Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
Jan. 1932

I have lost Martyrs'. At the last convening of the General Assembly, they formally dissolved the parish of Kingsport Fisheries, colloquially our Bundle Kirk. Starting this Advent, Martyrs' will cease to exist, and its congregation will be absorbed by Hope Park, operating church of Kingsport Central.

I'm unsure what this means for my congregation. Obviously, they will become members of Hope Park, but churches are so much more than buildings. My parish needs more than that. Oh, I guess everyone needs a good sermon. John writes a beautiful one. But these people need hot meals and cleaned eavestroughs and medicine. They need bedside visits and home refurbishment, and ideally, they need it without condescension.

Rev. Hannigan is a good preacher, and by all accounts a devoted university chaplain, but between sermonizing and the student body, I worry there won't time for my fishing people. They deserve time. They are good people, Gil. They need neither enlightenment by scriptural study course, nor farming out to superior service jobs. They have unfailingly humbled me these many years with their dedication to God. I pray their new minister understands, and pray more earnestly still that Hope Park lets them in. It isn't lost on me that Hope Park hasn't lowered its pew rent to accommodate its incoming congregants. One supposes it will be with time. I certainly hope it will be. To deny them spiritual food is surely to fail them – to fail in our work – completely. And yet, when Waterford joined…

If I don't know what my congregation will do, still less do I know what I will do. I have never not had a church in my care. I have never not had Martyrs'. I mourned the loss of Waterford's Holy Trinity, and then Culross's Knox, it's true, but those were later additions. Martyrs' has been my life, Gil. A grandiose assertion, but true. Without it, I am adrift.

Less cerebrally, I don't know where Phil and I will live. The Manse, obviously, went hand in glove with Martyrs'. Soon there Martyrs' won't exist. While I cannot imagine the Rev. Hannigan needs a second Manse, neither am I so naïve as to think it should default to me. It could be repurposed meaningfully; Council estate houses, perhaps. A home for the food ministry – the list is long.

Phil says I should ask the Presbytery to let me buy it outright. The money could go towards the new, combined parish. Or it could go to alms or whatever the secretariat prioritizes. It isn't a bad idea. The thought of staying where our children were born and we weathered our first marital storms, and triumphed over the secretariat, appeals. But it doesn't sit well with me. I keep thinking there must be a greater purpose for our little Manse beyond keeping us under its roof.

Forgive me; I'm writing you in the aftermath of receiving their verdict and you're getting the brunt of my feelings. I wanted to tell you how good Mara was in Private Lives, and how you should come see it, or else catch the upcoming production of Hay Fever. I have every confidence in Mara's Sorel. I was going to tell you to stay with us. If we still have a house, you should. Even if we don't, come see the play anyway.

Be well, do good work and keep in touch. I shall strive to do likewise.
Jo

New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
January, 1932

Jo,

I'm so sorry about Martyrs'. I can't imagine you anywhere else. I always thought that you seemed grown there; That the only way to lose Martyrs' would be to lose you. The alternative never occurred to me. But then, there is a long list of things that would never have occurred to me. The War, the market crash, the miners' strike all those miles away. None of it is good. But then, as the hymn says, God moves in mysterious ways. I wouldn't make bold as to guess at the intended wonder resulting from this move, only to suppose time will reveal it to you. If you must lose Martyrs' it's because somewhere, other people need you even more. That much I know.

For instance, Una writes saying the ACS is busy sending supplies to China. It's why her Christmas parcel arrived late this year. Apparently, the Japanese won't manifest on the Trinity House doorstep any time soon, but China is under terrible famine. I make a poor expert, but I bet you could organize mission outreach without a church. All your usual suspects would rally round.

Your daughter certainly thinks so. She's been talking my ear off about how we should contribute. Cornelia, happening to drop in at this juncture for Rosemary and their ongoing quilting effort, heard this and said she supposed someone ought to do something, because we couldn't let 'That Awful Man' run the country. As of the writing, it remains unclear to me if Mao's chiefest sin is his sex or his politics. I was afraid to ask. Probably none of us will until Norman Douglas enters that conversational ring, and then we'll hear nothing else.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
March, 1932,

Jo,

What a visit. I haven't spent a night out like that in ages. Not since Autumn Crocus. The Glen gets the odd church hall play, and an occasional travelling fair, but never anything as elegant as a trip to Kingsport's Crown Imperial. And nothing so riotously funny since – actually, I don't think there has been anything to rival Coward before. One or two dramas over the radio perhaps, but it's different, going in person, isn't it?

Now, the other thing. Phil's absolutely right about the house. Buy it, Jo. You could probably serve Christ from a snowbank, but at your age, you don't and shouldn't have to. I don't just give you permission to render unto Caesar, I'm ordering you to. You are allowed to have a house, Jo, and you are allowed to be sentimental about this house. Hope Park and Martyrs or whatever the new hybrid parish is called will just have to build its council estate elsewhere, that's all.

Who else would warn me in advance that Kitty's in the throes of applying for bigger papers than The Chronicle? I heard all about this while visiting, because Geordie Carlisle dropped in to get Jem's opinion on a case and ended up grumbling about training up whatever reporter took Kitty's place. Christopher said for everyone that it wouldn't be the same if Kitty left. It wouldn't be. She's one of ours, now.

I returned home to Abby at the window (she never lost the habit, even once her parents were back from Singapore), an exuberant Dulce, and an absent Gog and Magog. Briefly, Anne and I feared they had finally moved on to better days. But no; Di put them away in the china cupboard after Hector introduced them to Ellen Douglas as God and My God. Some things, I suppose, really don't change.

I'm sending this with a portion of the Forbes potatoes. They gave me more than is sane, and you'll have some use for them. Don't they go in Kedgeree or something? No doubt you and your parishioners will have an idea or three.

Love ever,

Gil

New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
April, 1932

Jo,

A tremendous thing happened yesterday. Cornelia resigned from the sewing circle. Gil says it was a long time coming. She never was keen on the exercises he prescribed her, and now her hands are too clawed to hold a needle.

Luckily, Naomi got to the student-in-residence delegated to cover the story before the editor and convinced him to spin it as being about Cornelia's completion of her 150th quilt. Otherwise, it would probably been about the Decline and Fall of Mrs. Marshall Eliot. I tremble to think of the fallout from that.

Nan and Jerry were mid-move, so not here for Easter, but everyone else was.

These days the Kingsport youngsters are almost impenetrable as the girls who pin hopes. It was strange watching them with their cousins and realizing that while they are family, they aren't friends.

Susan, seeing this, resolved to set it right, and herded them all into the kitchen to dye eggs. There were some quite artistic ones in the making until Miss Abby asked if there were birds in the eggs. We needed Carl then, I can tell you. Merry riot ensued. Helen said there couldn't be, and Christopher said there must. Iain screamed that that was bird murder, and Abby refused to touch another egg, much less eat one, until she knew for sure if she'd be eating chicks. I didn't dare ask how she reconciled that with the Easter lamb. I strongly suspect that given the option, she wouldn't eat it at all.

Susan gave her characteristic sniff and later took Di aside and said, and I quote, 'What a blessing it was that Mara never converted any of you girls. Otherwise our Miss Abby would probably have gone right off eating pieces of God.'

Happy Easter, Jo. With any luck there are no hairs split over chicks and lambs at your end of the proceedings.
J.M.