Sitting Quietly
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| Sitting in the Family Garden in Panlong Village |
I sit within our Chinese garden’s freezing shade,
Where over four long centuries were quietly made.
My wife’s forebears once meditated here,
Their lives preserved through their joys and fears.
I ponder all these years gone by -
The hopes, the failures, dreams that die.
Through China, the UK, and the States,
How our family’s story bends, how our pain relates.
Two hundred years have come and flown,
Since mine from Northern Ireland fled their home.
The clash of faiths, and a bitter fight,
Drove Protestants and Catholics' plight.
While they endured the strife of war,
Wife’s kin built this rich house of lore.
On Panlong's river, they tilled the land,
And left their legacy with skillful hand.
In 1860, my family was struck by tragedy
The circuit-riding priest Joseph drowned at 33
Trying to reach the unreached, the Ohio took his last breath,
His pregnant young widow wept at his sudden death.
Yet even as our Ohio family mourned,
My wife’s folk began their tea houses, carved and adorned,
In Shanghai’s markets, grand tales were spun,
Their fame for Anhui Tea was won.
My great-grandfather, again Joseph, bold and true,
A man of vision to build anew.
A fortune made with lye soap and tallow,
His life of Faith not standing fallow,
His money spent on the Wright’s first flight,
And his house still stands in the Smithsonian’s light.
But grief was near: his eldest son Joe,
A boy of wisdom, full of faith’s pure glow,
Died young - at seventeen he lay,
A victim of the Spanish Flu’s dark sway.
Donald, the youngest, then built the business with pride,
And in 1929 all his fortunes died.
The Great Depression had claimed his soul,
As drink consumed what once was whole.
His son, Thomas, at war, saw death unfold,
The stories haunted, the tears retold.
His friends were all gone, and my heart was torn,
As I, a seven-year-old boy, heard him mourn.
My father’s home was fractured too,
With the war-born pain he never knew.
He attended a Church of platitudes and gain,
Then in abuse ignored his hidden pain.
My mother’s kin, of Appalachian creed,
Found faith to fill their deepest need.
From Irish roots and Revival care,
They breathed new hope in Dad through simple prayer.
My wife’s kin, meanwhile, in Eastern lands afar,
Endured the trials of Japan’s brutal scar.
Through the Revolution’s harsh demand,
They rebuilt their life with trembling hands.
By modern times, both East and West,
Had lost the faith they once professed.
Yet something stirred, a truth revealed,
Through pain and change, our wounds were healed.
My wife Victoria dreamed of trade,
While I, homeschooled, sought paths well-laid.
My father’s faith, in his Grandfather’s journals found,
Declared where life’s true roots are bound:
"All fades but God," the line declared,
Through martyr’s loss, His strength was shared.
My parents built on truths of old,
Their faith, a light, both firm and bold.
My wife’s family, too, through time and great pain,
Restored the family garden once again.
They honored names, they learned to see,
The hidden weight of their ancestry.
We thought the tale of pain was past
As we looked to a future with joys amassed
And glories of our lovely youths
Who lived in righteousness, talked of truths
In expectation and in jubilation
We were struck again with fear and trepidation
Every generation unexpected
The death of Adam in us reflected
Our best, our brightest, our beloved faces
Struck down by death in forgotten places
Now in this ancient garden, we now reside,
With our elders and children by our side.
In Orthodox Faith, a garden reclaimed,
Our hearts renewed, our lives renamed.
With all our scars, our trials in store,
I add my voice to those before.
To God, I pray for strength to stand,
To lead us by His guiding hand:
"Allow us, Lord, to yet survive,
And in Your mercy, even thrive.
Let altars rise in gardens fair,
Proclaim Your Gospel everywhere.
Reconcile this world to You,
And bring us to Your Kingdom true."
Bp, Joseph Wm. Boyd
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| Early Snowfall in the Family Garden |
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