Vox Meditantis

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – 1st July, 1863

The morning of July first begins much like any other, though I cannot shake the peculiar heaviness that has settled upon my chest these past days—a weight that has naught to do with the child growing within me. I rise before dawn, as is my custom, my hand instinctively moving to the rounded curve of my belly where our sixth child rests. Six months along now, and still the morning sickness lingers, though perhaps it is not sickness at all but the gnawing anxiety that seems to have taken permanent residence in my stomach.

The cemetery grounds stretch before me in the pale morning light, headstones rising like silent sentinels from the mist. How peaceful Evergreen Cemetery appears in these early hours, yet I find myself wondering if this tranquillity shall endure. Peter has gone with the Union forces, leaving me to tend both our home and these sacred grounds, and each day brings fresh reports of armies moving ever closer to our little town of Gettysburg.

What are you most worried about for the future? The question haunts me as I make my way between the graves, my steps slower now with the burden I carry. How does one answer such a query when the very foundations of our nation seem to be crumbling? When brother takes up arms against brother, and the countryside echoes with the thunder of cannon fire?

I am worried, first and foremost, for this child within me. Will he—for I sense somehow that it is a son—will he draw his first breath in a world at peace, or shall he be born into the chaos of a nation tearing itself asunder? The thought sends a shiver through me despite the warm July morning. What manner of inheritance are we leaving for our children when we cannot even guarantee them a united country?

The sound of hoofbeats on the distant roads draws my attention, and I pause in my work, one hand pressed against my lower back where the ache has settled. Riders have been passing through Gettysburg with increasing frequency, their faces grim, their messages urgent. The Confederate forces are moving north, they say. The Union army follows close behind. Our little town sits directly in their path, as innocent and helpless as a deer caught between two packs of wolves.

I think of my other children, scattered now by the necessities of war and life. Will I see them again? Will this child know its siblings? The uncertainty gnaws at me like a persistent hunger that no amount of bread can satisfy. How can a woman plan for the future when she cannot even be certain of the next day?

The morning progresses, and I tend to my duties with mechanical precision, but my mind wanders constantly to the larger questions that plague our time. What are we fighting for, truly? The politicians speak of union and states’ rights, of slavery and freedom, but here in this cemetery, surrounded by the remains of those who have already departed this earthly struggle, such abstractions seem both urgent and meaningless.

I am worried about the very soul of our nation. Can a country survive when it has forgotten how to speak to itself with civility? When neighbours become enemies over matters of principle? The child within me shifts, as if responding to my troubled thoughts, and I place both hands protectively over him. What values shall I teach this boy? That might makes right? That violence solves our disputes? Or somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, that reason and compassion might yet prevail?

By midday, the heat has grown oppressive, and I seek shade beneath the old oak tree that stands guardian over the newer section of graves. The irony is not lost on me—finding refuge in the shadow of death whilst carrying new life. Perhaps this is what worries me most about the future: that death seems to hold dominion over life in these troubled times.

The distant rumble reaches my ears first, low and ominous like approaching thunder, though the sky remains cloudless. Artillery, I realise with a start that makes the baby leap within me. The sound grows closer, more distinct, and with it comes the realisation that our quiet morning is about to end.

I struggle to my feet, my hand gripping the oak bark for support, and gaze towards the roads leading into town. Dust clouds rise in the distance, and now I can hear it clearly—the sound of marching feet, of wheels grinding against stone, of men calling to one another with the sharp urgency of soldiers preparing for battle.

What am I most worried about for the future? Everything. I am worried about the next hour, the next day, the next year. I am worried about whether this child will be born at all, whether I shall live to hold him, whether there will be a world left for him to inherit. I am worried about Peter, somewhere with the Union forces, not knowing that his wife and unborn child now stand directly in the path of approaching armies.

The first shots ring out like the crack of divine judgment, sharp and final in the summer air. My hands fly to my belly as the child within me responds to the sudden violence with a flurry of kicks and movements. The battle has begun, and we—all of us civilians caught in this maelstrom—have become unwilling participants in history’s grand design.

From my position near the cemetery, I can see smoke beginning to rise from the direction of town. The morning’s peace has shattered like glass, replaced by a cacophony that speaks of death and destruction. Men are dying even now, young men who should be tending farms, courting sweethearts, raising families. Instead, they fall in service to causes they may not fully understand, their futures cut short by the failure of their elders to find peaceful solutions.

I think of the graves surrounding me, of all the mothers who have already lost sons to this terrible conflict. Will I join their ranks? Will some other woman, years hence, tend a grave marker bearing my child’s name? The thought is unbearable, yet I cannot push it away.

The sound of cannon fire grows closer, more frequent, and with each thunderous report, I feel the future growing darker and more uncertain. What are we fighting for that could possibly justify this carnage? What principle is worth the price we are paying in blood and suffering?

As the afternoon wears on, the battle intensifies. Federal troops retreat through our streets, their faces drawn with exhaustion and fear. I watch from the cemetery as our peaceful town transforms into a battlefield, as homes become fortifications and familiar streets become corridors of war.

The baby moves constantly now, perhaps sensing my distress, and I find myself speaking to him in whispers. “What world am I bringing you into, little one? What future can I promise you when I cannot even promise you peace?”

The weight of uncertainty presses down upon me like a physical burden. I am worried about the immediate dangers, of course—the stray bullets, the retreating soldiers, the advancing Confederate forces. But beyond these immediate threats lies a deeper fear, a worry that extends far beyond the present moment.

I am worried that this war will change us fundamentally, that it will coarsen our spirits and harden our hearts. I am worried that my son will grow up in a world where violence is the first resort rather than the last, where differences are settled with bullets rather than ballots. I am worried that we are losing something essential about ourselves, something that once made us Americans rather than merely inhabitants of a particular patch of earth.

The sun begins its descent towards the horizon, painting the sky in shades of red that seem all too appropriate for this day of blood and thunder. The Confederate forces have gained the upper hand, driving the Federal troops back through town and up onto Cemetery Hill. From where I stand, I can see the Union soldiers digging in, preparing for what may come tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The word carries such weight now, such uncertainty. Will there be a tomorrow for any of us? Will this child within me ever see the light of day? Will our nation survive this terrible trial, or will it fragment into pieces, leaving future generations to wonder what we might have been?

As darkness falls, the sounds of battle gradually diminish, replaced by the groans of the wounded and the weeping of those who have lost loved ones. I remain in the cemetery, reluctant to return to my empty house, finding odd comfort among the graves of those who have already found their peace.

What am I most worried about for the future? I am worried that we are witnessing the death of something beautiful and irreplaceable—the idea that people can govern themselves, that differences can be resolved through reason rather than force, that a nation conceived in liberty might actually endure.

But even as these dark thoughts crowd my mind, I feel the child within me turning, settling, as if preparing for sleep. Life persists, even in the midst of death. Hope endures, even in the face of despair. Perhaps this is what I must cling to—not the certainty of peace, but the possibility of it. Not the guarantee of a better future, but the chance that such a future might yet be built.

As I finally make my way home through the smoke and shadows, my hand resting protectively on my swollen belly, I make a silent promise to the child within me. Whatever world you inherit, my son, whatever challenges await you, I shall teach you that hope is stronger than fear, that love is more powerful than hatred, that the future, however uncertain, belongs to those who refuse to surrender their faith in tomorrow.

The battle may rage around us, the future may remain shrouded in uncertainty, but life—precious, fragile, resilient life—continues to grow within me. Perhaps that is answer enough to the question that has haunted me all day. What am I most worried about for the future? Everything. But what am I most hopeful for? Everything as well.

For tomorrow will come, as it always has, and with it the chance to build something better from the ashes of what we have lost.

The End

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.