The Lost Diary of Thomas Kendall
June 1822
“The deed is done—you have ruined yourself in this life, and lost your honourable and sacred rank in society, which you can never regain to the day of your death.”
Those words are seared in my brain. How could they not be? They are the truth, but are they fair? Were they justified? Try as I might, I cannot make Marsden understand. I cannot make anyone understand. Not my wife, Jane or my fellow missionaries.
I admit, with self-abasement and abhorrence that I am a sinner in the sight of God, however you would think that all I have tried to achieve in these last ten years would entitle me to a little consideration from my accusers.
It seems, no matter how hard I try, I can never clearly express my thoughts, my dreams, my aspirations. They dismiss my spoken words with ease. I was remiss in not keeping a day by day journal, as some of the others did, written words have a power to last.
Maybe it is not too late. I have some scraps of notes I wrote as preparation for my reports and letters. I did keep a journal of my first trip here. I will go back and put words onto paper and maybe then I can at least make someone who reads them understand why I did what I did and see if they can forgive me, even if at the moment, I cannot forgive myself.
“The deed is done—you have ruined yourself in this life, and lost your honourable and sacred rank in society, which you can never regain to the day of your death.”
Those words are seared in my brain. How could they not be? They are the truth, but are they fair? Were they justified? Try as I might, I cannot make Marsden understand. I cannot make anyone understand. Not my wife, Jane or my fellow missionaries.
I admit, with self-abasement and abhorrence that I am a sinner in the sight of God, however you would think that all I have tried to achieve in these last ten years would entitle me to a little consideration from my accusers.
It seems, no matter how hard I try, I can never clearly express my thoughts, my dreams, my aspirations. They dismiss my spoken words with ease. I was remiss in not keeping a day by day journal, as some of the others did, written words have a power to last.
Maybe it is not too late. I have some scraps of notes I wrote as preparation for my reports and letters. I did keep a journal of my first trip here. I will go back and put words onto paper and maybe then I can at least make someone who reads them understand why I did what I did and see if they can forgive me, even if at the moment, I cannot forgive myself.
