The Revolution Within

By Cory Rosenke

Vermont’s Green Mountains rolled toward the early summer horizon like waves upon an emerald sea. Cows grazed lazily near the fence lines, their bells clanging a slow rhythm, while a nearby creek rippled over smooth stones. In the clearing beyond, two boys laughed as they chased frogs, their bare feet splashing through mud and moss.

Ethan’s golden hair caught the sunlight as he knelt low, hands poised to snatch a slippery toad. Beside him, Caleb’s dark curls clung damp to his forehead, ebony skin glistening in the summer light as he darted with the quickness of a fox. Their laughter rang out, blending with the song of birds overhead.

For Ethan, the world was simple: Caleb was his friend. They built forts from branches, shared apples under the old oak, and dreamed of becoming heroes like the soldiers they heard about in hushed adult conversations—men who carried muskets and spoke of liberty and independence. At six years old, their world was small but filled with adventure.

And yet, even in childhood, Ethan had begun to sense a shadow he could not name.

Caleb’s family was different. Their skin was darker than his own, and though they lived on the same land, they did not live the same life. Caleb’s father, Samuel, worked the fields from dawn until the stars came out, not because he chose to, but because Ethan’s father commanded it. Caleb’s mother was often in the kitchen with Ethan’s mother, taking orders, stirring pots, or mending clothes. Even as a boy, Ethan felt the strangeness of it. He had heard the word “slave,” but could not fully grasp its meaning.

That evening, Ethan asked his mother why Caleb’s family worked in their fields but never sat at their table. She pressed her lips tight, smoothing his hair with a hand that trembled faintly.

“That’s the way of things, Ethan,” she whispered, her eyes shifting away evasively.

But Ethan could not understand. For Caleb was his friend, and friends were equals.

Sunday morning came, and the small meetinghouse filled with the sound of scraping boots and the murmur of happy voices. Families crowded into wooden pews, while above them, in the side gallery, Caleb’s family took their place—seated apart, not by choice, but by an old custom enforced by the church elders. From his spot near the front, Ethan could see them clearly. Caleb smiled and waved down at him. Ethan waved back. Caleb’s parents sat stone-faced, their eyes downcast, looking somber in a way Ethan didn’t understand.

They sang a few hymns, the kind Ethan knew by heart, and then Reverend Hale stepped forward to preach. At first Ethan wasn’t listening closely, but then the minister cleared his throat, his voice ringing out: “Galatians, chapter three, verse twenty-eight: There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free… for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.”

The words struck Ethan’s chest like a stone dropped in water, rippling outward in a thousand eager questions. He looked again toward the gallery: his friend’s eyes were fixed on the minister, his small hands gripping the rail. Caleb’s parents remained stone-faced—though their eyes sparked with an inner fire.

The Reverend did not waver. He pressed the truth with boldness, speaking of freedom and unity in Christ, urging obedience to God above the customs of men. His words stirred unease in the room; a few frowned, others shifted in their seats. To some, it was meddling where no preacher ought to meddle. Yet Hale stood firm, knowing his calling was to preach God’s Word, not to appease men.

Mr. Clark, chairman of the elders, shifted stiffly in his seat near the front, his fingers tapping the wood rail in irritation. His disapproval was evident, but Reverend Hale pressed on, undeterred.

When the sermon closed and the congregation spilled out into the crisp morning air, Ethan tugged at his father’s sleeve.

“Papa?” His voice was soft but urgent.

Thurston looked down at him, adjusting his coat. “Yes, son?”

Ethan swallowed hard. “Pastor said there’s no slave or free. But Caleb’s family…” His brow

furrowed. “If God says there’s no slave or free, why do we… keep them the way we do?”

The words hung in the air, like the boom of a musket shot. Thurston’s jaw tightened, and for a moment he could not speak.

“It’s the way things are, Ethan,” he muttered at last, his voice rough. “You’ll understand when you’re older.” He turned quickly, greeting a neighbor to end the conversation.

But Ethan’s question lingered like a bell that would not stop tolling.

That night, as shadows crept over the hills and crickets sang, Thurston lay awake. The Reverend’s words, and his son’s questions, echoed in his mind. No slave nor free. We are all one in Christ. He turned in his bed, staring at the beams overhead, but found no rest.

He tried to pray, but the words felt dry. How many times had he asked the Lord to bless his farm, his family, his labors—even beseeching God to grant them liberty from English tyranny? Yet now, when he thought of Samuel bending beneath his orders, and Mary’s cool indifference toward Samuel’s wife, his prayers shriveled into silence. He told himself it was the way of things, the order of the world, that it wasn’t his place to challenge the social structure—but the Scripture said otherwise. Was his comfort worth more to him than obedience to God?

Beside him, Mary stirred. “You’re restless,” she whispered.

“I feel ashamed, Mary. Ethan asked me a question today, and I could not answer him. I fear I have taught him one thing with my lips, and another with my life.”

Mary laid her hand lightly on his arm, but she did not speak. The room felt close, the air heavy.

By morning, the weight still clung to him, but there was work to be done.

“Samuel!” he called out. “Harness the team—we’re heading over to Lawsons.”

The harshness in his own voice startled him, as if it had come from someone else inside him—a person he was growing to dislike.

Samuel dropped the tool in his hand and hurried toward the barn, Caleb at his side. The boy scrambled to help, steadying the leather straps and passing buckles as his father worked with practiced speed. Soon the horses stood ready, stamping against the dust.

The wagon wheels groaned as they rolled over the rutted path toward the Lawson farm to look into purchasing a new milk cow. Ethan perched on the seat beside his father, his legs dangling, the reins creaking in Thurston’s hands. Samuel and Caleb kept pace alongside, moving ahead now and then to swing open a gate or pull it shut again after the wagon passed.

As they rounded the bend into their neighbor’s yard, Ethan’s eyes froze. At first he thought it was a scarecrow—arms outstretched, body slumped—but then he saw the truth. A man was lashed between two posts, wrists tied cruelly above his head, his shirt torn away. His back was a map of welts and open wounds, streaks of blood running down to stain the earth. Flies hovered thick in the air, settling on the broken flesh.

Ethan gasped, his small hands clutching the edge of the wagon, his face ghostly white.

“Papa…” His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

Beside the wagon, Samuel and Caleb stopped.

Samuel’s face tightened, his jaw set as if carved from granite. Caleb’s dark eyes fixed on the ground, his small frame trembling with fear.

Thurston leapt down from the wagon, his voice booming across the yard.

“Lawson! What devilry is this? Have you lost all sense of God and decency?”

From the doorway, Elias Lawson emerged, broad-shouldered and red-faced, a whip coiled loosely in his hand. His eyes burned with hot pride.

“You mind your own affairs, Thurston Thorpe,” he barked. “This is my property. That negro is mine to do with as I see fit.” He twisted the whip handle for emphasis. “Discipline’s the only thing they understand.”

“Discipline?” Thurston thundered, pointing to the bleeding man. “That’s not discipline—that’s vile! He’s a man, Lawson! Flesh and blood, not an animal to be beaten like a dog!”

The two men squared off, the air thick with rage.

Lawson’s face darkened like a storm. “You’ve gone soft, Thorpe, and I’m not interested in your holier-than-thou sermonizing. That slave is mine—by law.”

He stepped forward, whip held menacingly, voice sharp as a blade. “Take your wagon and get off my property—or you’ll regret it.”

For a moment Ethan thought his father might strike him, or seize the whip from his hand.

Thurston shook with holy anger, his voice low and seething. “God will judge you, Elias. And He will not be mocked.”

Lawson sneered, pointing back the way they had come. “Out. Now.”

Thurston pivoted on his heel, mounting the wagon. He snapped the reins, and the horses lurched forward. Ethan turned back for one last glance. The beaten man lifted his head just enough for their eyes to meet—dark, hollow, but not without dignity. The image seared itself into Ethan’s memory, a sight he would never forget.

They rode home nearly silent. The wheels creaked, the horses snorted, and dust rose behind them. From the rear of the wagon, Thurston caught the sound of Caleb’s whimpering, muffled and uneven. Samuel’s voice followed, low and steady, whispering words of comfort even as he stepped ahead to open the next gate, then close it behind them.

When Ethan finally found his voice, it came out small and cracked.

“Papa… why?”

Thurston could not answer. His throat worked, but no words came.

That night, the Thorpe home seemed to hold its breath. Thurston sat staring into the flames, their light flickering across his face, until at last—on some silent cue known only to his soul—he slid from the chair and sank to his knees on the plank floor.

“God,” he whispered, “I have called a brother ‘servant’ and let flawed human law pass for righteousness. Forgive me. Show me what to do.”

Mary knelt beside him. She did not speak, but her hand on his back said everything.

It was a night without sleep—Thurston and Mary whispered together, prayed together. The lamp flickered against the rafters, casting long shadows across the room as paper rustled beneath Thurston’s hand. He had written and rewritten until his knuckles cramped.

When at last morning broke in the eastern sky, Thurston set down the pen and closed his eyes. Mary reached across the table, laying her hand over his. Neither spoke, but both knew their world would not look the same by sundown.

By midmorning, Samuel and his family were summoned. They came hesitantly—Samuel’s shoulders squared, his wife’s eyes searching, Caleb pressed close against his father’s side.

Beneath the old maple, Thurston waited with Mary and Ethan. The folded paper felt heavy in his hands.

“Samuel,” Thurston began, his voice rougher than he intended. “I’ve sinned against you. For years I’ve treated you as property when you are no man’s property. I called you servant when you are my brother.”

He unfolded the paper. “This says what I should have said long ago. You and your household are free of every claim from me and mine. I’ll file it with the clerk in town.”

Silence followed.

Samuel’s brow furrowed, and his wife glanced at him uncertainly. Caleb gripped his father’s leg. The words hung between them, too large to take in at once.

Samuel’s wife, Ruth, spoke first, her voice trembling but steady. “You say we are free… but what does that mean for tomorrow?”

Thurston nodded. “It means more than paper.”

He gestured toward the north boundary, where birch trees caught the sunlight.

“There’s five acres there. I’ll deed it to you outright. We’ll bring the oxen, raise a frame, set a roof, and help you plant your ground. If you’ll have it.”

The two families stood together—silent, awkward. Samuel studied Thurston’s face, searching. Then his features broke, not into a smile but into something softer—release, maybe. His voice was low. “I never expected to hear such words from your mouth, Mr. Thorpe.” He paused, placing a gentle hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “But I receive them… we receive them.”

“I have something to say as well,” Mary blurted out suddenly.

She stepped forward, taking Ruth’s calloused hands in her own.

“We have lived close together, but I have not treated you with dignity and respect. Please forgive me.”

The awkward silence held: a pivotal moment that could not be rushed or unprocessed.

The air beneath the maple felt heavy, charged, as if even the leaves were waiting.

Then, the tension released all at once. Both women burst into tears, embracing tightly.

“I forgive you!” Ruth sobbed into Mary’s shoulder. “I don’t quite know what that means yet… but I forgive you… by faith.”

Caleb looked up, his eyes wide. Ethan grinned at his friend through wet lashes.

That afternoon, the families walked the fence line together—pacing boundaries, driving stakes, choosing a cabin site where the rise of the hill caught the morning sun.

Over the coming weeks both households worked tirelessly, side by side, felling trees, notching sills, and setting corner posts. Samuel trimmed rafters with the skill of long practice. Caleb learned to drive the team of horses. Ethan discovered the discipline of carrying beams without giving the orders.

By the time the maples yellowed, a cabin stood—tight, plumb—beautiful as a heartfelt prayer.

As a housewarming gift, Mary brought warm bread and a crock of beans to set on the new hearth. Ruth was arranging the table for dinner when she suddenly paused, looking up at Mary cheerfully.

“Samuel and I had a long conversation last night. We weren’t never given no surname—but last night we chose one, inspired by the grace of God: Freeman.”

Ruth lifted her chin, shoulders set with pride and dignity. “That is our family name now.”

Mary crossed the room, taking Ruth’s hand, tears falling as she whispered, “I’m thankful to know you, Mrs. Freeman.”

As time passed, Thurston knew that one freed family was not enough. His conscience pressed harder, demanding more.

In town and in the fields, words like liberty and rights filled every mouth. Standing with Reverend Hale, or speaking to men at the local sawmill, Thurston argued, “We cannot shout for freedom with one breath while enslaving our brothers with the next.”

Some mocked him. Others nodded. But the tide was turning.

Then, in July of 1777, the news came down from Windsor: Vermont’s delegates had written a constitution—the first in America to outlaw slavery. It was imperfect, and not every chain fell at once, but a line had been inked where none had stood before.

The following Sunday, the old church bell called them to worship as it had for generations. The gallery hung above the aisle as it always had, its bench polished by years of separation. But when the Freemans reached the doorway, they did not turn toward the steps. They paused.

The room hushed.

Thurston rose from his pew and faced them. He did not make a speech. He simply stepped aside, gesturing for them to join his family in the pew. Ethan slid over, excitedly making room.

Samuel looked at Ruth. She nodded. Together, they walked to the center aisle and sat—shoulder to shoulder with the Thorpes.

Deacon Clark’s chair creaked, and someone coughed, but no one moved.

Reverend Hale looked down at his open Bible, then up at the congregation that dared to do a new thing. He smiled, his sermon flowing with passion and grace: “We begin today with the reading from Leviticus 25:10. ‘Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.’”

No argument followed.

The hymns had a different sound that day—fuller, purer—rising from one row instead of two.

Later that autumn, after harvest, the two families gathered at the Freemans’ cabin to celebrate. Ruth poured cider while Mary dusted a plate of apples with cinnamon. Thurston and Samuel stood a while in the long slant of the evening light, looking toward the creek where their boys were passionately arguing over toads and minnows.

“I still feel I need to ask your forgiveness,” Thurston said abruptly.

Samuel shook his head. “Please don’t, my friend. Not again. Forgiveness has already been given. Don’t live in guilt. And I refuse to live free while shackling my own mind with ongoing bitterness.”

His eyes glinted with a mischievous light. “Besides, I suspect I shall have to ask you for forgiveness—many times—before we reach the gates of Glory.”

For a moment, silence lingered between them, not heavy but rich.

Then Thurston straightened, mock alarm sweeping across his face. “Which tool did you break this time, brother?”

Laughter rang out, mingling with the sudden chime of the dinner bell.

Ethan and Caleb sprinted home.

__________________________

Dear friends,

There are times in life when the hardest thing is not knowing what’s right, but doing what’s right. Scripture is clear enough, yet we hesitate. We wait. We tell ourselves that the timing is off, that we’ll act tomorrow, that someone else will take care of it. But the Spirit keeps whispering: now is the time.

Is there something God has been pressing on your spirit? A word that needs to be spoken? A step that needs to be taken? A wrong that needs to be set right? Do it. Don’t wait for a more convenient season. Today is the right day to do what needs to be done.

Or perhaps there is an even harder question: has a wrong been done to you? Is there someone who wounded you, disappointed you, or sinned against you—and you’ve been carrying that weight like a chain around your soul? Forgive. Don’t do it because they deserve it, but because Christ forgave you when you didn’t deserve it. Forgiveness does not always erase the pain, but it loosens the enslaving grip of bitterness. You never lose by forgiving; you only gain freedom.

The story of the Thorpes and the Freemans reminds us that the loudest revolutions are not only fought on battlefields, but within the human heart. The greatest change begins with the revolution within.

So I ask you: what must you do? What must you forgive?

Today is the day. Do not let it pass you by.