The Rainbow

If things were worse, this cursed rain

would soak me unto sickness,

so Samuel Sewall might have

written in his vespers journal.

I have it on my writing desk

inside. For three days I have

labored with a saw and plane

and many boards to make my girl

a swingset near her mother’s

lilac shrubs, as rain has drizzled

cold and meaningless. How

coherent was his world of works

and days, when Plentifull Rains

might connote a coming

providence—so Sewall notes

of Her Majesty’s Court, June

the eighteenth, seventeen twelve.

We are well satisfyed with the Layin out

of our Money—

as on the same day clearly he

is mindful to remember that

Just before Sunset was a very NOBLE Rainbow,

one foot was between the Windmill, and the

Lazar house; other, on Dorchester Neck.

How faithful is the mind in

memory, connecting signs.

As the body of the Word

of God strides His world, so

Sam.'s determination to forge

meaning from his life’s &c.

The day before, just this:

Great Heat, Much Rain.

Bulbs of lilac blooms burn like

black lights in the twilight. Rain

ascends in a mist where it has

fallen to the rich new grass.

It’s Sunday, nearly dark, and

tomorrow I’m back in class to

shape my working days. I think

of him who keeps the task of church

and colony. He leans each night

long over paper waiting

on his writing desk. She can’t wait,

my girl, to play on her swings.

Saw the New-raised meeting-house, 60. foot

long, 40. foot wide. Got to Cousin Woodbridge’s

a little before Sunset. Saw an appearance of

a Rainbow-Colour about the bigness of a piece

of Timber one foot square and four foot long.

When I had turn ’d from it, Somebody, call’d

to me to look on the Sight; and then it was

dilated like an Ensign with several bars in it.

Saw my daughter Judith.

It’s what we connect. It’s how

we join each thing with care. If I

soap a screw to drive it smoother,

if I run the ripsaw straight

against the wood grain down the meat

of my thumb, if the brackets hold,

if swivels keep the swings aligned,

it’s because my father passed

a memory of such things to me.

Now I only work to make a toy.

My colleagues call that irony.

(Our meager making wants to

theorize each life we touch to death.)

If things were worse, I don’t know if

I could make a living with my hands.

If things were worse than that, I could.

The Rainbow was very bright, and the Reflection

of it caused another faint Rainbow to the

westward of it. For the entire Compleateness

of it, throughout the whole Arch, and for its

duration, the like has been rarely seen. The

middle parts were discontinued for a while; but

the former Integrity and Splendor were quickly

Recovered. I hope this is a sure Token that

CHRIST Remembers his Covenant, and that He will

make haste to prepare for them a City that has

foundations, whose Builder and Maker is GOD.

My father circles in his

anger now. A stroke like lightning

shot his carotid artery one day.

He forgets himself. I’m worried

that my daughter may recall

my temper only, or my

little soul, my careless way

of cutting others down. The rage

for meaning makes us look for things

in other things, makes us hope

we see the future when we barely

see the day. I’ve beheld my girl

angry, impatient with the smallest

cause, cruel beyond her years.

Mrs. Sarah Banister, widow, dyes between 3

and 4 P.M., being drown’d with Dropsie.

News comes that Capt. Carver is Taken by two

Privateers. Just as had written this I went to look

of the Rain at my East-Chamber window, and

saw a perfect Rainbow. I think the setting of

the Sun caus’d its Disappearance. Laus Deo.

I put one good board beside

another and screw them down—so

things won’t come apart, so she

won’t fall. I think we wish too hard

for sense when what we want

is wonder, swinging on a toy.

I love the life we’ve made despite

our carelessness. I love the care.

Great rain with Thunder. Mr. Wadsworth

preaches: Work out your Salvation with Fear.

One night later, one more entry,

so Sewall becomes his vision.

Last night I dreamed that I had my daughter

Hirst in a little Closet to pray with her;

and of a sudden she was gon, I could not

tell how; although the Closet was so small,

and not Cumber’d with Chairs or Shelves,

I was much affected with it when I waked.

The mind is faithful in its

memory—connecting signs,

it makes a memory

to connect to what it needs.

The body will forget us all

anyway, in time, as it forgets

its breath, and how to live,

how to forgive. I keep this

story close whenever I grieve

or fear, growing cold. A father

and his child wait through a storm.

Great rain with Thunder. Fear has

drenched the child. (Is this my father,

or me, my girl, or someone

in a book? I don’t remember.

Forgetfulness has taken part

of me already—besides,

it doesn’t matter.) The child cries,

I’m scared, to which the father

whispers, holding on, Don’t worry,

little one. I'll stay with you until

it’s over. It’s what he means by

Rainbow in the evening.

Notes:

Despite the fury and indictment in his public tracts and sermons, the American Puritan minister Samuel Sewall could be tender, confessional, even self-doubting in his nightly diary, which he kept from 1673 until three months before his death in 1729. No detail was too small for Sewall’s attentions, since any occurrence might yield God’s intents and purposes. Even the weather, one of Sewall’s favorite notations, was a holy language to be read by devout souls.

Source: Changeable Thunder (University of Arkansas Press, 2001)