The Beauty of Frost...from Seasons by Bill Spencer 

Does the frost have a life of its own? Of course it has. A few years ago we lived in a house on a hill. On wood-fire mornings in October we would look out to see if the frost had come. First we would see it along the banks of the creek at the base of the hill. Then, day to day, the frost would edge up the hill until it peered in our window panes and crackled on the cold stone of the rock garden.

Frost has a beauty all its own. Have you seen the sparkle of street lights reflected on the gem stones of frost? Have you not traced (with your vision) the moonlit patterns of crystal on your window pane? Hunter's moon is frost's light.

The frost comes asking questions. What about the year? Has the passing brought you closer to the frost's creator? What about the winter? Are you prepared for the slackened light? The frozen breath? Have you a supply of wood? A hearth fire? A haven beyond soul chill?

The frost has a life of its own and brings, in its own time, beauty to behold and questions we should answer.

From the writings of Willard Spencer.  For use or file or forward...

Women Near the Cross – Seven, plus 2 men

Lenten Monologues/dialogue

By Willard Spencer

WOMAN WITH THE FLASK OF OINTMENT (1) Luke 7:44-50

People called me sensual when they saw me in the street. Women thought I had rejected honor. Men shunned me, except some that sought me at night. I had been condemned by almost everyone...almost everyone. There was ONE who offered me something I really needed.

He was feasting at the home of Simon the Pharisee. I knew him at once. I had heard him talk about God's love. It was the longest walk I had ever taken past all those condemning eyes. But I walked to Jesus and knelt down at his feet. My tears rolled like rivers as I took my only valuable possession, an alabaster flask of ointment, broke it and poured it on his feet. The precious ointment, and my tears, were my offering, my confession. A surly voice broke the silence. It was the voice of the Pharisee, but I heard in his words all the years of rejection, all the tongue wagging, the hatred directed at me. Then another voice spoke--breaking a lingering silence after the angry outburst of the Pharisee--it was softer. It was He. He looked at me and I knew. I was a lawbreaker, a shamed person. I could have been flogged or stoned. He saw my sorrow. He felt my shame. I left it there, at his feet. From then on I would be like a newborn. Life would begin again for me. Thank you, Jesus.

MARY AND MARTHA (2 and 3) Luke 10:38-42

Martha: My name is Martha. I have lived all my days in the little village of Bethany, just a few miles east of the great city of Jerusalem. My days have been full and quiet, filled with sounds of food, like the hushed sound of bread being kneaded, or the swish of pots being stirred and cleaned, and the sigh of weariness at the end of the day. I have loved it, though as the years go by I find myself looking for strength. Tasks that I did easily and joyfully in earlier years now seem more burdensome, heavier, though the joy in completing them is still there. My eyes have been fading a bit, like the westering sun setting over the Mount of Olives. I could use a bit of support.

Mary: I am Mary, her sister. She is a marvel. I have loved her as long as I can remember. My earliest memories include my sister working in the kitchen. She is the best baker in the province. All my days I have wished that I could bring forth such delicacies as she produces from the kitchen. I remember trying hard to follow her lead, use her recipes, but she it was too complex for me. It was a pinch of this or was it two pinches, a slice of that, a handful of this…well you see. Or maybe you do not see the shadow in which I have walked. My best time is in prayer and devotion. I should have been a rabbi! It is there, in thought and feelings, that my best loaves are baked. I love her with all my heart. I just wish she could find a place for me. Could I just be valued for what I am?

Martha: Since I am older the house was in my name. My responsibility extended to be hostess to all visitors. My house was never neglected, nor was my duty to be the provider of plenty. Here was food. Here was refuge. No one left my door without feeling properly welcomed. The responsibility was mine, and, of course, my little sister's

Mary: You see? I am the little sister, who cannot do things right. And that is the way we lived, all the days, through the changing of seasons, day and night. It was always the same, and would always be. Nothing would ever change! At least, that is what I thought until He came into our lives.

Martha: Fine thanks I get. I spend all day, from the last light of the stars until the moon brightens on the horizon, baking, cleaning, cooking. And what thanks do I get? Precious little!

Mary: It was too much. My breath froze. I could not move. He sat in front of me and asked me what I thought about the reign of God. Could I be hearing things? I had to ask him to repeat himself, twice. His laughter thawed my breath and my fears and something of the frozen dreams of all the years thawed in that moment. His smile, his genuine questions, his hearty laughter, his clear grasp of truth enthralled me, stirred the warmth of faith in me, and I knew I would follow Him all the remaining days. Even Martha warmed a bit when he told her that her bread reminded him of his own mother's loaves -- full, sweet, and baked with loving hands.

Martha: My little sister is right. That was a night of change. I found some depth in Mary that I had simply overlooked in my busy days. I shall have to ask her about life, and listen. And maybe she will even learn about bread someday.

SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN (4) Matthew 15:21-28

I am not a gentle woman. The days that have gone over my head were spent in the coasts of Tyre and Sidon. My hands are rough and callused, and I have suffered. But the years were nothing at all compared to the tears and pain I have felt within me as I have watched my young daughter die. It is bad enough for me to suffer. I have survived. I am strong. She is just a child. Life should be better for her. Her smile is like sunrise after a darkened night. Her laughter lifts hearts--all those around her, and mine. Yes, mine! My old heart, it must be leathered and dry from the aches and pains of days and years, is softened and I feel alive when she laughs. No more. She is dying. And here comes that Jew. They told me to take her to him. To a Jew? We have had good and bad with them. They liked our cedars for their holy places. They like our goods and wares brought in by the sailors. We even are good enough to mint the coins they use in their great temple; but they will not accept us. We will not be permitted to marry them, to live near them, and we cannot step an inch within their sacred space. It is for them, not us. We are the dogs under their tables. Why should I bother, he is just another Jew. I must do it. For her.

He looks softer than I had imagined. He does not sneer or raise his nose and rub it with him thumb. So, I must be careful. He could be dangerous.

He looks at me and draws me near. "The kingdom is for the Jews," he says. "The children's bread should not be given to dogs."

"Has he read my thoughts? Does he know that I said just that?"

I face him and stare into his eyes. I feel like he is looking into my soul. A wrinkle appeared between my eyebrows. It always does that when I am afraid. Of what? He wants me to say something. I must speak. He knows. He knows.

"Yes, Lord, but even the dogs eat the crumbs under the table."

He laughs. He laughs. He cannot be a Pharisee. He catches my fear in his glance and says that I have great faith. Me? Faith? I have endured the years and I have am stronger than rock, but faith? Who is this? I look back into his eyes. He sees me, all of me, the sorrows, the scars, the tears. I even think that he sees the girl I used to be. I was so young and foolish, filled with silly dreams of what I would be and do. He looks down at my sick daughter and back at me. That is when it happened. She stirs, she opens her eyes. She looks at me and smiles. She is well. O God, she has been healed by his glance.

That was many days ago. Waters flow from my eyes when I remember. My heart softens. I breathe deeper. I wonder what I may still do with my life. Two women were healed the day that Jesus came into our foreign land.

WOMAN CAUGHT IN ADULTRY (5) John 8:3-11

How could it have happened! We were so careful. We timed our meetings with a precision that could not have failed. It should not have failed. We deserved the little precious moments we had. It was an accident that we met. We collided in the market, upsetting armloads of food, and arms loaded with emptiness. He helped my home with my purchases, taking the burden from my twisted foot. He stayed awhile. Was that wrong? How could it be wrong? It filled a terrible loneliness in our hearts? We found each other, again and again. Then we were found.

They burst in, breaking doors, breaking pottery, and breaking hearts. They seized us and dragged us outside, and there, in the light of day they announced our sins and our crime for the entire world to hear. I was terrified and I was furious. But I did not have time to act on my feelings, for they caught us and carried us to the temple and threw me down in the dirt. I was later to learn that the crafty ones had found a way to use our times together for their own uses. They wanted to be rid of the one before whom they threw me. But at the moment I could only look at him with fear and fury in my eyes. What would this man do? Would I be a part of his political strategy? Would he denounce me in front of God and people? Would he throw the first stone? His gaze held mine. I saw something in those depths. What was it? What could call me from my fear and my guilt? Yes, we were guilty. I saw sorrow in his eyes. It was like I had seen before in the eyes of my father, who had played games with me as a child and sang songs to me as he tucked me in for the night. It was his eyes. I could see the hope and remember his dream for me: to be a woman of which he would be proud. A spasm of sorrow caught in my throat and I missed seeing him kneel down. When my eyes cleared enough, he was writing, writing names in the sand. Whose names were they? Were they the names of those standing behind me, holding stones? I do not know to this day. I only know that I saw my name there, and his. He said nothing, but he spoke to the mob behind me and told them that God knew all our names and all our lives and if they were to kill this woman, then the one whose life is pure should have the task of throwing the first stone. Their lives had been written before them in the sand. They knew that they were like writings in the sand, soon fading from the light of mortal day, and then there would be the Eternal judgment. They left--fleeing as ones that sought cleansing for their sins. He only said one thing that mattered. He said that I must give up my sin and start again on the life I was meant to lead. O yes, there was the other thing. He said he did not condemn me. It was enough to start me on a journey I should have always been on.

MARY THE MOTHER OF JESUS John 19:25-27

I watched him die. How could he die? Why didn't he listen? He had this cause to follow. He marched into danger like a prophet of old, heedless, caught up by a great dream. Now he is dying, slowly, achingly. He was my baby. I carried, cradled, and fed him. He was my child. I watched him take his first steps -- toddling shakily to the outstretched arms of my Joseph. Oh, now they both will be gone. "A sword will pierce your heart," old Simeon had said, and now it did so. My heart was pierced each time he cried out from the cross. "I thirst." "Forgive them." "Why have you forsaken me?" Forsaken! I am the one who is forsaken! Wait! John is coming to me. He wants me. He wants to see me. I will never forget how he did not forget. In the middle of the horrific pain of the cross he remembered me, his Mother. Now I reflect that it was no dream he followed. It was a deeper reality than any of us could see. We did not understand. Now we have seen it through, or begun. Now we have seen beyond the pain and tears. We have journeyed through the darkness and found ourselves in sunlight bursting forth tomb, filling a garden, filling our hearts. The darkness of that terrible hour just reminds us of that light. Thank you, my Son, for loving me beyond my fears and giving me a certainty that I cannot lose. Thank you, Jesus.

MARY MAGDALENE

Narrator: The sudden change of light caused the air to stir, a breeze to ripple the olive leaves. From the faintest glow on the hem of the sky sight-filling light came as a soundless, weightless flood--the dawn came rushing in, filling all the dark spaces. She shuddered slightly, pulling her shawl closer. It was still early spring, though her heart was locked, lost in winter darkness. A songbird caught the rising light and translated it into song. One lone songbird sang to the dawn. Mary did not hear the notes. She had no room for music or light or joy. She had descended back into the dark.

Mary: How long did I wander in that dark wilderness? Was it forty years, like our ancestor’s sorry trek in the desert? It seemed endless. And ever-during dark! They owned me. First one would pull me and then another would seize me and tug me in another direction. Which way? I could not tell. It was night in all directions. Wouldn’t one have been enough to bear? But seven powers of darkness contended over me, each one seeking to suck me into a deeper night. My family could not reach me. No friends could bear my pain. I saw no one. Heard no one…until a word broke through that gloom. “Mary.” I shuddered, fearing the clarity. It was my old name. “Mary.” It came again. I leaned toward it, listening for more. “Mary, come out of the darkness.” I edged toward that sound and as the night fades before the sun I found myself in growing light. The first thing I saw clearly was his face. It was light, the sun breaking through after a long night of terrible storms. “Mary.” I ran to the light. Tears? There were none left. None needed. I knew my name. I could see and hear. He had called me. I stood in light. But now that light is gone, snuffed out by the thorns, the nails, the cross, the dark powers…lifeless and sealed in a tomb.

Why am I here? I am here to remember what it was like. For awhile I lived in the radiance of His presence.

Narrator: Silence gathered around her. In the dawn of that first day of the week, Mary Magdalene waited for darkness to seize her. Not that day or any day! The voice that had called her from the possession of darkness into the everlasting light spoke again. She recognized it immediately. Her eyes opened and through her tears she beheld the Living One, calling to her again. “Mary! Mary! Come back into the light.” On that resurrection morning she knew that it would always be her home.

Herod – reflections near the cross

“I chose a cross,” will be his epitaph. He hasn’t got a chance, like a feather in a sandstorm. Well, I tried. He could have found a real friend in the Tetrarch. What the two of us could have done! But he wouldn’t budge from his death wish. Too bad! I could have used a bit of help from someone close to the little people, and who walks on the water of Galilee. The crafty Roman sent him to me. That was to let the hardtack Jews know that there was more than one authority they had to worry about. If he could have gotten the Romans to let me deal with the Sanhedrin! I know their ways. I am one of them – at least part of me! (His laughter echoes through his chambers.) They wouldn’t sneer at my rule by refusing to come into my presence – at least not for long they wouldn’t. If they mess with me I will remind them of the Baptist. Maybe show them the shrunken head. A little blood would tame them soon enough. But it is over now, except for the show on the hill, a bloody end to a fractious episode, this season’s top entertainment. Tough for him! Will they remember him? (More laughter!) His influence will last about as long as a cry in the desert. Let the birds pick his bones from his cross. His sorrow is his destiny. Bring me the next entertainer!

Pilate’s reflections --

How can that High Priest live with himself? What a contradiction in the flesh! He comes before the Governor with a mob, demanding this, insisting that, and even as he looks me in the eye he knows the truth. I own him. He wants his luxurious apartments and the sweets that come through my own largesse. He stays in his lofty perch because I let him. He’s the holy leader! A chosen one! If his cobbled together life is the best this hypocritical religion can do then I’ll be glad to be rid of it. Religion? It’s all power and position. They hated that I took their money, the money they made unusable, but they drink the water we brought in. They disrespect Lord Tiberius, and me, when they refused his images on the standards, and his name on the golden shields. Now they persecute this intense young man whom the people regard as a savior. He could be a threat to them. “Run out the hated Romans!” Others have aroused Rome’s wrath by peasant uprising. Does he really want to rule this miserable land? They want him tried and killed in the Roman way. They demand it in the name of serving Caesar. One man’s death to save their position is what they’re after. It is good that we withhold from them the power to assassinate. What a quarrelsome lot. Well let them have their death, the blood is on their hands. I’ve heard that old Epiphanes burned a pig on their high altar. They were furious. It was an abomination, but it is their image! They are desert pigs, let them grub their way back to the sties from which they came. I will be glad to escape this hole in the earth and get back to the sea, and someday, someday, back to civilization.