Take Up The Pen
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27 April 1856, 4:35 P.M. Washington City, Sheppard's Boarding House I sit in the windowseat of my small, second story boardinghouse room overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, one block west of the White House. A new journal is propped against my knee and open to the first, empty page. Tucked beneath the journal are three, unopened telegrams from Kansas. Be still, O my soul. Trust in God. I shall not open the telegrams yet. First, I must record my account of the Lord's recent work in my life. Like my heart, winter has turned to spring and the breath of God is everywhere. Washington evenings are cool and pleasant to both soul and body. Below my window the street bustles with horses, carriages, and wagons. Fine ladies dressed in hoop skirts and bonnets parade with their gentlemen, showing off the latest fashions; shopkeepers have opened their doors to the spring breezes and new customers; children play kick-the-can in the grassy field across Pennsylvania Avenue; bright flowers bloom everywhere; hope is alive. I have a clear view of the unfinished monument to President Washington. I see the seemingly ill-fated structure as a symbol of our nation's unfinished dreams. Are we not like men who began to build but did not count the cost? Is this not a work of the flesh, rather than the will of God? Like the unfinished monument, I, too, am incomplete. For two and a half years, bitterness hardened my heart, quenched my faith and bridled my joy. I cannot recount those years. They are lost, except for the lessons You have taught me, Lord, from my own failures, from my own sin, and from Victoria's innocent blood. Ah! At last I have written her sweet name. But the pen must wait. Mrs. Sheppard has rung the dinner bell. Latecomers are always sent to eat in her kitchen. I must hurry. The clock in the hall chimes 7:00 P.M. I have returned from a fine dinner of beef stew, greens and drop biscuits prepared by Mrs. Sheppard. Several new faces were present, and an old one, Toby Sikes, a free Negro, was there, too. He keeps a room down the hall from me. He purchased his freedom four years ago and is presently employed by the wagoneer who once owned him. With my help, Toby has taught himself to read. He is a fast learner and is now well-versed in a variety of topics. We discussed the current political situation. Old party lines are breaking down, the issues have become muddled and no one sees clearly anymore. But like always, the unavoidable subject of slavery hung like a plumbline through the middle of every conversation. Indeed, it is a peculiar, addicting sin. Now to the task at hand. I recall my grandmother's words: "If you forget the lessons of life, you will repeat them; if you forget the blessings of the Lord, you will forget Him." I will record the lessons that You have taught me from both the failures and the blessings which You bestowed upon me.
My thoughts lead me back to Charleston almost three years ago. I kissed Victoria goodbye that hot, South Carolina morning. My work at the Charleston Observer stretched into the early afternoon. After finishing my weekly article for the newspaper, I bid our Managing Editor, Mr. Pitkins, good day. The sun was still high in the sky as I rode my chestnut steed up a grassy slope bordering the northern end of our property. As I crested the hilltop, I noticed the wheels of an upturned wagon in the gully beside our private road. I reined in my horse harshly. Was that Victoria's wagon in the ravine? I kicked my heels, my heart pounding in my chest. Was that her bonnet lying in grass? A desperate prayer for God's mercy exploded from my mouth. I leapt from my steed at the edge of the ravine. At the bottom of the hill, beside the slow moving creek, I spotted Victoria. Her slender legs were trapped beneath the upturned wagon. A pool of blood had already dried and darkened on the wide sheet of gray rock beneath her shoulders and head. Her filly lay crumpled and still in the stream beyond the wagon. I stumbled down the bank to her side. "Victoria! Victoria!" I screamed, pushing the wagon off her broken and bloody legs and into the creek. She did not respond. Her blue satin dress was torn at the sleeve, her dark hair disheveled. Her gentle brown eyes stared blankly into the sun. I placed my ear to her motionless chest. My Victoria was dead. It was not an accident as so many claimed it to be. Victoria was an excellent driver, always cautious. She worked all of her horses with a trained hand. No, it was premeditated murder, retaliation for my outspoken stance against slavery and for my wife's devotion to me! A young slave claimed that he had seen Seth Beaumont, a critic of abolition, riding with an unidentified man across our property that very morning. Of all our detractors, Beaumont had been the most vocal, and the most hot-headed, prone to indulgence, much like his father and grandfather. Later that day, I barged into Beaumont's tannery, wild with anger, bearing a loaded pistol. Beaumont's two brawny sons restrained me and seized the gun. Beaumont, whose standing on the city council was influential, took advantage of the situation. He threatened to have me jailed unless I left Charleston for good. His only concession was to grant me time to bury Victoria in her family plot overlooking Charleston harbor. My employer, Mr. Pitkins, offered me an opportunity to become the Observer's Washington correspondent. With elections and slavery issues becoming so crucial, the Observer needed its own source for news in the capital city. I packed my personal belongings and left immediately. In Washington City, I became a slave to bitterness and grief. Resentment was my daily companion, whispering potent lies in my ear. Why Victoria? The question haunted me. But in my heart I knew. It was I who had cut against the grain of Charleston society; it was I who urged her to sign the emancipation papers for Jethro and Liza, her kindhearted slaves. Victoria's family had owned slaves for several generations. She wanted to please me, even if it meant hurting her parents and friends. She rebelled against all they believed in; she rejected Charleston society and culture. I had not considered the cost to her. Her untimely death led me down a path of deep depression, so unlike my God-given nature. I had always been level-headed, optimistic, hopeful. But in reality I was naive, believing that I could change the minds of Charleston's elite. But, I had deceived myself. I had wanted to change the world, to right the wrongs of slavery and bring light to those who walked in the darkness of pride and greed. But God did not answer my prayers. I almost convinced myself that sin had left this human race in such terrible disrepair that even God himself could not fix it. I was wrong! And I almost lost my faith in God. I had taken a stand for Truth! Why had He not protected my precious wife? How could He have let this happen? I rejected His grace and embraced my new companions, Bitterness and Resentment. I surrendered fully to my grief. I would not release Victoria to Him and so my longings for her ached with me these three years. What good are the worksof the flesh? They bring only heart ache and pain. It's been over two years since I moved to Washington City. It was good for me. I made new friends and accepted new challenges. But still, I could not face my bitterness. O, how good God is! He knew exactly what I needed and extended His grace to me. Last December I received a letter from my long-time friend, John Kline, an elder and respected leader in the Church of the Brethren. He is sensitive to the Holy Spirit and asked me to come with him on his late winter circuit through the Shenandoah Valley. John knew of my situation, how I had not found God's grace and how my heart groaned daily to be free from the tormenting memory of my murdered Victoria. I telegraphed Mr. Pitkins, requesting a temporary leave of absence. Mr. Pitkins, a gentleman and a friend, granted my request. I told no one of my intentions, excepting Mrs. Sheppard, to whom I advanced three months rent to keep my second floor room. In early February, I met up with John on the road, a man forever "on the stretch for God." Silhouetted on horseback by a setting sun, his riding cloak hung from his square shoulders and covered all but his upper calves and boots. A broad-rimmed hat hung low and shadowed his face. An open Bible lay across one of his hands. At first glance, John is an imposing figure, but a closer look reveals a humble countenance and ever-compassionate eyes. For the next ten days, John and I rode south through the Shenandoah Valley. John warned me about my rebel heart, how I had chosen not to relinquish Victoria. He told me that the Devil comes to men in many forms and ways, to delude and then to destroy. First they come as one or two, but then as legion. The Devil learns to know every place of vulnerability. To the brother who is fond of ardent spirits, he comes behind the deceitful smile of the rumseller. To the brother who is covetous, he comes behind the nefarious grin of the slave auctioneer. We crossed the mountain west of Harrisonburg and proceeded north along the Potomac River to Fort Seybert and Bethel Church. Here stood the center of John's deepest burden and ministry. His parish sat between the road and the river. The welcome sign posted on a tree along the entrance road read: "Whosoever cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out." John 6:37. New hope arose in my heart. We did not stop at the church but continued northward, with the flow of the river, along the road which led deeper into the valley. Snow had been falling intermittently for several days. The valley was tranquil, unperturbed by the growing political unrest in nearby Washington and throughout the nation. Anyone would feel peaceful here in this late winter Eden, but especially one who had an appointment with God. John arranged my stay with the Cowger family. They made their home about three miles from the Bethel Church. We forded the Potomac three times, tacking from bank to bank until we reached their home. The Cowgers, some of John's most faithful parishioners, were beginning another spring planting. Matthew, his two sons, and Bones, their old Negro, had a new field to clear. John told Matthew that he had found a willing helper and insisted we would share the slave quarters with Bones. The Cowgers strongly protested but John would not hear it, and that was that. Bones' quarters were very modest. He had four walls and a roof over a plank floor, two narrow beds, two Shaker chairs, a small table, and a black iron stove. Bones insisted that he would not have friends of his master sitting on the floor, and so the chairs became ours. As we bedded down for the night, both Bones and I tried to give John one of the beds. But John folded his arms across his barrel chest, insisting that he would sleep on the floor. Besides, he added, he would be leaving in the morning. God is wise to store His glory in different vessels. When John rode away the following dawn, he knew that I had lessons to learn in that humble room from a humble servant of God. The weeks progressed with long days of hard labor in the fields, pleasant evenings of songs and prayers in the main house with the Cowgers and Bones, and quiet walks along the valley road. Day by day I came to a clearer realization that it was God, not John Kline, who had arranged this visit, especially my time with Bones. Bones was a gangly old soul with many missing teeth. At the foot of his bed rested a guitar, which he played often and well. He expressed deep faith in his Savior, Jesus Christ. His faith was adorned with much joy and exuberance, and I was constantly moved by his confident assurance. Every Sunday after church, Abigail, the Cowger's nine-year-old daughter, visited Bones and read to him from the Bible. Bones had memorized a large number of scriptures and had put numerous verses to music. His rich tenor voice soothed my heart and brought tears to my eyes. I had never cultivated a close relationship with Jethro or Liza. In Bones I saw a quiet resolve, a peace that I personally had never known. My conscience was pricked. How could Bones, who lived only to do another man's work, be so at rest, so tenderhearted? The answer came the next day when John Kline stopped by. It had been nearly four weeks since he had left me at the Cowgers. We met that afternoon and rode together for several hours along the ridge overlooking the valley. "Bones is a freer man than you, Sam," John said as we stopped at a rocky overlook above the Cowger's farm. "He's learned what it means to forgive--and he's surrendered his anger to the Lord." John's statement surprised me. I pondered it for several days. What makes a slave and what makes a free man? The Apostle Paul found grace enough to rejoice in a prison cell. Bones, a slave for sixty years, served the Cowger family without bitterness. I was bitter because I had lost Victoria. The two and a half wonderful years we had spent together had ended so violently, so unjustly. Even so, did I have the right to nurture animosity toward God? Several days later after John left again, I asked Bones how he had come to such peace about his station in life. "Mistah Sam," he said, "I's been owned by somebody alls my life. Been a slave o'er sixty year and never been my own mastah like you or Mistah John or Mistah Cowger or any other white folk. Never known no other way. Had no choice and couldn't do nuttin' `bout it. It ain't been easy, Mistah Sam. And it ain't been fair. "Hatred run my life for many year. When I's younger, I hated Mistah Cowger's pappy. Hated livin' in an ole shack back up near the hill. "Now they's been some good things, too, like my wife, Natty, God rest her soul. We had some good years together, Mistah Sam. Lordy how I loved that woman. And Mistah Cowger, after his pappy died, he treat me pretty good, better than some be treated, so I hear. "Mistah Sam, I ain't bitter no mo'. Didn't come easy to me, no suh. I done fought it many a year. Hatred eat me alive. And then one night after wrestlin' with God, I chose to forgive. I feel better now, like a man who's free in his insides. "Life ain't perfec', no suh. I gets lonely. I miss my Natty. And Mistah Cowger he still work me but he knows I be gettin' old so he don't work me too hard no mo'. "I sees you in pain, too, Mistah Sam. You lost somebody you love. You miss her. I can see that in your face. Let her go now. You can't be hatin' them people what took her. It'll eat you alive jes' like it done me." Bones' words pierced my soul. Later that afternoon while out riding and thinking, I had my own wrestling match with God. Like my heart the weather couldn't decide if it was winter or spring. March weather is so unpredictable. The snow would blow in across my face for a few minutes and then the sun would appear as bright as a midsummer's day. I was riding along a path beside the southern end of the Cowger's fields when I stopped and reached into my pocket for the small apple that I'd brought for my horse, James Madison. As I pulled my hand free, something hard slipped through my fingers and fell onto the ground. I looked down, but the grass was thick and dusted with snow, so I could not see what I had dropped. I climbed from the saddle, squatted down and poked in the grass. Two nails had fallen out of my pocket--one straight, one bent. The nails had been in my pocket from a few days before when I had helped Mr. Cowger build a new grain shed. Two nails. Do you remember that moment, Soul? Do you recall the bright sun, the gust of wind that rustled suddenly through the trees and the two nails that seemed to burn in the palm of my hand? Squatting in the grass beside the rocky path, I found myself overwhelmed by a wave of shame and grief. I looked up. In my mind's eye I saw You, O Lord, suspended on the cross, nails driven through Your bloodied wrists. You had chosen to give Your life for someone like me. You had surrendered Your will, and embraced the will of Your Father. If You "who knew no sin" could become "sin for us," who was I to hold You responsible for taking my Victoria? She was never mine; she was always Yours. On our wedding night I thanked You for bringing her into my life. We consecrated our relationship to You and prayed that You would set us apart for Your use alone. Eye to eye, heart to heart, and hand in hand, we said "Yes, I will" to each other and to You. Suddenly I was on my knees in the snow. Beneath that gnarled oak overlooking the Cowger's freshly plowed field, I gave myself to You. With a great outpouring of tears, I chose to forgive Seth Beaumont and any others who might have been involved in Victoria's murder. I chose to repent of my bitterness and resentment and bring it to Your cross. I laid my vision for the healing of our nation's darkened heart at Your feet. Nails clutched in one hand, I bowed my head and said "Yes, Lord, Yes." My remaining two weeks in the valley were halcyon days, with summer-like weather and an occasional afternoon thundershower. Peace like a deep river coursed through my soul. One exceptionally sunny afternoon, Bones and I took off our shoes and walked through the freshly turned field. The rich soil squishing between our toes felt comforting to the bottoms of our bare feet. We were like young boys celebrating a new spring, a new day, a new beginning. It reminded me of my boyhood days in Ohio and of working with my father at the Shawnee Mission in Kansas. Finally, the time came to return to Washington. God had accomplished a work in me through John Kline and Bones. All things seemed new. My deliverance from bitterness brought John unending delight. For the remainder of the journey, deep meditations occupied my thoughts. We parted on the outskirts of Washington City, on the banks of the Potomac. I thanked this wondrous man of God for all he'd done. Across the river, the ugly stump of Washington's half-finished monument rose above the tops of buildings and trees, my ever-faithful reminder of what can happen to one who builds without counting the cost. Mrs. Sheppard greeted me at the boarding house door. Her thoughtful eyes searched mine as she handed me three telegrams from Shawnee Mission, Kansas dated March 15, 19, and 23. God favored my decision to record my days in the valley before reading the telegrams. As I suspected, my father has departed this earth. My father, Eli, I thank the Lord Jesus for you, for your faithful stewardship over your small piece of God's earth and over our family inheritance. After Grandpa Will's death in 1813, you traveled thousands of miles to settle title disputes and tomahawk claims on land that he had pioneered. You worked tirelessly in your Virginia mill and then in Grandma's fields in Ohio. In Kansas, you sowed your last twenty years to the Shawnee, serving those dispossessed people who traveled to the plains of Kansas from their homelands of Ohio on the banks of the Little Miami. Now, the harshness of the very land on which you labored so selflessly for the benefit of others came like a thief in the night and claimed you. I could not be present with you in your last days. I cannot recall you from heaven to tell you the things a son might say to his father. God in his wisdom chose your time. Your faith shall endure unto your children's children's children. God has revealed His wisdom in His manifold mysteries. Lord Jesus, like my father, I commit myself to Your will and purposes. Amen. My pen has spilled the testimony of my heart. The night has nearly drawn to a close, the sun will soon warm my windowpane. My soul's dark night is over, too. I have wept, but joy cometh in the morning! I have buried the two souls dearest to me and I now taste the power of His resurrection! The winter is passed, the spring has come. My debts have been paid. I am free again, alive in Your glorious new dawn, O Lord! I will say Yes, Lord, Yes!
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