November, 1942
THE K I NG ’ » BUS I NESS
406
s There Left
delight in them was all bound up in your great desire that they should put God first in their lives, as you had. And now I come to the most im portant part of this letter, ■ thankful that I can say that God in taking you has given me another gift—the gift of Peace through Christ. You know, all these many years I thought I was a real Christian. But it was in the memorial service held for you, at the Sunday morning worship hour in the little church we had both at tended, that God showed me my true condition. Even now I cannot describe that service. I had thought It would be impossible for me to go—the wound was so fresh—how could I go to hear them speak of you? And then I knew I must go—for your sake, for the sake of the children, and for friends who had loved you. I’m so glad I did. It was a beautiful service—a holy one— for God met me there. The pastor’s closing words, “On Sunday morning, December 7, Lieutenant Commander M---------- reached safe port and met his Commander face to face,” fell on the hushed quietness of an audience deeply touched. The choir began to sing, as an invitation, the hymn you loved, “The Haven of Rest.” Then the scales fell from my eyes, and sud denly I saw what it meant to know Christ, “In whom we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace.” As I knelt at the altar, that morn ing, I was able to say, for the first time, “I accept this cross, Lord. Thy will be done.” Peace came to me then, and I knew that I had the abiding presence of the Lord Jesus Christ. That deep joy, that Is not dependent upon circumstances,' has been mine in all these months that have fol lowed. Friends have exclaimed how remarkable it is that I can laugh and sing with our children again.
I prayed so earnestly to meet this sorrow, and I learned, to my joy, that “God is faithful.” It meant so much to me to know that loved ones and friends were holding us up with their prayers. I didn’t try to look into the future. As morning followed morning, as the days wore on, each;one bringing with it the crashing realization of my loss, I simply asked Clod to guide me through that one day. At evening I was grateful for the cafe and for the loving-kindness that had come our way. And slowly I began to sense that I had much—oh, very much— to be thankful for. I’m thankful, first of all, Mike, for all those happy married years with you; thankful, too, that the children are already half-grown, and so they will remember the fine qualities that made up one sturdy, lovable Daddy— you—who believed so strongly in prayer. Remember' the times when the children were small, and when all three of them had the whooping cough at one time? You were so tender and strong then, and I leaned on your strength and your faith in God. Memories of those and other simi lar experiences are precious, but it is the most recent times together that live with me now: The little cottage on the edge of Puget Sound where we lived two whole months with you that last summer while your ship was in the Yard. I’ll never forget the day we stood on the steps watching our three brown, husky youngsters swim ming, and you said, with a catch iii your laughter, “Look at ’em, Honey, watch ’em go—aren’t they swell kids, though?” Somehow I knew that your
An Answer from a GOLD-STAR HOME
Darling: This letter—should it be mailed, as it will not be—would be returned to me marked “unclaimed”—just like those last two letters of mine that came back to me with your rank blotted out in the blackest of ink. But it will do me, good to set down some facts in black and white, just for my own sake. What can I say of that day, De cember 7, that brought fear into our quiet room in California as it did to so many other homes? The chil dren gathered close to the radio, their faces’ frozen with dread. Don, Bob, and Patty, all old enough to realize the meaning of the news—all think ing of their Daddy in the midst of death, rained from the skies at Pearl Harbor. All during the following week I wouldn’t allow myself to lose hope. I kept the Bible open. I tried to pre pare for whatever might be ahead for me. Then on December 3.6, the word came: “The Navy Department deeply regrets. . . .” The rest of the mes sage merged into meaningless words. How can I tell you of the days that followed? How can I tell any one? When one reaches bottom, there’s no way to look except up, and losing you was an experience that plunged me into the lowest depths of sorrow.
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