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On Archery, the Devil, and Saint Nicholas

On Archery, the Devil, and Saint Nicholas

Last updated on: November 26, 2025 at 1:23 am by Mary Pezzulo

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On Archery, the Devil, and Saint Nicholas 2025-11-26T01:23:54-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

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An archery target with an arrow sticking out

image via Pixabay

All Adrienne wanted to do was practice archery.

Knife throwing and archery are the favorite hobbies, lately. Adrienne sets up my half-barrel potato-planter, with a milk crate on top of it and a paper target taped to the milk crate, and torments it with practice arrows or little blunt throwing knives in the evenings after school. She’s getting pretty good. It’s pleasant for me to sit on the back steps, watching the demonstration, chatting with her about school and the books we’ve been reading together.

It isn’t pleasant when Jimmy’s boy comes to watch, however. Not that we don’t like to see him. But when Jimmy’s boy sees that Adrienne is practicing, he desperately wants to play with all the weapons. He is eight years old going on thirty-eight, the Appalachian son of an Appalachian man, and he is determined to show that he can shoot arrows too. His parents and I have told him again and again that he’s not to grab at the bow and beg to be allowed to try shooting the arrow. He is not to run in front of Adrienne while she’s got the bow drawn back ready to fire, and bend over to admire the bullseye. He is not to look around the yard of the Haunted House to try to find a piece of sharp rusted metal in all the junk, and then throw it at the target with Adrienne standing there just to prove he can make a bullseye too. But Jimmy’s boy is adamant.

After Jimmy’s boy has been scolded for meddling with the archery set, he tends to cover up his embarrassment by sadly saying “I’m NEVER coming back!” and biking away, and then faking a dramatic accident to elicit some sympathy. He likes to shove the bike into the bushes or a tree and lie down next to it, so I’ll think he’s been knocked unconscious and come running. I try to redirect by praising his acting skills and asking if he wants to be a stunt man when he grows up. That usually restores peace. But the other day, not even that was enough.

“I’m never coming back!” huffed Jimmy’s boy, after nearly impaling Adrienne by throwing a nail at the target.

“See you tomorrow,” I said peaceably.

A moment later, Jimmy’s boy came back around the corner, crying “my tires are popped! My tires are popped! I can’t stop my bike because somebody popped my tires!” He didn’t realize that I could see him from where I stood by the back steps. I knew that he was calmly walking his bike, while narrating that he was riding it to his doom. Jimmy’s boy pushed the bike up close and then threw it, right at Adrienne’s quiver and bow, which got tangled in the spokes and damaged. He laid down on the ground expecting my sympathy. Instead, I yanked him to his feet and marched him back to his own yard.

Adrienne hasn’t been happy to see Jimmy’s boy since then.

I’ve been taking him for longer and longer walks when he comes over, so he can have an adventure, away from that archery target.

Earlier this week, we went walking in the early evening, when it was already dark.

“Santa’s bringing me a new bike for Christmas!” said Jimmy’s boy. “Well, my parents are. At least, I think they are.”

“Oh,” I said. “You figured out the truth about Santa?”

“Yes. It’s your parents who buy the expensive presents, not Santa.”

“The myth was based on the story of Saint Nicholas. He was a bishop who lived hundreds of years ago. He was generous with poor people and he would sneak money to them, through the window or down the chimney at night. That’s why we honor his memory by giving presents in secret at Christmas.”

“But why do we call him Santa?”

“‘Santa’ is the Latin word for ‘holy’ or ‘saint.’ Saint Nicholas was a holy man who helps us remember Jesus. Christmas is Jesus’s birthday.”

We kept going until we got to the brick-paved alleyway where we’d harvested all that lemon balm just a few weeks ago. In daylight, we like to walk up and down that alley. But after dark, it’s shadowy and unnerving.

“Will you help me face my fear?” asked Jimmy’s boy.

“Sure. What are you afraid of?”

“Skinwalkers in the alleyway.”

The Sylph used to tell horrifying stories about skinwalkers to anyone who would listen. Pretty soon, all the neighborhood children were scared stiff of them. She has been gone since June, safely living with other family, but the legend of the LaBelle Skinwalkers lives on.

“You figured out that Santa isn’t real, but you believe in skinwalkers?”

“I don’t BELIEVE in them. But I’m still afraid of them. I’m afraid I’ll see them in the dark, in the alleyway.”

“I can understand that. Let’s go down the alley together. I’ll turn on my phone flashlight if you get scared. We can sing Sunday school songs to each other if we start to panic.”

I walked down the pitted and worn brick, carefully avoiding puddles. Jimmy’s boy cautiously pedaled his bicycle through the alley, biking right through the puddles. Where there was a particularly ominous shadow or a garage door left open, he would cringe, and I’d remind him that skinwalkers were not real.

“I think the devil wants me to be afraid,” said Jimmy’s boy.

“You don’t have to listen to the devil. The devil’s just a pipsqueak with no power. Don’t pay any attention.”

“I think I need to go to church with my grandma more often, to scare the devil away! The devil is telling me to be afraid!”

“It’s good to go to church. But really, you don’t have to worry. We’ve already got the power of Jesus inside of us, and skinwakers aren’t real.”

We emerged from the other side of the alleyway, under a street lamp that immediately flickered out. “Do you want to go for a hike at the spooky tunnel with me, the next time I go? Sometime after school when you’re not busy. We’ll go in daylight and sing songs in the tunnel to practice facing our fears.”

“Yes, I want to go with you.”

I said goodbye to him at his own door.

I went home the rest of the way by myself, feeling as if I’d won a battle somehow.

It was the most terrible tragedy that I never was able to give Adrienne a baby brother to play and squabble with. But one way or another, Adrienne got one anyway.

It was the deepest misfortune to have been raised in the Charismatic Renewal, petrified of the devil around every corner and afraid God wouldn’t protect me. But I have found a better path, and now I can show it to children.

Life is good.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows an d Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.

Steel Magnificat operates almost entirely on tips. To tip the author, donate to “The Little Portion” on paypal or Mary Pezzulo on venmo

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