Jennifer L. Wright's Blog

When The Wall Came Down

When World War II came to an end in 1945, a pair of Allied peace conferences at Yalta and Potsdam convened to determine the fate of Germany’s territories. After much discussion, they decided to split the former Axis power into four “allied occupation zones”: The eastern part of the country went to the Soviet Union, while the western part went to the United States, Great Britain and (eventually) France. However, even though the German capital of Berlin was located entirely within the Soviet part of the country, they agreed to split the city as well into similar sectors. The Soviets took the eastern half, while the other Allies took the western. This four-way occupation of Berlin began in June 1945.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for the illusion of peace, desperately hoped for after the long, bloody years of war, to crumble. The stark differences between east and west, communism and capitalism, pushed under the rug in the pursuit of defeat of the Nazis, soon reared its ugly head again; taut tensions grew even thicker after the Soviets tested their first atomic weapon in August of 1949, confirming fears of espionage long held within the higher-ups of the United States.

The “War to End All Wars” had ended. But the “Cold War” was just beginning.

The very existence of West Berlin, a conspicuously capitalist city deep within communist East Germany, “stuck like a bone in the Soviet throat,” as Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev put it. Relations at the border within the city were strained, often leading to violent altercations between soldiers and civilians. As conditions within the communist-held Eastern section deteriorated, refugees began to stream into the Western half. Estimates put the number of defectors at nearly 3 million between the years of 1948 and 1958.

It was an embarrassment to the Soviet Union; not only that, it was a security risk during times when nuclear war seemed not only possible but imminent. The communists had to act.

On August 12, 1961, Premier Khrushchev gave the East German government permission to stop the flow of emigrants by closing its border for good. In just two weeks, the East German army, police force and volunteer construction workers had completed a makeshift barbed wire and concrete block wall, an edifice that would soon become further fortified and known as the Berlin Wall.

Before the wall was built, Berliners on both sides of the city could move around fairly freely: They crossed the East-West border to work, to shop, to go to the theater and the movies. Trains and subway lines carried passengers back and forth. After the wall was built, it became impossible to get from East to West Berlin except through one of three checkpoints. Even the, except under special circumstances, travelers from East and West Berlin were rarely allowed across the border. Families were divided. Friendships were severed. Berlin became a city divided, and not just in an ideological sense.

During its tenuous history, 171 people were killed trying to get over, under, or around the Berlin Wall. However, more than 5,000 East Germans (including some 600 border guards) managed to cross the border by jumping out of windows adjacent to the wall, climbing over the barbed wire, flying in hot air balloons, crawling through the sewers and driving through unfortified parts of the wall at high speeds.

By the late 1980’s, however, the Cold War began to thaw across Europe as Soviet power began to wane. Facing mounting pressure, on November 9, 1989, an East German Communist Party spokesman announced a series of new policies regarding border crossings. In a twist of irony, however, this same spokesman declared the border open….when it actually wasn’t.

East Berliners, however, would not let their leaders backtrack. They flocked to border checkpoints, some chanting “Tor auf!” (“Open the gate!”). After several tense hours rife with confusion, guards finally began letting the crowds through, some 2 million in all, where West Berliners greeted them with flowers and champagne. Fearing the Soviets still might renegade on their word, people used hammers and picks to knock away chunks of the wall while cranes and bulldozers pulled down section after section.

The Berlin Wall was no more.

Shortly thereafter, talks between East and West German officials, joined by officials from the United States, Great Britain, France and the USSR, began to explore the possibility of reunification, an act with was made official 35 years ago today, on October 3, 1990.

Only One Thing To Do Today

I was re-watching ‘The Chosen’ a few days ago (it’s a fantastic show, by the way; if you haven’t checked it out, I highly recommend it!), and one particular line struck me. In season 4, episode 2, Matthew, one of Jesus’s disciples, is talking to Gauis, a Roman soldier. The two had previously worked together, with Gauis guarding Matthew when he was a tax collector for the empire. By this point, however, Matthew had left his old job–and his old life–to follow Jesus. The two haven’t seen each other in a long time and, after the usual small talk, Gauis responds to Matthew’s innocuous queries about his life by explaining that it’s “complicated” and maintaining that Matthew “wouldn’t understand.” In a moment of raw vulnerability, he admits, “I’m helpless.”

After a thoughtful moment, Matthew sighs and says that Gauis is probably right; he wouldn’t necessarily understand the pressures and intricacies of his life. And, even if he could, Matthew himself tends to over-complicate everything. However, he maintains, “my teacher? He makes life very simple. Every morning I wake up, my ideas and fears are jumbled. I feel overwhelmed with doubt and regret. But if I just pause for a moment and remember…I have only one thing to do today: Follow Him. The rest takes care of itself.”

What a beautiful picture. What a realistic picture.

Even as a long-time Christian, I wake up most days feeling overwhelmed. The pressures and worries of work and family life can sometimes feel heavy, not to mention the overall burden of just living in the world at large, with its injustice, poverty, violence, and evil. Add to this shame and regret over sins, both old and new, and Matthew’s early morning doubts and fears become very much my own. Much like Gauis, I, too, can be left feeling helpless, almost paralyzed with defeat.

All this before I even get out of bed.

But what if I–and you–approached the day like Matthew? What if we were able to push aside all of that negativity and remember that, no matter what our to-do list looks like, no matter our calendar, no matter our circumstance, there is only really one this we must do today?

Follow Him.

If we were to truly live this out, imagine how much lighter our burdens would be, how much more joyful even the most mundane of tasks. Because we would no longer have to sustain the pressure of it all being on our shoulders. We would no longer have to have everything figured out. And we would no longer feel alone.

There is something terrifying about surrendering control, but there is also something freeing. And that freedom comes from realizing the beautiful truth in the very thing many of us (myself included) have been trying to deny: “I have only one thing to do today: Follow Him. The rest takes care of itself.”

Just follow Him, friends. He will lead, guide, sustain, provide. More importantly, He will love and strengthen.

And then “the rest [will] take care of itself.”

Come Down (or Up) Somewhere?

On July 16, 1945, the United States conducted a test of the world’s first nuclear weapon, an event now known as Trinity. It came about after months of tireless research and development by a group of scientists living and working in Los Alamos, New Mexico, who had been authorized by President Roosevelt, in response to fears that the Nazis had already begun work on just such a weapon. The test took place in the early morning hours in a remote-but-not-actually-too-remote stretch of desert near Alamogordo. Radioactive fallout plagued the area unrecognized for months after the test, poisoning local residents, as well as their livestock and water supplies.

However, on August 6, 1945, with the U.S. at war against Japan, President Harry Truman authorized the dropping of an atomic bomb named Little Boy over Hiroshima, Japan. Three days later, on August 9, a nuclear bomb called Fat Man was dropped over Nagasaki. Two hundred thousand people, according to some estimates, were killed in the attacks on the two cities and, on August 15, 1945, Japan surrendered to the Allied Powers.

The test–and the bomb–had done exactly what the United States hoped it would do. But, when the Soviet Union tested their own nuclear weapon on August 29, 1945, stunning both scientists and government officials, the United States realized the Manhattan Project success couldn’t be just a one and done thing.

Nuclear weapon development would need to continue.

But the New Mexico desert was no longer a viable option for a testing ground. It was, to quote one official, “too populated.” Instead, they moved testing to areas in the Pacific as well as parts of the Nevada desert, where it continued for much of the 1950’s. The problem with these places, however, was the same problems the scientists had encountered in New Mexico. The dangers of nuclear fallout were just now starting to be understood; no place on earth was truly remote enough to safely test these types of weapons. However, amid rapidly intensifying tensions with the Soviet Union, simply stopping the nuclear arms race was not an option either.

And so, sixty-eight years ago today, on September 19, 1957, the United States detonated a 1.7-kiloton nuclear weapon in an underground tunnel at the Nevada Test Site (NTS), a 1,375-square-mile research center located 65 miles north of Las Vegas. The test, known as Rainier, was the first fully contained underground detonation and produced no radioactive fallout. A modified W-25 warhead weighing 218 pounds and measuring 25.7 inches in diameter and 17.4 inches in length was used for the test. Rainier was part of a series of 29 nuclear weapons and nuclear weapons safety tests known as Operation Plumbbob that were conducted at the NTS between May 28, 1957, and October 7, 1957.

In total, 928 tests took place at the Nevada Test Site between 1951 and 1992, when the U.S. conducted its last underground nuclear test. In 1996, seven years after the collapse of the Soviet Union and official end of the Cold War, the U.S signed the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty, which prohibited nuclear detonations in all environments both above and below ground.

PS–Want to know more about the human side of the Trinity Test? Check out my novel Come Down Somewhere, available wherever books are sold!

Hope from the Gates of Mordor

The Lord of the Rings is one of my all-time favorite stories.

I was first introduced to Middle-Earth by my father, who gifted me his old, worn-out copy of The Hobbit when I was in 6th grade. At the time, Tolkien’s unique use of language and writing style was hard for me to understand. It wasn’t until Peter Jackson’s film interpretations hit the screen in 2001 that I truly became hooked. After watching The Fellowship of the Rings, I returned to the books and devoured ALL of them. And, as fantastic as the movies were, Tolkien’s books were so much better–layered, nuanced, and deep. Now, I re-read them every year.

And, every year, I find something else profound within its pages.

It’s no secret that Tolkien’s masterpiece was influenced by the author’s burgeoning relationship with Christ. Although he has adamantly denied the work is a Christian allegory, parallels between Middle Earth and our own world cannot be missed, nor can one fail to recognize the small “God truths” sprinkled throughout its pages. It’s one of the delights of reading and re-reading the stories.

Such was the case recently when I was journeying with Frodo and Sam once again in The Two Towers. As the pair inches ever closer to Mordor, a growing sense of doom begins to envelope our Ring-Bearer. And it’s not just internal; there is a heaviness in the air around them, an unnatural silence created by the lack of living creatures that should have been crawling and soaring through the countryside. Not only that, but there was a cloud stretching out from the boundaries of Mordor itself, a shadow creeping into the land of the living that made day feel like twilight. It was a tangible reminder of the seeming hopelessness of Frodo’s task–and he felt it acutely.

Have you ever felt that growing sense of despair or doom? Okay, so maybe you’ve never traveled to the outskirts of Mordor (but, if you have, I want to hear about it!), yet I guarantee each one of us has felt like Frodo in that moment. Most of the time, we never even have to leave our home. Just open up the newspaper or switch on the evening news, and you’ll be confronted with every sort of evil imaginable: senseless shootings, cruelty to children, Christian leaders falling into sin. All of it gives us a sense of fear and pessimism, as if a shadow is creeping across our world too, devouring goodness and slipping us into a realm of darkness.

And, I don’t know if you ever feel the same way but, sometimes, I have to admit, I feel as if the shadow has won. The fight is over. We cannot wrench this world from the pull of Satan’s grip.

I can, like Frodo, feel hopeless.

And yet….God.

I’ve found throughout my life that it’s precisely in these moments that God shows up. It’s when the world seems darkest that His light shines brightest. And, if we can pull our eyes from the death and destruction that demands our attention, He is faithful in shining that light on the small evidences of goodness we might otherwise miss.

This was true in Tolkien’s work, and it’s true for us.

Just before entering the Black Land, Frodo and Sam come across a statue of one of Gondor’s ancient kings, seated on the throne. The head had been broken off, cast down, and replaced with an obscene replica. The pedestal and throne itself had been defaced and graffitied. A more profound and heartbreaking symbol of Mordor’s reach and despicableness had never been seen.

And yet…

It was only when Frodo pulled his eyes from the despair before him that he noticed something. The head of the statue–the true head, the one that had been removed–was lying on the side of the road in the last light of the sun. And, across its brow lay a splash of color–a crown of flowers, its green tendrils wapping the king’s head in silver and gold. The symbol of the mighty king of Gondor was fallen, broken…but not defeated.

“They cannot conquer forever!” Frodo cried in a mighty surge of optimism. This delicate crown, growing in spite of the wickedness all around, gave the two hobbits the strength they needed to carry on with their arduous task.

And so it is with us. Yes, evil surrounds us. Yes, sin abounds. But, if we look closely, we can still see evidence of God’s goodness. It’s the surge of humanitarian aid during times of crisis. It’s the gentle touch of a friend when we receive horrific, heart-breaking news. And it’s the strong communities of faith flourishing throughout the world irregardless of persecution (or what popular media would have you believe).

And these small wonders redirect our gaze to truth: Christ lives. And, because He lives, the enemy’s defeat is assured; it’s only a matter of time.

They cannot conquer forever.

And, my friends, they will not.

May we cling to this light when, as Galadriel says, all other lights go out.

A Legacy of Resistance

History Friday is back! And I can think of no better way to kick it back off than diving right in to another fascinating but tragic episode in American history…

By the mid 1800’s, the United States was bursting at its seams. A rapidly growing population needed, well, room to grow, and the U.S. government set its sights westward. The only problem? The land was already claimed.

Thousands of Native Americans had called both the Great Plains and western half the United States home for hundreds of years. One of these tribes was the Lakota, who made their home in what we now know today as the areas of the Upper Great Lakes and North and South Dakota. Made up of seven “sub-tribes,” the Lakota were hunters, gathers, and farmers, not just living off the the land but thriving off it; by 1880, their number was estimated at over 16,000.

One of the members of this tribe was a young warrior by the name of Crazy Horse, who lived in a Lakota camp in present-day Wyoming. In 1854, the camp was entered by Lieutenant John Lawrence Grattan and 29 other U.S. troopers, who intended to arrest a Lakota man for stealing a cow. In reality, the cow had wandered into the camp, and after a short time, someone butchered it and passed the meat out among the people. The U.S. soldiers, however, didn’t see the difference. Tempers flared, culminating in the shooting of Chief Conquering Bear. The Lakota returned fire, killing all 30 soldiers and a civilian interpreter in what was later called the Grattan massacre.

After witnessing the bloodshed, Crazy Horse began to see visions, varying in substance but with the interpretation always the same: Crazy Horse had a warrior within him, one that was destined to protect his people and never be wounded in battle.

He took the visions to heart.

Through the late 1850s and early 1860s, Crazy Horse’s reputation as a warrior grew, as did his fame among the Lakota. His first kill was a Shoshone raider who had murdered a Lakota woman washing buffalo meat along the Powder River. He went on to fight in numerous battles between the Lakota and their traditional enemies, the Crow, Shoshone, Pawnee, Blackfeet, and Arikara.

But his fights weren’t limited to other native people.

In 1864, after the Third Colorado Cavalry decimated Cheyenne and Arapaho in the Sand Creek Massacre, the Lakota allied with them against the U.S. military. Crazy Horse was present at several U.S./Native American clashes, including the Battle of Platte Bridge, the Battle of Red Buttes, and the Battle of the Hundred in the Hand, during which combined warrior forces killed all the US soldiers present, the Army’s worst defeat on the Great Plains up to that time.

On June 17, 1876, Crazy Horse led a combined group of approximately 1,500 Lakota and Cheyenne in a surprise attack against brevetted Brigadier General George Crook’s force of 1,000 cavalry and infantry, and allied 300 Crow and Shoshone warriors in the Battle of the Rosebud. The battle, although not substantial in terms of human losses, delayed Crook’s joining the 7th Cavalry under George A. Custer. It contributed to Custer’s subsequent defeat at one of the most famous skirmishes of the era, the Battle of the Little Bighorn. However, Crazy Horse’s tactical and leadership role in this battle remains ambiguous. While some historians think that Crazy Horse led a flanking assault, ensuring the death of Custer and his men, the only proven fact is that Crazy Horse was a major participant in the battle. His personal courage was attested to by several eye-witness Indian accounts. Water Man, one of only five Arapaho warriors who fought, said Crazy Horse “was the bravest man I ever saw. He rode closest to the soldiers, yelling to his warriors. All the soldiers were shooting at him, but he was never hit.” Sioux battle participant Little Soldier said, “The greatest fighter in the whole battle was Crazy Horse.”

Despite the resounding victory, the Native Americans soon proved no match for the U.S. Army and its never-ending supply of reinforcement. By January of 1877, Crazy Horse’s warriors had fought their last major battle. His people struggled through the winter, weakened by hunger and the long cold. Crazy Horse decided to surrender with his band to protect them, and went to Fort Robinson in Nebraska, where he was ultimately killed on September 5, 1877, 148 years ago, during a scuffle with soldiers who were trying to force him inside a cell.

Crazy Horse is commemorated by the Crazy Horse Memorial in the Black Hills of South Dakota, near the town of Berne. He remains a legendary figure in both United States and Native American history, revered for both his bravery and his loyalty to his people. As summarized by Ian Frazier in his book, The Great Plains:

“Even the most basic outline of his life shows how great he was, because he remained himself from the moment of his birth to the moment he died; because [though] he may have surrendered, … he was never defeated in battle; because, although he was killed, even the Army admitted he was never captured. His dislike of the oncoming civilization was prophetic. Unlike many people all over the world, when he met white men he was not diminished by the encounter.”

Summer Hiatus!

Hello, dear readers!

My regularly scheduled posts will be on hiatus for the next few months as I take a short break to spend time with my family and friends. ‘Wellness Wednesday’ and ‘History Friday’ posts will return in September.

Want to stay connected while I’m away? Consider following me on Facebook or Instagram !

In the meantime, happy summer, friends! Stay safe!

A Gift, Not A Burden

The days are getting longer. The heat is wracking up the thermometer. My kids are officially done with school.

In short, there’s no more denying it.

Summer is here. In fact, this will be my last post before I take my annual summer hiatus from this blog, seeking to spend more time with my family.

And I. Am. Struggling.

Summer has a different rhythm, doesn’t it? In my house, at least, there’s a more relaxed type of atmosphere. Schedules get thrown to the wayside, chores get neglected, busy-ness takes a back. It’s a season focused on rest. Resetting. Rejuvenation.

Three things I am just not very good at.

I am a very routine-oriented person. I like knowing what I will be doing each day at approximately the same time. I thrive on structure and productivity, and I like to use my time wisely, finding little ways to get ahead of my to-do list as much as I can. All things that absolutely go out the window during the summer months. It’s hard to be in “work mode” when you never get a break from “mom mode.” It’s nearly impossible to stay productive and ahead of the game when there are never-ending needs constantly popping up all around you. And just try to find a sustainable groove when sports, trips, playdates, camps, and classes make your house a revolving door.

In short, summer is not a season of relaxation for me. It’s a season of interruption.

Anyone else?

Or, at least, that’s how it used to be.

I’ve never been ashamed of being a driven person, nor do I think I should be. I wouldn’t be where I am today without being the person I believe God made me to be. But God has been slowly revealing to me that even the gifts He’s given to me–the gifts of being naturally hard-working and motivated–can veer into dangerous territory if I’m not careful. It can even become full-blown sin if I refuse to accept other gifts God tries to give me.

Gifts such as rest.

Being ambitious, dedicated, and routine-craving isn’t a bad thing. But if, like me, you find yourself physically or mentally incapable of resting when the time comes, take a deeper look into the motivating factor behind these things. Often, things like pride, ego, and a need for control can manifest itself in our busy-ness obsessed lifestyle. That’s because rest isn’t just a self-care issue.

It’s a faith issue.

Scripture tells us one rand over again that rest is a gift given to us by God for our good. All the way back in Genesis, we see God Himself resting from His work (Genesis 2). Keep in mind, God didn’t need the rest; He doesn’t grow weary. He was doing it to set an example for His children, to offer them a time of rejuvenation He understood we would need after all our hard work. This is exactly why He gave us the command about the Sabbath in Exodus 20. Again, God doesn’t need the Sabbath; we do.

And, if God is so gracious in providing us with these opportunities and seasons He knows we need, why am I so quick to reject or grumble about them?

It’s because of my own pride. My own striving. My own need to prove myself.

My own need to, in a sense, tell God that I know better than Him.

Yikes.

So, yes, while I go through the usual struggle every year around this time, God has slowly been opening my eyes to the sin and lies behind my resistance. He’s been showing the truth that rest is an act of obedience, a redirecting of my worship to Him rather than myself. Accepting a season of rest is a gesture of faith, of love, and of self-sacrifice. It is a humble acknowledgement that we are not God.

Instead, He is.

And He is a good, good One who extravagantly bestows upon us those things we don’t even realize we need.

So whether your summer is busy or slow, full or empty, take a deep breath and repeat after me:

Rest is gift, not a burden.

Given by the ultimate Gift-Giver.

“Well, We Got Them.”

By the spring of 1934, public adoration for the “Lethal Lovers,” Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, was waning. Long seen as heroes of romanticism and social justice, the trial of bodies littering their wake was getting harder and harder to ignore. An Easter Sunday shoot-out that resulted in the cold-blooded murder of two highway patrolmen seemed to be the last straw, especially when a witness statement by one William Schieffer, who lived in a farmhouse adjacent to the murders, put the gun squarely in Bonnie’s hands. Schieffer’s insistence that Bonnie “approached one of the downed officers and shot him repeatedly while his head bounced on the road like a rubber ball” was all the local media needed; they took the gruesome image and ran with it.

Nevermind Schieffer’s account differed from every other eyewitness testimony, which placed the shootings squarely in the hands of a Barrow Gang associate, Henry Methvian, with a strong possibility Clyde himself supplied a bullet or two. In an instant, Bonnie’s reputation as the sexy, cigar-smoking, star-crossed lover of a colorful killer was gone. Now, in the public’s eye, she was a killer herself, just as vicious and cold-hearted as her beau. For the first time ever, the authorities put a price–$500–on her head, just not just Clyde’s.

The public outcry had never been greater. Neither, it seemed, had the urgency to stop them.

For nearly three months, Bonnie and Clyde had been quietly pursued by Frank Hamer, a Texas Ranger with a reputation for being both methodical and tough in his approach to law enforcement. But the Holy Sunday massacre convinced Hamer he needed to change his strategy. He gave up his lone-wolf pursuit and formed a posse with former Texas Ranger friend Manny Gault, as well as Deputies Bob Acorn and Ted Hinton. But, despite the additional manpower and several close encounters, the group was still unable to apprehend the notorious outlaws.

What the lawmen didn’t know was that Bonnie and Clyde were growing weary. The constant stress of fleeing from authorities and life on the run was taking its toll on the pair. At a meeting with their families in late April, relatives of the two remarked that they looked terrible, prematurely aged and drained from the stress. They wanted to be done, they said, settle down somewhere safe.

Barrow Gang member (and cop killer) Henry Methvian had just the place. His family had a spot in Bienville Parish, Louisiana, and Henry convinced Clyde some nearby property would be the perfect spot for he and Bonnie to settle down. The pair even visited it several times to check it out.

If only it had been that simple.

And if only Henry’s motives had been that pure.

Because it was no longer just the public turning on Bonnie and Clyde. Close friends, it seemed, were looking for opportunities as well.

Seeing the writing on the wall, Henry’s parents, Ivy and Ava Methvian, were desperate to get their son out of the Barrow Gang before he, too, met a grisly end. During a visit home, Henry had confided in them that he was done with the two but wasn’t sure how to extricate himself from the fold. Luckily, when Ivy and Ava were approached by Bienville Parish sheriff Henderson Jordan in March 1934 with a proposition, it seemed they finally had an answer. The Methvians agreed to alert both Sheriff Jordan, as well as Hamer’s posse, about the next time Bonnie and Clyde swung by Bienville Parish for a visit so the authorities could set up an ambush. In doing so, they would receive a full pardon for Henry.

The chance came only a few weeks later, in late May 1934. On May 20, Bonnie, Clyde, and Henry visited Henry’s parents. Sometime during the visit, Henry was able to take Ivy and Ava aside and tell them that Bonnie and Clyde were planning on driving to Shreveport the next day. He would try to make up some excuse not to leave, he said, while Ivy and Ava contacted Jordan and the others. The next day, Bonnie and Clyde drove to town as planned, unknowingly tailed by local authorities hoping to make a positive ID. The pair apparently showed little concern when Henry disappeared from the Majestic Cafe, where they’d stopped for lunch. They were in his neck of the woods, after all; perhaps he’d simply seen family and taken off. They went about their business, unaware of the plot unfolding around them.

Bonnie and Clyde returned to the Methvian’s home on Tuesday, looking for Henry. Ivy told them he wasn’t there, but that they should come back the next morning, Wednesday, May 23, at 9:00 AM. After they left, Ivy got in his truck and drove to Sheriff Jordan’s office in Acadia. Bonnie and Clyde, he said, would be driving down Highway 154 the next morning around 9:00.

The plans were set.

The six-man posse consisting of Hamer and Gault, Alcorn and Hinton, as well as Sheriff Jordan and another deputy from Bienville Parish by the name of Oakley, reached the hilltop ambush site around 2:00 AM that morning. Armed to the teeth, they parked their cars on a trail behind the hill. As soon as there was light enough to see, the group helped Ivy Methvian position his truck on the southbound side of the road, partially on the shoulder, the nose of the truck’s hood sticking out onto the road itself. Then they jacked up the front end of the vehicle and pulled off its right front tire to suggest a blowout. It would be impossible for anyone traveling south on the narrow road to drive straight past; at the very least, an approaching vehicle would be forced to slow down to maneuver their car around Methvian’s truck.

At about 9:15, a gray Ford V-8 approached. As it slowed near the disabled truck, the lawmen, from their hiding spots nearby, were able to clearly see Clyde Barrow behind the wheel, dressed in a suit and blue Western dress shirt and hat, Bonnie Park beside him, clad in a red dress. The windows were rolled down, an attempt to alleviate some of the heat of the warm, muggy morning.

Although a logging truck coming from the other direction slowed and pulled off to the side, offering Clyde the right-of-way to pass Methvian’s vehicle, Clyde didn’t take it. Instead, he put the Ford into first gear and came to a complete stop beside Ivy, leaving the V-8’s engine still idling. This was moment Frank Hamer had agreed to call out for Bonnie and Clyde to surrender.

Bienville Parrish deputy Prentiss Oakley refused to give them the chance.

Before a single word was uttered, Oakley jumped to his feet, aimed his Remington down the hill, and fired. One of the bullets flew straight through the open driver’s side window and hit Clyde in the temple just in front of his left ear, killing him instantly. In death, his left foot slipped off the clutch and the Ford began rolling forward slowly, heading for the shallow ditch on the other side of the road.

Because of the thickness of the brush, the other members of the posse were unable to see Oakley. What they could see, however, was the slowly moving V-8. And they had certainly heard the shots. In the short stillness afterward the initial blast, Bonnie let loose a shrill wail, one the lawmen said haunted them the rest of their lives. Then they, too, began firing. In the barrage, there was no way to tell whose bullet ended Bonnie Parker’s life. All we know is that one, or several, of them did.

Just sixteen seconds elapsed between the first shots from Prentiss Oakley and the last ones fired by Frank Hamer. When it was all over, Clyde’s shattered head had fallen through the spokes of the steering wheel. Bonnie was slumped forward in the passenger seat, a napkin wrapped sandwich still clutched in her hand, road map on her lap. Smoke from the guns lingered in the air, creating an otherworldly effect on the scene. Blood was everywhere. Hamer telephoned his boss, Lee Simmons, and said simply, “Well, we got them.”

The saga of Bonnie and Clyde was over.

Just Like Me

We’re a month past the Easter season, and yet my mind is still on the Resurrection.

As it should be, of course. It is the reason for the hope any believer has, the rallying cry upon which our victory is assured. And yet, while I do bask in this glorious truth, the appearance of our Risen Savior isn’t the thing to which my mind keeps returning.

Instead, I keep going back to those few days before. To the Passover. To the meal. To the garden.

To the betrayal.

Yes, my mind keeps returning to Judas Iscariot.

The story is told in slight variation in each of the Gospels but the basic facts remain the same:

“Then one of the Twelve—the one called Judas Iscariot—went to the chief priests and asked, ‘What are you willing to give me if I deliver him over to you?’ So they counted out for him thirty pieces of silver. From then on Judas watched for an opportunity to hand him over.” (Matthew 26 14-16)

Judas betrayed Jesus for money.

Now, many scholars have debated about the motives behind this betrayal. Some believe it was money alone, a theory bolstered by John’s Gospel John, which includes the notation that Judas kept the “common purse,” the fund that Jesus and his disciples used for their ministry, and stole from it. Others have suggested a more political motive for his traitorous act. According to this theory, Judas might have become disillusioned when Jesus showed little interest in fomenting a rebellion against the Romans and reestablishing an independent kingdom of Israel. Betrayal could have come either out of anger at this or perhaps as an attempt to force Jesus’s hand into a more political movement. With this theory, the money, they maintain, would have just been a bonus. Alternatively, Judas (like the Jewish authorities at the time) could have seen a rebellion as potentially dangerous for the Jewish people in general; it’s possible Jesus believed handing Jesus over was the only way to stop a larger rebellion and, ultimately, the countless deaths of his people.

Regardless of his motivations, transactionally, Judas was given money to betray Jesus. And he did.

It’s so easy to judge him for that, isn’t it? To scoff or sneer or puff ourselves up with righteousness. I, for one, would never betray Jesus for something so common as money.

And yet, how often have I betrayed Jesus…for free?

Daily, there are times when I betray the vows I made to Jesus to obey Him, to love Him, to follow Him in order that I might, instead, follow myself. No one pays me to be selfish; I do that all on my own. No one gives me money to be unloving; I do that for nothing. No one is passing out hundred dollar bills, telling me to be self-righteous, pleasure-seeking, narcissistic, and vain; I am an expert at worshiping myself without getting paid.

It’s easy to pass judgement on Judas for giving Jesus up for a rather paltry sum. But you and I? By our sins, we do the same thing every single day for absolutely nothing.

The great news is that Jesus forgives. He suffered the cross and the grave for that very reason–to free us from our bondage and offer us eternal life, something we never could have achieved on our own. But, to accept this, we must first recognize our own role in His death.

Judas betrayed Jesus…but it was my sin that nailed Him to that cross.

It was my sin for which His blood was spilled.

My sin for which I need to repent.

Not Judas’s.

Mine.

Because, as much as we like to paint Judas as the villain of the Easter story, the sad truth is that he was simply a sinner.

Just like me.

Just like you.

Sinners in need of daily grace. Daily surrender.

And, thankfully, Jesus’s daily, never-ending love.

Blood in the Tower of London

Thomas Blood was an Irishman, born in County Clare in the Kingdom of Ireland (at the time a client state under English rule) in 1618. He was the son of a successful blacksmith of English descent, who owned lands in Counties Clare, Meath, and Wicklow. His grandfather, too, was a well-respected “to-do” in the area, serving as a Member of Parliament and making his home in nearby Kilnaboy Castle.

The English Civil War broke out in 1642 and Blood came to England to fight for the Royalists and King Charles I. However, as the conflict went on, and it became apparent the other side would win, Blood promptly changed sides and became a lieutenant in Oliver Cromwell’s Roundheads, who were ardent supporters of Parliament.

It was a good choice.

Cromwell did, indeed, emerge victorious. At the end of hostilities in 1653, as a reward for his services, Cromwell appointed Blood a justice of the peace and granted him large estate. However, the Roundheads’ triumph was short-lived. When Charles II was restored to the throne in 1660, both Blood’s lands and titles were confiscated, bringing him to financial ruin. He returned to Ireland with his wife and son, an angry and bitter man.

Once back in Ireland, insurrection became his passion. Joining in a plot with other disgruntled Cromwellians, Blood and his gang attempted to seize Dublin Castle and hold the 1st Duke of Ormond (who was also the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland)Lord Ormond for ransom. On the eve of the attempt, however, the plot was foiled. Blood managed to evade the authorities by hiding with his countrymen in the mountains, and ultimately escaped to Holland, albeit now with a price one his head. A few of Blood’s collaborators weren’t as lucky; several were captured and executed. This only further inflamed Blood. He swore he would eventually get revenge on Ormond.

That chance didn’t come until 1670.

Ormond’s had taken up residence at London’s Clarendon House. Blood, who had returned from Holland, taking up the name Ayloffe and somehow (despite being a wanted man) practicing as a doctor in the nearby town of Havering, followed Ormond’s movements and noted that he frequently returned late in the evening accompanied by a small number of footmen. On the night of 6 December 1670, Blood and his accomplices attacked Ormond while the latter travelled St James’s Street. Ormond was dragged from his coach, bound to one of Blood’s henchmen, and taken on horseback along Piccadilly with the intention of hanging him at Tyburn. The gang pinned a paper to Ormond’s chest spelling out their reasons for his capture and murder. However, Ormond somehow succeeded in freeing himself and escaped. The plot’s secrecy meant that Blood was not suspected of the crime, despite a reward being offered for the capture of the attempted assassins.

But Blood was not satisfied to have merely gotten away. He still held deep hatred in his heart for the monarchy. He understood, however, that further attempts against Ormond would be fruitless. Blood’s revenge, it seems, would have to take a different course.

In early 1671, Blood approached the Tower of London dressed as a parson, accompanied by a female companion pretending to be his wife. The Crown Jewels, a collection of royal ceremonial objects including coronation regalia and vestments worn by British monarchs, were kept at the Tower of London in a basement protected by a large metal grille. They could be viewed by paying a small fee to the Keeper of the Jewels, at the time a man by the name of Talbot Edwards, who lived with his family on the floor above the basement.

While viewing the Crown Jewels, Blood’s “wife” feigned a stomach complaint. Edwards’ wife invited the pair upstairs to their apartment to recover. The next day, Blood returned to the Tower and presented Mrs Edwards with four pairs of white gloves as a gesture of thanks.

Thus a friendship built on deception was begun. Blood became so ingratiated with the family, an offer was made for a fictitious wealthy nephew of Blood’s to marry the Edwardses’ daughter.

On May 9, 1671, 354 years ago today, ‘Parson Blood’ arrived at 7am. with his “nephew” and two other men. While the “nephew” busied himself wooing the Edwards’s daughter, the others in the party expressed a desire to see the Crown Jewels. Edwards led the way down the stairs.

Once at the bottom, one of the men made a pretense of standing watch outside while the other joined Edwards and Blood inside. Unbeknownst to Edwards, Blood’s accomplices carried canes that concealed rapier blades, daggers, and pocket pistols. Blood himself carried a mallet. In entering the room, a cloak was thrown over the jewel-keeper. He was then struck over the head, knocked to the floor, bound, gagged and stabbed.

The villains got straight to work. After removing the grille, Blood used the mallet to flatten the Imperial State Crown so he could hide it beneath his clerical coat. Another conspirator filed the Sceptre with the Cross in two (as it did not fit in their bag), while the third man stuffed the Sovereign’s Orb down his breeches.

Edwards, however, though wounded, refused to stay subdued. He fought against his bindings and yelled for help. Reports have him shouting the words “Murder!” and “Treason!” at the top of his lungs.

Spooked by his cries, Blood and his accomplices dropped the sceptre and attempted to get away. They fled to their horses, waiting at St Catherine’s Gate, and fired on the warders who attempted to stop them, wounding one. Blood was arrested as he tried to leave the Tower by the Iron-Gate. Though the crown was found on his person, Blood refused to give up, struggling with his captors and reportedly declaring, “It was a gallant attempt, however unsuccessful! It was for a crown!” The globe and orb were recovered although several stones were missing and others were loose. Blood’s accomplices were also captured.

In custody Blood refused to answer questions, instead repeating stubbornly, “I’ll answer to none but the King himself”. Consequently, he was taken to the palace in chains, where he was questioned by King Charles, Prince Rupert, The Duke of York and other members of the royal family. Rather than affronted at Blood’s theft, King Charles was amused at Blood’s audacity, especially when Blood told him that the Crown Jewels were not worth the £100,000 they were valued at, but only £6,000.

Ultimately, the King asked Blood “What if I should give you your life?”

Humbled, the former monarchy-hater replied, “I would endeavor to deserve it, Sire!”

To the surprise and disgust of Lord Ormond and several others, Blood was not only pardoned but also given Irish lands worth £500 a year. The exact reasons for the pardon are unknown. Some speculate that it was Blood’s audacity alone that humored the King and led to his release. Others believe the King feared an uprising in revenge by followers of Blood, who were thought to have taken an oath to their leader.

Whatever the case, Blood became a familiar figure around London and made frequent appearances at Court, where he was employed to advocate in the claims of suitors to the Crown. Edwards, for his part, recovered from his wounds and was rewarded by the King. He lived to a ripe old age, recounting his part in the story of the theft of the Jewels to all the visitors to the Tower.

Since then, no other. attempt has been to steal the Crown Jewels.

Unless you count in Hollywood.