My summer pleasure read is Gettysburg: The Last Invasion by Allen Guelzo.
I might have mentioned that before. I know. Total geek.
Reading yesterday (Finally! This past week has been such a whirlwind of emotion and life and death I hadn’t managed to even get near it; but now, on the patio under a gentle rain to the strains of the deluxe soundtrack of the same name, at last, for just a moment, I read and relish.)
Reading yesterday I met someone new to me.
Jacob Gellert Frick.
At the time of the battle of Gettysburg he was forty-five and was in charge of all bridges and fords on the line of the Susquehanna in Lancaster County as the rebels approached.
Guelzo describes the achievements and the man:
“In 1862, Frick took command of the 129th Pennsylvania, a nine-months’ regiment raised for the Antietam emergency, and won distinction for leading his regiment, colors in hand, at Fredricksburg, and then saving the same colors when they nearly fell into rebel hands at Chancellorsville. Frick’s problem was his prickly sense of rectitude about his own judgment…As a soldier, Frick was perfectly willing to fight; he simply couldn’t distinguish friend from foe.”
We can all be such prickly fracking Fricks (for me, that sentence alone is worth the price of admission).
So ready to suspect the unsavory woman at the well who, in fact, is the door leading to the heart of an entire village.
To call fire down from heaven on another inhospitable village.
To shut down demon expelling because the expellers never attended our meetings.
To crucify the hand we see as the ultimate threat when in fact it belongs to the Prince of Peace.
What the Frick…