A Letter to Mom
US History assignment- write a letter home telling my experiences as a soldier from either side in the Civil War.
Letter from the Front Lines
I look over my tired platoon’s wasted ranks. Will slow death waste us all? The battles we quietly fight in our minds to want hurt upon others and to win assume a lead-like, eerie quite macabre influence on souls that really are unprepared for our dedicated awful experiences. We kill each day and wake to kill or be killed. We ended another battle yesterday in the oasis of wanted easy, peace as soldiers dying close their eyes, owning the rest that less fortunate survivors will want as suffering prevails. What kind of dying enemies make us powerfully want this useless awful waste? Help us to see the way quietly to waste of less and well-earned quiet peace will come to us. Really, we instill love in wasted choices not to know our enemy with the passion we give to our own positions.
This letter describes the thoughts of tiring of the death that literally engulfs freedom fighters for others. I radically appreciate the destructive impact of slavery on the eternal soul, with the personal experience of having been born into prison of ownership by others. Yet, all of my soul says inspired causes patiently kill as men owing a duty to love forget to do so. Love is of God. Taking years in patient gestures lauds our sinful, tepid way of corruption so fully over our principled witness to what was important. Only dealing with our walk through a life of prayer divinely owns quiet victory in the soul. Without this, we are destined to battalions and platoons of killed and maimed residents of our last war testifying to weakness of the soul and will to align with our quiet Almighty’s will.
Meals are outstanding when we are able to easily take from the farms around us. When laying on the bunk sitting or standing, the soldiers around me are frequently groaning of wounds and some screams when shot is removed or limbs are lastly severed from what is left of their bodies. A wonderful spring day with witness to worldly rebirth loses its significance in my tent.
Each day brings me closer to release to come visit. Trains take the wounded home and patient pitiful John assumes his new identity with ever growing confidence. I look forward to your loving touch and rest in our family grave when we are joined again. I love you, weary as I am. You always know what to inscribe.
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