By Timothy W. Tron, Dec. 2024
“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12
The young man, his vibrant young twenty-something body, bent over his work, methodically applying the mortar to the stone, an act that was as much second nature as it was from the knowledge of masonry. His family had been masons for as long as memory could recall. The few years of his labor in the field of stonemasonry had brought with it not only the wisdom of the traditioned craft but also the appealing nature of broad shoulders, with a predominant abundance of muscle throughout his body. His long auburn hair was kept in check with a strand of leather pulled behind, not for aesthetics but purely for functional reasons. The crisp autumn air couldn’t keep the sweat from his bare arms glistening in the late afternoon sun.
With each application of mortar, the bond between the rocks, came a gradual satisfaction, knowing that once this was finished and dried, one would never have to do it again. From there, it would last at least his lifetime, if not far beyond those who might come after. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost upon his thoughts as he considered the fleeting, temporary nature of the one applying the mud as to that upon which he acted, being all the more permanent. Although the act of laying the stone was momentary, the remnants of its condition would last well beyond the mere minutes of what it took to build whatever structure was under construction. In a sense, it was as if masonry provided for, at least from the mason’s perspective, a bank whereby time could be collected, however painful its labor might be. The verse from the ninetieth psalm came to mind, “And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us; and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.”[1]
While he worked, he thought of the years of his not-so-distant youth; the time flew like the water that rushed over the nearby cataracts, plummeting with a roar into the basins of boulders below, forever gone, eventually flowing unto the vast expanse of the sea. How he wished he could retrieve one of those many carefree days when he and his childhood sweetheart, Katelyn Wallace, raced about the many dales and enchanted forests of their mountain refuge. There was wont for nothing, and the highlands of their Scottish homeland was their never-ending playground. Now, in his father’s apprenticeship, Angus MacRae, he was fully restrained to the daily grind. The few hours afforded to freedom were usually severely hampered by the physical exhaustion from the day’s work, although the MacRae clan was known to revel in merriment as hard as they labored in the field. Yet, every evening, no matter how long the day’s work had been, there was always time for practicing swordsmanship with his brothers, something their father held esteemed as high as the calling to be a mason – of course, all being one step below serving God. The senior Angus’ skill with the broadsword, a gift from God, he would exclaim, was another part of the reason he was still alive, and his teaching was sought after from all parts of the region.
Rapt in his work, Griffin didn’t hear the riders emerge below the knoll where he and his brother’s toiled. It was the late twelfth century, 1187, and turmoil plagued the Middle East. Men from the nearby village had brought troubling news from afar. Yosuf Ibn Ayyub, known to the West as Saladin, had captured Jerusalem and, with it, the relic of the True Cross. In so doing, he converted all Christian Churches into Mosques except for the Holy Sepulcher. There was a call from the church leaders, such as Pope Gregory the Eighth and Pope Clement the Third, for men of fighting age to join in yet another Crusade – this would be the third such ordeal. Angus had survived the Second such, but many of his fellow countrymen weren’t so fortunate. Their lives ended before they had begun.
Later that evening, after the men had washed up after their swordplay, Angus, seated at the head of the long lodge table, looked at his wife Fiona at the opposite end. There was an air of satisfaction in his broad bearded grin that reflected the gentle spirit of his beloved. Around him, his family were seated, seven boys and five girls, now all grown, most with their own families. The men mostly favored their father in his wildly reddish hair, although his beard had slowly been infiltrated with swaths of age, adding to the wizened words he often spoke. The ladies were as virtuous as their fair-skinned mother, who, like their father, had hints of auburn amongst the golden hair most kept in long, intricate braids.
Many things troubled Angus before the family members began to congregate around the dinner table that evening. By God’s divine providence, he had survived the Second Crusade, for he was the only member of his clan who had fought to return alive. This was not the first time God had smiled upon his life’s journey. For, while abroad, traveling through foreign lands toward Jerusalem, he felt God telling him to slow down, to take time to find more to this journey than the brutal fighting and killing he would find on the battlefield. While he stopped to reflect on what God meant by this, he met and befriended a holy man known only as the Prophet of Tarsus. The elderly sage took the young Angus under his wing, teaching him for over a year to read and write the ancient Greek and Hebrew texts, as well as sharing passages from his most precious and cherished book, the Bible. The elder prayed over Angus, that he would survive the battles, and that he would return to visit him upon his return. Angus, knowing that it was God’s hand that had kept him alive, made sure he passed by the home of the Prophet, only to find that he had passed. However, before his death, he had bequeathed his most treasured belonging to the young Celt, whom God had assured him would someday return, his Bible.
That particular evening, Angus MacRae felt obliged, considering the recent news, to read from that beloved, ancient text once more. With great care, he opened the parchment with the hand-scribed letters across its weathered pages and began to read from the book of Ecclesiastes, “I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.
For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.”[2]
“Let us pray,” the elder concluded as he gently closed the book, bowing his head as others followed.
While his father prayed, Griffin’s mind was racing through a torrent of thoughts within. What was his father trying to say with this scripture? Was the next Crusade the next chance that was going to happen to them all? What evil net was about to be cast upon them? While pondering all these words, he couldn’t help thinking of his bride-to-be, his childhood sweetheart, Katelyn. Had she heard of the news of war? Their family lived a couple of ridges over from theirs and seemed to always be the last to hear of any outside reports. Griffin, the youngest of the seven brothers, was the last single sibling. The others lived in the compound with their families, as in most ancient patriarchal Celtic societies.
Angus closed the prayer with, “And all God’s people say it,” everyone responded with, “Amen!”
As the plates of meat and bread were passed around, Griffin knew that he had to get to Katelyn as soon as possible. He had so many questions, and time was of the essence. There was talk of leaving on the fortnight should the men resolve to go and fight. Being pressed for time, Griffin hurriedly shoved as much food into his mouth, swallowing nearly whole bites without chewing and washing it down with gulps of water. Finishing well before the others, he asked to be excused. His father, knowing the pressing engagement and his son’s youth, acknowledged his quick departure but reminded him before approving, “Be ever mindful of thy betrothment, and know that if you decide to move its date to sooner than later, I can stand in for the priest until such time as one can be obtained when we return, that is, if it is God’s will, we shall return.”
Griffin nodded and was gone before the lamplight had time to catch up with his disappearance.
Picking the fastest horse from the corral, he lit upon the beast and rode it as hard as the wind would allow, mud and rock flying from beneath the steed’s hooves in a flurry of youthful exuberance and tormented heart. The full moon overhead lit the trace of a road as one might have seen a specter flying down its course that night. He pulled upon the main lodge of the Wallace clan just as they were winding down their evening meal. Katelyn was helping the other womenfolk clean up the table when Griffin slid in the side room door, hoping to catch her eye without others noticing. He remained in the shadows until she came close enough to grab her harm. At first, startled by the hand reaching from the darkness, she started to scream, but Griffin quickly showed his face and pulled her to him. She sat down the bucket she had been carrying as he pulled her to him, both embracing with a deep, passionate kiss. It had only been two days since they had last seen one another, but it seemed an eternity in a young love’s timeframe.
They continued their visit outside the lodge, where there would be more privacy and fewer questions. Like true lovers, they walked hand in hand as Griffin shared with her the news of the unrest in the Holy Land and how his family was making plans to go, or at least some of them. How it was to all play out, he didn’t know. She was concerned, as was to be expected, but how would they continue with their planned wedding in the spring?
“When are they planning on leaving?” she asked with a furrowed brow, which made her beauty all the more lovable.
“On the fortnight, if not sooner,” he responded with a tightness in his throat that threatened to overcome.
“Then, we shan’t be wed?” Moisture began to form around the bottoms of her eyes as tiny rivulets began to run. “What shall we do?”
“Oh yes, yes, we shall, if your father approves. My own having said that he would be willing to preside over the ceremony, standing in for the priest until we should return.” Here he purposely left out the part his father spoke, upon their return being if the Lord allowed. Her countenance immediately brightened as she drew him to her bosom and enveloped his lips in hers, knowing that time was not on their side.
In the days that followed, a whirlwind of activity, both in preparation for the wedding and the departure of the warriors, was all too much for one to conceive in and of itself. No sooner had they said, “I do,” it seemed as if they were mounting their horses for the long journey to the Holy Lands. Griffin and Katelyn had several days to be one, knowing as they did that they may never see one another again; it made their short time as husband and wife all the more remarkably precious.
It was a bitterly cold day, and the first snow of winter had begun to fall. As Griffin sat astride his mount, waiting for the orders to move out, he watched as the entire entourage of the MacRae clan came out to bid them farewell – wives, children, and their beloved mother. Fiona made it a point to speak with each of the brothers, one by one, as each would dismount and give her a long, heartfelt hug goodbye. She worked her way down the line, saving Griffin for the last. He dismounted to receive his mother’s comforting words and to ease her fears as if the others had not already tried. But to his surprise, she was more at ease than anticipated. “God will surely watch over you, my son,” she said with a voice of assurance. “Take care of your father, and I will be waiting for you when you return, Lord Willing. And remember, I love you.” At the last, she smiled and hugged him warmly. From there, she moved on to Angus, who patiently waited, knowing the importance of being the last.
Griffin climbed back into the saddle as he watched his parents speak in hushed tones from a distance. He had seen them sitting off alone together many times, but at the moment, their actions seemed ever more solemn and deliberate – an endearing picture of true love. Something about it warmed his heart to know that the bond they shared was priceless. In his heart, he hoped that he and Katelyn would someday share the same. Before he could begin to imagine such things, Katelyn rushed to his side, one last kiss, one last tearful goodbye. As she looked up, snowflakes fell on her eyelashes, endearing the angelic face that looked up to him from below. Buoyed by the thought of serving God in striking down the enemy of darkness, Griffin was more composed, but not by much. Trembling with trepidation, Katelyn handed him a small cloth-bound sachet with a leather string attached.
“For you, my love. Wear it and think of me as often as you will.”
“What is it,” he said, bending down to receive the hand-made treasure.
“It’s a locket of love, containing Thyme to make you courageous, no matter where the journey leads, and a strand of my locks to remind you that I will wait for you, as long as it takes.”
He moved the reigns to his other hand and gently, with as much care, received the lasting gift of love from his dearest. Holding the reigns in his teeth, he tied the keepsake securely around his neck with both hands, tucking it into his tunic for safekeeping. He then bent down and kissed her one last time, a long, deep embrace, one that would have to last thousands of miles and what would seem an eternity. When he pulled away, tears welled in both their eyes – it was almost too much to bear.
As the contingent moved out, Griffin looked back as long as it was feasible before his mother, his beloved, and the rest of the MacRae clan finally disappeared from view – the last embrace, the locket, and her final farewell; images that would have to last him what would seem and might be forever. His heart ached as he had never known, torn between duty and love. The latter gave strength to the former, knowing that this was a voyage for the sake of existence, both physically and spiritually. In the recesses of his heart, he wanted time to stop at that moment, never to advance another measure, but the hoof beats continued, one step in front of the other; as the heart beats for one’s love, there could never be another.
(To Be Continued…)
[1] Psalm 90:17 KJV
[2] Ecclesiastes 9:11-12 KJV
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There is the continual ephemeral feeling of expectant joy today interspersed with a tinge of irresistible freedom from the bondage of gravity in fluctuating, ever-so-slight revelations. Gone is the need to search for the next crumb of sustenance. In its void lies the reminder of why we pull back from the table of consumption to remind ourselves that we need to orchestrate, at various times, the opportunity to become more dependent upon God than of our own accord. Along with this self-prescribed extraction comes the increased awareness and perceptibility of knowing that He’s with us – through the physical submissiveness, we are made to stand upon the precipice of the precariousness of survivability.
