35. DEATH MASKS - (MORE OF MY STUFF)

My death masks sit on the dresser of our bedroom in the upside-down lid of a cardboard file box. They’ve been there a couple weeks now, while the glue cures. They are part of my collection of stuff that drives Dave crazy. He’s pretty silent about it, generally, but I do think he would be more at peace if he knew what to expect every day when he comes home from work. There are just so many interesting possibilities in this world, and much of it requires collecting stuff.

I come by my propensity for collecting stuff naturally. My uncle Parks had seventeen full size train boxcars lining his property when I was growing up. They were filled with stuff. Organized stuff. I missed out on the organized gene. When we moved to Utah we discovered just a couple towns south of us, between Farmington and Salt Lake, there was a unique private museum at the home of Wilford C Wood, who was my great grandfather’s brother. 

Driving with my mom through North Salt Lake one day, decades ago, we noticed a very large round building tucked into the hillside. “What in the world do you think that is?” I asked. Mom said “I don’t know, maybe a water retainer?” Every time we drove by we made note of it, until our curiosity got the best of us and we aimed the car up the driveway. It was all locked up, with a “keep out” sign. There was  a little old house built near it, and a collection of other out buildings. Sort of a complex, come to think of it. I am recalling all of this with a mix of memory and imagination, surely distorted by time. Over by the house was a little sign indicating that this was the Wood Family Museum. “Hey! We’re Woods!” I said, like I needed to remind my mother. My mom’s great grandfather was Daniel Wood who founded Woods Cross. I think the property sits on the very eastern portion of Woods Cross, where it meets North Salt Lake. Though I carry the Wood blood line in my veins, I am far enough removed from the direct line of Wilford to not know these things. Apologies to my cousins. Looking around the property I noticed, through a cluster of trees, a large statue. Without overstepping my bounds, I got close enough to see it was a full size bronze of Joseph Smith receiving the Gold Plates, plunked down right there in the middle of a non-descript piece of private property. It was so unexpected it felt almost comical. Within a few weeks we had called the number on that sign and made an appointment for a tour. Kindred ghosts accompanied us as we toured the dusty homegrown collection of church memorabilia, sought out, purchased and assembled by one of “ours”. Those same ghosts have travelled with me to many a garage sale and historic site through the years. I know them, and I like them. They like stuff, too. The kind of stuff that triggers emotion. The kind of stuff that connects us with the past.

Entrance to the massive old furrier building that houses the Wood Museum

My ghosts understand me better than most humans, though I am blessed to have good natured humans in my circle. I, too, like my stuff. This is why our garage is a fun place to visit, if you have the right attitude. And the basement, too. 

A couple weeks ago I brought my death masks into the kitchen to do a little repair work. My brother, George, a kindred soul in the stuff department, made me a plaster copy of the death masks of Joseph and Hyrum Smith. He was working with the sculptor, Stan Watts, who cast the headstones on my mother’s grave and George’s wife and son’s graves. Stan casts a lot of bronze pieces, and is a sculptor himself. He and George think alike, which can be kind of interesting and maybe a little scary. There had been a time, decades ago, when my mom had discovered Stan’s work. Stan was struggling to stay afloat. Mom would purchase bronzes from Stan regularly. I’m pretty sure it kept him afloat through some rough patches, financially She had this way of making an art purchase and then saying “I’ll sell another house.” And she usually did. We kids called it Gram’s Bronze Era. We all have multiple bronzes in our homes from that era, and we love them all. So Stan had the molds from those face masks, and George used them to make a couple copies. He gave me a set for my birthday. In the hubbub of work making Sacrament sets in my garage last summer, the tip of Joseph Smiths nose chipped off. So I took some of our grandkids sidewalk chalk and grated it down to a heavy powder. I mixed it with some epoxy and reattached the nose as best I could, which with my ADD mind was not that good, I’m sorry to say. But at least the nose was not lost, or used in a drawing of a rainbow on the driveway.

I am not sure what to do with my death masks. Our house isn’t exactly museum display space. They are sitting in the lid of a cardboard box in my bedroom right now. But I do love them. 

the original death masks, owned by the LDS church

My death masks, at least a generation removed from the originals, evoke an interesting recipe of emotions in me: a mixture of reverence and kinship and belief that once was only an idea. A story given form. A whisper turned to song. Physical evidence from a trusted source, a knot tied in the middle of my thread of faith. I run my finger over the place to the side of Hyram’s nose, where the fatal bullet entered his head at his martyrdom. I imagine his wife, Mary, knowing the flesh of him before that wound pierced her life, as it did his.  I touch the arc of Joseph’s nose, imagining it centered above a smile. I think he was a joyful soul, made sober by necessity, but of a pleasant nature to begin with. I trace his lips, then draw away because they belong to him and God, and Emma. I imagine those lips speaking every single word in the Book of Mormon, line upon line, slow enough for Emma, or Martin, or Oliver to transcribe. The physicality of these life size faces, likely altered by injury, and by swelling in the heat of a Nauvoo summer before they were able to make the frame and pour the plaster over their lifeless faces. The making of face masks is an old tradition, now basically lost. They would sit the body up in a chair and build a frame around the head atop the shoulders. Plaster would take roughly 24 hours to set up, then another 24 hours to dry before a positive could be cast. Then the form would be destroyed by the removal of the piece. That we have these two face masks is quite a gift. 

George Cannon was a cabinet maker in Nauvoo, who also made caskets. The bodies of the martyrs were brought to him. He and others cleaned and dressed the brothers before their families saw them. George had the foresight to take the time and effort to make face masks for posterity. Face masks were most often made of famous people. This is the kind of reverence the people of Nauvoo had for these brothers who were martyred by a mob in Carthage Jail.

I was raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had been told the stories of Joseph Smith all my life. I sang “Oh how lovely was the morning…” with the rest of the kids in Primary. I have knelt in the grove of trees outside the Smith farm in Palmyra New York, and walked the Hill Cumorah. When I was 18 and a cast member in the Hill Cumorah Pageant, I hosted tours for hundreds of summertime visitors to the Smith farm in Palmyra. Though I have mixed emotions about all of what I know of Joseph Smith, just as I have mixed emotions about myself, I have faith that he was indeed the vehicle used to restore the complete gospel of Christ to the earth.The physicality of these white plaster masks reaffirms in a most unique way that the man existed, and while it required the whole package of his earthly existence to fulfill  his calling, he did it. He actually did it. This human being, with a face, remained true to what he had been called to do. And he had a brother who loved him and served beside him to his death.

Gary E Smith's depiction of the Martyrdom at Carthage Jail.

When I was small, and I could not resist touching everything within reach on a shopping trip, my mom used to tell me to hold my finger. I’d walk behind my mother as she shopped, my right hand gripping the index finger of my left hand. I’ve always been a touchy girl.

I’ve had to overcome a goodly portion of shame for my collection of miscellany. Sadly, because we opened our gate and allowed the whole world to take their evening walks through our driveway, everyone around here knows this about me. Sadly, no one thought to leave a pathway between the two neighborhoods straddling our house, so we have abandoned our privacy to allow passage. I’ve had to come to the point of allowing people to think what they will. But if I were a stranger walking past my garage, I would be sorely tempted to walk in and touch everything! And what a dandy surprise it would have been to see this random box top with two faces peering into space, one of them with a broken nose. 

So when we discovered the property that was once the Wilford C Wood home and furrier factory (that was the big round building. A foxy abode), we felt right at home. 

WC Wood made his living as a furrier.
He is pictured here with fox pelts.

Wilford C Wood, by all accounts, was a quirky guy. It takes a hefty amount of quirky to do amazing things. The most notable people I know of are quirky, including Joseph Smith. After serving a mission in the Eastern US, he got it in his head to try to collect historic things that had to do with the relatively new church founded on US soil. Among the things he found and purchased, were the original Joseph and Hyrum death masks, from which the more lasting molds for my masks were made. Those original death masks were donated by the Wood family to the Church and are on display at the Church History Museum in Salt Lake City. Way to be, Wood clan! They have also donated many more treasures collected by Wilford, at a time when they were not necessarily considered treasures. Hooray for quirky micro-focused folks! Many of our treasured historic sites would have been plowed under and made into houseing developments by now if not for quirky old Wilford.

Wilford travelled often to New York to sell his furs.
He always stopped at historic church sites to see what he might find.

Wilford Wood died unexpectedly at the age of 74, in 1968. He hadn’t planned on dying. It was said of him that his was an energetic life interrupted. I wonder what he’s up to these days.

Thomas S Monson said of Wilford: 

"He was one of a kind. But what a man. What a man was Wilford Wood! I think God threw away the mold from which Wilford C Wood was made.”

I don’t know, Pres. Monson, sometimes those molds are hidden in the dark corner of a foundry all dusty and quiet. Until someone just as quirky finds them and decides to cast a positive of it just once. And maybe one more time, for good measure.

_____________

Here is a list of historical sites and artifacts personally purchased by Wilford C. Wood during his lifetime:

·     Liberty Jail in Liberty, Mo.

·     The tower hill area of Adam-ondi-Ahman in Missouri

·     Aaronic Priesthood restoration site in Harmony (now Oakland), Pa.

·     The Newel K. Whitney Store in Kirtland, Ohio

·     John Johnson home and farm property in Hiram, Ohio

·     Martin Harris farm property in Palmyra, N.Y.

·     Times and Seasons building in Nauvoo, Ill.

·     John Taylor home in Nauvoo, Ill.

·     Erastus Snow property in Nauvoo, Ill.

·     Most of the temple block in Nauvoo, Ill. 

 Artifacts

·     The original "Nauvoo clay" casts of the death masks of Joseph and Hyrum Smith

·     Original uncut sheets of the 1830 edition of the Book of Mormon (he traded a fur coat for these)

·     Salt Lake Tabernacle pulpits

·     Original Tabernacle organ pipes

·     A Book of Abraham manuscript

... and so much more, including that life size bronze of Joseph receiving the plates.

Photo from a duerregeotype of Joseph Smith

earliest known tin photo of Joseph Smith

Comparison of face masks with photograph

34. MY MO - HIS FIRST PREMIERE

Timothy David Petersen
(my Mo)

“There was a lot taken away from us at the end of last year. Less than 24 hours before our concert, when we were supposed to perform some of these numbers, we got a call from the venue telling us they were going to have to cancel this concert.”

(Within weeks all performances of Lyceum Youth Orchestra had been cancelled.)

“One of the pieces we were supposed to perform at that concert was written by one of our own, a percussionist named Timothy Petersen.

This is entirely new music, and it’s finally, after many months, receiving its world premiere. Thank you so much for joining us… this is Timothy Petersen’s, Searching.”

                          Kayson Brown, Director, Lyceum Philharmonic Orchestra

Lyceum Philharmonic Orchestra

Tonight, in a nearly reverential audience of humans starved for the enveloping vibrations of live music, Dave and I joined others in our family in the premiere performance of our oldest grandchild’s orchestral piece called Searching. I stood at the side of the Covey Performing Arts Center music hall, trying to get a view of the percussionists in the back, those tuxedo clad fellows placed on the periphery, hidden behind the tall brown basses and thick layers of string players, whose bows raise and lower like Rockettes’ kicking legs. When Kayson introduced Timothy’s piece, the only original number in a stellar assortment of classic pieces, he had to ask him to wave his arm from the back so people in the audience could see where he was.

His slender limber little body stood behind a vibraphone, back there against the sound wall. He slid the sleeves of his suitcoat up to his elbows and grabbed his mallets. I watched and listened, breathless with the beauty, his whole young life ran simultaneously through my mind as I listened, tears working their way down the sides of my cheeks. I thought of that little boy that sang before he talked, his pitch spot on before his mouth could even form words.

When Timo was not even five years old we were at the cottage in Michigan on our yearly family vacation. I woke early in the morning to some sort of throbbing noise. “I wonder if there’s a problem with the water heater?” I whispered to Dave. We found, instead, little Timothy sitting on the floor in front of the couch, pounding on a pillow to the beat of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. For Christmas that year I gave him a pair of drumsticks.

5 years old with new drum sticks.

For his 8^thbirthday I decided he needed to get some real training before he taught himself incorrect techniques. I searched the classifieds and called a number of drum teachers before I finally found one willing to take someone so young. 

“I don’t know, I’ve never taught anyone near that young.”

“Well,” I said, “If you’re willing to give it a try I can pay you ahead for one month of lessons, and if you think it won’t work, you can stop after the first lesson and keep the rest of the month’s pay.”  His name was Craig, and I am sorry to say I can’t recall his last name, because the man was life changing for our boy, and therefore life changing for us. He taught Timo the proper technique. He taught him how to hold his sticks correctly. He taught him to read music, and listen with a musician’s ear. After a few years Craig told Sarah, our daughter and Timo’s mom, that he had taught him what he could. By then I had enough friends in the music business I knew exactly who should be his teacher and mentor. Jay Lawrence agreed to take him on, and he has advanced him beautifully on his first instruments.

These two people flanking Timo deserve a standing ovation!
Bravo to parents of gifted kids!

Timo also takes piano lessons, a necessity for a composer, I would think, though I really don’t know these things. And this past Christmas Dave and I gave him an upright bass we had been saving in our studio for years. He used the bow from that new bass to draw across the metal bars on the vibraphone tonight. (Look closely in the video.)

The percussion section is always relegated to the back.
They like it there. 

Timothy is seventeen years old, a Junior at Mountain Ridge High School, and just yesterday he found out he made the high school Madrigals singing group, and Vocal Jazz group, so next year four of his class periods will be music, the other two being concert band/ marching band and jazz band. I am most thrilled about it because the incomparable Kelly DeHaan is the vocal educator at his school. I love what Kelly can offer him musically. But my heart and mind are most grateful that the spirit of Kelly DeHaan will be able to speak to the spirit of my precious boy. Kelly gets him. So does his band instructor, James Denzley. They understand he is that quirky, happy little fellow who drops his sheet music all over the floor of the music room and frantically tries to gather it as rehearsal is starting. They know his strengths and his struggles, and they not only accept it, but they embrace the whole package that is our boy, knowing that some of the finest gifts come in unique packages. Thank you Lord, for patient, tolerant, powerful teachers!

Timo and Kayson Brown.

Sitting in the audience with his family tonight were two friends. My eyes shifted over to Tyler, and I said a silent prayer of thanks for friends who are true and good and kind… friends who laugh at the same humor, who overlook bumps in the learning curve, and who make each other feel safe and important. Thank you, Lord, for true friends.

The whole concert tonight, with seven remarkable musicians being highlighted, was just so beautiful. It was hard to believe these were teenagers playing. Bravo to Kayson Brown and others who have made the Lyceum Youth Orchestra world class. 

The reality of a working musician:
Striking the stage and loading gear into trucks after the gig.
This is how friends are made.

I tiptoed up to the side of the stage when it was over, called Timo’s name, and he came and threw his arms around my neck. I held him a good long time. He let me. The memory of it brings tears to my eyes. When he was still a small baby I was struck with Guillain Barre Syndrome. For months I was unable to walk or control my limbs, because of peripheral nerve damage. While the myelin sheaths around my nerves slowly regrew, I sat in a recliner at home. Sarah was in her first year of medical school at the time, and her husband Dave was also a full time student. I often spent the night sleeping in the recliner because of restless leg pain. Sarah and Dave lived with us at that time. At sunrise, Sarah would quietly come into the room and place her baby against my chest, freshly changed and nursed, ready to go back to sleep. His warm head would tuck into my neck. I inhaled the sweet sweat of baby’s hair after he’s received his mother’s milk. In the quiet morning I could hear the whimper of his breath, feel his tiny heart beating against mine. It brought a holy kind of peace, and soon we were both sleeping in the comfort no other setting has ever afforded me so perfectly. We called it my Timo-therapy, and I know for a surety that I would not have healed so soundly without him. Tonight, as I held him on stage, and he held me with the same intensity, we were both seventeen years younger.

Feeding little Mo with a teeny pink Baskin Robbins spoon.

I realized the moment needed to end because there were people waiting. Two young men from the audience were waiting to meet him. One of them handed him a stem of wild roses. “You had the most remarkable piece! It was just the best. We can’t believe you wrote it.” They had decided to give the flowers to the piece they liked the best. Another gentleman came up to him: “You have to know, I am not one to cry, but your piece brought tears.” There were beautiful comments like that, one after the other, falling on him like a blessing from heaven.

Embracing his biggest fan... his mom.

Dave and I went to thank Kayson for selecting Timo’s piece to be performed. He was sincerely complimentary. “He needs to know he can use this recording for auditions for Julliard or Berklee.” Because of the pandemic, they live streamed the whole concert, and in the process recorded it. Then Kayson said how fun it was for him to see the orchestra members respond to the piece, and how impressed they were that it was written by that quirky little percussionist in the back. Timo has the most endearing little personality. He has a light heart, and a love and acceptance for all. It’s hard not to love him.

I was thinking tonight, on the drive home, that what we had heard tonight was newborn, too. Like that little bundle of newness Timo himself used to be, nestled there on my chest. All those notes, and non-notes. All those rhythm’s and vibrations and sustains. The melody and the harmonies and the ritards and builds and crescendo’s…all of it was new, and yet older than time. Every one of those notes has existed, probably forever. But never before have they existed together, in that holy family of composition, in the cloak of this particular performance. That’s the thing about original music. It is new birth; bathed and wrapped and fed and ready to find its place against our hearts. Our mind may or may not comprehend the science of it, but the rest of our soul can feel what it does not understand.

What lies ahead is a whole magical cloud of possibility. Who knows where Timothy may go. He has always and forever been the boy who would rather listen to movie scores than any kind of pop music. He hums it in his sleep. Regardless of the future, no one can ever remove, from us who were present, the magic of this night. A dream come true. Truly. He has heard it over and over in his head. But tonight, he felt it on his skin. And so did we.

Bravo, my precious boy!

You can watch this performance by clicking HERE and sliding up to 1:23.30 (roughly one hour and twenty three minutes into the concert.) The whole concert is fabulous, but if you only have a few minutes, slide it on up to Timo's piece. Mo is playing the vibraphone (looks like a Xylophone) and snare on this piece. What you won't see is the standing ovation after his piece.

33. HOLY WEEK - PALM SUNDAY - THURSDAY through the brush of James Tissot

Beginning this Sunday, Palm Sunday, we have the opportunity to revisit the sacred events that changed the world. Whether or not you are Christian, these events were pivotal enough to alter the way we measure time and dates. 

I've noticed a shift in society toward disbelief and skepticism. I understand it. I too have doubt and certainly questions that remain unanswered. Nonetheless, I choose to believe. It offers me hope. I challenge myself to hold to something that others talk themselves out of. The Easter season reminds me to feel the feels that led me to Jesus in the first place.

I've spent the last ten hours reviewing the art of Jaques (James) Tissot, the renowned French painter. He was known for his portraiture of refined aristocrats. At some point in his career he had a profound conversion that led him to visit Jerusalem and dedicate his future paintings to the life of Christ. He has left us with over 400 paintings depicting the life of Jesus Christ, most of which are on display at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.

PALM SUNDAY Jesus sends his disciples to Bethphage to retrieve a horse and her previously unridden foal. He mounts the foal and rides to the border of Jerusalem, where he overlooks the Holy City and weeps. Luke 19: 41-44

And beholding the city, he wept over it

Crowds of people have gathered in Jerusalem for the Feast of the passover. When they hear the miracle worker is coming into town they rush to see him. They lay their cloaks and shawls down in the street before him and wave palm leaves in praise, shouting Hosanna. Matt 21: 9-11

thE procession in the streets of Jerusalem

Pharisees warn Jesus to silence the crowds, but he refuses. Jewish chief priests warn Roman leaders of possible uprising if they do not stop Jesus before the Holy Passover begins. Mark 11:18

The chief priests take counsel together against Jesus

HOLY MONDAY Having spent the night two miles away in Bethany, Jesus and his apostles walk toward the temple in Jerusalem. On the way he is hungry, and finds a fig tree that has no fruit. His apostles hear him tell the tree no one will ever eat fruit from it again. Mark 11: 19-25

The accursed fig tree

As the enters the temple city, Jesus is angered at what he sees as desecration of a holy place. He drives the merchants who are selling their wares from the temple grounds. Mark 11: 15-17

Christ driving out them that sold and bought from the temple

Then he blesses and heals the lame and blind in the temple. The chief priests accuse him of blasphemy. Matt 21: 14-16

Jesus heals the lame in the temple

Jesus and his disciples return to Bethany that night. Matt 21:17 

Jesus goes out to Bethany at night

HOLY TUESDAY 

Jesus and his apostles return to Jerusalem. On their journey they notice the fig tree is withered. Jesus teaches his brethren about faith. Mark 11:20-26

Among the many visitors to the Holy City of Jerusalem are some Greek Gentiles, who have noticed all the commotion and ask to see Jesus. Phillip and Andrew approach Jesus with the request. John 12: 20-26

The Gentiles ask to see Jesus

Jesus replies that the hour has come for him to be glorified. He alludes to a kernel of wheat, that if it will not die it cannot sprout and produce more wheat. He appears before the crowd and calls to the Father to glorify his name. The crowd heard a voice like thunder from heaven announcing "I have glorified it, and will grorify it again." John 12: 27-33

The voice from heaven

While in the temple, the priests question the authority of Jesus. Jesus responds in parables.Mark 11:27-33

The chief priests ask "By what authority doest thou these things?

The priests continue to try and trick Jesus into condemning himself. He tells them to "Render to Caesar that which is Caesars". Matt 22:15-22

The tribute money

Jesus answers a questioning Pharasee tthat he two great commandments are Love God and Love thy neighbor. Mark 12:28-34

The Pharisees question Jesus

Jesus stops speaking in parables and lets the unrighteous leaders have it! (This basically seals his fate) Matt 23

Woe to you scribes and pharisees

Jesus taught daily from the temple. As the days progressed, so did the boldness of his declarations. Matt 23: 37-39

Jerusalem, Jerusalem

Jesus, watching people giving their offerings in the temple, witnesses a woman offering all she had. He teaches the value of a widow's mite. Mark 12:41-44

The widow's mite

Jesus spent his mornings teaching in the temple, and his evenings on the Mount of Olives.

Christ going at night on a mountain

SILENT WEDNESDAY also known as SPY WEDNESDAY

Scripture does not tell us specifically what Jesus did on Wednesday, though we do know where he was. If the place we are most comfortable and secure is our safe place, then Jesus was in his safe place in Bethany, at the home of Lazarus, Mary and Martha, his safe people. Here he received love and comfort. The power of the silence the scriptures hold in this matter is touching to me. 

Jesus at Bethany with Mary Magdalene and Martha

Meanwhile, the apostle Judas Iscariot decides to betray Jesus and approaches the chief priests. Luke 22: 1-6

Judas goes to the chief priests and sells his master

MAUNDY THURSDAY  

Jesus leaves Bethany for the last time. At the behest of their master, his apostles have secured the upper room of a home to hold the Passover Feast at sundown. He gathers with his twelve apostles around the Passover table. Luke 22: 14-16

The Jewish Passover, The Last Supper

After supper he teaches his apostles, and speaks of one who would betray him. John 13: 18-27  

The Last Supper: Judas dipping his hand in the dish

Judas leaves. After supper Jesus gathers his remaining disciples and washes their feet.  John 13:3-17

The washing of the feet

He initiates the ordinance of the Holy Sacrament. Matt 26:26-29  

The Communion of the Apostles

Jesus offers his last teaching to his most trusted disciples, leaving them with a new commandment, which supercedes the Law of Moses. Love One Another, As I Have Loved You. In essence, "Live as I have lived, and teach what I have taught."

The Last Sermon

After singing a hymn, Jesus and his remaining apostles go out to the Mount of Olives, as they have done every night this week. Jesus tells Peter he will soon disown his master. Specifically, three times. Peter declares "Never!" All the disciples claim they would never leave their master. (I like to think that perhaps Christ was telling Peter he "must" deny a relationship with Christ, so that his gospel could move forward. I imagine that when this was fulfilled, Peter was broken-hearted at what he had to do, but was not necessarily unfaithful in his deed.) Matt 26:30-35

St. Peter Protests: Although all shall fall away, yet I will not

As they approach the Mount of Olives, Jesus begins to feel a great troubling. He asks his apostles to wait and pray for him, and then takes Peter, James and John in to the edge of the Garden of Gethsemane. He asks Peter, James and John to keep watch for him. He travels on alone, then falls to the ground, overwhelmed. He calls to his Father, "Abba, please remove this cup from me."  And then, "Nevertheless, Thy will be done." Mark 14: 32-36

My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, unto death

Collapsed under the weight of his suffering, Christ bleeds from every pore. He receives angelic comfort. Luke 22: 41-44

Jesus in agony in the Garden

Three times Jesus rises and goes to his three disciples, who have fallen asleep. He asks them if they could not watch with him one hour?  (in this I suspect He is calling to all of us to try a little harder to rise above our human instincts) Mark 14: 37-42

You could not watch one hour with me

Leading a large band of people, including guards and soldiers, Judas comes to the Mount of Olives. He indicates which of the disciples is Jesus by kissing his cheek, pretending to greet him as a friend. John 18: 2-3 & Matt 26: 48-50

Judas betrays Jesus with a kiss

The crowd takes Jesus. Peter tries to protect him by drawing his kife. Hecuts off the ear of one of the servants of the high priest, whose name is Malchus. Jesus restores the ear to the servant's head. This would be his last miracle... performed for an "enemy". Luke 22: 50, 51  

Jesus heals Malchus, the high priest's servant

The apostles flee (perhaps at the request of Jesus). Peter and John secretly follow him to see where they are taking him. John 18:15

St Peter and St John follow from afar

TO BE CONTINUED - GOOD FRIDAY THROUGH EASTER SUNDAY WILL BE POSTED ON THEIR RESPECTIVE DATES this coming week.

A bit about the painter:

Born in France, James Tissot (1836 - 1902) was a well respected and successful painter in Paris and London in the mid to late 1800's. While visiting the Church of St Sulpice he experienced a spiritual vision, after which he abandoned his former subjects and embarked on an ambitious project to illustrate important events from the New Testament. He travelled to the Middle East to examine the landscape, architecture, historical sites, architecture, human attrubutes, historic costumes and customs of the Holy Land. He took photographs and made exquisite notes and sketches about all of these. Tissot would be one of the first to depict holy scenes as historically accurate as well as emotionally moving.

James Tissot