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

To the Uttermost

There's something special about earthly fathers, especially those who show us glimpses of our heavenly Father.

My own dear Daddy met Jesus when he was in his late thirties—it was he who led my mother to his Lord; it was she who was the most verbal of the two. Daddy only had an eighth grade education and I think it was hard for him to put deep thoughts into words. Maybe that was why I always listened when he had something to say.

I'll never forget the day he became so excited about the word “uttermost.” An unearthly joy sparkled in his brown eyes as he entered the back room where I lay curled upon the bed, reading.  He carried his open Bible in one hand and something about him almost seemed to dance where he stood.

“Jesus saves to the 'uttermost,'” he exclaimed. “To the uttermost'. Do you see? The 'uttermost!'”

The way he said, “uttermost” caused me to picture a curling wave holding a sailor in its grip. I imagined Jesus leaning down and snatching the man from the foaming sea.

Then Daddy said it again, “Jesus saves to the 'uttermost.'” The way his tongue rolled around the word “uttermost” made goose bumps pop up on my arms. Suddenly the small child I was realized being saved to the “uttermost” meant something much more than a helpless swimmer snatched to safety.

I knew instinctively that “uttermost,” the way Daddy said it, was something mysterious and wonderful--something which embraced forever. “It went far beyond space and entered eternity. “Uttermost” had something to do with being near the heart of God and to my child's perception that was a glorious nearness and my heart was filled with awe.

Many years later, I stood beside my father's bed at the VA hospital.  It had been eight years since Daddy had recognized me as his daughter. But that day—four days before he entered heaven—I  saw something in his eyes. I leaned over the railing and took his hand. “Daddy,” I whispered, “it's your Eva Jane.”  

He beamed, but no words came as I began to share the things I hadn't been able to tell him during his years of darkness and confusion. His eyes twinkled as I told him of my growing family and how my first book for teens was being published that spring.

I remembered that long ago day from my childhood.  Holding his hand, I read the 23^rd Psalm. “You know Him, Daddy," I said.  "He's the Great Shepherd who saves to the 'uttermost.'”

His fingers tightened around mine.  I saw recognition and a little smile flash into his tired brown eyes.  I saw peace.  My Daddy was ready to see His Jesus.

As I held his gnarled, work-worn hands, I thought about the verse he'd read to me.  It was from Hebrews 7:25 KJV “Wherefore He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.”

It has been well over 30 years since Daddy went to heaven. I think of him often, and I smile.   In my mind’s eye I see his eyes sparkle, and I hear the excitement and wonder in his voice—his words echo down through the years to find their home in my own heart and soul… God, who saves to the “uttermost.”