“No more alterations, however, have been made, than were thought necessary.”
             —Rev. William Aldridge, A Narrative of the Lord's Wonderful Dealings with John Marrant  
 

In another narrative, John Marrant was a yankee-born country boy, trying to find his way through a South with no place made to fit him, or any man who didn’t wield a whip or command pure control. Most days, he prayed himself beyond this world. Some nights, he forgot to bow his head beside the bed before collapsing into the dark warmth of exhaustion. Each morning he woke up knowing the Lord would forgive him. John Marrant had his first crush at age twelve and dreamt of a wooing with springtime's flowers and sweetest singing. He dreamt of wandering far past home and wondered when love would find him, ‘till he was so full of love for the Word by thirteen, there was hardly room for anything else. At first, the pews in church hurt his back, their wooden grain coarser than a leather-bound Bible. That old oak once tore a thread from his favorite overcoat, but he didn’t fuss. He would learn a different seat was meant for him, John the sweet young man with a round, brown face. His sisters taught him to sing, and he’d run through the dust with his brothers ‘till their mother called them in. He had known no plan for dealing with his hair when it began to grow long and heavy with time, but he never dared cut himself too short, no—John Marrant was a man of ministry and miracles. He was a man who grew up traveling the world and spreading his gospel under sun so hot it burned white, speaking into the night grown dark as a funeral's black palette. He was a man of ministry, a man of miracles. In another narrative, John Marrant was a man. 


                                                                                               *


In another narrative, John Marrant was a yankee-born country boy, trying to find his way through a South with no place made to fit him, or any man who didn’t wield a whip or command pure control. Most days, he prayed himself beyond this world. Some nights, he forgot to bow his head beside the bed before collapsing into the dark warmth of exhaustion. Each morning he woke up knowing the Lord would forgive him. John Marrant had his first crush at age twelve and dreamt of a wooing with springtime's flowers and sweetest singing. He dreamt of wandering far past home and wondered when love would find him, ‘till he was so full of love for the Word by thirteen, there was hardly room for anything else. At first, the pews in church hurt his back, their wooden grain coarser than a leather-bound Bible. That old oak once tore a thread from his favorite overcoat, but he didn’t fuss. He would learn a different seat was meant for him, John the sweet young man with a round, brown face. His sisters taught him to sing, and he'd run through the dust with his brothers ‘till their mother called them in. He had known no plan for dealing with his hair when it began to grow long and heavy with time, but he never dared cut himself too short, no—John Marrant was a man of ministry and miracles. He was a man who grew up traveling the world and spreading his gospel under sun so hot it burned white, speaking into the night grown dark as a funeral's black palette. He was a man of ministry, a man of miracles. In another narrative, John Marrant was a man.