Good Friday – The Elephant's Trunk

The Escort

June 1, 2024May 31, 2024 Nancy's Notes 🖊️🎶

Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less, using the
photo prompt as inspiration. This is my 250-word story.

Fiona was late for Mass. Seeing an unfamiliar man leaning against the wall outside Sully’s Bar, she quickened her pace. As she passed she heard him chuckle and say “What’s yer hurry, Irish?” She walked even faster, opening the side door to St. Brigid’s.

An hour later Fiona exited the church and noticed the same man from the bar standing at the corner. Had he been waiting for her all this time? Wary, she stepped backwards, teetering on the curb and losing her shoe in the process.

Suddenly the man was by her side. She was taken aback as he reached around her waist and stopped her fall.

“Name’s Harvey Rubin and yer one fine lookin’ dish. Ya need somebody like me to drive ya home, Irish. It can be dangerous for a good Catholic girl like yerself walkin’ alone in this neck o’ the woods.”

“Keep your thoughts …. and hands …. to yourself, buster!” Fiona snapped. “Besides, how do you know I’m a good Catholic girl?”

“Well, I ain’t no Albert Einstein but I seen ya practically racin’ to St. Brigid’s like yer panties was on fire and I’m guessin‘ ya ain’t no altar boy – not with them gorgeous gams.” Harvey replied in an unhurried way.

Glancing down, he smiled at her missing shoe; his tough “Bogie” persona became surprisingly charming. Fiona found it difficult to resist this rough-hewn stranger and she shocked herself by allowing him to escort her home.

She knew her parents would be livid.

NAR©2024
250 Words

The Unicorn Challenge-31/05/24

This is “Bogie & Bacall: Key Largo” by Bertie Higgins

Miscellaneous

Unimaginable Agony

March 29, 2024March 29, 2024 Nancy's Notes 🖊️🎶

Written by Greg Stier. I am simply a messenger.
I offer no explanations or apologies for my faith.

After Roman governor Pontius Pilate handed Jesus over to be crucified, the real brutality began.

Roman soldiers — experts at torture and death — stripped Jesus of His clothes and likely chained Him to a stone pillar. They beat Him again and again with a Roman flagrum, a whip that would have had anywhere from three to twelve strands of leather. Metal balls were woven into the leather, and at the end of each strand were pieces of broken pottery, glass, nails, bone, or twisted metal, designed to grab flesh and rip.

Imagine Jesus as He was beaten over and over and over and over again, huge pieces of skin and muscle being ripped and torn away with every blow. By the time the soldiers were done, His back and buttocks and legs would have been bloody, mangled ribbons of flesh and muscle and sinew.

This beating was called “the half death,” because half the men who received it died from it. But not Jesus; He had more to endure.

The soldiers put a purple robe on Him, twisted together a crown of thorns from the famous Jerusalem thorn bush — with thorns that were up to 3 inches long — and beat it into His skull with a rod, which they also used to batter His face. He was beaten so badly He didn’t even look human.

Now Jesus became an object of mockery. The Roman soldiers knelt before Him, laughingly calling out, “Hail, King of the Jews.” They slapped Him and spit on Him. Through it all, He remained silent.

Soon, they marched Him off to Golgotha, the hill of the skull, just outside Jerusalem. Here the Roman soldiers stripped Him of all His clothes, threw Him down on a wooden cross, stretched out His hands, took a spike nail, and hammered it into His right wrist.

Imagine the pain of each blow, as the hammer came down again and again, driving the nail deeper and deeper into His wrist, Why His wrists? Because the weight of His body, once lifted up on the cross, would tear His hands through the nail if it were put through His palm instead of His wrist. Only the spot where the two bones of the wrist come together could support the full weight of a man hung by a spike nail. Next, the soldiers crossed His feet and drove a spike nail through them. The soldiers then lifted the cross up and dropped it into a previously dug hole. It was probably at this point that all of Jesus’ bones came out of joint.

And that’s when the slow suffering began. There He was for all the world to see —naked and bleeding and dying. To add insult to His many injuries, the thieves being crucified next to Him began to mock Him, as did the religious leaders and the crowds who had gathered.

To breathe on the cross is no small thing. Jesus had to push His body up to exhale and come down to inhale, scraping His open, bloody back against the rough-hewn wood of the cross for hours. Jesus did not die from the beating or the bleeding, although they were horrendous; he suffocated. The pain would have been excruciating.

Finally, after six hours of tortured breathing, the end was near. Jesus looked up to Heaven and said, “Eloi! Eloi! Lama sabachthani” which means, “My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me? In that moment, Jesus was enduring the ultimate agony. Then Jesus yelled out the three words that would change the course of history—“It is finished”—and He bowed His bloodied head and died.

This is “Lacrimosa” by Mozart

Uncategorized

GOD AND ME

April 15, 2022April 14, 2022 Nancy's Notes 🖊️🎶

It’s been quite a while since I went to church. It wasn’t one specific thing that happened; it was a lot of little things that changed the way I feel about church.

Up until a few years ago, a large portion of my time was spent attending Mass and being involved in church activities. I was a Leader of Song, the Assistant Choir Director of the Children’s Choir as well as an active member of both the Adult English and Italian Choirs. I was president of the Parish Council, taught CCD and was also the music curator for a long time; I put my heart and soul into that position.

As I said, a lot of little things changed my opinion of church and by that I mean organized religion. I know for many people being physically inside a church and attending services is an integral part of their lives. Sitting in the sanctuary, singing the hymns, hearing the word of God, receiving Communion, praying, feeling the presence of the Holy Spirit can be extremely moving, comforting and fulfilling. To those people who honestly feel that way, I’m very glad your lives are so richly filled.

I know where I stand with God; He and I have been pretty close since I was born – probably before that. I believe He knows my innermost feelings and hears me when I speak to Him, which is often. I tried to talk to God every night but I wasn’t always successful; I’d get tired and fall asleep. I had good intentions and He knew that. Now I speak with Him whenever I feel like it even though He knows all about me (and I truly believe that).

You notice I don’t use the word “pray”. For me that’s a bit too formal but if it works for you then go for it. There were times when I’d only pray when I was worried and things were troubling me; I’d tell God what I did wrong (as if He didn’t already know) or what was weighing me down and pray for Him to intervene. I’m sure many of you can relate.

The thought of talking to God came to me quite by accident one night after spending the day with my grandchildren. It was a particularly good day and I was thinking about the joy those kids bring me. I found myself taking a few minutes to say “thank you” to God for the many blessings in my life. I think that’s when I finally realized my blessings far outweighed my troubles and I wanted to acknowledge where those blessings came from. We had a wonderful talk, God and me. It didn’t last long, there was no kneeling or reciting the rosary. I just talked and I know God heard because a calmness came over me. It’s amazing what a couple of minutes one-on-one with God can do. I don’t want to be a hypocrite and only show my face in church on Christmas and Easter. I’d rather just have my own personal relationship with God whenever the ’spirit’ moves me.

I converted to Catholicism when I was 32 years old. Going to confession for the first time was deeply meaningful and I felt reborn. The second time was not like the first; sadly, all the priest wanted to do was gossip about other people in the church. That, I realize, is an anomaly but it turned me off to confession. Perhaps some day when I know my time on earth is reaching an end I’ll want someone to absolve me of my sins but for now I don’t need an intermediary; I talk to God and I know He forgives me.

There may be some who no longer consider me a very good Catholic; that’s okay. I like to think I’m a good Christian and a decent person. There’s no denying I screw up big time. Frequently. I’m only human and I’m sure God is looking down at me saying “There she goes again!”. Guilty as charged. I’m also sure God understands and is always ready and willing to give me another chance.

I hope I never take advantage of God’s forgiveness; how selfish and ungrateful would that be? After all, look at the sacrifice He made for our undeserving souls. Pretty awesome, no? Thank God!

To all who observe this very sacred day I wish you a most blessed Good Friday. I’ll tell God you said “Hello” next time we chat.

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