Wings of Hope

  

          One of the highlights of my summer was when my son’s wife Jane, asked me to tell her family my favorite story their Grandfather, my husband Bud, told from his days as a prisoner of war during WW2.

            I stumbled for a bit, because over the years Bud’s stories had been told out of order, piecemeal, covering a span of some fifty years—and I, a chronological thinker, was unsure of the timing of the stories he told.

            Then my daughter assured me, “Grandpa’s stories don’t have to be told, or even written in the order in which he experienced them, to be valuable to us, Mom.  We just want to hear them. We want to remember.”

            Her words so aptly spoken, became a deep conviction, a charge, to preserve his stories. Those of us who lived through those years must preserve and tell the stories of men like Bud.  To unfold what happened for future generations, those true experiences too real and valuable to be forgotten.   

            Our generation has a responsibility to fill in the gaps of our missing history and to give voice to those who can no longer speak for themselves.  My husband has been gone now for three years.  One of his great legacies are the stories he told.  Some of the most poignant came from his experiences as a prisoner of war in Germany during WW2.

            And now for a moment—imagine that time staggers a moment…then slowly slips back to the day my husband’s mother, Leola Gibson, a weary mother of seven was preparing a meal in the kitchen of her Oregon City home.   

            So many mouths to feed, so many to care for, she was tired—so very tired.  But she must go on.  Sweat rolled off her forehead as she stoked the old fashioned wood stove, then punched down a mound of bread dough resting beneath a freshly laundered dish towl.  Her strong capable hands quickly formed it into loves which she placed into greased bread pans darkened by many bakings.

            A sudden knock—she wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to open the door.  The uniformed man standing there, held out a telegram.  “It’s for you, Madam.”

            Leola’s stomach tightened into a knot.  She took the telegram and thanked the man, but her heart cried out.  Telegrams always brought bad news.  No God.  Not my Bud.  Please God, please.  Let him be alive.

            Speechless she unfolded the paper with trembling fingers.  The words were capitalized and they burned into her heart

            THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRETS THAT YOUR SON PRIVATE ORAL D. GIBSON HAS BEEN REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION SINCE SEVEN JANUARY IN BELGIUM. IF FURTHER DETAILS OR OTHER INFORMATION ARE RECEIVED YOU WILL BE PROMPTLY NOTIFIED =J A ULIO THE ADJUNTNT GENERAL.

            It could only mean one thing.  No one knew where her eldest son was.  He was missing in action.  She bowed her head.  Why he could be lying alone, wounded, on some distant battlefield. 

            A picture of her boy, covered with blood while bombs exploded overhead burst into her mind.  No, no, not my son, my first born.  He can’t be dead.   More than anything she wanted to believe Bud was still alive.

            That night she lay on her bed and cried deep soul tears until there were none left to shed.  She hadn’t yet told her children and her husband was away seeking work in a far away town.  “Morning will be soon enough,” she whispered.

            At last she slept.

            And then in the stillness of the night her son came and sat on the edge of the bed.  He leaned forward and took her hand.  “Mom, it’s me, your Bud.  I’m okay.  I’m alive.”

            He told her of the places he’d been; the small towns beside the river.  The Battle of the Bulge and where he’d been taken at Bastogne as a prisoner of war to Bad Orb, a Nazi prison camp not far from Frankfurt,  Germany.

            “I’m coming home, Mom.”  He lifted her hand and brushed her swollen knuckles with his lips.  “We only have to wait.”

            Leola awakened with a start.  Her son no longer sat beside her—had he really been there?  Was he alive?  It had all seemed so real.

            Deep in her heart she knew it was true.

            Hope bubbled up inside her as she pushed back her blanket and hurried to the kitchen.  Her eldest son was missing in action, but he wasn’t missing to  God, or to her…his Mother.

            She smiled as she mused.  Today’s family breakfast would be a celebration of words and food.  She took several loaves of the fragrant bread she’d baked and the fresh laid eggs her eldest daughter Ada, had gathered from the chicken house, and set them on the drain board.  There would be bacon her husband had bought to surprise the family, the week before.

            It was only when the food was cooked and the children gathered around the table that she told them the news.  Their beloved big brother serving on the other side of the world was safe.  He’d come through the Battle of the Bulge where he’d been captures; then endured the long trek through ice and snow, through the forests, where he was now a prisoner of war in Bad Orb, Germany.

            He was coming home.  She’d dreamed he had come to her and she knew it was real.  They only had to wait.

*      *      *

            Bud Gibson lay on his narrow hard bed, his nose close to the wires of the bunk above him.  The Nazis had housed their captives in a dank, cold building set aside for prisoners of war.  The wires stretched beneath him held no mattress, only a threadbare blanket way between him and the biting cold and the soldier above him.

            The man beneath him, a new prisoner, coughed and gagged.  Sometimes he whimpered like a small child.  At other times he shouted at those who had captured him.  And then the yelling began.  Strange, one could still hear the rustling sounds of mice—or were they rats, or stray cats prowling tin the darkness?

            Bud twisted this way and that as he struggled to pull the thin blanket higher on his shoulders.  His back ached, his feet throbbed and the aroma of unwashed bodies, blood and filthy debris shoved into every corner, assailed his senses.  What a terrible world of dirt, cold and pain it was.

            Gradually the night deepened and suddenly he felt as though he was airborne.  The cold still embraced him, but now it didn’t seem to matter.  

            Suddenly, he knew.  Somehow he was going home.

            He stepped into his mother’s room.  Sat down on a soft blanket at the edge of her bed and reached for her hand.  “Mom, it’s me, Bud.  I’m alive.  I’m okay.”

            He told her of the places he’d been:  Bastonne where he’d been captured, the snowy forest they had marched through to arrive at last in Bad Orb--Stalag B, a prison camp near Frankfort…

           I think of that 18 year old boy, drafted and thrust into the middle of a terrible war.  Bud saw and experienced things no human being should have to endure.  Yet, in the midst of this horrible ordeal, God was merciful.  God allowed my husband to fly through the night on wings of hope to let his beloved Mother know he was alright--to assure her that he was coming home. 

All they had to do was wait.

Unexpected Beauty and Joy

 A few days ago I looked out my window in the early dawn and saw the branches of the dark fir  trees pressed against a sky of gold. 

Suddenly my mind takes me back to the day our house was so badly damaged in the 1962 Columbus Day storm. The roof over our living room and kitchen had been rolled up like a scroll and tossed into the neighbor's field, shattered windows left shards of glass covering our floors.

The months that  followed were difficult; I was pregnant with my fourth child and money was scarce as we repaired the roof, windows and walls.  It was all we could do to purchase food and the supplies we needed to live. 

That was when a friend slipped a ten dollar bill into my hand; "You need to do something for you, Eva  Use this to get yourself something beautiful to give you joy."

The Sunday after that our little country church on the hill had a guest speaker; a WW2 veteran whose airplane had been shot down  during active combat over Germany. This man escaped capture by hiking across Europe.  Back home he felt led to give his life to traveling across the United  States, telling his true-life stories of God's miracles.

As my family and I got ready to leave, I strongly sensed  God wanted me to give this man my 10 dollar bill. I hesitated, but the feeling wouldn't go away; I walked over to where he stood at the door with his Bible in hand.

"For you," I said, as I gave him my gift.  Although God gave me peace and joy at that moment it was no comparison to the joy I felt when received a letter from several months later. 

"Dear Sister, I experienced a great blessing and thank both God and you for it; These past few weeks have been difficult for me and this morning I woke to the realization that the only thing in my cupboard was 2 cans of corn. But I couldn't eat it because I had a medical issue;  First I prayed and then I reached for the old Bible I used when I spoke at your church. I opened it and there on the page lay the ten dollars you gave me that Sunday morning." 

After I read the letter, I wrote on the page in the front of my Bible, "It is more blessed to give than to receive. Lord, I don't want to ever forget."

Have you ever felt a nudge to do something out of the ordinary?  Or to give, when you are in extreme need yourself?  Pay attention.  When a person is obedient to God's direction—miracles happen.  Sometimes we get a glimpse of what God was doing, yet in other circumstances, we may never know. But there is always a blessing when we are obedient to our mighty Creator. 

My friend had told me to use her gift for something beautiful--something which would bring me joy.  In my obedience to the Lord, I found both beauty and joy.

Isaiah 55:12 - "You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands."

Joy in Life's Shadows

This spring, here in Oregon's Willamette Valley, has brought us many unseasonably cool and cloud-filled days.  Maybe that's why this verse caught my attention. "And the LORD went before them by day in a pillar of cloud to lead them along the way." [Exodus 13:21]

It seems that cloud and pillar of fire are bound up in Scripture with thoughts of guidance.  When Israel was wandering in the wilderness, each new day began with the sight of this impenetrable cloud. What would this day bring? Would they journey forward or would they wait another day in the camp?

It seems as though, following our accident a year ago, my husband and I have spent a lot of days waiting for the cloud to move. Yet looking back I see the cloud which overshadowed us did move, but it was according to our Lord's timetable, not ours. Days in the hospital, then with our youngest daughter in Albany, our eldest daughter in Independence, at the end of September our own home in Wilsonville. 

It seems like we're still following the cloud, but I continue to read Exodus.  When Moses lingered at the foot of  the mountain, he heard a voice of his Friend calling.  Come up to me on the mountain, and wait there... Then Moses went up on the mountain, and the cloud covered the mountain. [Exodus 24:12, 15 ]  In the cool darkness of the cloud Moses beheld the glory of the Lord and heard His voice.

It is so with us.  Day by day, as we look forward into the hours which rush up before us, we see not clear skies but a cloud.  Then a Voice we know calls softly, "Come up to Me, and be here."  The cloud of the unknown, then becomes for us the over-shadowing wings of the Lord; "I have . . . hid you in the shadow of my hand," [Isaiah 51:16].

We sit under His shadow.  His shadow is greater than our life's shadows.  His presence is real. "With great delight I sat in his shadow and his fruit was sweet to my taste." [Song of Solomon 2:3].   This fruit we first tasted in the dark alone with Him, will be ours to share with others.  "What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs." [Matthew 10:27 NIV]

There is JOY in the shadow, a purpose for the pain.  God never wastes our tears--they are precious to Him.

Transformed

Our God is a faithful Creator who "makes all things works for the good of those who love him." (Romans 8:28) As I lingered over those verses a question formed in my heart.

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"Lord," I asked. "Do you really transform despair into beauty? You made that promise when you said you had been sent ". . . to comfort all who mourn and provide for those who grieve in Zion--to bestow a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair." (Isaiah 61:3)

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And suddenly I remembered the ancient pickup truck my husband parked in the back yard outside the kitchen window. He told me and the kids to throw our garbage and discards into it, so he could drive it to the dump. It didn't take us long to fill that old pickup with smashed plastic jugs, rusted pipes and cans, tattered clothes and crushed cardboard. But then that old pick up wouldn't start.

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And so it sat.

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For months, every time I prepared meals or cleaned the kitchen, I'd look out the window and see that dented vehicle with its ton of garbage. I hated the sight--the disorderly ugliness grated my spirit.

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Winter came and one night it snowed. I went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate and someone turned on the porch light. I looked out the window.

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Huge snowflakes drifted down and light reflected off the pick up windows. Ugly cans, frayed sponge rubber, a rusted mattress, all were frosted in an intricate design of white fringed with black.

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It made me want to cry.

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That old, ugly pickup with its mess of garbage had been transformed into beauty.

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I'll never forget that precious picture of God's grace. That long ago night He showed me, in a new way, His power to transform ugly circumstances and situations into beauty.

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Since then I've seen Him do the same for people who've been bruised and scarred. Yes, our faithful Creator has power to bring forth hope and beauty from ashes and despair.

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He's done it before. He can do it again.