Standing Still--Moving Forward

 We were no longer in the living room, that night.  Instead, I was walking with my husband through one of the most frightening moments of his life. He was only a boy of 18 when he was drafted to fight in World War Two.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget those horror filled days and nights following my capture during the Battle of the Bulge.  But I wasn’t the only prisoner taken in the days ahead.  We were crammed into railroad boxcars so tightly we could hardly breathe.

"As the train began to move, my brain sped backwards to the battle,” he said.

His voice softened.  “Will I ever forget the high pitched whine of bombs and the flash of enemy fire? There we knelt, the two of us; my buddy and me huddled in a foxhole.  In a way the darkness shielded us, at least it did until my buddy suddenly leaped to his feet.

‘Get down.’ I shouted as I grabbed his leg and pulled him down beside me on the ground.

“’But I have to see,’ he cried. ‘I have to.’”

“’No! You’ll get us both killed. Don’t you understand? They told us to stay down and not fire unless we knew for sure what we were aiming at.’”

“But my foxhole buddy wasn’t listening. Even as I spoke he leaned forward and craned his neck. As he peered into the darkness he was suddenly lit by a flash of light. I tried to yank him back onto the ground for safety but an exploding missile overshadowed my efforts. 

An explosion whizzed past my ears. I wanted to vomit but I don’t know if I did or not. I only knew that my buddy’s head had been blown from his body and I was alone. But I wasn’t alone. My rifle was ripped from my hands and I was being dragged out; a prisoner of war, drenched in my buddy’s blood.”

“And after that?” I whispered.

“The railroad cars. I think I must have been one of the first to be loaded on. In a way it saved my life because I could put my nose in a crack on the side and breathe. But a lot of the men in the middle died standing up. They must have suffocated because there was no room. At times we stood on top of dead men and there was nothing we could do about it.”

He shuddered. “The smells were horrid. We all had dysentery so bad, it ran down our legs and there was nothing we could do to stop it. And still the wheels rolled. When other prisoners died and stood with us shoulder to shoulder we could only stand still and let it happen. My lips and mouth got so dry I couldn’t even spit. I thought I was going to die and I almost wished I had. But I didn’t and now I’m glad. I wasn’t ready to meet my Maker and I knew it.”

Then my husband’s eyes focused back into the present where we sat on the sofa together.  A tiny smile curled the corner of his mouth.

I nodded. “Do you remember how you kept asking me what a Christian was? I was a bit of a baby Christian myself back then and I had a hard time finding words to describe what it meant to be a child of God.”

“You didn’t do so bad.” He reached out an arm and drew me close. “Somehow your words came through to me that a Christian is someone who loves Jesus. If I had died in the war—and there were times when I really did wish I was dead—I wouldn’t have found Jesus, or you. But God . . .

But God. He goes before us and makes the crooked places straight. He calls us by Name and we run to Him and He will be with us forever and ever. Amen.

Walking Through the Shadows

            My husband laid beside me on our bed, his hands; his fingers spread wide into what appeared to be an open cup. I said his name softly, “Bud.”

            There was no answer. He lay on his side, his gray eyes wide open and I knew. My husband had gone back to another world on the other side of the planet which I could neither see, nor enter.

            His words came in broken bits and pieces as though he probed the darkness for insight. “We were prisoners of war. We were hiking uphill through the snowy forests of France. My legs shook. I couldn’t feel my toes. I heard the shout, ‘Halt!’ My stomach growled. "I was so hungry. Would there be food?"

            For a moment his eyes closed. He breathed a sigh of relief. "The clearing where we were was crowded with snow covered logs. I chose the nearest one and though it was icy and cold, it felt good to sit down. I reached for the stale bread I was handed by a guard and shoved it into my mouth. But as I licked the crumbs off my lips I looked down and saw a frozen hand, the fingers stiff and spread wide reaching out to me.

            “It was horrifying. The log was a dead man--only his hand stuck out of the snow. Just moments before, I’d sat there glad for a place to sit and eat my lunch. But this man would never move again. Death found him. His life—gone forever.”  His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, then opened. 

            “Bud, I love you—I...”  But he still stared into that dark place, lost in a world I could not see, or comprehend.

            “I hate my hand.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “This hand; it’s done awful things—these fingers pulled the trigger and one German after another fell face down in the dirt. But I had to do it. They told us...” His voice rose to a shout. “Shoot anything that moves!’ And so I did.”

            Bud was only 18 when he was drafted and thrust into battle.  He was just a boy.  My thoughts of the war; the awful Battle of the Bulge with bombs bursting over head and firearms repeating their sentences of death over and over again. Almost I could hear the screams.

            Too late, I thought. World War II is over, but it still whispers its message of hate into the fragile minds of brave soldiers who, though some survived, were marked for life with scars marking both mind and body.

            “Bud,” I whispered, “it was war and you told me you fought for your family and country, and you always said you’d do it all over again if another Hitler rose to power sending innocent men, women and children to the ovens where they died by the millions.”

            I reached for his curled hand, but still lost in the past, he pulled away from my touch. Hurt twisted in the deep places of my being. How could I find words to bring comfort to his soul and to mine?

             “Bud, you have beautiful hands and a brave and tender heart.” Tears trembled in my voice. “Why, I’ve watched you cradle your fingers beneath our little ones' chins and gently wipe their tears away. I've watched you build our home, plant a garden. You’re a good husband and father. We love you so much. We always have. We always will.”

            His face softened—a small smile.  His eyes closed, he finally let me hold his hands in mine. 

            Then I reached for the lamp switch.  I tried to swallow the lump building in my throat. “Bud,"  I said softly.  "You always said things were worse in the darkness. Both of us, you and me, we’ll feel better in the morning. The sun will light up the tree tops and we’ll smile at each other while its rays touch our faces.  We have God’s promise. ‘Weeping may endure for the night, but a shout of joy comes in the morning!’

            Not long after this my husband suffered a stroke and a few months later, he left this world for the next.  I miss him more than I can express in words—yet I know someday I will see his dear face again.

            Some of you are walking through the shadows—caught in the mire of darkness and grief.  Reach for the light, dear ones. You are not alone. God loves you and Joy truly does come in the morning.

            “For His anger is but for a moment, His favor is for a lifetime; Weeping may last for the night, But a shout of joy comes in the morning.” ~Psalm 30:5