CHRISTIAN LEADERSHIP TRAINING PROGRAM
CLTP 37
DFO
10/98
Power for Forgiveness
(Recommended for Junior Teens and up. Selected stories may be read with younger ones at adults' discretion.)
IN THIS ISSUE
Could You Have Loved This Much?
1
My Prison of Hate
4
The Meeting at the Wall
8
Bitterness and Forgiveness
10
Anger Can Ruin You
13
The Key Log
14
The Dress
15
One Act of Kindness
18
The Real Donald Smiley
20
Could You Have Loved This Much? 1
This is the story of a woman's love for her husband. Whether he deserved that loveand why he acted the way he didare questions I can't answer. I'm not going to write about Karl Taylor; this story is about his wife.
The story begins early in 1950 in the Taylors' small apartment in Waltham, Massachusetts. Edith Taylor was sure that she was "the luckiest woman on the block." She and Karl had been married 23 years, and her heart still skipped a beat when he walked into the room.
Oh, there'd been tough times during those years, times when Karl had been depressed, unable to keep a job; but she had helped him through the low times and she only loved him more because he needed her.
As for Karl, he gave every appearance of a man in love with his wife. Indeed, he seemed almost dependent on her, as if he didn't want to be too long away from her. If his job as a government warehouse worker took him out of town, he'd write Edith a long letter every night and drop her postcards several times during the day. He sent small gifts from every place he visited.
Often at night they'd sit up late in their apartment and talk about the house they'd own someday "when we can make the down payment "
In February 1950, the government sent Karl to Okinawa for a few months to work in a new warehouse there.
This time, no little gifts came. Edith understood. He was putting every cent he saved into the bank for their home.
The lonesome months dragged on, and it seemed to Edith that the job over there was taking longer and longer. Each time she expected him home he'd write that he must stay "another three weeks." "Another month." "Just a couple of months longer."
He'd been gone a year nowand suddenly Edith had an inspiration. Why not buy their home now, before Karl got back, as a surprise for him! She was working now, in a factory in Waltham, and putting all her earnings in the bank. So she made a down payment on a cozy, unfinished cottage with lots of trees and a view.
Now the days sped past because she was busy with her wonderful surprise. In two months more, she earned enough to get the floor laid in one of the bedrooms. The next month, she ordered the insulation. She was getting into debt, she knew, but with what Karl must have saved
She worked feverishly, almost desperately, for now there was something she didn't want to think about.
Karl's letters were coming less and less often. No gifts she understood. But a few pennies for a postage stamp?
Then, after weeks of silence, came a letter:
"Dear Edith, I wish there were a kinder way to tell you that we are no longer married. "
Edith walked to the sofa and sat down. He'd written to Mexico for a divorce. It had come in the mail. The woman lived in Okinawa. She was Japanese, Aiko, a maid assigned to his quarters.
Aiko was 19. Edith was 48.
Now, if I were making up this story, the rejected wife would feel first shock, then fury. She would fight that quick paper-divorce; she would hate her husband and the other woman. She would want vengeance for her own shattered life.
But I am describing here simply what did happen. Edith Taylor did not hate Karl. Perhaps she had loved him so long she was unable to stop loving him.
She could picture the situation so well. A penniless girl. A lonely man whoEdith knew itsometimes drank more than he should. Constant closeness. But even so (here Edith made a heroic effort to be proud of her husband)even so, Karl had not done the easy, shameful thing. He had chosen the hard way of divorce, rather than take advantage of a young servant-girl.
The only thing Edith could not believe was that he had stopped loving her. That he loved Aiko, too, she made herself accept. But the difference in their ages, in their backgroundsthis couldn't be the kind of love she and Karl had known! Someday they would both discover this; someday, somehow, Karl would come home.
Edith now built her life around this thought. She wrote Karl, asking him to keep her in touch with the small, day-to-day things in his life. She sold the little cottage with its view and its snug insulation. Karl never knew about it.
He wrote one day that he and Aiko were expecting a baby. Marie was born in 1951, then in 1953, Helen. Edith sent gifts to the little girls. She still wrote to Karl and he wrote back: the comfortable, detailed letters of two people who knew each other very well. Helen had a tooth. Aiko's English was improving. Karl had lost weight.
Edith's life was lived now on Okinawa. She merely went through the motions of existence in Waltham. Back and forth between factory and apartment, her mind was always on Karl. Someday he'll come back.
And then the terrible letter: Karl was dying of lung cancer. Karl's last letters were filled with fear. Not for himself, but for Aiko, and especially for his two little girls. He had been saving to send them to school in America, but his hospital bills were taking everything. What would become of them?
Then Edith knew that her last gift to Karl could be peace of mind for these final weeks. She wrote him that, if Aiko were willing, she would take Marie and Helen and bring them up in Waltham.
For many months after Karl's death, Aiko would not let the children go. They were all she had ever known. Yet what could she offer them except a life like hers had been? A life of poverty, servitude, and despair. In November, 1956, she sent them to her "dear Aunt Edith."
Edith had known it would be hard to be mother at 54 to a three-year-old and a five-year-old. She hadn't known that in the time since Karl's death they would forget the little English they knew.
But Marie and Helen learned fast. The fear left their eyes, their faces grew plump. And Edithfor the first time in six years, Edith was hurrying home from work. Even getting meals was fun again!
Sadder were the times when letters came from Aiko. "Aunt, tell me now what they do. If Marie or Helen cry or not." In the broken English, Edith read the loneliness, and she knew what it was to be lonely.
Money was another problem. Edith hired a woman to care for the girls while she worked. Being both mother and wage-earner left her thin and tired. In February she became ill, but she kept working because she was afraid to lose a day's pay; at the factory one day she fainted. She was in the hospital two weeks with pneumonia.
There in the hospital bed, she faced the fact that she would be old before the girls were grown. She thought she had done everything that love for Karl asked of her, but now she knew there was one thing more. She must bring the girls' real mother here to the United States, to their home.
She had made the decision, but doing it was something else. Aiko was still a Japanese citizen, and that immigration quota had a waiting list many years long.
It was then that Edith Taylor wrote to me. I described the situation in my newspaper column. Petitions were started, a special bill speeded through Congress, and in August 1957, Aiko Taylor was permitted to enter the country.
As the plane came in at New York's International Airport, Edith had a moment of fear. What if she should hate this woman who had taken Karl away from her?
The last person off the plane was a girl so thin and small that Edith thought at first it was a child. She did not come down the stairs, she only stood there, clutching the railing, and Edith knew that if she herself had been afraid, Aiko was near panic.
She called Aiko's name and the girl rushed down the steps and into Edith's arms. In that brief moment, as they held each other, Edith had an extraordinary thought. Help me, she prayed, her eyes shut tight. Help me to love this girl, as if she were part of Karl, come home. I prayed for him to come back. Now he hasin his two little daughters and in this gentle girl that he loved. Help me, God, to know that.
Today, Edith and Aiko Taylor and the two little girls live together in the apartment in Waltham. Marie is the best student in her second grade class; Helen's kindergarten teacher adores her. And Aikoshe is studying to be a nurse. Someday, she and Edith would like a house of their own. At night they sit up late and make plans. Today Edith Taylor knows she is "the luckiest woman on the block."
My Prison of Hate
By Hasula Hanna 2
If he had done to your daughter what he did to mine, you probably would have hated him too.
It happened on a misty Saturday evening in January.
I had supper waiting for Pat, who usually arrived home from her job in downtown Denver at 5:30. I was on the phone with a friend when I noticed it was after six o'clock and Pat hadn't shown up yet. My friend got right off the line in case my daughter had been trying to reach me.
But the phone did not ring.
By seven o'clock I was walking the floor. This wasn't like Pat. She was a sensible woman of 35 who always kept me informed of her whereabouts. She had phoned as usual at five o'clock to tell me that she was putting on the burglar alarm and preparing to leave her office. I started supper then so it would be ready when she got home.
Now I was very worried. Pat was all I had left in the world. Her father had died 20 years ago when she was 15, and we were very close. She had lived in another city for a while but returned to Denver to attend Bible college, working part time. Pat planned to become a missionary to reach people for Christ, and I was so proud of her.
I thought of how smart she had looked this morning, dressed in a blue pants suit with a knit cap perched on her dark hair. She'd waved to me before she stepped into her little white Rambler and drove off.
The house was so still. I turned off the gas under the food and covered it up. I couldn't touch a thing.
I called her office. No answer. Then I phoned the burglar alarm company and learned that the alarm had been put on at 5:00 p.m.
Could she have been in an accident? I was reluctant to call the police; it was like admitting that something terrible might have happened. But I forced myself to dial them. No, they said after I described her, no reports.
Frantically I called the hospitals; no one like Pat had been brought in.
I looked up at the clock: 9:00 p.m. One of Pat's comments during our phone conversation tolled in my memory like a funeral bell. "I forgot to pull the car around in front of the building, Mother," she had said. "I dread going into that back lot."
Desperate now, I dialed an instructor at her Bible college. He said he'd take some of the young men and go to her office. Within a half-hour he called back. No sign of Pat or her car.
"Thank you, Ed," I said weakly, feeling my heart sink even lower.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.
"No," I sighed, putting the phone on its cradle. The black night pressed against the living room windows, invading the room, flooding my heart and soul.
All night I paced the floor, calling the police every hour or so. Early in the morning an officer came to take a detailed description of Pat, the car and her clothing. I gave him a snapshot that I had taken of her in front of church some months ago.
In the meantime, I called a friend who was on her way to the early church service to ask her to have the congregation pray for Pat.
Around ten o'clock Sunday morning I got a chilling call from the county police: "Does your daughter have any identifying scars or marks?"
I recalled how as a youngster Pat and some neighbor children had been playing Tarzan. Pat had slipped and a sharp tree branch cut her arm deeply. The scar was all I could tell them about.
Twice more they called. The second time they wanted the name of my pastor.
Sunday afternoon I decided that I had better fix something to eat. Just as I was sitting down to some cottage cheese and peaches, I saw our choir director, Harvey Schroeder, coming up the walk, his head down. Two men who had stepped out of an official county car followed him.
I met them at the door. "You've found Pat, haven't you?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hanna, we have found her," one of the men said, his eyes full of pain.
"She's not coming home, is she?"
"No."
Two boys out rabbit hunting Sunday morning had found her body on the side of a road, where it evidently had been thrown from a car.
The room whirled and I seemed suspended in space.
"Mrs. Hanna Mrs. Hanna!"
Arms helped me to a chair; I sat for a long time staring unseeingly.
For the next few days I walked through the formalities like a robot. Standing by Pat's casket, I responded mechanically to the endless line of mourners from her Bible college, office and church.
Then I was alone in a desolate house. As the night wind rattled ice-hardened branches against windows, I lay awake, thinking of my daughter's last moments on earth. She had been raped and stabbed.
I could not believe that anyone could do something so evil, so cruel, and so hideous to another human being. As I thought of the unknown killer, a cold hate welled within me. Like the spears of ice hanging from the eaves outside my windows, it grew with each passing day.
In church, while our pastor spoke of love, my mind dwelled on vengeance. When I came upon Pat's unfinished Bible homework on her desk, I clasped it to my breast and screamed in rage. Each piece of sacred sheet music on her piano seemed to cry out for justice. How could God allow this to happen? And to someone who was going to work for Him!
Finally, able to function at last, I went back to my office job. Every so often I'd seem to hear Pat's voice on the street, but it would be someone else cheerily talking.
Consumed with a passion to see the person who killed my daughter brought to justice, I studied the newspapers and kept in touch with the police.
In March he struck again. A woman's body was found behind a church one morning. Scrawled in the snow beside it were the words, "I hate women."
A few months later another woman was attacked but managed to escape. Police suspected the same man. Then, in a shopping center one October Saturday afternoon, a woman was assaulted as she stepped into her car. As she desperately fought the man who slashed at her, a policeman rushed up and seized him.
I'll never forget seeing the face of my daughter's murderer staring back at me from a page of The Denver Post. His name was Carlton Moore.* Taking a letter opener, I slowly drew it across his face, slashing it again and again until the paper was ribbons. (* The name has been changed.)
Now I had someone on whom I could focus my hate. I read that he had been raised in a troubled home with an alcoholic father and a disturbed mother. Though he had a high I.Q., he had been so neglected and abused that from the age of nine he had been in and out of reform school many times. Carlton Moore had been out on parole only two months when he killed my daughter.
When they had the hearing, I drove downtown to the courthouse and watched from the rear of the room. If my eyes had been able to kill, Carlton Moore would have died right then.
I followed the case closely. Carlton Moore pleaded guilty to the murder he'd committed in March and was given a life sentence.
It was so unfair! Why should he live when my daughter had died?
Months and then a year passed. I kept more and more to myself, which wasn't difficult to do. Bitter and sharp-tongued, I was not good company, and my fellow-workers avoided me.
"What has happened to you, Hasula?" asked one friend in concern after church one Sunday. "You look so drawn, so"
I glared, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Had she forgotten so soon? But then, who could understand what I had been through?
The blight of Pat's death seemed to affect everything in my life. A small business venture in which I had invested precious funds went sour. I was angry with myself and with the former friend who had recommended it.
I wasn't feeling well at all. Now almost a recluse, I turned down invitations to dinner and social affairs, attending church and Sunday school more from habit than desire.
Almost two years went by, years of solitary journeys to the graves of Pat and my husband. Now, at 62, I did not care how many years were left for me. All that seemed alive was the hate burning within me like a subterranean fire in a vein of coal smoldering, consuming everything in me that had once responded to love, laughter and beauty.
Then something happened on a snowy Sunday in December 1971 in my church-school class.
Don Gentry of the local Gideons came to tell us about a plan in which we could send Bibles anywhere, as a memorial for loved ones.
As he talked, his words seemed to fade away. For Someone was speaking to mea soft, gentle voice whispering over my shoulder.
My life, too, had a brutal ending. Yet My Father did not turn away from His lost children. I knew it was Jesus.
Set yourself free by forgiving, He seemed to be saying. Set yourself free from your prison of hate.
The words that had been whispered over my shoulder rang in my ears like summoning bells.
Dear Jesus, I prayed, how can I forgive him, and mean it, with all this bitterness in my heart?
And the answer came: Have you forgotten My promise? If you forgive men their trespasses, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you. (See Matthew 6:14.)
Class was over and it seemed only minutes had passed. I felt as if I were in some kind of passagewaynot here, not there. Shakily, I rose from my seat and stepped up to Don Gentry. I heard my voice asking him to have several Bibles sent to the penitentiary. And then, as I wrote the check, I asked, "Would you have one delivered personally?"
"Yes," he said.
"Then take one Bible to a convict named Carlton Moore and tell him, 'Because Jesus forgives her, Mrs. Hanna forgives you, and because Jesus said, "Love one another," Mrs. Hanna loves you.'"
It was as if somebody else were talking. But as soon as the words left my mouth, I felt as if I had stepped out of an iron shell, loosed from something that had bound me.
As soon as I got home, I fell on the bed and began crying for the first time in years, sobbing until there were no tears left and I lay limp.
I was free. When I had made the gesture of forgiveness with the gift of the Bible, God removed the rancor and alienation that had burdened my heart for so long. I rose and walked to the window, feeling like a child facing a new day.
The snow had stopped and the sun was sparkling off a fresh, white world with mountains rising in the distance. I felt as if I could fly to their peaks and soar endlessly. There at the window I began a never-ending prayer that Carlton Moore would find Jesus and be set spiritually free, as I was.
Nine months passed. I was now living a full and happy life. Though I had heard nothing about my Bible gift, it did not seem to matter. On returning from visiting friends one evening, I walked into the house to hear the phone ringing. It was Don Gentry from the Gideons.
"Where have you been, you gadabout?" he laughed. "I've been trying to reach you for some time." Then he said he had a letter to read to me. It was from Lt. Col. B.L. Shelton (retired) and Harry Palmer, the Gideons who had taken my Bible gift to the man who killed my daughter.
They reported that some months after Carlton Moore received the Bible, he accepted Jesus Christ. Expressing how much inspiration the Bible brought him, he wanted this message conveyed to me:
"Tell Mrs. Hanna that she has given me a gift such as I have never had before. I believe that if she could show me such forgiveness, I have hope and faith that God could do the same for me."
By the time Don Gentry finished reading the letter, we both were crying so hard we could barely speak.
Now my life changed even more as I began keeping up with Carlton Moore through those ministering to him and through letters I exchanged with him.
I learned that when he entered prison he had been sullen and morose, but after receiving the Bible, he had changed remarkably. No one, he said, had ever told him that he was loved, or that Jesus loved him. He had always been told that when he died he was going to Hell. He decided that when he got there, no one else would have done anything worse than he.
In the years since his conversion, Carlton Moore has become a minister to fellow convicts, teaching a Bible-study program, counseling others and distributing Bibles and reading material, some of which I send him.
I often think back to Pat's memorial service when the pastor said that the Lord had given him these words: "Satan meant evil out of this, but from it I will bring good."
Looking at me from the pulpit he said: "That's a promise you can bank on, Hasula."
At the time I shrugged his words away. The other day I received a letter, typical of many that come to me now. "I want you to know, Mrs. Hanna," wrote a convict's sister, "that my brother in prison was brought to Christ by Carlton Moore. You'll never know how much this means to us."
Tears dimmed my eyes. I did know how much this meant to them. For God had shown me that Carlton Moore had become the missionary for Christ that my daughter had planned to be.
The old Carlton Moore had died and so had the old, embittered Hasula Hannawhen she found the miraculous power of forgiveness.
The Meeting at the Wall
By John Plummer 3
I was in my living room reading a book with the television on low. It was a warm, pleasant June evening in 1996, and I was glad to have some time to myself.
Then a photo flashed on the screen, an image that had haunted me for years. No matter how often I saw it, the pain came back to me. How could I be forgiven? How could I even speak of my part in it? A little Vietnamese girl running toward the camera, arms outstretched, screaming hysterically from the terrible napalm burns. This Pulitzer prize-winning photo had wrung the hearts of millions, but it was particularly wrenching for me: I was the one responsible for the girl's agony.
I leaned forward and turned up the volume. The reporter revealed that the girl, Phan Thi Kim Phuc, was married and living in Toronto.
She's alive, I thought with gratitude.
My thoughts went back to 1972, when I was a U.S. Army captain stationed in Vietnam. Assigned to the G3 air staff of the Third Regional Assistance Command (TRAC), I targeted B-52 strikes, planning and coordinating fighter-jet support for ground troops. If a unit was in trouble, I was called to provide air support for themand fast.
That spring, from my post in a command bunker I was speaking by radio with a U.S. advisor to a South Vietnamese unit that was trying to take the town of Trang Bang. "We need help immediately," the advisor reported tersely. Viet Cong were dug in near them. He gave me target coordinates.
After studying the map I was puzzled. "This is right on the edge of the village," I said. "What about the friendlies?" That was the term for allied civilians.
"There are no friendlies," he said. "They're all out. Evacuated."
I knew the best munitions for entrenched enemy were napalm and high-explosive bombs. Since the target was close to our troops, I wanted the most accurate means of delivery. I located a South Vietnamese air unit with A-37 and A-1E attack aircraft.
But I was still concerned. To make doubly sure I checked with the district headquarters. "What's the friendly situation down there?"
"All the villagers have left."
I radioed approval and about five minutes later the advisor reported, "Bombs right on target; our ground troops are moving in."
A routine mission, I thought. I had done it dozens of times.
Three days later I headed into the mess hall and grabbed a copy of The Stars and Stripes, the military newspaper, from the stack at the door. I got my food, sat down, picked up my coffee and opened the paper. A heartbreaking photograph stared out at me. A nine-year-old girl running from fire. The accompanying article said she was burned as a result of an air strike on the village of Trang Bang.
The attack I had called.
My hand shook and hot coffee splashed on the table. For a moment I was almost unable to breathe. A tablemate stared at me. I mumbled, "That's the strike I put in."
That was the one and only time I ever mentioned the incident in Vietnam. Nobody questioned me about it and I tried to put it out of my mind. But the guiltthe horrible, soul-crushing guiltfestered. I didn't see a chaplain because I had long since given up on church. When I returned to the States the photo seemed to be everywhere in magazines, newspapers, on television. I couldn't get away from it.
After my discharge in early 1974, I lived a life of desperate unhappiness. Trying to blot out my painful memories, I drank too much. Two marriages ended in divorce. Crippled emotionally, I couldn't open myself to others.
Then one New Year's Eve I met Joanne on a blind date. She was a committed Christian and together she and I worshipped at my childhood church in Hoke County, N.C. We were wed there. I loved Joanne, but her openness and generosity to others took me off guard. She was always doing something for someone, often at a cost to herself. I wondered where she found the energy and love.
In the late 1980s I became an executive with a large defense contractor and we were moved to northern Virginia, where we found a church in Vienna. There I saw people really living their beliefs. On a retreat one weekend I broke down in tears, realizing how far I was from what God wanted me to be. In November 1990, I turned my life over to Christ, and for the first time I understood what God's grace really meant. I was forgiven. And yet I still suffered terrible remorse and pain for what that little girl had gone through.
As I grew in faith I felt the Lord calling me to the ministry. With Joanne's support I went to seminary and eventually I came to Purcellville as the pastor of Bethany United Methodist Church.
It was there in my living room that I saw again the picture that had haunted me. For the first time I heard about the girl. After she had recovered from her burns, Kim Phuc had been used by the communists as a propaganda tool, despite her objections. She was sent to Cuba to study pharmacology, and there she fell in love with another Vietnamese student. The couple was given a trip to Moscow for their honeymoon, and on their way back, when the plane was refueling in Newfoundland, they had sought political asylum. Now they were living in Toronto with a young son.
I was overwhelmed with emotion. I wanted desperately to see her. But I was afraid. I couldn't imagine she would want to see the man who had caused her suffering.
Several weeks later, at a Vietnam Helicopter Pilots Association gathering in California, I met Linh Duy Vo, a Vietnamese poet. Linh knew both Kim Phuc and Nick Ut, the photographer who took the famous photo. I learned that back in Trang Bang, Kim Phuc and her family had been in a pagoda when it was bombed. They fled into the street, where she was burned by napalm. Nick Ut rushed her to a hospital. She wasn't expected to survive. For 14 months she had been hospitalized. Her chin had fused to her chest and her left arm was stuck to her rib cage. An American plastic surgeon operated on her and helped her begin a new life.
After I returned to Virginia, Linh contacted me and said he had told Kim Phuc about me. He said she was a Christian and he thought we should get together. But I shrank from the possibility; it was too painful, too frightening.
Then I learned Kim was going to be at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., for Veterans Day ceremonies. I had already planned to be at the Wall. It was as though the Lord were orchestrating our meeting.
On Monday, November 11, 1996, I was at the black polished-granite memorial. Several fellow veterans were with me, giving me emotional support. All morning we waited, with no sign of Kim Phuc.
Suddenly there was a rustle in the crowd and I saw reporters and photographers surrounding a short Vietnamese woman who was being escorted to the speaker's platform.
A man introduced Kim. He explained that two of her family members had been killed that day in Trang Bang. Lord, have mercy, I prayed. I began to shake, huge sobs coming from me. My buddies put their arms around me. Then Kim spoke: "If I could talk face to face with the pilot who dropped the bombs I would tell him we cannot change history, but we should try to do good things for the present and for the future to promote peace."
With a trembling hand, I wrote a note: "I need to speak with you for a moment." I gave it to a park-service officer to hand to her, but by then the ceremony had ended and Kim was escorted away. My heart sank. I would never see her again.
Then a friend raced up. "I'll get you to her," he said. Dodging through the crowd, he led me to Kim Phuc, who was just about to step into a waiting police car. Someone told her I was there. She turned and looked into my eyes. Her face full of compassion, she opened her arms. I fell into them sobbing, "I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"I forgive. I forgive," she said, embracing me. In an instant the remorse was gone. The burden was lifted.
I was invited to join her at her hotel. There we spoke for a long, long time. All the while I was thinking how amazing it was I was seeing Kim Phuc. For 24 years I had run away from the pain I had caused her, and now God had finally brought us together. Finally I was at peace with my past.
At the end of our visit we held hands and prayed, sitting on a couch in the hotel lobby. Now I remain in awe of the power of God's love. When I couldn't forgive myself, God helped me find forgiveness from the person from whom I most needed it.
Bitterness and Forgiveness
By Virginia Brandt Berg 4
A lot of people have a lot to say about how they've been mistreated, or misjudged, or unjustly treated in some way or other. There's a little tract which begins in this way: "A small boy prayed, 'Lord, make all the bad people good, and then Lord, make all the good people nice.'" Well, unfortunately, many good Christian people aren't nice.
A lady advertised for a young woman to be her traveling companion, and she closed the advertisement thus: "Christian wanted. Cheerful, if possible." Evidently this woman had found that some Christian souls lack a cheerful disposition. Well, sometimes we have to live with people like that, and that seems to be a problem expressed by manyresentment building up in the heart, almost hatred. Some people have a judging spirit towards the ones who're mistreating them, be they their husband, wife, in-laws, relatives, co-workers, or friends.
Matthew 7:1 says, "Judge not, that ye be not judged." Let's be careful about that, for verse two says, "For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again." That should make us a little more thoughtful about the way we criticize others, for exactly what you give will be exactly what you receive.
In your feelings toward that person whom you feel is so unjust to you, don't take their judgment into your own hands. Better to be a little hesitant about the judging, better to have mercy on that person, for the Word states in James 2:12,13a: "So speak ye, and so do, as they that shall be judged by the law of liberty. For he shall have judgment without mercy, that hath showed no mercy." It's better to judge by the Law of Love, God's law.
The next verse is even more sobering, Romans 2:1-4, where it says, "Therefore, thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things. But we are sure that the judgment of God is according to truth against them which commit such things. And thinkest thou this, O man, that judgest them which do such things, and doest the same, that thou shalt escape the judgment of God? Or despisest thou the riches of His goodness and forbearance and longsuffering; not knowing that the goodness of God leadeth thee to repentance?"
It's an awful thing to bear a grudge, or a critical spirit, or hatred of another. If you are a professing Christian, it is far better to forgive and forget that injustice that has been done against you, than to have that condemnation of God upon you. And these verses make it very plain just what the reaping is going to be.
Don't take vengeance into your own hands. Don't hit back. Don't let bitterness creep into your heart. Nothing will so ruin your disposition as to let bitterness get in your heart. God's Word says, "Beware lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled" (Hebrews 12:15). God will take care of that person in due time, if you leave the whole matter in His hands.
"To Me belongeth vengeance, and recompense; their foot shall slide in due time" (Deuteronomy 32:35). Better to pity and love that one, for pity they will need when they fall into the hands of an angry God, Who says, "Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord" (Romans 12:19).
Perhaps you feel that you have to do something about the wrong that's been done to you, or the slandering you've suffered, or the cruel words that have been flung at you. You think God's too slow, and you're going to have to take things into your own hands and hurt the person as they've hurt you, bring vengeance on them.
But in so doing, you'll only hurt yourself and disobey God, get out of His will, have broken fellowship with Him, and that's going to make things a whole lot worse. The Lord knows all about it, and He speaks with finality regarding your forgiving that person, no matter how unfair it's all been.
He says, "But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses" (Matthew 6:15). And Matthew 18:35 says, "So likewise shall My Heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses."
But you can't do it yourself, beloved! It's not something that can be achieved in the natural. It has to be the Spirit of Christ working in and through you. "I can of my own self do nothing" (John 5:30a). Lay the whole problem at Jesus' feet, tell Him about it, and then positively commit it to Him and leave it with Him. Then He'll begin to work. This isn't what you feel like doing, but this is what the world needs to see: God's love manifested through His born-again children.
This is a true test of discipleship, as Jesus said, "By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if ye have love one to another" (John 13:35). It's God's love working through you as you yield all to Him. It'll be a miracle if you can love that persona miracle of God's grace, with which He'll supply you.This is the Law of Love.
He waits to help you; He wants to. When you ask Him for His help, there will be no veil nor cloud between you and Him. Then He can work out the full purpose of His will and plan for your life, because it will be utterly surrendered to Him with all of its problems and all the things which harass you. God knows about it all, and He cares, and He loves you.
The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star
And reaches to the lowest hell.
The guilty pair, brought down with care,
God gave His Son to win.
His erring child He reconciled,
And saved us from our sin.
Oh love of God, how rich and pure,
How measureless and strong!
It shall forever more endure
The saints' and angels' song.
Anger Can Ruin You
By Blair Reed 5
When Eddie Michaelson* and I dissolved our partnership seven years ago, I little suspected that he would be entering my life again in a threatening manner, or that I would ever desire to do him bodily violence. (* Name changed.)
Our business was a waterproofing and painting service which then, as now, operated in Baltimore. Eddie had been in charge of the painting half of the partnership, and now he planned to go into business for himself.
The business figures showed that Eddie owed me about $200 in back debts. Still, our actual parting was friendly, and to help him get started, I secured a paint job for him and made up his first contract.
Two weeks later, in return for my help, Eddie did something that stunned me like a blow to the stomach.
My company had been given a contract to clean the rust from a roll-type garage door and paint it with specialized paint. I had put a man, Paul Bevan, on the job cleaning the large metal door with a rotating power sander. One day, checking on the job, I found Paul standing idle. "Mr. Michaelson came and took the power tool away," Paul said.
I looked at Paul, astounded. "Hewhat?"
Paul nodded. "Took the power tool right out of my hands and carried it off. Said it was his by rights anyway."
This was so far from the truth that it was a long moment before I could get over the surprise of it. Then, in a rush, my reaction to his ingratitude boiled up within me to a pressured rage such as I had not known in years.
My head pounded with anger and hate; I trembled, and for a moment I could not speak.
Paul looked at me with interest, sensing a battle. "You're gonna get it back, ain'tcha? You ain't gonna let him get away with it?"
The red lights were on inside me, warning me. The high tension of my rage was a pain and a misery. A small voice in my head said: "Watch it! Don't talk, don't actnot now. Cool down."
I said finally: "You stay here, Paul. I'll be back soon."
I walked into the building and sat down in the semi-darkness of the basement on some concrete steps and tried to think it through.
Michaelson was God's creation, and he was basically a good person. The thought stuck like a dry pill in my throat, but I kept holding to it doggedlyfor my sake, for my own comfort and release from painful tension. He was a child, I thought, just behaving like a child. By some twisted reasoning, he must have thought he was right, or he would not have taken the power tool.
Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. I bowed my head, sitting there on those concrete basement steps, and said: "I forgive him, Father. You forgive him and bless him."
I stood up then. I was calm. I walked back to where the workman stood. Before I could speak, Paul said eagerly: "You goin' after him?"
I said, "No, Paul. We're not going to do anything to him. We've got towell, forgive him."
Paul was astounded. "You mean you're not gonna ?"
"That's right. We'll work it God's way. This incident can't hurt us. After all, you know, we can rent another power tool."
Later that day, and in the days that followed, I could not seem to help thinking how ungrateful Michaelson had been. When I caught myself in this thinking, I kept telling myself that Eddie was my brother under God, and then I would pray for the Lord to bless him.
But as the weeks passed, I realized that every time I thought of Eddie or heard his name mentioned, I was still uncomfortable with smoldering anger. This resentment was hurting me. Why wasn't I rid of it? After all, I had gone through a process of spiritual meditation each time I thought of Eddie, so why didn't that take the resentment away? Why wasn't my forgiveness complete?
How could I make it complete?
Up from my memory came a thought I had once read, "To fulfill forgiveness, you must either say something good to the person in question, or do something good for him. In short, forgiveness, like all God's principles, has to be demonstrated in action."
I brightened. This was my trouble all rightand the way to cure it. From then on, I kept an eye open for an opportunity to serve Eddie.
The opportunity later arose to send some business to Eddie, and I sent it. During the transaction, I had occasion to see him and have a conversation with him.
I made no reference to the incident of the power tool, or the $200 he owed me.
"How has it been with you?" I asked.
"Oh, I've had terrible luck," he exclaimed, and he proceeded to give me an account of a troublesome situation whereby he had been forced to pay out a sum about equal to the $200 he had never made any attempt to repay me, plus the approximate value of the power tool he had taken.
I nodded, not gloating but awed and impressed by the precise working of the spiritual law: Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap (Galatians 6:7).
Michaelson profited by the business I sent himand so did I. By demonstrating in action that I had forgiven him, I was now free from resentment and had inner peace again.
A few months after the event, Paul, the workman, came to me. He was hesitant and awkward, and spoke looking down at his feet. "I wanna thank you for somethin'."
I said to him, puzzled, "What's that, Paul?"
"Well, what I mean is I've heard a lotta preachin' in my time, but it didn't mean much to me. You remember that day Michaelson took the power tool? Well, I expected you to blow your top but the peace that came over youwell, it hit me. I kept thinkin' about it. I've gone back to my church and now I'm prayin' myself, and everything's a lot better. Just thought you'd like to know."
As he talked, I felt humble before the wisdom of God, and happy and grateful that He had seen fit to use me in reaching this man.
The Key Log
By Norman Vincent Peale 6
A man came to me one night when I was speaking at an industrial convention. He told me he was in a terrible situation and wanted to talk to me for five minutes. But 50 minutes later, he was still telling me of all the involved, mixed-up confusion in his life. And I must admit that it was bewildering.
Finally, I interrupted the flow of conversation and said, "Look, I'm not wise enough to tell you what to do. I admit it. You have me baffled. It would take hours, days maybe, to unravel this mess." And, I observed, "I'm sure you are not able to handle it either, are you?"
He admitted, "That's why I'm telling my problem to you."
"Well, why don't you and Iyou especiallytalk to God about this?"
"Oh," he replied, "I think that is an oversimplification." I think he expected, me being a preacher, that he would get an answer from me.
But I insisted, "Why don't you talk to God about it? Maybe there's one thing that is central in this mess. If you could get ahold of that and get that solved, maybe the other things would fall into place."
I told him about an old lumberman I once knew in the Northwest,who told me about the log jams that often occur when logs are floated down the river in the springtime. "Sometimes, logs will get mixed up in an inextricable manner. But there is one log that is always the key log. If you can find that log and pull it out, the rest of the logs will fall into place and float down the stream," the lumberman had told me.
Then I continued, "Why don't you try to find the key log in your problem? Do you know what it is?"
"No, I'm so confused I don't know."
"Well," I replied, "why don't you ask God what that log is, and ask Him to help you get it out? Then all the other things may fall into place."
Some time after that, we met again. "I found that log but I was lying when I talked to you. The minute you told me about logs and drew that word picture, I knew what the key log was, although I really had never thought of it before. I had a great fight with a man. He hates me, but he doesn't hate me half as much as I hate him. And after I asked the Lord about it, I got to thinking that all of the trouble I've had seems to have developed since this hatred began.
"So I asked myself, 'Is this hatred the log that Dr. Peale was talking about?' And I told the Lord that if He would take it out, I would forgive the man and try to love him. We have been reconciled. Oh, everything isn't sweetness and light yet. But it was just as though all of a sudden the stream of my life began to move again, after I got this one thing out."
So I suggest that if, in any way, life is involved and confused and unhappy, try, by the wonderful power of prayer, to find what it is that obstructs; remove it and the flow can and often does proceed unimpeded. "Until now you have asked nothing in My name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full" (John 16:24, NKJ).
The Dress
By Margaret Jensen 7
Mary was young, filled with dreams of love for God and His service. John, restless and impatient in his new pastorate in the farmlands of Wisconsin, longed for the libraries and action of New York City or Chicago, where he had attended seminary. John's brilliant mind craved books. Mary saw beauty in everythingthe smell of the freshly plowed fields, the song of a bird, the first signs of spring, crocuses and violets. Mary sang to the wind and laughed with the birds. But she had one secret longinga new dress for spring. Not the somber brown or black, befitting a minister's wife, but a soft voile, billowing dress with lace around the neck and sleeves and a big sash.
There was no money! Carefully she laid plans. She would put pennies into a box until there was enough money to buy a new kerosene lamp for John and material for a new dress. She would reuse the lace from an old velvet dress in the trunk. Someday she would make a blue velvet dress for her baby Louise.
The day came when the treadle machine purred like music while Mary sang and sewed. Golden-haired Louise played with empty spools and clothes pins. The small house shone clean. The new lamp had a place of honor on John's reading table.
In a playful mood, Mary pulled down her long brown hair and brushed it in the morning sun. Then she put on her new dresssoft pink voile with violets and lace. A sash tied at the back, and Mary swung around, to the delightful squeals of Louise. It was spring! She was young, just 23, with another new life within her and Louise to rock and love. The wilderness church, the somber immigrants tilling the land, and the severe harshness of long winter had isolated the young wife into her world of poetry and song. But she had grown to love the faithful people and shared their joys and sorrows. Today, she danced with abandoned joy in her new billowing dress.
Like the flash of summer lightning, Mary was whirled around by an angry John, whose storm of frustration unleashed the fury within him. "Money for foolishness! No libraries, no booksno one to talk to about anything except cows and chickens, planting and harvest!"
Like a smoldering volcano, John erupted with rage and ripped the dress to shreds. Just as suddenly the storm was over, and the galloping hoofs of John's horse broke the quiet terror. As he rode into the wind, he unleashed the remainder of his fury on the passing fields and their wide-eyed cows and clucking chickens. He longed to gallop from Wisconsin to the heart of New Yorkhis beloved library.
Huddled in a corner, Mary clutched Louise and the shredded dress. Trembling with fear and anger, she remained motionless. Too drained to weep, she was sick with emptiness and an unutterable longing for her family, far away from John. There was no one to turn to in the lonely farmland. She remembered Psalm 34:4. "I sought the Lord, and He heard me, and delivered me from all my fears." Then she wept, long and deep, and cried out to the Lord.
Mary set her heart to seek a way of escape. She would make a pallet up in the loft and take Louise to sleep with her. John would sleep alone. Then she folded the shredded dress in a small package and hid it in her trunk. Pastor Hansen was coming to visit the surrounding churches and Mary decided to bide her time, to quietly wait and show the dress to Pastor Hansen, then ask for assistance to leave John and return to her mother.
With quiet determination she put on her dark dress and combed her hair into a severe knot, befitting a minister's wife. She set the table for supper. When John returned late in the night his supper was in the warming oven. Mary was asleep in the loft with Louise curled in her arms.
Quietly John ate his supper and then looked for Mary. When he found her in the loft, he ordered her back to their bed and put Louise in her crib. Mary gently tucked Louise in her crib and obediently went to bed. John's storm had passed, but he was unaware of the debris in its wake.
Life went on as usual, but the song was gone and Mary's steps were weighted with bitterness. She quietly waited and thought out her plans.
The arrival of Pastor Hansen brought a new exuberance to John as the two ministers discussed books and theology and the work of the church conference. Mary served quietly. No one would have guessed the anguish behind her gentle face as she worshipped with the faithful congregations, but heard little of the sermons.
The final service was drawing to a close and, as yet, Mary had not had the opportunity to see Pastor Hansen alone. She had to find the openingperhaps this Sunday afternoon, when John would visit a shut-in member while Pastor Hansen would meditate on the evening message. With a quickened mind she decided to listen to the sermon and perhaps use his comments as an opening.
"The text this morning is found in Mark 11:25. 'When ye stand praying, forgive.' Forgiveness is not optional, but a definite act of the will to forgive, in obedience to God's command. The feeling comes later, the feeling of peace. When we offer to God our hurts and despair, God will pour His love and compassion into the wounds, and His healing will come."
Oh, no, Mary cried inside. I can't forgive, and I can never forget.
The sermon continued, "Someone may be thinking, I can never forget, even if I could forgive. You are rightyou can't forget, but you needn't be devastated by the remembering. God's love and His forgiveness can and will cushion the memory until the imprint is gone. When you forgive you must destroy the evidence, and remember only to love."
John and Pastor Hansen rode home with Deacon Olsen. Mary stepped into her buggy, tied her wide black hat with a scarf and carefully secured Louise around her waist. As the horse, Dolly, trotted briskly down the country road, Mary's scalding tears poured forth.
She knew what she must do. She would obey God. Without waiting to unhitch Dolly, she fled from the buggy and placed Louise in her crib. With trembling hands, Mary took out of the trunk the package with the torn dress, but she couldn't let go.
The Sunday dinner was in the warming oven; Mary poked the fire and added more wood. Automatically she put on the coffee pot and set the table. "The evidence must go," rang in her memory.
"I forgive you, John." She finally picked up the tattered dress with one hand and the stove lid with the other. Tears splashed on the fire as she watched the dress burn slowly.
"True forgiveness destroys the evidence," pounded so loudly in her heart that she failed to hear John's footsteps. "Mary, what are you doing?"
Trembling with sobs, she said, "I am destroying the evidence."
To herself she said, "My offering to God."
Then John remembered. Pale and shaken he murmured, "Please forgive me."
Fifty-eight years later, when John had gone home to be with the Lord and she missed him terribly, Mary had a dream. Three angels appeared to her and said, "Come, we are going to a celebration." Over the arm of one angel was draped a beautiful dress.
* * *
(Editor's note: When this story was being considered for publication, some felt that although the wife was able to forgive the husband, their married relationship wasn't what it should have been and the husband was at serious fault in his actions toward his wife. So we asked the Lord what He had to say about this story, and following is the message He gave.)
(Jesus speaking:) Relationships in life aren't perfect, and this is why forgiveness is needed. You don't forgive someone because they're a wonderful person; you forgive them because they need forgiveness, because they've done something that was wrong. Maybe they've done many things that were wrong, but when you forgive them, when you don't hold a grudge, when you let go of any resentment, you reap the beautiful fruits in your own heart and mind. You experience a lifting of the burden of the bad feeling. You experience a lightness, a joy, a happiness, a contentment that you didn't feel before. This is because you're set free free from the bonds of bitterness or resentment through your forgiving the other person.
This is why, when I was asked if you should forgive your friend seven times, I said noseventy times seven. Because I knew that with each step of forgiveness you would be made more free. I knew it would do you good. This is why I teach My children to forgive. And furthermore, if you want your Father in Heaven to forgive you, you need to turn around and be the same way towards those who are around you.
So although the circumstances weren't perfect in this story, the man didn't behave as he should have and there was not good communication in the marriage, still the woman did the right thing in forgiving him. She did the right thing in destroying the evidence, and having put this incident behind her successfully, she and her husband went on to have many years of happy married life together. And then I the Lord gave her back what she had given up.
But it was not until she gave it up that she was able to find happiness, not until she destroyed the evidence, forgave her husband and went on in her life. For had she carried this resentment in her heart, she would not have been able to be happy with anyone else either. The lack of forgiveness would have eaten away at her and even destroyed her life from then on. So this is a good lesson, My children a lesson for marriages as well as all your personal relationships, one which you can take to heart. (End of message.)
One Act of Kindness
By Bill Schiebler 8
Locusts sang that hot afternoon in September 1965 as I climbed the creaking porch steps of my 91-year-old grandfather's house. I had come to Appleton, Wisconsin, to say goodbye before leaving for Vietnam. At age 24, proud of my Rangers tab, jump wings, and spit-shined boots, I still felt apprehensive about what was ahead of me. I had been briefed on the high combat-attrition rates of infantry platoon leaders.
Granddad lifted himself from his rocking chair and stood, his eyes brightening. We talked a while and then said good-bye. It was a poignant farewell because we both knew we might not see each other again.
I was about to leave when he clutched my forearm with a thin, bony hand hardened from years in the paper mill. He said: "Now, you remember, Bill, be kind to your enemies. God loves them just as much as He loves you."
It wasn't until Novemberwhen we had all grown weary of fighting in the jungles of Vietnamthat my grandfather's admonition came home to me. I was an Airborne Ranger officer commanding a rifle company platoon as part of the First Air Cavalry Division. We were fighting an elusive and relentless enemy that our troops found easy to hate. The tenacious, well-armed North Vietnamese slipped through the jungle, striking when least expected, exacting a deadly toll.
On that November night we were fighting in the Far Western Mountains near the Cambodian border in a valley called the Ia Drang. We quickly realized the choppers had dropped us off in the wrong areas and we were behind enemy lines.
At about 2:00 a.m. a whispered call for help came over the radio. It was our executive officer, Paul Mobley, who was lost and stranded with his radioman and two North Vietnamese prisoners. We instructed him to fire a shot on our signal. He did this periodically until we were able to zero in on his location.
We finally found him and his prisoners in an empty creek bottom filled with sharp, jagged rocks. They had been trying to make their way along it and all were exhausted, particularly one prisoner who was barefoot. In the glow of our flashlight, I looked at his feet; both were a bloody pulp. Even though he was grimly stoic, it was clear he would have great difficulty making it back to our unit.
For a moment I hesitated. Already I had seen too many good friends die at the hands of the North Vietnamese. One bullet would have solved the problem.
But then I remembered my grandfather's words: "God loves them just as much as He loves you."
There was only one thing to do. I picked the man up, flipped his body across my back and carried him. With my M16 in one hand, I supported the prisoner with the other. He reeked of the strong-smelling fish sauce used in Vietnamese food. Our trek along the rugged creek bed and then up through the thick jungle seemed to take hours, and I was feeling the strain.
As I trudged along, a faint weeping sounded from the man on my back. I pretended not to hear it until he began to sob. Without thinking, I gave his body a slight squeeze of reassurance. Then, horror of horrors, I realized he was kissing me on the back of my neck. I was so embarrassed I didn't know what to do.
Finally, we reached our unit, having covered a distance of more than two miles. I was totally drained. But the spirit of my small act of kindness spread throughout our unit. Others were touched by the prisoner's condition, and our medic went out of his way to give him some antibiotic salve to ward off infection. I cut my backpack in half to fashion him some makeshift boots.
After turning him over to division headquarters for interrogation, I thought I would never see him again.
Later, word came down that he was intensely hostile, which was natural with captured enemies. He said he would not talk to anyone except the "tall one" who had carried him.
When we met, I wondered if there was any point to it. An implacable stony look covered his face and I doubted if there was a way to break through. But I showed him a map of Vietnam and asked, through the interpreter, where his home was. He tentatively pointed to a small village in the north. Then I unsheathed my bayonet and with it drew in the soil a rough map of the United States. With my finger I pointed to Wisconsin, then myself.
He smiled, and we started talking via the interpreter. Enemies had found common ground on a subject dear to every soldier's heart: home.
As we talked I was astonished to learn he was a sergeant major of the highest rank, few of whom existed then, and fewer captured.
I never saw the man again, but I hope he lived to return to his home and family, as I did to mine.
I went through a lot in Vietnam; I was badly wounded four times and often near death. Today I have multiple sclerosis, but am happy and productive. And I am so grateful to my grandfather for his parting words. For I know that, just as God loved the enemy I carried, He loves me too. And that gives me the strength and courage to go on.
The Real Donald Smiley
By Donald Smiley 9
It was all over, after 21 years on the run. I'd always known this day would come, but that didn't lessen the shock any. They'd finally brought me down.
It was Detective Lt. Mike Summers who made the arrest. Mike, who for years had been one of my breakfast buddies down at the coffee shop. But there was no chitchat today. Mike came toward me, his pleasant face lined in a nervous frown. "Don," he said, "I'm sorry. I have to put you under arrest."
And this time I wouldn't try to runno, not even if I could have. I was sick of it, sick of looking over my shoulder, of being on the run almost half my life.
Twenty-one years had passed since I'd escaped; I'd settled in this little North Carolina town, found friends, built a good life with Bea. I'm not excusing the wrongs I've done, no waybut it was almost as if that earlier life belonged to someone else: someone young, scared, who turned tough just to survive.
Mike handcuffed me, led me down to the county jail and read me my rights. Somehow the press already knew, and they were swarming. I felt worse than embarrassed. It was shame I felt, public humiliation and a panicky fear of this hubbub of cameras, scrawling pencils and excited, almost feverish voices. I could see tomorrow's headlines, bold and black, dwarfing the Little League games and the county commissioners' meeting: DONALD SMILEY ARRESTED ON FUGITIVE CHARGES ESCAPEE FROM COLORADO PRISON. What would the townsfolk think, the people who'd welcomed me into their lives? I may have looked impassive, but I was screaming inside.
When Bea arrived, the news guys rushed at us, their questions quick and brutal. "How long have you been on the lam?" "How does it feel being behind bars again?" "How's your family taking this?" It was almost a relief when they led me to a cell.
But I had to struggle to put on the old tough-guy front when they made Bea leave for the night. The cell door clanged, metal harshly clanking on metal. I stood watching Bea's frail back disappear down the long hall; her clicking footsteps died away. Suddenly I was tired, bone tiredme, the man who could work 18 straight hours, get up and do it again. I turned, faced my cell. Had 21 years really gone by that fast?
I was young then, out of work, looking everywherein vain. I had a wife and three young children to support, the stack of unpaid bills grew higher every day, and the pressure was on. I went looking for a job at a construction company where I'd once worked. The office was emptyexcept for the company checkbook, wide open on the desk. I can't explain why I did it. I saw a chance, I guess, to make things better, at least for a little while. Almost before I knew it, I'd stuffed two blank checks into my pocket.
I'd hoped the money would get me straightened out and that I'd be able to pay it back. It didn't work out that way. The forgery, for $68, was discovered and traced to me, and I was quickly arrested. When they brought me to jail, I found myself in a holding cell with a bunch of guys who'd already been tried and sentenced. What I didn't know was that they hadn't the least intention of going to prison. They'd been planning a breakout all day. When the action starteda hot brawl between guards and prisonersI was stuck in the middle. In the end, nobody dared tell who did what, so we all got charged with assault; they called a bar of soap wrapped in a sock a deadly weapon. One day I'd been home with my wife and children, and almost the next I was looking at 14 years in the Colorado State Penitentiary in Canyon City.
My wife filed for, and got, a divorce. Who could blame her? My sentence would eat up a good portion of both our lives, with none of it her fault.
If I was resigned at first, prison got to me quick. Four months into my stretch, I saw my chance. It was amazingly easy. Repairing a guard's car, I got in line at the gate at shift change. One by one, the guards pulled their cars up to the sentry, waved and drove through. The car ahead of me pulled away. My turn. I just lowered my head a bit, waved, and drove right out the gate.
The next few years, well, they blurred together. I spent a lot of time hitching rides. I did farm work in Kansas, construction in Tennessee, worked at a dairy in Kentucky. I tried, not very successfully, to put it all behind me: the mistakes, the guilt, all the things I'd lost. One image, more than any others, haunted memy four-year-old son's dark head, snuggled against a white pillow the last time I ever saw him.
I missed all my children, of course, but two-year-old Tammie and one-year-old Don were still babies when I left. They probably didn't remember, but Shannon, being the oldest, had been my buddy, my shadow. I knew he missed me as much as I did him.
When I finally felt safe enough to contact my former wife, I found out she'd died. My children were somewhere out there in foster homes. I learned only that Tammie and Don were in one home and Shannon had been sent to another. I tried hard to trace them, but it was no use; giving up, I went my way.
I was as lonely a man as ever lived, blown in the wind, running and hiding, sometimes leaving in the middle of the night. Traveling with a few old memories, little else. I'd come to wish I'd never busted out.
You might think a man like me never gave much thought to God. You'd be wrong. A fugitive can get pretty close to God; that's the bitter truth. Seems like the further you fall from God's grace, the more you crave it. Alone, guilt-racked, living on the edge, I prayed for His forgiveness something fierce. But it was no use. I didn't deserve forgiveness, I told myselfa man who'd wrecked his family, lost his children. How often I looked up into the night sky, trying to feel God's presence, only to run away, convinced that of all His creatures, Donald Smiley was one of the lowest.
And then came Bea. Her falling in love with me was the bestno, the onlygood fortune that had come my way. Still, I hid my past from her for a good couple of years, fearing she'd up and leave if she knew. When I told her, she didn't leave. But she fretted every day, even tried to get me to turn myself in. Bea suffered, that's for sure. And I almost ruined the best thing I ever had, forcing her into a runaway's lifemoving, moving on. When I'd get to feeling edgy, we were gone.
But I told her things'd be different in North Carolina, and they were. In Rutherford County, we found jobs. We fit right in, Bea especially. Me, it took a little longer. No problem getting work; I was always super-handy. I put together a small fix-it business right away, plus a 40-hour job installing appliances for Lowe's Building Supply. I even took part-time custodial work at a local church.
Members would ask why I didn't attend; I'd mumble a half-baked excuse. The real reason was simple: How could I stand there, a wanted criminal, beside those heads bowed in innocent prayer? I didn't feel worthy; I'd have felt like the worst kind of hypocrite. Fixing the church up, that was how I could help, and fixing people's houses up. In time I made real friends, almost my first since childhood. But confiding? Trusting? Forget it. No, a fugitive never truly escapes.
I turned over on a lumpy bunk, gazing out at a brilliant, starry sky striped by jailhouse bars. Yeah, mostly I was relieved the chase was over. But I hadn't reckoned on the bitter loss I was feeling, the loss of friends and respect I'd won in 12 years here.
"God," I whispered in the darkness, "are You here? If You aren't, I can't blame You. Seems I mostly talk to You when I'm in a jam. You know, I'm not asking You to get me out of jail. I just wish there were some way to let my friends here know how sorry I am that I let them down. I can't blame them for turning their backs on me, even Bea."
I curled up on the bunk, trying to still my shivers.
Morning came. Despite a massive effort to keep my eyes shut, I woke up early. My mind switched on. No, Smiley, this is no nightmare, this is reality. I turned over, trying to bury my head in the oily pillow.
"Hey, Donald"
The deep, familiar voice came again. "Donald. How're you doin', fella?" I wrenched my head out of the mattress, startled to see Norman Jenkins, a man who'd become a good friend in the last few years. He owned rental homes and apartments, and a coin-and-curio shop. Many times I'd done repairs on his properties, minded his shop, or just sat around talking with him.
"Tell you the truth, Norman, I'm not so good." I swung my feet to the floor as the guard opened the door. Norman grasped my hand.
"Buddy, I just wanted to let you know I'm here if there's anything you need."
Suspicious, I looked up. I couldn't keep the edge of scorn from my voice: "You sure you wanna be here, Norm? Can't be too good for your reputation. Maybe you better check out the charges against me."
"Now hold it right there," he broke in. "I don't need to check anything with anyone. There's one thing I'm sure of. I know you." Norm's honest blue eyes stared right into mine. "You think I'd just hand over the master keys to every one of my rental houses, all of my apartments, and my own home, to someone I didn't absolutely trust? Leave him in charge of my shop, in a roomful of rare coins? You think I'm nuts? No, sir. Donald Smiley proved himself to me a long ways back."
Before ten minutes were up, other people came trickling in: local businessmen, ministers, fellow employees, neighbors. People who'd never seen the inside of a jail. Pretty soon the cell was about as crowded as a train station at rush hour, with everyone saying the same thing: "Don't worry about the past, Don. You've proven yourself to us."
My gosh, even gruff Tom Walker from Lowe's camemy boss: "Smiley, you've still got a job. You know how hard it is to find a man as skilled and reliable as you? What you did twenty years ago, that's between you and God. What's between you and me are the paychecks you get for darn fine work. And another thingyou think I don't know about all those old folks whose kitchens you've repaired, whose plumbing you've fixed, without asking for a cent?"
"That's right, like my mom's kitchen," said Don Bailey, the auto salesman from Forest City. "She won't ever forget you. How can we?"
And they didn't. They got me out on bail, got a big-time criminal lawyer to represent me for free, and practically papered Rutherford County with petitions for North Carolina's and Colorado's governors to pardon me. All those signatures! More than 1,200 of 'em, all agreeing on one thing: A scrawny guy named Smiley should go free. It blew my mind.
Within a few days, I was home with Bea, sitting on our front porch in the moonlight.
"You know," I said, "I still can't believe everyone's rallied around me like this. I mean, they could've just run me out of towna convicted felon who never owned up, never told 'em the truth. Why do they care?"
Bea was quiet, then looked over at me. "Don't you see, Donald, that you're a changed man from the guy who forged those checks? You chose to make your stand in this town, to stop running. And real quiet, you won everyone's respect. Everyone's, that is, but your own. Don't you think it's broken my heart to watch you hate yourself so bad every day I've known you? For quite a while now, I've seen something, plain as day, that you just wouldn't see: Don, you're a good man.
"Because it really doesn't matter how low someone's fallen," she said softly. "If he struggles every day to live right, he'll redeem himself."
Early last year my sentence was commuted by the governors of both states. Donald Smiley had redeemed himself; he was fit to look anyone in Rutherford County right in the eye. Only one person still needed a little convincing. That's right, meand I'm working on it!
One day, just before my pardon, a call came from the sheriff's office. They'd been contacted by a ham operator; someone in West Berlin was trying to reach me. Seemed mighty urgent. Berlin? Had to be a mistake. But the phone rang again, and a stranger came on the line.
"Donald Smiley?" It was a young man's voice, confident-sounding, though under its pleasant surface I sensed a funny tension. "Sir, was your name once Donald Fitzgerald?"
"Well, yes, it was."
"Sir, I'm Army Sergeant Shannon Fitzgerald, posted in Berlin. I grew up in Colorado, and my folks send me our hometown newspaper so I can keep up with the local news. Only, sir, they're not my real folks, they're foster parents." He paused. "You see, Mr. Smiley I think you're my dad."
I tried to answer, but no words came, only my memory of the young boy I'd left sleeping so many years before. Finally I said, almost in a whisper, "Son Shannon, is that you?"
"Yes, Dad. It's me."
And I could barely believe itthat a life that had gone so wrong could end so right.
1 From The Guideposts Trilogy, Guideposts Associates, Inc.; 1962.
2 From Guideposts magazine, 1982.
3 From Guideposts magazine, Carmel, NY; 1997.
4 From Meditation Moments #126.
5 From Guideposts to a Stronger Faith, Guideposts Associates; 1959.
6 From Plus, The Magazine for Positive Thinking, Peale Center for Christian Living; 1993.
7 From More Stories for the Heart, Multnomah Publishers, Inc.; 1997.
8 From Guideposts magazine.
9 From Guideposts magazine, 1988.