachers, heeding the voice of Luther,
could not see
beyond the Nazi walls.

*******

We finally make our turn,
where the walls seemed to break,
finally see-
what we knew without seeing.

The gas chamber,
the ovens,
three tall brick chimneys;

modest,

even insignificant
by later production standards
-at Auschwitz, at Buchenwald,
and others,
nevertheless, sufficient
for Dachau.

Short, thick, white candles,
burn in stretcher-shaped iron beds,
-that had committed the flesh to the flames-
sending thin guttering smoke
up chimneys still crusted inside with darker soot.

*******

Like an oasis,
like water in desert places,
standing aside from the “Fumigation Chamber”
surrounded by greenery, flowers and grass
a small statue of a small man,
dressed in tatters and a too-large coat
focuses tired, resigned bronze eyes
on a place beyond our view.

A symbol, the sign says,
of all who suffered here.

***

There were always the walls,
it seemed.
as a man, I could never see Germany beyond the ghetto,
could only hear the rhythmic stamp of boots,
grinding whine and clank of tanks,
shouts and commands of Nazi officers;
noises in the distance,
nearly unreal.
My violin, my brother, Bach and other friends
made music a comforting blanket
covering our small spaces in practiced familiar sound.

Then the night of torchlights,
doors smashed open,
armed men cursing, laughing,
their dogs growling, snapping,
herding us down  streets we no longer knew
shoving my twin against me,
packing a boxcar in a strange rail yard,
new in the town
where I was born.

Wind and train whistle screamed,
tracks of the Reich hurried from our origins,
distance stretching terror inside like violin gut,
bowed with constant rushing slap of steel to steel,
moaning in discordant minor keys.

Brought at last to Dachau,
because we were twins
because our hair was red,
because we were “untermenschen”
because we were Jews;
we piqued the Nazi curiosity
we made amusing subjects
for the doctors’ experiments.

***

I am  Nathan.
I was here,
stacked like cordwood
waiting for fire.

My life was dirt
beneath the Nazi boots.
Fire transformed the last of sinew and skin
to ashes.
The grinding wheel of years made me dust.

Dust, with all the others.

I am  Nathan,
I am here.
I am  dust.
Dust on your shoes you will carry away;
dust you breathe
-even as you try to hold your breath
my dust, with the dust of millions, coats your lungs,
seeps in your veins
without remedy.

I will be here
-always.
I will be with you
-always.

TD

I’ve posted this before. It’s from the chapbook, Finding The Way Home.  It isn’t far from current reality. The emotions are still strong enough to bring tears to my eyes.

WAITING FOR THE PARADE

I had that dream again last night,

or maybe today…

dressing for a parade,

but couldn’t find everything I needed;

medals, rank insignia, or unit crests;

always something different,

-always something missing.

                                                    Memories of war

                              -at first

                             ran just under my feet

                             like foreshortened shadows

                             following at midday;

                            when yesterday was no more than darkness

                             before this day’s light.

                             All senses remembered too much

                             and fear stabbed the gut

                             like frozen glass shards

                             or rage stung

                             like sweat in an open gash.

But here I stand anyway,

among all these people on main street,

-still wearing my beret,

- my faded tiger-stripe fatigues,

and waiting for the homecoming parade

under this new American sky.

I’m looking through the crowd

for others,

wondering if their uniforms fit

and if they have their ribbons.

                                 Months of war-stretched memory

                            numbed into distortion,

                            a long darkening trailed my boots

                            leaving only momentary shade,

                            and disappearing holes

                             in watery mud.

                            Footprints in tall grass lifted back,

                            stretched in long afternoon sun,

                            unbent again by evening

                                                                                  showing no sign of passage.

 

Trumpets sound,

so distant that fluttering banners

and muffled pop of yellow ribbons

hide their songs.

American flags reach from every lamppost

like open arms

stretching in spring winds

to touch and bless

victorious columns in desert tan.

                        Shadows hide in night

                 like war’s remembering,

                 waiting for morning’s eyes to cling

                 mocking every clumsy movement,

                  faster than running can escape,

                 burning through flesh like white phosphorus

                  cleaving to the bone

                 with a phantom ache of loss

                 like pain in an amputated limb.

 

I cannot march to this coming drum

Bouncing too loudly against my ears

and echoing back from The Wall;

my uniform is out of date,

-colors out of style,

-decorations incomplete.

                                         Unfaithful visions,

                                   -blacker in strange winter light

                                   mutable as shifting colors

                                   walking beside me on unquiet waters.

 

                                             That old land may have remembrance,

                                        but not of me.

                                        My passing shadow touched its earth

                                        more faintly than the wavering reflection

                                        I throw in a lake.

Still,

when the brassy Stars and Stripes Forever

leads young heroes past chanting crowds

my toes, in worn-out jungle boots

will twitch to feel the rhythmic stamp,

my shoulder will bear the rifle’s weight,

and my ears,

filled with the surf beat of welcoming cheers

will let me pretend,

for a time,

I did not return alone.

    The four Gospels tell the story of Christ’s betrayal, mock trial and crucifixion with few variations. All of these events took place on Friday, the day before the Sabbath. The Romans who crucified Jesus were going about breaking the legs of those who had been crucified to assure their deaths before the beginning of the Sabbath, which commences a few minutes before sundown on Friday and lasts until three stars are visible in the Saturday night sky.

The bible does not directly tell us what happened to the people who were closest to Jesus on the Sabbath immediately following his crucifixion and burial. We can only speculate.  Based on what we do know about several of Christ’s followers, we can imagine how the night and day following the death of Jesus affected them.

John

In the Gospel of John, the Apostle often refers to himself as the “…disciple whom Jesus loved.”  Not only was he one of the twelve, he was, along with his brother James and Simon Peter, a member of those closest to Jesus and, more— considered himself as the Lord’s best friend. Recall that those three were selected to be with Christ during the transfiguration.

As darkness covered Israel the night after Jesus was crucified, John probably had Mary, Jesus’ mother, in his house. He had, at the foot of the cross, been charged with acting as Mary’s son. Possibly she was the one who lighted the candles for the Shabbat. John could hardly forget how, in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus had asked that he, James and Peter stay awake with him on the night he was in agonizing prayer before the crucifixion and they could not. He, along with most of the Disciples ran away at the approach of the chief priests and temple guard. Remorse over his failure must have deepened his grief.  Did he sleep at all during that during that dark Sabbath?

Peter

The fiery, impetuous leader, the disciple who became the Rock, must have had a much worse night and day, following the death of Jesus. Not only had he failed his Lord in Gethsemane, he had openly denied knowing Him three times before the rooster crowed twice.  Peter was a strong-willed proud man.  He was the only one of Jesus’ followers who offered physical resistance when the Jewish leaders and guard came to arrest Christ.  Recall, he drew his sword and cut off the right ear of one of the High Priests’ servants.  Of course, Jesus rebuked Peter and replaced the man’s ear.  I recall a preacher from my youth who speculated that the man whose ear had been severed and healed, “…probably went home.”

Did Peter sleep that Friday night? Could he truly rest during the following Sabbath day?

Mary Magdalene

The woman whose name is, after the mother of Jesus, most prominently mentioned in the Gospels was faithful to her Lord throughout the Passion. She and Jesus’ mother did not leave the awful scene on Golgotha. They were there until the final moments and didn’t desert Him as his body was laid in the tomb. The women probably saw the mighty stone rolled in place to seal the entrance. Despair and pain must’ve filled the night and following day.

We may speculate that she spent that night and the following Sabbath in the house with Jesus’ mother.  This is because the scriptures describe them as being at the tomb together on the third morning.

Mary Magdalene, the woman who had been possessed by demons before Christ healed her, was faithful to Him through the hour of His death.

Did she sleep past tears and mourning during those awful hours following Jesus’ death?

Mary, Mother of Jesus

God chose Mary to bring Jesus into this world.  Although the Gospel of Luke describes her as “…troubled…” when Gabriel told her of her mission, the sense of deep fear isn’t in the story. Remember, Luke was not one of the Apostles. His recounting of the Annunciation could have only come from interviewing Mary.

With no scripture that speaks of the desolate day following Christ’s crucifixion, it is possible to consider that the woman who was Jesus’ mother had a deep faith that her son’s death was not final.

She must’ve mourned and felt bereft of her reason for living and the treasure God had given her. Did she sleep?
~~~~~~~~~

Could any of these, who were closest to Jesus, find rest until they knew He was resurrected?  Certainly, there was no peace in their hearts until they had seen Christ again, much as there is no true peace in our hearts until we have seen Him.

After the Resurrection, the Romans—as well as those in the Jewish hierarchy who opposed Jesus and his ministry—said that his disciples had stolen his body away from the tomb.  It came about when the chief priests bribed the soldiers who had guarded the tomb.

Matthew 28 tells the story:

1. After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb.

2. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it.  3. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow.  4. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.

5. The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified.  6. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said.  Come and see the place where he lay.  7. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee.  There you will see him.’  Now, I have told you.”

8. So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy and ran to tell his disciples.  9. Suddenly Jesus met them. “Greetings,” he said.  They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him.  Then Jesus said to them, 10.“Do not be afraid.  Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”

11. While the women were on their way, some of the guards went into the city and reported to the chief priests everything that had happened. 12. When the chief priests had met with the elders and devised a plan, they gave the soldiers a large sum of money,   13. telling them, “You are to say, ‘His disciples came during the night and stole him away while we were asleep.’   14. If this report gets to the governor, we will satisfy him and keep you out of trouble.” 15. So the soldiers took the money and did as they were instructed.  And this story has been widely circulated among the Jews to this very day.

What a story.  The part about the Roman guards is amusing—in a way.  There had to be a number of them, not just one or two.  Notice the quote, “…some of the guards…” Also, given the high-profile nature of the trial and crucifixion of Jesus, these weren’t just ordinary men.  These guards, I would imagine, were handpicked, tough legionnaires.

The fact that they were so terrified when the angel came and rolled the stone back that they “…shook and became as dead men…” takes on more significance when we consider the nature of the soldiers themselves.  The hardened warriors were quivering and paralyzed.

I’m reminded of a comment made by a preacher I knew long ago.  He was talking about what happened in Gethsemane when Peter drew his sword and struck the servant of the high priest, cutting off his ear.  Jesus, rebuked Peter, telling him to put away his sword.  Luke 22:51 says, “But Jesus answered, ‘No more of this!’ And he touched the man’s ear and healed him.” The old preacher’s comment was, “I’ll bet that man left Gethsemane and went home!”

Notice that Matthew’s Gospel says that the angel rolled the stone away and then sat on it.  How long he had been there, sitting on the stone when the two Marys arrived, we aren’t told.  During that time, the Roman soldiers were in a state of shaking paralysis.  That was the scene that the two Marys found when they arrived at the tomb.  It must have been shocking and frightening, but the angel said, “Do not be afraid.”

A central theme in Christianity, not just in the story of the resurrection, is embodied in the admonition, “Do not be afraid.” Notice that Jesus said these words to the Marys as they met him.  Remember that the angels, when announcing the birth of Jesus, told the shepherds, “Do not be afraid.” The angel, Gabriel, said to Mary, “Do not be afraid…” We need to remember those words and root our faith in them. Our faith needs to be strong enough to keep us from fear. Although the women were still frightened by what they’d seen, the voice of the angel and their trust in Jesus had made them stronger than the guards who were paralyzed with terror.

It has been pointed out, by the way, that the stone was not rolled away for Jesus to leave the tomb.   He had already departed.  The angel rolled the stone back from the tomb to show the world that “He is not here; he has risen…” We can imagine the angel pointing to the empty tomb as he spoke.  We can only wonder what the trembling, catatonic Roman soldiers were thinking.

Some of them went to the chief priests and reported everything that had happened.  Notice, that they did not go the military authorities or directly to the governor.  Why? They’d probably have been flogged or executed—or both.  Imagine a hard-bitten sergeant of the guards reacting to their story. “An angel, you say, came and rolled back that rock?  That rock took five strong men and a donkey to put in place!  Have you been drinking on duty?”

Needless to continue speculating,  but it would not have been pleasant.  Now going to the chief priests was a different affair.  These were the people who feared Jesus so much that they had demanded his death.  The guards correctly guessed that they, who had the most to lose from the resurrection of Jesus, would pay for silence.  And pay they did.  The chief priests apparently paid the guards handsomely to parrot a story they concocted about Jesus’ disciples stealing his body away while they were asleep.  They even—probably at the insistence of the guards—promised to provide a cover story for them with the governor if he should hear the story.

Why?  In military organizations, falling asleep at one’s guard post is an extremely serious offense.  In this case, the guards could—and probably would—have been executed. Pilate himself was personally involved. “Take a guard.” Pilate answered, “Go, and make the tomb as secure as you know how.” (Matthew 27:65) They not only posted guards at the entrance, they tied a cord across the rock and put a clay seal on each end so that if anyone disturbed the rock, the seals—doubtlessly imprinted with a official signet—would be broken. For the soldiers to be so asleep that all the commotion involved in moving the rock didn’t wake them would have been serious dereliction of their duty.

We aren’t told what happened to the guards, but I’d imagine that they took their money and became very, very quiet men.  Those who were directly paid would have had to share the money with the guards who didn’t go with them to the priests. They would also have had to tell the others the “official line,” and cautioned them to stick to it.  The story concocted by the chief priests was, however, extremely thin.

Consider: They were saying that they slept through the racket of the disciples rolling back the rock.  All of them!

Consider: If the disciples—those men who had run away in fear at Gethsemane and had denied Jesus in public—had planned to steal his body from the tomb, what they’d have had to take into account. First, there were a number of soldiers guarding the tomb and most of the disciples probably didn’t have swords much less shields and armor.  The disciples certainly wouldn’t have been able to count on the guards being asleep! And, they were demonstrably not all that brave in the face of soldiers. They had run away from and left Jesus alone in the garden. Second, if there had been enough of Jesus’ disciples to pull off robbing his tomb, there’d be enough people who knew of the theft that the story would get out sooner or later.

No, the angel did not roll the stone away so that Jesus could leave the tomb. He was already gone. When we look into the empty tomb, we see that it was there where the empty body of Jesus had been placed.  Joseph of Arimathea asked Pilate for the body of Jesus, and because he was a prominent citizen, Pilate granted the request.  “So Joseph brought some linen cloth, took down the body, wrapped it in the linen and placed it in a tomb cut out of rock.  Then he rolled a stone against the entrance of the tomb.” (Mark 15:46) Joseph was a wealthy and well-connected man.  He would have hardly done the physical labor of moving the stone himself.  Later, Mark mentions that the stone was quite large.  No problem for an angel, though.

Luke is the only gospel that describes the reaction of the apostles when Mary Magdalene and Mary, the mother of James told them of the empty tomb and the words of Jesus and the angel.  “Peter, however, got up and ran to the tomb.  Bending over, he saw the strips of linen lying by themselves, and he went away wondering to himself what had happened.”

We call Peter, “The Rock,” and refer to “doubting Thomas.” It appears that there was enough disbelief among the apostles to go around.  We consider the apostles, sometimes, as saints above us all. They were men. These men ran away when the soldiers came to Gethsemane. Their greatness came through their faith in Jesus. Peter’s wondering what happened was later replaced with a steadfastness that deserved the name, The Rock.

The empty shell, that had been body of Jesus when he was alive, was placed in the rock cave and lay there waiting until He returned and gave it new life. Jesus’ ministry and miracles included raising several people, recounted in the gospels, from the dead. A major theme of His ministry was resurrection from death—the conquering of death. Of course, the crowning event was His own resurrection.  Those He raised from the dead during his life on earth were people who were physically dead. Their resurrection is a bright symbol for the millions upon millions whose souls have been dead, but who may come alive again, for eternity, once Jesus enters their hearts.

Note: Biblical quotes are from the Life Application Study Bible.

Hi,  as an eBook reader, how important is a clickable table of contents (TOC) ? Would you be unhappy with a fiction book you downloaded if it didn’t have the feature? 

I’m teaching local classes on formatting of digital material for publication over at least two of the most popular formats, .mobi and .epub.  The method I teach uses free, widely available tools to produce a quality book, but does not create an interactive TOC.

Please leave a comment.  It’ll be quite helpful.

Thanks!

As promised, here’s more of Warrior’s Psalm.

*********

2

Janiss wakes to the smell of coffee.  When he parts the curtains on his bunk to peek out, Freya is sitting at the table smiling at him.
“Hey sleepy one. It’s dawn. I checked the periscope. We need to get back home to report.”
“True, just a moment.”
Janiss dresses behind his curtain and joins Freya, his empty stomach speeding him along.
“I’ve warmed breakfast for you.  The coffee isn’t bad, even though it’s instant.”
He holds her hand and says grace.
After eating, the two pack away food and water for their trek. Janiss uses the periscope to be certain the area around the door to the Cave is clear. Using the Seeker, he opens the door. Light and mountain-fresh air flood in.
After closing and sealing the Cave door, the two check their compasses and set out for home; their Village, The Acreage.
By unspoken agreement, they communicate only with mental touch.
“How long do you think it’ll take us to get to our assigned Entryway?” Freya
“We’ll probably be there before dark if we only pause briefly for our lunch.”
The pair find their way through the tall forest with a pace that covers ground efficiently, but maintains silent security.
They change the lead every hour. Their training with compasses and maps sharpens with practical use. On this, their first Recon, a final test, they are expected to practice all their training.
“I think we’re getting close to the Entryway,” Freya
Sundown will come within an hour.  She has been leading and stops to check the Seeker.
“We’re very close. When I tell you, come close and stand with me,” Freya.
Janiss doesn’t comment, but closes the space between them to arms-length.
“Now,” Freya.
Janiss takes her hand and waits as she touches the activation button.
No matter how many times they’ve practiced, the sudden drop is a shock.
The forest floor, covered with twigs, grass and dead leaves, splits. Freya and Janiss drop ten feet to a shock-absorbing, deep foam floor. Neither falls, but their hands lock tighter, as they struggle to stay erect.
The entryway door swings closed above them. Only a small dusting of dirt and forest floor debris sifts down on the pair.
For exactly ten seconds, darkness is complete; then an increasing blue glow comes from the walls. They are standing ankle-deep in black plastic foam. The featureless room is about eight feet square.
“They’re checking us,”Janiss.
“I know. I just wish they’d get it over with.”
“What are your names?” a mechanical voice.
“Freya Dimsevics.”
“Janiss Bervins.”
The blank wall extrudes a smooth, flat metal plate wide and deep enough for two hands.
“Freya Dimsevics, place both hands, palm-down on the reader,” the voice says.
Freya complies and within five seconds, she is ordered to step back. Janiss mimics the procedure and is also told to step back. The plate slides back into the wall.
A door opens in the opposite wall.
“Step through the door,” the voice.
Past the door a heavyset, uniformed, armed guard waits. His smile is professional, but welcoming.
“Welcome back.  I hope your first Recon was instructive. Master Andrus has ordered dinner for you.  He will meet you in the Recondo Dining Room.”
He hands each of them a small bag.
“Here are clean clothes and toilet items. The women’s shower room is on the left, the men’s on the right, down that hall. Clean up and go to the dining room,” the guard says.
Freya and Janiss meet in the hallway after their showers. Her hair, no longer in braids, falls in a shimmering, fragrant blond cascade down her back. She takes his hand and kisses him on the cheek, eyes sparkling over a wide smile.
“Congratulations, Recon partner!” she says.
Janiss’ cheeks reddens as he matches her grin. He takes her hand as they start down the hallway.
“I can hardly wait to talk to Master Andrus,” Janiss says.
“Me, too. I want to know what he says about the weird event. I can hardly wait to see the look on his face when we tell him about the Protectors and Deciders,” Freya says.
They’ve passed the Recondo Dining room’s door many times, but have never entered.  The facility is exclusively for men and women who have proven themselves.
In the bag the guard gave them—along with fresh clothes—Freya and Janiss find the precious silver badge of a Recondo, a dagger, pointing upward, surrounded by a wreath of laurel leaves in an oval. The precious symbols rest in a clear plastic box, on velvet. These, they keep in pockets, waiting for the ceremony of Presentation.
When they open the door into the dining room, they are surrounded by men and women welcoming them into the exclusive group with handshakes, backslaps and hugs. The oak-paneled walls resound with congratulations.
The group falls silent when the door opens and Master Andrus enters. He is a broad-shouldered, deep-chested man of medium height with thick, wavy, silver-gray hair and a full beard.  His smile to the group creates a reflection of his warmth. His eyes are bright blue and take in the merriment with approval.
“Ladies and gentlemen, don’t let me spoil your welcome for our two newest members. Freya and Janiss deserve the warmest welcome we can offer,” Andrus says.
He turns full attention to the young couple.
“Come. Present yourselves to your brothers and sisters. Stand at attention in front of me.”
When they comply, one of the Recondos, a woman with gray streaks in her hair, steps beside Andrus.  She holds an ancient paper Bible.
The Master takes the right hands of Freya and Janiss and places them on the Bible, covered by his.
Andrus leads them through the Oath of the Recondos.
“With almighty God to strengthen me, I pledge myself, as a Recondo to be a protector of The Acreage.  I will keep my body strong and my mind clear to accomplish my mission.”
The two young Recondos hand Andrus the badges. He pins them on the left side of their leather vests, above the heart, then embraces them in turn.
After more congratulations from the crowd, Andrus leads Janiss and Freya to his private table in the corner of the room. When they are seated, he takes both Freya’s and Janiss’ hands.
“You two fulfilled my hopes and expectations.  I’m proud of you.  I have ordered a special meal, so let’s give thanks now,” he says.
Andrus lowers his head and prays, thanking the Lord for the safe return of the new Recondos and asking blessings on the food.
As Janiss and Freya begin to attack the venison stew and fresh bread, Andrus asks the question they’ve been longing to have him answer.
“Did you meet with anything unusual on your recon to the Hive? Anything you hadn’t been prepared to see or hear?”
“Can I go first?” Freya says.
Andrus nods permission, smiling at his eager student.
She begins her narrative, telling Andrus how she’d seen the Protector patrol and warned Janiss. Before she can relate the trek   she and Janiss took up to mountain, the Master holds up a hand to stop her.
In her silence, he glances around the room. The rest of the Recondos are busy with the savory food and conversation.
“We should continue this conversation in my private quarters.  Finish your stew.  Excellent, isn’t it?” Andrus says.
“What?” Freya, in silent mental touch with Janiss.
“Can’t imagine. We’re totally secure, here. Trust him until we can talk privately.”
Freya’s reply is only a mental sense that she will, grudgingly, agree.
The three eat their dinner in relative silence, talking about trivia. Their mentor congratulates them again on their accomplishment, then pushes back his chair.
“Now, let’s go down to my quarters and chat,” Andrus says.
They leave the dining hall, stopping to talk briefly with the other Recondos, smiling thanks for congratulations.  In the hallway, Andrus leads them to the nearest elevator.
Down three levels, they are in the spaces where senior officers of The Acreage live.
Inside Andrus’ apartment, Andrus invites the young couple to sit, side-by-side in comfortable overstuffed chairs. After pouring coffee from a vacuum bottle, he sits on the couch facing them across a small table.
Freya’s mouth is in a flat line, her lips compressed. Janiss’ eyes show little of their normal green light.
“I apologize for stopping your story, Freya. The Recondos are our most trusted citizens, but I have to control speculation. I sense there’s more to your story than the four Protectors.  Tell me, now.  Janiss, join in at any time. I need complete, accurate information.”
Freya begins again.  When she reaches the point, in her report, relating to the massed voices, Andrus raises his hand.
“What were the words, as you understood them?” he says.
Janiss has been sitting silently, but answers the question.
“They were yelling ‘Com-post, plant food, com-post!’ over and over until the Decider, the woman, stopped everything.  She did that just by raising a hand,” Janiss says.
“Yes, Master Andrus, what does it mean?” Freya says.
Freya hasn’t used the formal title for her mentor in months.
“Tell me everything you saw when you looked down on the  Hive, then we’ll discuss.
Janiss and Freya take turns telling the story and interrupting each other. After several recitals, the narrative begins to be repetitive.
“Did you get pictures?” Andrus says?
“No, we silently discussed it, but if we stood to capture an image below us, we’d have been silhouetted against the sky.  You taught us to keep security first,” Janiss says.
Andrus nods and pauses before speaking.
“Recondos, what you saw is extremely unusual for one of our teams to witness. The Deciders ordered someone executed. The box you described is a solar oven. They either killed the individual and threw the body into the device to turn it into ashes, or the poor devil was thrown in there alive, to burn,” Andrus says.
Freya and Janiss sit motionless. Shock and disgust compete to describe their visible emotions.
Andrus reads their faces, then continues.
“Those who went into the oven gathered the burnt remains of the victim. This they scatter on the beans they grow on the roof. That’s why they were yelling ‘com-post, plant food!’ those are the chants taught by Deciders.”
“Why didn’t you want the other Recondos to hear the story?” Janiss says.
Andrus looks down into his untouched coffee for several heartbeats. When he looks up, his eyes are calm, his voice is level and firm.
“When you said there was an armed Protector patrol near the Hive, I knew the story had to be kept confidential. Now that you’ve told the story of the Deciders and the execution, I know I was right.”
Freya and Janiss, as if planned, sip from their cups simultaneously, waiting.
“Recondos are brave, aggressive, men and women. They must go into the forest in pairs as our eyes and ears, keeping The Acreage safe,” Andrus says.
He pauses, drinks coffee and a brief, rueful smile brushes his mouth.
“For years, many of them have pushed to be armed with firearms on recons. I’ve opposed them on the idea. You’re all trained extensively to use the weapons, but the sheath knives and the animal repellant spray you carry are enough for your safety—at least at this point.”
Andrus stands, signaling the young pair.  This night’s interview is over. They are immediately on their feet, mimicking  their mentor.
“You need to rest. Go to your parent’s apartments and show them your new badges.  Let them share and take pride in your achievement.
Come to my office tomorrow at 10 a.m. I’ll ask you to give me your story again. Meanwhile, tell no one what you saw and heard. I trust your discretion. You have been my prize students since you were tiny children. My prayers for your safety and a successful mission were answered. Go now.”
He ushers them to the door, a hand on each shoulder. After simple goodnights to their teacher, Janiss and Freya start down the hall to the elevator. When she takes Janiss’ hand, she smiles and traces an “X” across her mouth.  Their minds join, like their hands.
“The Hivers burned someone?” Freya.
“Yeah, wonder what he did?” Janiss.
“Could’ve been a woman, we don’t know,” Freya
“Either way, burning someone alive is awful,” Janiss.                             The elevator takes the pair to the fourth level, where most families live.
As they part, Freya brushes a brief kiss across Janiss’ lips and speaks to him silently.
“Goodnight, my fellow Recondo.  See you in Andrus’ office tomorrow.”
Still holding her hand, Janiss pulls Freya into an embrace, holds her close for two or three seconds, then releases her. Her surprise is covered by a smile.
“Yes, enjoy the night with your folks,” he says.
Freya’s silence is warm and happy.
As they walk in different directions, both resist the temptation to look back.