The Hour of Lead

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"This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow
First - Chill - then Stupor
Then the letting go."

Emily Dickinson

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I know very little about my mother's taste in poetry. She was a first–grade teacher, and she had a poem by W.H. Auden on her desk at home.

Actually, I know a lot about my mother's preferences in things like music and movies — but other than the Dr. Seuss books she used to read to me when I was small, I have little knowledge of the poems — or most of the books — that moved her, that had special meaning for her.

(And, if I'm going to be honest, I can't be sure that Dr. Seuss meant much to her. I was probably about 4 or 5 the last time she read it to me.)

There are some things I do know. For recreation, I know she liked to read the murder mysteries of Agatha Christie. When I was a teenager, she introduced me to the political novels of Allen Drury. She also played a significant role in my fondness for the works of Mark Twain, Theodore White and James Michener.

She loved classical music and folk music. As far back as I can remember, she was a fan of Simon and Garfunkel and John Denver. Later in her life, she was fond of Neil Diamond. But she had some country in her as well. I remember once she wanted to see the Willie Nelson movie "Honeysuckle Rose," but no one else in the family could be persuaded to see it with her — and Mom always seemed to hate going to movies by herself (I guess that's where I get that inclination).

Anyway, Mom asked me if I would go to the theater with her, and I agreed. Several months later, on Christmas morning, after all the other family gifts had been opened, she took me aside and handed me a gift. When I opened it, it turned out to be the soundtrack from the movie — which included Nelson singing the Oscar–nominated tune "On the Road Again."

That was a double album. In those days before CDs, a double album was considered quite an extravagance, so it is fair to say I was somewhat stunned to be receiving one. And then I saw a handwritten note from Mom that had been taped to the record. It said, "I loved seeing this with you."

The memories of these things are precious to me now — particularly on this day because it was 15 years ago today that I last saw my mother.

April 16 was Easter Sunday in 1995. I was living in Oklahoma at the time, and my parents were living here in Dallas. They had been living here for many years. It was the place where they grew up, and they came back here to live after my brother and I were grown.

For much of that time, I lived in Arkansas. Then I moved to Texas to go to graduate school, after which I moved to Oklahoma. Although I always arranged to spend Christmas with my parents, I didn't always spend Easter with them, and, to this day, I don't know why I came to Dallas that weekend. I didn't even attend church with Mom that day. I stayed at the house with my father while she went to church with some family friends.

But after church, she and the family friends came back to the house, and we all had lunch in the backyard.

I remember it vividly, but I only have one picture of Mom from that afternoon. If you look closely, you can see her to the left, mostly hidden in some shadows and blocked from the camera by my father, who was slicing some ham.

When we had all served ourselves, my mother read a column from the morning paper that discussed why Easter was a "moveable feast" — which apparently inspired her to serve lunch outdoors. The weather was nice that day, ideal for dining al fresco.

At the time, I guess we all treated it like one of countless such gatherings we had had over the years. The two families did many things together when I was growing up. It was nothing special, as far as we could see. But we were wrong. We were so wrong. We couldn't have foreseen it, but we were still wrong.

April 16, 1995 — as it turned out — was the last time we were all together at the same time in the same place. Nearly three weeks later, my parents were caught in a flash flood on their way home from having dinner with some friends. My father was injured but survived. My mother was swept away. Her body was found a few hours later.

Not long after she died and I came back to Dallas for her memorial service and her burial, I stumbled across the poem by Emily Dickinson that appears at the start of this post. It seemed to express what I was feeling — although it was more appropriate to say (as I observed at the time) that my grief seemed to come in waves. I would feel normal and then, out of the blue, I would be overwhelmed with emotion.

From time to time in the last 15 years, I have heard the phrase "the hour of lead" or it has popped into my mind, and I think of Mom — although, while I know she was familiar with some of Dickinson's poems, I don't know if she ever read that particular poem.

Really, I suppose, it speaks more to those she left behind, the ones who had to deal with the pain and shock of her death. I heard a lot of talk about closure at the time, and I made a sincere effort to find it wherever I could, but, eventually, I had to conclude that closure was a nice concept but far from a reality.

That truth came rushing back to me a couple of years ago when one of the family friends I mentioned died suddenly. His son is a little older than I am, his daughter is a little younger. And I remember calling the family home here in Dallas and speaking to the son a few days after his father's death.

Initially, our conversation consisted of ordinary exchanges of pleasantries. His mother and sister were out, he told me. Then, he asked me, "When does it stop hurting?"

I guess different people would answer that question differently. Some people have abusive parents. Some have neglectful parents. For them, I suppose, the grieving period is quite brief, if it exists at all.

But I was very close to my mother. I can't know how close anyone else is to his/her parents — my father once described the experience of my mother's death as "devastating" — while I know my brother was in a lot of pain at the time of Mom's death, I don't know how frequently he thinks of those days now or whether he still mourns for her in any way at any time.

My friend's grief a couple of years ago seemed genuine. It didn't appear to be the kind of thing that would be easily discarded once the funeral was over.

I did not feel that his question warranted a platitude–ridden response. I felt compelled to tell him what my experience had been in the previous 13 years.

So I told him there was a lot of truth in the cliches you hear about the healing power of time. When someone close to you dies, the grief can seem all–consuming. It hovers over you in every waking hour — and sometimes it invades your dreams. As time passes, it hurts less.

But it still hurts. It hurts at obvious times — on birthdays, on the anniversary of the death, on Christmas, etc. — and it hurts at less obvious times, too.

Even today, 15 years since I last saw Mom, it still has the power to sneak up on me. It may only have me in its grip for a few seconds, but when it does, the memories of those days are as intense as if the events were happening for the first time.

I guess it is an individual thing, this Hour of Lead. Each stage requires a different length of time with each person. I've been through the chill and the stupor — but I'm still struggling, at times, with the letting go part.

Maybe, on second thought, that closure thing is possible with some people.

But if you've found it, can you tell me how you accomplished it?

Easter Sunday

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Jane and me, Christmas 2008.

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Today is Easter Sunday. But, for a Sunday in mid–April in Dallas, Texas, it's been unusually cool, wet and dreary.

Typically, May is our wettest month around here. But I doubt that many folks are complaining. Dry, windy conditions led to wildfires west of Fort Worth last week, forcing many families to evacuate their homes. And the smoke from those fires was causing problems for traffic to the east.

But today's rain may have put an end to any lingering fires.

Most of the rain seems to have fallen in the early hours of this Easter, but I was out there in the middle of it when it was coming down. Not too many other people were out there with me. Most people were sensible enough to be at home, in their beds, instead of out and about.

But my brother and I joined an old family friend for a sunrise service, and we had agreed to gather at our friend's house and go on to the service from there.

So, this morning, my alarm went off at 4:30, and I got up and took my shower.

When I got up, I could hear the rain coming down outside. And I only had to look outside for a few seconds to confirm that it was really pouring — even though it was pitch black outside.

I can't tell you how long it's been since I got up at 4:30 in the morning. And — for reasons I'll get into shortly — I'm kind of wary of driving in heavy rain.

So I'll admit, when I was taking my shower and then when I was getting dressed, I muttered a few times, "Whose idea was this?"

But, as I say, Jane is an old friend of the family. She was my mother's closest friend, going back to the days when they were children. And if she asked me to walk through fire, I would.

I didn't have to walk through fire this morning. But I didn't think the rain was going to be a problem, either. While I was getting dressed, I had the TV on, and the weather reporter was telling the viewing audience that the rain would be passing through east Dallas in the next 10–15 minutes, then things would be clearing up. I live on the east side of Dallas, and Jane's house is to the west of my apartment so I figured I would be in good shape.

Not so. As it turned out, the rain picked up in intensity as I made my way west. In fact, by the time I got close to Jane's house, the rain was coming down so hard I couldn't see the street signs. And there were times when I wondered if the standing water would force me to change my route.

It is ironic that the rain was coming down the way it was. My mother died in a flash flood in 1995. A storm front came through the area while she and my father were having dinner with some friends. They were about a mile from their home when their car got caught in rapidly rising water. My mother was swept to her death. My father was pinned between the car and the guardrail, which disabled him but probably saved his life.

Since that time, I've been hesitant to drive in stormy weather. And, I'll admit, I wasn't crazy about the idea this morning. But Jane and her husband (who passed away last summer) came through for us in a big way that night. They left the comfort of their home and went out in the stormy weather, picked up my father at the hospital, where he had been taken for treatment, made sure he was safely deposited at his home and then contacted my brother and me to let us know what had happened.

There was no way the rain was going to keep me from going to a sunrise service with Jane this morning.

Mom's death was a loss for many people, not just my family. Mom was a first–grade teacher, and her death hit many families hard.

And Jane, as I say, was her dearest friend. But she put her own grief aside. In the next several days, she and her husband did all sorts of things to help our family in our hour of need. At Mom's memorial service (which Jane helped to plan), she gave one of the eulogies. How she was able to compose a beautiful tribute to Mom while dealing with her own grief and loss is something I will never know.

Mom has been in my thoughts a lot this week. Actually, the last time I saw her was on Easter, about three weeks before she died. Another irony, I suppose.

I guess I can never thank Jane enough for what she's done for us over the years. I certainly can never thank her enough for what she did for us when Mom died.

Getting out in the rain on Easter Sunday seems like the least I could do.

An Answer (?) to My Easter Question

Last week, I wrote on this blog about the biblical account of the crucifixion. Specifically, I wondered how many times Jesus was whipped during his scourging.

I reported that I had been under the impression, since I was a child, that Jesus was given 39 lashes, and I explained that my personal research indicated that 39 lashes was Moses' law — and the reason for that was tradition held that 40 lashes were sufficient to kill someone. Therefore, the most extreme punishment that could be inflicted on a person without sentencing that person to death would be to inflict "40 lashes save one."

But I have never found a passage in the Bible that specifically states how many lashes were inflicted on Jesus.

Today, a friend of mine directed my attention to a passage from the Apostle Paul's Second Epistle to the Corinthians.

Here is the passage, from the "New Living Translation" of the Bible:

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"Are they servants of Christ? I know I sound like a madman, but I have served him far more! I have worked harder, been put in prison more often, been whipped times without number, and faced death again and again. Five different times the Jewish leaders gave me 39 lashes."

2nd Corinthians 11:23–24

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Now, this passage doesn't refer specifically to Jesus. It refers to Paul's experiences.

But it seems to confirm that 39 lashes was an accepted, traditional punishment. And, in those days, laws were followed to the letter.

So, while it doesn't confirm how many lashes were administered to Jesus, it seems to confirm what the normal procedure was.

And that, it seems to me, is probably as close as we can get to answering my question.

An Easter Question

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A few years ago, Mel Gibson made quite a stir when he released his film, "The Passion of the Christ."

Gibson repeatedly told interviewers that he was prompted to make the film because of a personal dedication to the truth. But, while I found the film to be very moving, there's a part of it that has always concerned me, even though I will freely concede that I have had no formal education in theological matters — unlike my father and my grandfather, both of whom were religion professors.

I'm not referring to complaints that Gibson's movie was anti-Semitic, although it would be hard for Jews to argue against the fact that their ancestors played a significant role in the Easter story.

No, what I refer to is the depiction of the scourging of Jesus.

For most of my life I have been under the impression that Jesus endured 39 lashes before the crucifixion. I'm not sure where that number came from originally — I assume it is something I was told in Sunday school when I was a child, but in my readings of the Gospels since that time, I have not found a passage that explicitly confirms that was the number. The Gospels talk about the severe beating Jesus was given, but I have found no reference to the exact number of lashes that were inflicted.

When I was about 10 or 11 years old, Andrew Lloyd Webber collaborated with Tim Rice on the rock opera, "Jesus Christ Superstar." It was enormously popular and was responsible for reconciling many young people — who felt alienated by the war in Vietnam and the generational/cultural conflicts of the 1960s — to the story of Jesus. And, in the composition "Trial Before Pilate," a specific reference to 39 lashes was made, and those 39 lashes were depicted in the music.

In my mind, that confirmed what I had been unable to confirm elsewhere, although I didn't know where Webber and Rice came up with that number.

I watched Gibson's movie closely, particularly when it reached the point of the scourging. But I lost count of the number of lashes that were administered long after the total passed 39. Before seeing the movie, I have to admit that I defended Gibson against charges that the film was unduly violent. My reasoning was that one could not depict the story of the crucifixion in a manner that was not violent. But, after seeing the film, I concluded (based on my lifelong presumption that the scourging involved 39 lashes) that it was, indeed, more violent than it needed to be.

Gibson's film made me wonder, though, where the idea of 39 lashes came from. What, if any, was the significance of that number? Most of the numbers that one encounters in the Gospels have some additional symbolic meaning. From time to time, as an adult, I have tried to find an answer. The closest I have come to it is this:

It was understood, in those days, that 40 lashes would be enough to kill a man. Therefore, in order to avoid sentencing someone to death, the most severe punishment that could be administered was 40 lashes minus one — or 39 lashes.

This, I have been told, was Moses' Law. But, while the Old Testament has a lot to say about Moses — specifically, in the Books of Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy — I have found no references to his recommendation for scourging. Perhaps it is there and I simply haven't found it.

(As an aside, I will point out here that my grandfather died when I was 6 years old, but my father, who is still living, hasn't been able to clear up this matter for me.)

Writer Jim Bishop, who wrote engrossing, journalistic hour–by–hour accounts of the assassinations of Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy, wrote a similar book about the crucifixion. It was called "The Day Christ Died," and it was punctuated by general chapters that enlightened readers about the Jewish world, Jesus and the Roman world.

In his book, Bishop wrote this about scourging:

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"Roman scourging was called the 'halfway death' because it was supposed to stop this side of death. It was not administered in addition to other punishment. The two 'thieves' who would die on this day were not scourged. And the Jewish law — Mithah Arikhta — forbade any manner of prolonged death for condemned criminals, and exempted any who were to die from the shame of being scourged.

"The Jews called their scourging the 'intermediate death' although it was far less severe than the Romans. The custom in Palestine was to administer to the prisoner '40 stripes save one.' It was done by a paid executioner, who, armed with a long supple rod, beat the prisoner 13 times on each shoulder and 13 times on the loins. The prisoner seldom died but, although in time the scars might fade, the shame and humiliation seldom did.

"The scourging of Rome was more deadly. It was administered by a trained man, called a lictor — there were none in Palestine — and he used a short circular piece of wood, to which were attached several strips of leather. At the end of each strip, he sewed a chunk of bone or a small piece of iron chain. This instrument was called a flagellum. There was no set number of stripes to be administered, and the law said nothing about the parts of the body to be assailed."

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That reference to three 13s made some symbolic sense to me when I read the book as a teenager. Three, of course, is significant for Christians — the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. And it seemed to link up with the superstition about Friday the 13th, since Friday was the day of the scourging and the crucifixion.

But I later learned that numerologists, regardless of their religious beliefs, view the number 12 as a number of completeness (since it can refer to the number of months in a year, the number of hours on a clock, the signs of the Zodiac as well as the number of disciples) and the number 13 is considered irregular.

I have also heard of another superstition, which supposedly originates from the Last Supper or from a Norse myth (possibly both) — if 13 people are seated at a table, one of the diners will die.

Which, I suppose, brings me back to my original dilemma.

Is it possible to determine how many lashes were administered to Jesus?

For the last couple of months, I have been attending the Methodist church where my mother was a member in the years before her death. I even joined the congregation last month.

I don't think I am particularly religious, but I do feel that I have become more spiritual in recent years. And I've always been curious about historical issues.

This is one such issue for which I would like to find an answer. So I'm hoping my regular readers can enlighten me on this.

And I know the minister of my church has read my blog in the past. I hope he will read this and he will have some illuminating thoughts he can share.