A Prodigal Columnist’s Return
The Musings of Augustus Merriweather
A Letter of Apology and Renewed Purpose
My dear friends and faithful readers,
I find myself in the rather embarrassing position of a dinner guest who arrives fashionably late, only to discover that dessert has already been served and the coffee has grown cold. You see, I’ve been absent from these pages for far too long, and I owe you both an explanation and a heartfelt apology. As Charles Dickens might have said, it has been the best of times and the most overwhelming of times here in Palmetto Cove, and I’m afraid my pen has suffered from a rather severe case of neglect.
The Demands of Community Life
The truth is, dear friends, that life has been pulling me in more directions than a weathervane in a Georgia thunderstorm. Our little community has been buzzing with activity - from helping coordinate Palmetto Cove’s annual Spring Fling (which, I’m delighted to report, was a rousing success despite Mrs. Henderson’s apple pie mysteriously disappearing before the judging) to serving on the search committee for our church’s new youth pastor. Add to that the regular demands of my Sunday school class, where we’ve been working our way through the Gospel of John with the enthusiasm of theological archaeologists, and you can perhaps understand why my writing desk has been gathering more dust than attention.
Then there’s been the matter of our youngest preparing for college this fall, a bittersweet milestone that has required considerable emotional and logistical investment. Savannah and I have found ourselves oscillating between pride and panic as we help our baby bird prepare to leave the nest. As G.K. Chesterton once observed, “The paradox of education is precisely this - that as one begins to become conscious, one begins to examine the society in which he has been unconsciously formed.” Watching our child reach this threshold has been both exhilarating and exhausting.
A Friend’s Gentle Reproach
I must confess that my dear friend Dale, excuse me, Reverend Tedder (how he bristles when I use his formal title, which is precisely why I continue to do so with such delight) has been less than subtle in his reminders about my absent pen. Just last week, during one of our regular phone conversations, he remarked with his blend of brotherly concern and friendly needling, “Augustus, I’m beginning to think your writing hand has atrophied from disuse. Perhaps you should consider physical therapy, or at the very least, some penmanship exercises.”
His ribbing, though delivered with the warmth of a friendship that stretches back to our elementary school days in Hasty Acres, carries a kernel of truth that stings precisely because it hits its mark. A good friend has a way of speaking truth in love that would make the Apostle Paul proud, even when that truth comes wrapped in gentle mockery about one’s literary laziness.
The Ache of Unexpressed Thoughts
The peculiar thing about being a writer is that thoughts and observations continue to accumulate even when the pen lies idle. Over these past months, I’ve found myself mentally composing essays during my morning walks, crafting arguments while sipping afternoon tea, and formulating insights during my evening pipe (yes, I still indulge occasionally, much to Savannah’s gentle disapproval). It’s been rather like having a conversation with oneself that never quite reaches a satisfactory conclusion.
I’ve missed the discipline of setting thoughts to paper, the way writing forces one to examine ideas more carefully, to test them against experience and scripture, to refine them until they're worthy of sharing. As Flannery O'Connor once wrote, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” These months of silence have left me feeling intellectually unmoored, like a ship with plenty of wind in its sails but no clear heading.
The Sacred Act of Writing
There’s something almost sacramental about the act of writing, isn’t there? The scratch of pen against paper, the way thoughts take shape through the physical movement of one’s hand, the slow emergence of meaning from the marriage of mind and medium. I've always preferred the tactile experience of fountain pen on quality stationery; there’s a deliberateness to it that typing, however efficient, cannot quite replicate.
During my absence, I’ve been reminded of what Dorothy Sayers called “the mind of the maker” - that creative impulse that reflects something of the divine image within us. To neglect writing, for those of us called to it, is perhaps to neglect a fundamental aspect of how we’re designed to serve and worship. The Psalmist declares, “My tongue is the pen of a ready writer” (Psalm 45:1), and I fear my pen has been anything but ready these past months.
The Art of Beginning Again
But here’s the beautiful thing about grace; it always offers the possibility of beginning again. Just as each morning brings fresh mercies, each blank page offers a new opportunity to capture truth, beauty, and wisdom in words that might encourage a fellow traveler on this journey we call life. I’m reminded of John Newton’s words which I cite often: “I am not what I ought to be, I am not what I want to be, I am not what I hope to be in another world; but still I am not what I once used to be, and by the grace of God I am what I am.”
So I return to you, dear readers, with a heart full of gratitude for your patience and a renewed commitment to the calling that has been entrusted to me. I promise to be more faithful in sharing the observations, reflections, and occasional adventures that fill the days of this southern gentleman philosopher. After all, as C.S. Lewis reminded us, “We read to know we are not alone,” and perhaps we write for much the same reason.
Moving Forward Together
In the coming weeks, I hope to share some thoughts on the lessons learned during this busy season, reflections on watching a child prepare for college, and observations about the changing rhythms of small-town life. I’m also eager to hear from you, what questions have been stirring in your hearts? What topics would you like this humble scribbler to tackle? Please don’t hesitate to write (proper letters are always preferred, though I grudgingly acknowledge the convenience of electronic correspondence).
Until our paths cross again in these pages, may your own pens flow freely and your words bring light to a world that desperately needs it.
With renewed commitment and grateful affection,
Augustus B. Merriweather III
P.S. Reverend Tedder, if you’re reading this (and I know you are), consider this my official return to literary duty. Your pastoral persistence has been duly noted and, dare I say, appreciated, though I’ll never admit that during our next phone call!
Thank you for taking the time to read these musings, and I do hope you’ll consider sharing them with friends who might enjoy a bit of southern wisdom and gentle humor. Both Dale and I would be deeply grateful if you’d subscribe if you haven’t already, and encourage others to join our little community of readers. After all, good conversation, like good coffee, is always better when shared.
You can always read more of my musings at Walking Points.