DIVINITY OF TIME

VOGEL'S JOURNAL

ENTRY – TRUTH IS DANGER, LOVE IS COURAGE

Elisha Tyson himself stood under our rafters today. Not in spirit or by letter, but in flesh, blood, and firm voice.

He arrived from Baltimore just past noon, escorted by two free black apprentices who carried only satchel and a wrapped bundle of papers. Petitions, I presume, or letters of manumission he hoped to encourage our signatures upon.

Friend Elisha came not to stir us with fire, but to steady us with truth plainly spoken. The Meeting House was near full, more bodies than I’ve seen there since my arrival in Melody Cove many years ago. Even young Ezra was among them, legs folded quiet as folded gets, chin up.

Brother Tyson spoke without ornament. “What man among us,” he said, “if he knew his neighbor’s child had fallen in a well, would not drop all business to lift him out?”

We all nodded our approval of his words. Many were not ready for the fire in his eyes and steel in his voice.

“But too many will walk past the cries of children sold downriver. What they suffer is no less.”

There was silence. Not out of doubt, but the silence that comes when a man’s words settle into the marrow of your bones.

Ezra, who had scribbled furiously in the margins of my ledger throughout. And then he rose. The first time he has done this in Meeting. Whether he had been invited or simply moved, I cannot say. But stand he did. And this is what he sang:

Old oak strong and roots go deep,
Tyson’s word don’t let us sleep.
Hammer ring and kettle call,
Free the chained and lift them all.
Quakers sit but hearts go marchin’,
East wind blowin’. Time for action’.

He sang it straight through, no repeats, no tune I recognized. But the cadence was his own. Even Friend Alcott, who rarely abides noise from children, nodded with something close to pride.

I saw a brief smile on Friend Elisha’s face. Then he warned us.

His voice dipping lower, as if the walls themselves might betray us.

“Respected friends,” he said, “we, as Quakers, endure a manifold of dangers whilst aiding those bound in servitude and seeking freedom, particularly through the treacherous route from Annapolis and Baltimore northwards to Pennsylvania.”

He detailed the risks plainly, without drama but with undeniable weight:

“The Fugitive Slave Act, with its severe penalties, looms large over our heads. Assisting those who seek freedom places us in direct opposition to these laws, subjecting us to potential arrest, heavy fines, and imprisonment. This legal jeopardy is compounded by slave catchers and patrols, who are both vigilant and violent. These men, driven by profit and often devoid of scruples, pose a constant threat of attack, or worse, to those of us who dare to defy them.”

He glanced toward the open window where the oak leaves fluttered in the summer wind.

“The physical dangers cannot be overstated. Our journeys are most often undertaken under the cover of darkness to avoid detection. Maintaining the secrecy of our operations is paramount, necessitating the use of coded messages, hidden compartments, and trusted couriers. And even with all that, the unpredictable nature of our circumstances often forces us to adapt quickly and improvise, or perish. But we need to remember what The Divine taught us. The courage of love must always confront the dangers of truth.”

Some in the room shifted uncomfortably. Others nodded, eyes narrowed, jaws set.

I felt Ezra fidget beside me, scratching in the margins of my journal with the stub of a charcoal pencil. When Tyson stepped back and bowed his head, a silence spread through the hall, neither awkward nor uncertain but thick with conviction.

Once again, Ezra rose. He did not seek permission. He simply stood on the bench beside me and sang. No rhythm but his own heartbeat. This is what he gave us:

Whisper winds and footsteps hush,
Pack the bread, no time to rush.
Elisha’s light don’t flicker low
He walks where only brave ones go.
Oak leaves hide the signal flame,
Truth is danger. Love’s the name.

He sang it once, soft but sure, and sat back down.

Elisha Tyson turned and gave Ezra a look I shall not forget. Part astonishment, part respect, and a great measure of hope.

He knelt beside the boy afterward and said, “You’ve got a prophet’s heart and a sailor’s song. Keep both safe.”

Ezra blinked at the word “prophet,” then beamed at the word “sailor.” Later he asked me what a prophet was. I told him it’s someone who tells hard truths no one wants to hear, but whose words stay.

Later, Ezra asked me, “Is Mr. Tyson afraid?”

I told him the truth: “Yes. But he does the right thing anyway.”

MV

ENTRY - THE SOUND OF A LIVING FAITH

The air has grown thick with eyes these past few days. Not the curious glances of passersby, nor the friendly nods of neighbors, but the lingering, calculating gazes I have come to recognize.

They are not merely watching the shop now. Their attention has sharpened, focusing on Ezra, following his path to and from the market, observing his quiet tasks in the yard.

And now, Bonita too. I have seen them near the Traveler’s Fare Inn, lingering by the stables, or across the street, pretending to mend a cart wheel, their eyes fixed on the kitchen entrance.

It is a cold, unsettling knowledge. Even on the doorstep of a hot and humid Annapolis summer, I feel like the chill that precedes a winter storm. I do not like it.

Ezra, in his way, seems to sense it too, though he does not speak of it. He hums more, and his songs have taken on a sharper edge, a quicker tempo, as if to ward off unseen things.

His sister, ever watchful, has grown quieter, her movements more deliberate, her eyes scanning the street with a frequency that betrays her unease.

This morning, as the sun climbed above the eastern shore, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, I made a decision and offered to join them for the walk to their Sunday service, “I shall accompany you this morning.”

Bonita’s eyes widened slightly, then softened with a silent understanding. Ezra merely nodded, already gathering his small wooden carvings, his mind perhaps already on the hymns.

The walk to the church, that modest structure near the old brickyard, was different with company. The usual quiet of a Quaker’s Sunday morning, a stillness that invites introspection, was replaced by the soft murmur of their footsteps, the rustle of Bonita’s modest Sunday dress, and Ezra’s low, joyful hum.

But I felt the now familiar weight of unseen eyes upon us, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, but with them by my side, I felt a different kind of strength, a shared resolve.

We arrived as the first strains of song began to swell from within the simple, unadorned building. There was no steeple, no grand bell to announce the hour, only the clock Ezra and I made. But the sound that poured forth was a bell unto itself, ringing with a joy and fervor I had rarely encountered.

Inside, the air vibrated. It was a stark contrast to the quiet solemnity of our Meeting House. In our Quaker gatherings, we sit in silence, waiting for the Spirit to move us, for a voice to rise from the stillness. The worship is internal, a quiet communion.

Here, it was external, vibrant, a collective outpouring of spirit. The benches were packed, faces shining with devotion, hands clapping, feet tapping a rhythmic beat against the wooden floor. The singing was not merely loud; it was a living thing, a powerful current that swept through the room, carrying every soul upon its tide. Voices, rich and deep, soared and intertwined, a tapestry of sound woven from hope and resilience.

Ezra, usually so self-constrained in public, swayed gently, his eyes wide, captivated by the sheer force of the music. He did not sing along, but his hum grew stronger, finding its own harmony within the larger chorus, a quiet counterpoint to the thunderous joy. Bonita, beside me, closed her eyes, a serene smile gracing her lips, her voice joining the throng with a clear, strong melody.

Then, Pastor Eldon Ford rose to speak. He was a man of broad shoulders and quiet speech, as I had observed before, but today, his voice was anything but quiet.

He stood before his congregation, not behind a pulpit, but among them, his presence filling the space with an undeniable authority. His sermon was titled, “Honor Thy Mother and Father,” and he began, not with a gentle query like Elisha Tyson, but with a deep, resonance that seemed to settle the very dust in the air.

He began, his voice a low rumble, each word distinct, deliberate. “Every single day, every single week, every single year, we are dealt a hand. Some good. Some hard. Some you got to fight just to hold onto.” He paused, his eyes sweeping over every face, making each person feel seen, addressed. “But no matter the hand, you got to remember where you came from. Who raised you up. Who poured their sweat, their tears, their very breath into you.”

His voice began to build, a slow, steady crescendo. “Honor thy mother and father! What does that mean, beloved? Does it mean just to say ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘no, sir’? Is it just to bring a plate to their table when they’re old and weary?” He shook his head, a powerful, almost imperceptible movement. “No! It’s deeper than that. It’s the root. It’s the foundation. It’s the very ground you stand on!”

He paced slowly, a magnetic force. “Your mother, she carried you. She birthed you in pain, and she nurtured you in love. She taught you to walk, to speak, to know right from wrong. She was your first teacher, your first protector. And your father? He stood guard. He toiled. He showed you the path, taught you how to face the world, how to stand tall when the winds blew fierce.”

His words were not merely spoken; they were delivered with the force of a hammer striking iron, forging conviction in the hearts of those who listened.

He spoke of the legacy of struggle, of the quiet strength passed down through generations, of the duty to live a life worthy of those who came before. It was a sermon that transcended the simple commandment, transforming it into a rallying cry for self-respect, community pride, and enduring hope in the face of adversity.

He laid out the truths like bricks in a foundation, each one building on the last, until it could hold steady and secure the house above it. The profound, undeniable connection between honoring one’s personal lineage and upholding the dignity of one’s entire people.

I, a Quaker accustomed to the quiet promptings of the Inner Light, found myself profoundly moved by this powerful, demonstrative expression of faith. It was a different path to the same truth: that the spirit can be a source of immense power, a bulwark against the world’s injustices. I understood then that while our methods of worship differed, the core of our convictions, justice, dignity, and the unyielding belief in the inherent worth of every human soul were one and the same.

When Pastor Ford finished, the silence that followed was not empty, but heavy with reflection, filled with the echoes of his words. The congregation sat, some with tears in their eyes, others with jaws set in renewed determination.

The profound silence that followed seemed like their time for introspection. Pastor Ford’s sermon hung in the air, thick with the weight of his words. It was a silence not of emptiness, but of deep resonance, as if every soul in the room was holding its breath, absorbing the powerful truths he had laid bare.

Tears glistened in some eyes, while others bore expressions of quiet, unshakeable resolve. The collective spirit, so vibrantly expressed in song moments before, now pulsed with an internalized strength.

Then, from the stillness, a new sound began to emerge. It was Ezra. He had not stood this time, but remained seated beside me, his head bowed slightly, his hands resting on his knees. From his lips, a low hum began, not the tuneless one he often used for concentration, but one that carried the echo of the sermon’s rhythm. Slowly, the hum gained shape, and then words, soft at first, but gaining confidence with each line, like a ship finding its wind.

Roots run deep, though storms may blow,

Seeds of honor, watch them grow.

Father’s hand, and Mother’s care,

Carry burdens, light the air.

Hold the line, when shadows fall,

Hear the ancestors’ distant call.

Every step, a steady beat,

Marching onward, through the street.

Sing it strong, let voices rise,

Truth reflected in their eyes.

Keep the flame, a burning light,

Guiding us through darkest night!

He sang it with a quiet intensity, his gaze fixed on some unseen point, his body swaying almost imperceptibly with the rhythm he created. It was a song born of the sermon, a distillation of its message into the language of his own spirit. When he finished, the final note hung in the air, a small, clear bell in the vastness of the room.

Pastor Ford, who had been standing with his head bowed, slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes, which had just moments before held the fiery conviction of a prophet, now softened as they found Ezra.

A slow, gentle smile spread across his face, a smile of profound understanding and quiet appreciation. He gave a single, deliberate nod, a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes. It was as if he recognized in Ezra’s simple song the pure, unvarnished truth of his own message, echoed back to him in a new, unexpected form.

Then, Pastor Ford turned to face the congregation, his voice, now calm but still resonant, filling the space once more. “And now, beloved, let us carry this truth, this honor, this love, into the world.” He raised his hands, palms open, a gesture of blessing and release.

“Go forth from this place, strengthened by the Spirit, guided by the wisdom of those who came before you. May the Lord bless you and keep you; may the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you; may the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.”

A collective “Amen” rose from the congregation, a softer, more reflective sound than their earlier roars, but no less heartfelt. The benches scraped as people began to rise, a quiet murmur filling the room as they greeted one another, their faces still holding the imprint of the sermon and the song.

As we stepped out into the bright morning sun, the air felt lighter, yet charged with a new purpose. The unseen eyes, I knew, were still out there, watching. But within these walls, and within the hearts of these people, and in the quiet, profound songs of a boy like Ezra, there was a strength that no surveillance, no threat, no brick through a window could ever diminish. It was a living faith, a truth that could not be silenced.

As we walked back, the sun higher now, the unseen eyes still present, I felt a quiet strength settle within me. The brick through my window, the anonymous notes, the intensified surveillance, these were but transient disturbances. Ezra’s songs, the community’s unwavering spirit, and the resonant truth spoken by Pastor Ford, were the enduring forces, the true measure of what mattered.

MV