Dinner in a Helmet

            

            The morning shone with the glory of late spring. The birds high in the oaks and the firs sheltering our home had awakened early with a chorus of songs.  Mid-morning had come but they still sang their joyful song.

            I stepped out the door and looked towards my garden where overgrown cabbages were waiting to be gathered.  Just then, Morgan, the granddaughter of our next door neighbor came running into my arms, a small white daisy clutched in one hand. “It’s for you,” she exclaimed. “My Grandpa, says it’s a wild one. He said you’d love it.”

“And I do,” I told her. “I love wild things.”

            She let the small daisy kiss her nose then thrust it into my hand. “Do you like to eat them?” she asked.

            “Well no, not particularly. But some wild plants are edible. When I was little I used to pull apart the tall grass stems growing in our yard and nibble their tender soft ends. Of course that’s something you don’t do unless you know for sure they're safe to eat.”

            Morgan cocked her head and frowned. “What about dandelions? I touched their little itsy bitsy petals with my tongue once and they felt so soft. Like silk maybe.”

            I twirled the daisy in my hand as memories flooded through my mind. My husband Bud had kept himself alive by gathering wild things and cooking them in his helmet while he was a prisoner of war. Miners lettuce, Lamb’s Tongue, Sour grass, even stinging Nettles. And dandelions. He ate them raw; sometimes he scrubbed their roots and cooked them separately, at other times he boiled the leaves, flowers and roots all together.

            “My husband taught me lots about wild things, Morgan. He showed me where nettles grew and how to gather them when they were young and tender. Once I cooked them up the same way I did spinach. By then they tasted awfully strong but Bud showed me how to cook them twice using different water each time. That helped.”

            But Morgan wasn’t interested in my prattle about nettles, or spinach. “Did you eat the dandelions, too?” she asked.

            I nodded. “Mostly in salads though. I mixed them up with water cress and added tender new nasturtiums—those yellow and orange flowers in my garden—and the wild violets that grew underneath the oak tree. My children loved it. The grandchildren, not so much.”

            But Morgan was no longer listening. “My Daddy’s calling. We have to go home now.”  She took off running. I saw her stop at the corner of our yard and look up at the alder trees bordering our driveway.   I knew she'd be asking her grandpa if they were edible.

           She stared for a moment then pulled several leaves off a low branch; smiled, then tucked them carefully, one by one, into her pocket. Like my memories, I thought and sudden tears filled my eyes. My childhood floated before my eyes as I remembered roaming through the woods gathering blackberries for dumpling and even rose hips for tea.

            I remembered back to my early marriage--the day I was pulling the aged cabbage from our garden to be boiled for our supper.  Cooking it was no easy task, toughened as it was by lack of water and spending long hours in the August sun. But I did it, slice by slice, and into the pot it went. I covered it with water, and set it on the burner.

            Gradually the pungent smell of cabbage filled the air. But the fork I tried to poke it with refused to penetrate its rubbery surface. I replaced the lid and turned up the heat.

            And then it happened. I heard a cry. Bud had come home from work; he stood crouched on the other side of the counter holding onto his stomach, his eyes wild with horror.

            “Take it away!” He shouted as he gestured towards the stove where the cabbage blissfully boiled. “Please, please. The rotten donkey meat. The cabbage. They added lots of water— but the smell. I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!”  My strong husband quietly murmured, “Will I ever forget?”

            And then I knew. My heart pounded as I turned off the burner and guided him into our bedroom at the back of the house. I returned for the pot of cabbage and carried it into the garden where I dug a deep hole and covered our supper with sweet smelling soil.

            But what about the kitchen? The pungent smell of boiling cabbage still lingered in the air. Vinegar, I’d sweeten the errant pot with water and the last cup of vinegar in the bottle. 

            I’m not sure now what I served for dinner that evening, but it seems we ate applesauce covered with a thick cream. I know we never did discuss the offending cabbage I'd cooked. What I remember most was the tremble in my husband’s voice as he told me and the children stories about the food he'd eaten while he was a prisoner at Bad Orb in Germany.

            My dear husband stayed alive by boiling greens he found in his helmet to make soups of wild things.  His stories touched me deeply. He said he tried to share his knowledge with his comrades, but most refused to eat it even when he offered it to them.

            He tried to explain. “I don’t know why they didn’t, but I know my mother’s teaching and showing us kids how to fill our stomachs with wild edibles is what enabled me to survive.”

            I shuddered. “You were skin and bones when you were liberated; a mere 98 lbs.”

            “Yes," he replied.  "But I’ll never be that again, nor will anyone in my family. I promise you, Eva. No matter what it takes--neither you, nor our kids will ever go hungry.” And we never did.

            It was only a few years later that he came home from the mental hospital where he worked. Right away I noticed a change in his demeanor; his eyes shone and he held his head high as he announced, “Today I was in charge of helping the patients assigned to the ward kitchen to set up the trays for the evening meal. And—are you ready for this—the main dish was sauerkraut..

            “Something miraculous must have happened.”  Bud smiled, “I–I took a deep breath, then speared a strand of cabbage and twirled it around my fork. I took a bite and—guess what?  I can't say I liked it particularly, but it was okay.  It even reminded me of Grandma Bray and the big crock pot she used to fix her famous sauerkraut we kids used to swipe when she wasn't looking.”

            Just writing these words now, brings tears to my eyes; the stroke that took Bud’s life stole his ability to speak and to swallow—to taste.  I thank God for that long ago day when that miraculous healing came and he could eat boiled cabbage again.  How I thank God for what he did for Bud.  My husband is strong and well now—in heaven where the fruit trees bloom…

            The evening he died, his hand closed over mine.  He was telling me good-bye in his own way. He loved me with a forever love which had no ending. 

             I am grateful for the sacrifice my husband made--fighting for our freedom a world away.  I am proud of him and thankful for his life and the lives of so many others--many have died, others live among us.  God bless these dear men and women and their families with peace and love, especially in these hard times.

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

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."