THE K I N G ’ S BUS I NES S
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K ING ' S BUS I NE S S
I U N I O R
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Thanksgiving For Two
By FRANCES NOBLE PHAIR
H I THERE, young fellow, what yuh thinkin’ about?” The young Army officer smiled as he questioned the freckle-faced boy in the train seat across from him. Surprised, the boy’s face flushed to match his bright red hair. “Why, I . . . I was thinking how glad your dad and mom would be to see you come home,” he stammered as he gazed admiringly at, the war ribbons and decorations on the of ficer’s blouse. “Will you get there in time?” “In time? Time for what?” “Why, for dinner, Thanksgiving dinner.” How could anyone forget that tomorrow was Thanksgiving Day? A strange expression came over the soldier’s face, but before he could answer the boy’s question, the porter flung open the door of the car and gave the first call for dinner. With a muffled, “Guess I better get go ing,” the officer strode quickly down the aisle toward the diner. The red-headed lad wac curled up in his seat, asleep, when the young officer returned. Leaning b a c k he, too, closed his eyes, but not to sleep. “Glad, glad, glad . . . to see you . . .,” the rolling wheels of the train seemed to be saying. “In time for dinner . . . Thanksgiving dinner.” After a while the boy awakened, smiled happily at the young officer, his blue eyes very bright. Just then, the sandwich man started down the aisle. Leaning forward with the grin that had made his whole company love him, the soldier invited, “Say, fellow, that stuff in the dining car wasn’t so hot. I haven’t had a good U. S. sandwich for three years. How about having one with me?”
The grateful look was answer enough. As the sandwiches disappear ed, the soldier asked, “Goin’ far, kid?” “California.” “Is that where your folks live?” “Got no folks. My mother and father went to Heaven to live with the Lord Jesus.” The soldier spoke softly. “Where are you going then?” “Orphan’s Home.” There was si lence. “Well, you had better take me along. I’m in about the same fix,” said the soldier. The boy was too much interested to mind the tears that filled his eyes. “Are your folks dead, too?” “Well . . . er, not exactly . . . that is .L. .” Before he realized what he was do ing, he was telling this young boy: “My mother died when I was six years old, leaving Dad and me alone. When the war started, I wanted to volunteer, but Dad wouldn’t consent. He wanted me to wait until I was old enough for the draft. I ran away from home, changed my name, lied about my age, and enlisted. So, you see, I really haven’t a dad . . . or a home.” “But he is your father, just the same,” the boy insisted, “and he’ll be glad to see you.” “I don’t think so.” “Sure, it’s just like the story in here.” The boy pulled a worn New Testament out of his pocket. Slowly and clearly he read the story of the Prodigal Son from the fifteenth chap ter of Luke, while the young officer listened thoughtfully. The porter interrupted with pillows
for rent. “Two,” the soldier ordered promptly. “Thanks a lot! Say, I don’t even know your name!” “My name’s Nat,” the young officer replied, “Nathaniel Willard.” "I’m Jimmie . . . James Allen Lane. You see, the way I knew your' dad would be glad to have you come home, was this story. Mom explained it to me. She said really the father in the story is God wanting folks to be sorry for their sins, and to come back to Him. She said all good fathers are like that, only it’s up to the boy to go back and say he’s sorry he’s done wrong.” “Yes, Jimmie, but what do you say we go to sleep now and talk some more tomorrow?” said the young of ficer. Long after the boy was sleeping soundly, Nat sat thinking seriously about prodigal sons. Surely, that son in the Bible story was selfish to leave his father. The son had sinned when he was away from home, but he was sorry for it, and his father certainly was glad when he came back. Nat wondered his own father would forgive him if he returned, repentant. He remembered, too, the times he had refused to accept the Lord Jesus Christ as his Saviour. At the battle- front, the godly chaplain had often asked the men to give their hearts to Christ, but he had been stubborn. He did not want to confess his sin . . . the lie which he had told about his name and age. Suddenly, he buried his face in the pillow, and prayed, “O God,
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