As I sit at my desk, reading the letter that brought me out to the Berkshire Mountains, I shiver, remembering the journey that I went through all those years ago.

                                     ~
The dim light of dusk was fading as I rode along in my carriage. The road was long and rocky, and I bounced up and down on the cushioned bench. I smelled burning sulfur: a sign of lightning. Then the sky opened, and thunder clapped as the rain poured down upon my belongings and me. Swiftly, I steered the horses to the side of the now muddy road, and drew out a sheet from the beddings crate. Pulling rope from a hook on the side of the carriage bed, I hastened to fasten the sheet to protect the rest of my possessions from the deluge. The brown horses neighed and roughly shook their heads, no doubt complaining about the storm.

I was traveling to Township No. 1, in Western Massachusetts, to serve as Minister. I had recently graduated from Harvard, with a Divinity Degree. I was a little nervous and doubtful, mainly because I thought I was lacking the skills needed to be such an important religious and civil leader And secretly, I wondered if I had enough faith to wrestle my own doubts about my calling. When I arrived at the plot of land that I now call home, I realized the work I was about to undertake was not just guiding a small congregation. The land itself was to be my first challenge.

That week, I cleared the land by day and slept in my carriage at night. Although the rain had slowed, there was still a slight mizzle for the next seven days and nights, giving the damp earth an eerie sponginess. The work was tiring and rather lonely, but being a hardened New Englander, I wasn’t about to give in. After a full week of clearing, not including the required day of rest on Sunday, I wanted to embark on constructing our home, but first I needed a temporary shelter. Using planks as levers, I heaved several large boulders into a circular formation and placed them about four hundred feet from where I planned to build the future barn. I draped pine boughs on top of the boulders to insulate the space. The sap was flowing so profusely from the boughs that my hands were sticky and smelled of pine for days after.

On the tenth day of my sojourn, I finally began the building of the frame of a more durable living place. It was rigorous work, nailing in crossbeam, panel and footer, sweat pouring down my cheeks. But even during the most laborious moments, I carried with me a jewel of happiness, because I knew that my wife, beautiful Theodosia, would be with me soon.

All through my toil, I felt her loving arms around me. They comforted me. They warmed me. They gave me strength. Gradually, the idea of pleasing her became such an obsession, that I forgot my priestly duties and neglected to pray. All that was on my mind was my wife, and what I could do to please her and make her happy.

The day I started the wall of the house, I received the news that my wife was to arrive in seven days. Perfect, I thought. If I hurry, she will reenter my life the day after the roof is scheduled to be finished. But I would have to act quickly, or else the perfect reunion would be ruined. The house HAD to be ready for her.

I toiled day and night, through dark rain and claustrophobic fog, and at last the house was complete and painted. The community was invited to the roof raising. Of course, no one knew me yet, because I was so fixated on the house and pleasing Theodosia. I overheard people questioning my authority. Ha! I was merely preparing an appropriate shelter for that beautiful gem, my wife, so that she would be content. I stopped the muttering by swearing to the Lord of Heaven that as soon as my task was done, the people of Township No. 1 would be my number one priority. 

When the roof was completed, and the celebration finished,  I lit two lamps, placed one on the hook of the wall, and took the other in hand and tread down to my rock shelter at the south end of the property. I was so utterly exhausted, I curled up on my straw mattress and fell into a deep sleep.

I woke up to the smell of burning. Dragging myself out of bed, I half walked, half crawled up to the far side of the property. The morning was dark and gloomy. When I got to the house, my heart almost stopped. It had burned to the ground.

The sound of hooves against road came over the winds to me. My heart quickened. Theodosia was arriving to a burned-down house. Letting my frustration out, I roared in anger to the heavens. ‘SBLOOD! My face red with rage, I stomped around, pacing this way and that. My obsession for the last few weeks was destroyed, and Theodosia’s arrival no longer brought me joy. I sat down on the ground in despair.

I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. Turning my head, I looked up into Theodosia’s eyes; I felt a glimmer of comfort that matched the glimmer in her eyes. I tried to smile, but my muscles did not cooperate. Quietly, she said,

“Love, is there something burning?”

I couldn’t respond. I tried to, but my lips were too dry. Instead, I gestured to the charred remains of the house. Gulping, I felt the tears sliding down my cheeks. My throat burned; I choked.

“I thought you would have something done by now," she said. "That was our plan, Love. Where do you expect me to abide at night? On this barren earth? I am your professor's daughter, Reverend, I expect more respect.”

Finally finding my voice, I mumbled, “It burned down this morning. The wind must have knocked over the lantern. I placed it there so you could find your way if you arrived at night. I tried so hard, Theodosia, to make this a perfect reunion, a perfect start to our new life. I really did, sweet lamb. Now all my hard work is lost.”

Disappointing my young wife felt worse than letting down my congregation. Theodosia’s eyes filled with tears, not for the last time in our marriage, to be sure. We both had some maturing ahead of us and this was the first tempering of the metal of our life in the wilds of Western Massachusetts.
                                      ~
Well, after that we went about rebuilding the house. She agreed to stay in the shelter. What choice did she have? In a cruel irony, the day we were to move into the new house, my beloved Theodosia died. I was desperate. For weeks I didn’t eat, except for the Bread of Heaven.The parishioners became worried for my lack of food. I must have placed a curse on the house: I was too obsessed with finishing it. But as minister, I was obliged to remarry within a year’s time, and my second wife, Jemima Devotion, became the mistress of the house that is now the envy of the township. It has a beautiful property, a stunning parlor, and of course, an excellent dining room. But I have never been truly happy in this cursed house. My sleep is disturbed, but when I do drift off, my dreams are filled with Theodosia’s voice, her eyes, her tears. She is the true mistress of the house.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go to write my next sermon. Perhaps I will ponder the necessity of faith?