There is an opened heaven, a stairway ascending, won through bloody battles

of prevailing prayer. I felt the prayers of the saints, past and present, as I wandered Savannah’s gardens.

My faith grew there among the mighty oaks—deeply rooted, moss-draped branches,

their taproots sinking into rich Southern soil—still faintly stained by the scars of war,

a lingering shadow from a nightmarish memory. The Spanish moss, twisted and

spectral in soft moonlight, becomes elegant and lacey in the streaming sun.

Resurrection ferns awaken, bursting with hope, after sparkling rain, as fresh and sweet as first light.

And the lilies, strewn across Savannah’s verdant green stand pure and blameless, whispering, 

“Praise be the Lamb.”

“Praise be the Lamb.”

I saw mansions lining the streets, sparking latent embers of longing for that place in heaven prepared for the prepared.

I walked beside every shade of humanity, each soul seeking meaningful connection—vertical and horizontal, earth with heaven, friend with foe, and humankind with God.

The long arms of Southern hospitality, born through suffering, repentance, and injustice remembered, reached out and swept me up, swept me in.

My heart is struck with wonder.

In the war called Civil—which was anything but civil—the North saved the South.

In the war yet to come, will the South save the North?

“Confess your offenses to one another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The insistent prayer of a righteous person is powerfully effective.”

—James 5:16