Thursday 27th November 2025
In the waning days of the year, upon the Twenty-Seventh of November in the Year Two Thousand and Twenty-Five, a night of quiet wonder came to pass in the hallowed hall of Lodge St. Olaf 1188. Long shall it be spoken of by those who stood witness—whispered over candlelight, recounted with laughter in the feast hall, and treasured in the deep places of memory where tales of comradeship dwell.
A Ritual Underway
A First Degree was being wrought for Brother Rick Knevett, a man newly come to the path of Light. The ceremony moved with ancient cadence, the words and symbols unfolding like a tapestry woven by steady hands. Soon a key portion of the solemn working was to be delivered personally by The Right Worshipful Master, Daly the Worshipful, whose stout heart and storied presence were well known to all.
In such moments, when the Master must depart the East, it is the custom that his throne—the Chair of King Solomon, which must never stand empty—be taken by one prepared for its gravity. Usually it is the Immediate Past Master or the Depute Master who rises to answer this call.
The Unexpected Steward
But on this night, something most unexpected occurred.
For reasons beyond guess or lore, the duty passed instead to Brother Douglas Sheal, the Lodge Treasurer—known among the brethren as the finest Mason never to have worn the mantle of Right Worshipful Master. In forty years of steadfast service he had never once sat in that storied chair. Yet on this night, as though summoned by fate itself, he ascended the dais and took the East.
And lo—his first command, uttered with boldness that set the rafters ringing, shall live longer in memory than many a king’s decree.
Instead of the dignified, time-honoured call of “Be seated, Brethren,” Brother Sheal invited the company “to park their bums.”
A ripple of mirth swept the Lodge, swelling into hearty laughter and good-natured revelry. The stones themselves seemed to warm, as though they, too, shared in the delight. For in that moment the Lodge was bound together not merely in ritual, but in joy.
A Steward as Sure as Any King
Though never installed as Master, Brother Sheal bore the authority of the East with a quiet assurance—much like a hobbit unexpectedly entrusted with a noble charge, yet proving himself equal to the task in heart and in bearing. Respect flowed to him as naturally as a river to the sea.
When the ceremony was done and the night grew softer, he was commended warmly for the ease and comfort that radiated from him as he presided. To this he replied with a grin that could have lit the beacons of Minas Tirith:
“It was the best thirteen and a half minutes of my life.”
So say all who heard, and so it is remembered.
A Night That Will Not Fade
Those who shared that night will hold it always – a brief turning of the world when the ordinary became the legendary. And though each man there knew the moment might remain a solitary gem, yet in the secret places of their hearts, they hoped otherwise.
For who can say? The day may yet come – in some future age, beneath the glow of familiar lamps – when Brother Douglas Sheal shall again take the Chair of King Solomon, and the Lodge shall once more be filled with laughter, wonder, and the spirit of brotherhood that outshines all jewels of office.
Thus ends the tale of the Thirteen-and-a-Half Minutes in the East – a small moment, perhaps, but as bright as any star set in the songs of old.