“Contemners and Serpents: The James Wilson Family Civil War Correspondence”

James and Eliza Wilson were Presbyterian missionaries to India, including what is now Pakistan, from 1834 to 1852. Their five children, four sons and a daughter, were born there. Both James and Eliza were from Pennsylvania, and most of their families were in Ohio and Indiana. Eliza’s sister married a man who became a successful planter in Georgia and occupied a place at the top of the social hierarchy there. 

When they left for mission service, partisan feeling in the United States could run high – for example, the 1824 presidential election between John Quincy Adams and Andrew Jackson was bitterly contested and controversial. But what had not yet emerged was what would become the defining, and intractably dividing, issue of the 1850s and 1860s – slavery. When they returned in 1852, the United States seemed a very different place, one that was increasingly not united. 

To continue reading, please see my post today at Dancing Priest.

In a cell, daily

After Ephesians 1:15-23

What is it to sit in a cell,

day after day, waiting

for some movement,

some progress, some

anything on your case,

but hearing only 

the silence of the night,

the scurrying of the rats,

the groaning and nearby

whimpering, punctuated

only by occasional 

shouts of guards and

slamming of doors?

It is endless waiting,

an existence of gray, 

until news is heard,

news from a thousand

miles away, news that

serves to remind that

a work once done

bears fruit and returns

as many more works

still being done, that

a visit years ago has

left growth and

flourishing behind it,

tangible expressions

of faith and love,

and you’re sitting

in that cell, desolation

crowding your soul,

and you hear of that

good thing, that life,

and you know that

your life is not in vain,

that this waiting, too, 

has its purpose and is

itself another good work.

Photograph by Michael Jasmund via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Logical progression

After Ephesians 1:15-22

He was nothing if not

logical, speaking and

arguing with that razor

sharp mind of his, and

the logic continues,

even though it’s not

an argument or

discussion, but a report,

some welcome news,

so he gives thanks,

he prays for them,

he prays very generally

and very specifically,

for them to receive

a spirit of wisdom 

and revelation, so that

hearts are enlightened,

hearts know the hope,

the hope that is calling,

the riches of inheritance,

the power extended,

the power of a death and

resurrection extending

above all other power

and authority for all time,

and all that in one breathless

this-follows-that sentence.

Photograph by Jeff Frenette via Unsplash. Used with permission.

A letter without ink

After II Corinthians 3

A letter without ink

an email without pixels

a speech without voice

a blackboard without chalk

a book without text

a gallery without paintings

a symphony without music

a table of stone without chiseling

a letter, a result,

a pouring into that transforms

speaks, changes, sounds,

turns, plays,

a letter without ink

what you are:

a pouring into

that brings righteousness

what you are:

you are the letter

I am the letter

Photograph by Kelly Sikkema via Unsplash. Used with permission.

To a 12-year-old self

You’re still a kid,

at 12, collecting stamps,

trying to play street

football, rolling your eyes

but secretly still enjoying

the circus, riding bikes

(no helmets back then;

stay tuned); reading

so much your parents

are worried. But it’s OK;

they shouldn’t.

Two things it will take

a lifetime to learn, and

when I tell you I’ll get

a funny look in return.

But here goes:

One, it will take you

a long time to learn

confidence, but you will

learn more that those

who always have it.

Two, you will be blessed

with never regretting

a decision, a choice,

because you will look

back and know you

wouldn’t have had it

any other way.

Tweetspeak Poetry has a poetry prompt this week – writing a letter in the form of a poem to your 12-year-old self. What would you say? What advice would you offer? Check Tweetspeak Poetry to see how others are responding.

Portrait of Louis Guillame by Paul Cezanne (1882); National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

In Corinth

After Romans 6

I sit in Corinth

this city of pluralisms city

of Roman soliders

gods and goddesses

a polyglot of polyglots

even my beloved ones

tangled in the spider webs

of polyglots

I write to you,

in the center, the center

of this world, this forum

of our world. I long to be

with you, longing

with a terrible fierceness.

I long to hold you, to feel

your faces between my hands.

I know you by scroll

I will know you with faces,

faces like grains of sand.

I will sit with you, breaking

bread. We will sit together,

breaking chains.

Painting: St. Paul, oil on canvas (1606) by El Greco; Museo del Greco, Toledo.