Rev. John J. Tiller
Baker City, Oregon
Eighth of September 1899
Rev. W. C. Harris
Oregon City, Oregon
My dear brother in Christ,
You have inquired about my health, and I confess that I am not well. Mary will scarcely let me out of the house except to conduct services. Walking exhausts me, and she says that my face goes purple when I have done no more than cross the room to poke the fire. Long gone are the days when I could count the miles of wilderness walked as well as the scores of souls saved. There are not many miles left in these legs. Even my days as pastor of this church cannot number very greatly.
Bishop Golden was present in Baker City for the Sabbath just past, and he told my congregation that they were fortunate to walk alongside me as I took my last steps toward Home. "There are no heroes like the heroes of the cross," he said, "and no pioneers like the pioneers who brought salvation into the wilderness."
I hope that my flock took comfort in those words. As for me, I find myself without the sure consolation I once had. I do have a cat. He sits upon my lap as I pen these words, and his purring comforts me more than anything the bishop might say. But he is an earthly comfort, and therefore wanting.
I am in despair, William, for the sake of justice.
There are two puzzles that I recently sought to solve. In the first instance, I revealed a murderer. In the second instance, I wrestled with a celestial mystery, one that I had rather left unexamined. Its unwinding has been like the unraveling of a garment that once warmed me.
Were you here, I know that you would demand to know the particulars of my desolation. Then you would endeavor to apply chapter and verse to the wound, and by the Word, heal me. But William, it is by the Word that I am wounded. Raised up, yes, saved from the eternal grave, yes, but wounded also.
This despair of mine has come in stages. In stages, then, will I relate it.
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