Vincent van Gogh

Laeken, 15 November 1878.

My dear Theo,

I must write to you about the thoughts that have been troubling my mind these past weeks. You know how I have been drawn to the evangelical calling, and I find myself more and more convinced that my path lies among those who suffer most in this world—the miners of the Borinage.

I have been reading about their conditions, and what I learned moves me deeply. The geographical handbook describes their life thus: “Those people, never see the sunshine—coal-miners, many of whom have never seen the sun, living in a state of stale air and in dismal cages or hovels. They trust themselves to God in going down into those mines day after day.”

Can you imagine it, Theo? Men who descend into the earth before dawn and emerge after dark, never knowing the warmth of sunlight on their faces? Their children grow pale as flowers in a cellar, and their wives age before their time from worry and want. Yet they trust themselves to God—this faith in the midst of such hardship moves me to tears.

I feel called to go among them, to bring whatever comfort the Gospel can offer to these forgotten souls. But I wonder if I am ready. Perhaps I need more preparation, more time to understand my own faith before I can minister to others. Like St. Paul, I may need to spend time in reflection and study—perhaps three years—before beginning this work in earnest.

Yesterday I saw an engraving of an old workhorse, worn down by years of labor, standing in the rain with his head hanging low. The artist captured something profound about the burden of existence that spoke to my heart. In moments of indescribable and unutterable desolation, when one feels like that poor beast, beaten down by life—it is then that thoughts of God emerge most powerfully.

It would not be easy to live without the Faith in Him and the old confidence in Him; without it one would lose one’s courage. But with it, even the darkest mine shaft becomes a place where His light can shine.

I have been thinking much about our conversations when I was home, about finding one’s true calling in life. You have found yours in the art world, helping people appreciate beauty. Perhaps mine lies not in the comfortable parlors of the wealthy, but in the humble dwellings of the poor. Jesus himself said, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor.”

The miners work in conditions that would break most men—cave-ins, explosions, the constant threat of death. Yet they continue, day after day, trusting in Providence. There is something noble in their suffering, something that demands respect rather than pity. If I could bring them even a small measure of hope, a reminder that they are not forgotten by God, would that not be a worthy life’s work?

I know Father and Mother worry about this path I am considering. It is not the comfortable ministry they envisioned for me. But I cannot shake the feeling that Christ himself would be among the miners if he walked the earth today. He who was born in a stable and died on a cross surely understands their struggles better than those of us who have never known real hardship.

Sometimes in the evening I walk through the working districts here in Laeken, and I see the exhausted faces of men coming home from the factories. Their clothes are dirty, their backs bent from labor, but there is dignity in their bearing. They are the ones who build our world with their hands, who delve into the earth to provide the coal that warms our homes. Should they not have preachers willing to share their conditions?

I am still studying, still preparing. But my heart is increasingly drawn toward this calling. Write to me, dear brother, and tell me your honest thoughts. Do you think I am deluding myself with romantic notions, or is there wisdom in following one’s conscience toward the path of greatest service?

The nights are growing cold here, and I think often of the miners’ families, wondering if they have enough coal to heat their homes—coal they themselves have torn from the earth at such risk. This world is full of contradictions that only faith can help us navigate.

Give my love to everyone at home, and know that whatever path I choose, your understanding and support mean everything to me. You have always been the one person who truly understands my restless spirit.

With deep affection and hope, Vincent

P.S.—I am enclosing a small sketch I made of that workhorse I mentioned. Sometimes a simple image can convey more than many words about the human condition.