1917

July 4, 1918

  I was unfortunately reminded that there was no escaping news of the war effort when I heard Woodrow Wilson’s speech up on Mount Vernon. He talked about the war being a continuation of what George Washington fought for and how the fight was going strong, aligning America’s involvement with the ideals of liberty and freedom established during the country’s founding. Wilson framed the struggle as not just a national effort, but a global one—a fight for freedom and justice that would secure the liberties of all peoples, not just those of the United States.

  Wilson emphasized that the Founding Fathers, including Washington, had envisioned a world where people everywhere could share in the rights of free men. He positioned America’s role in the war as a fulfillment of this vision, suggesting that the United States was acting in the spirit of those early patriots, fighting for the broader principles of liberty on a global scale.

  My bishop was at the July 4th party, and he noticed my glum look as the war news continued to echo through the room. Sensing my discomfort, he asked me, “Should I turn the radio off?”

“Yes, please, I can’t stand hearing about this war anymore!” I shouted, perhaps just a little too loudly.

  Bishop Bullock, ever the voice of reason, didn’t seem bothered by my outburst. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully. “I can’t either, but we can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist,” he explained, his tone calm and steady.

  His words struck me, reminding me that, no matter how much I wished to escape the relentless news of the war, it was something we all had to face. It was the harsh reality of the time, and trying to ignore it wouldn’t make it go away.

“Bishop, why does God let awful things happen?” I asked, my emotions getting the best of me as the weight of the world seemed to crash down on me at once.

“That is the curse of free will, I’m afraid,” Bishop Bullock explained with a grin, his voice steady but laced with a touch of sympathy.

  Frustrated, I shot back, “Why did He give us it, anyway?” I wasn’t ready for the answer I got.

“Would you rather be a servant to Satan?” he asked, his tone catching me off guard.

“No, why…?” I trailed off, confused.

“Because Satan didn’t want people to have free will, and God did,” he explained, smiling just a little, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Woah! That’s awful.”

“Indeed it is!” Bullock replied, momentarily distracted by the hot dogs grilling nearby.

  Then, with a sudden shift, he turned to me with a serious expression. “You remind me so much of your father, Jeremy.” He cupped my chin gently, inspecting my face as if searching for something unspoken.

“How so?” I asked, thrown off.

“You have his eyes and nose. You are also a highly complex figure, just as your father was.” His smile carried an odd mix of pride and recognition.

  His words lingered in my mind. Was I really like my father? I had never dared to think about it.

“Thank you, Bishop,” I said, gently smiling, grateful for the distraction from the radio broadcast of Wilson’s speech. It had been too much—too heavy, too loud, too suffocating.

  Bishop Bullock gave me something else to think about—something more intimate, more personal, more grounding. His perspective on free will, suffering, and the spiritual weight of our choices made me feel oddly lighter.

“Come, I want to show you something!” I said eagerly, pulling him along by his pointer finger.

“Well, okay,” he replied, curiosity in his voice.

  We arrived at a stump—the remains of a once-mighty tree. The woodcutters had felled it, fearing the roots might damage nearby homes.

“We’re here!” I exclaimed.

“What is the significance of this here stump?” Bishop Bullock asked, clearly puzzled.

“This here is my special praying stump. It’s one of the places I pray at when everything turns sour,” I explained, reverent.

“Oh, my! You never cease to surprise me, Jeremy,” he said with an amused grin.

“The tree symbolized rebirth—a new beginning,” I continued, almost preaching. “It’s gone now, but the memory of it will never vanish.”

  Bishop Bullock paused, his expression turning solemn. Then he said, “You need to become the next bishop once you come of age.”

  The words stunned me—but warmed me, too.

“I will be the best bishop there ever was,” I grinned.

“Oh, I just know it!” he exclaimed.

“I need to go find Mom,” I said, remembering she was somewhere among the party guests.

  After searching a bit, I found her and shared what Bullock had told me.

“You really think I can do it, Ma?” I asked, nervous.

“Jeremiah, do you realize how many people look up to you?” she said, surprising me.

“No… how many?” I asked, heart racing.

“Several thousand. You really need to publish your diary one day! The readers will be thrilled to read about your adventures.” She kissed my forehead softly.

  Her gesture was sweet, though her timing questionable. Still, her words added a new, unexpected weight to my thoughts. A future I never considered seemed to materialize in front of me.

  Maybe—just maybe—I was standing at the edge of something far bigger than myself.