Sundays in the Psalms: What's under your feet?

 You made them rulers over the works of your hands; You put everything under their feet: all flocks and herds, and the animals of the wild, the birds in the sky,    and the fish in the sea, all that swim the paths of the seas.

—Psalm 8:6-8 NIV

 

The eighth psalm normally evokes visions of glorious starry skies or sunrises. Images of beautiful wild animals roaming free. Majestic horses galloping along a shore or an eagle soaring high. Playful kittens with a ball of yarn or lambs frolicking in the sunshine. These words and the pictures they inspire remind us that God has placed us humans in a significant position between all this and His angels, giving us a certain measure of authority over His other creatures. These words also serve to point us to God’s majesty displayed in creation, as they should.

I was surprised, though, to see an entirely different vision in my mind’s eye as I read these words recently. Instead of beauty, countless piles of garbage filled my periphery from horizon to horizon at a landfill site. Trash floating in the ocean, killing sea life and destroying the beauty God created. Smokestacks releasing toxic fumes into the air we need to breathe. When these visions are superimposed over the words of this passage, we’re reminded of how woefully we’ve taken care of what God entrusted to us. No other creature in the entire kingdom could or would do what mankind has so carelessly managed to accomplish. The stark contrast helped me see anew our incredible need for a savior, both personally and collectively.

Questions for Reflection: Am I doing all I can to reduce the amount of garbage I produce? Do I take my God-given responsibility of caring for the earth seriously?

Sundays in the Psalms: The Kids are Watching

PSALM 7

Whoever digs a hole and scoops it out
    falls into the pit they have made.
The trouble they cause recoils on them;
    their violence comes down on their own heads.

—Psalm 7:15-16 NIV

While visiting her parents for the holidays, Kim was driving around her hometown with her mother in the front seat and her two children in the back. Frustration grew as her mom played the side-seat driver, sucking in air between her teeth when she thought Kim was about to pull out in front of an oncoming vehicle. 

In reality, Kim had grown competent at driving in a big city, where a single hesitation often meant a long, unnecessary wait. Resentment began to simmer. When her mother asked her to make a quick stop at a friend’s house to drop something off, Kim pulled in front of the house on the left side of a two-way street.

“You can’t park like this.”

Her mother’s admonishment was the last straw.

“Mom. I don’t care!”

Her mother jumped out of the car to drop the item into her friend’s mailbox, declaring that she wouldn’t pay the fine if Kim got a ticket.

No ticket was forthcoming, but within twenty-four hours, both of Kim’s children—at separate times—repeated the words she’d thrown at her own mother, right down to the exact hand gestures: “Mom, I don’t care!”

Fortunately, Kim had the self-awareness required to see herself reflected in her children’s words. If they weren’t allowed to speak to their mother that way, why was she? Her mother received—and offered—an apology the following day, and lessons were learned by all.

Questions for Reflection: How quick am I to recognize when I’ve fallen into a pit of my own digging? How quick am I to be a "side-seat driver?"

Sunday Psalms: Feeling Peckish?

 

Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am faint;
    heal me, Lord, for my bones are in agony.
My soul is in deep anguish

—Psalm 6:2-3a NIV

 

In the margin of my Bible beside Psalm 6:2-3 is a note. It simply says “June 22, 2012.” Even those nearest me could not guess what was going on that day. But whenever I see it, I know. Having been diagnosed the prior year with a chronic lung condition, I had sought a Naturopathic Doctor to help me get healthier. After working with me several weeks, she put me on a three-day water fast. The day before the fast, I was to eat nothing but fresh fruit and vegetables. Then, nothing but water for three days. She gave me other rules, too. Lots of rest, reading, and reflection. No driving. Don’t stay alone.

The first day, I felt hungry. The second day, I felt hungry and weak. By Day Three, I was convinced I had coincidentally contracted the flu. Every muscle in my body ached, my head pounded, and I couldn’t always keep down the water. I couldn’t sleep. Later, I learned these symptoms can be a normal part of the process when your body rids itself of toxins. They disappeared once I began to eat, and for the next week, food had never tasted so delicious. The experience was humbling in a way I had not predicted. I realized how needy I am for that daily bread I take so for granted. I came away with a much deeper compassion for those who must fight for every morsel of food, throughout their lives.

Question for Reflection: What is the longest fast I have done and how did it change me?

Sunday Psalms: Psalm 5 is not for night owls

 In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice;

    in the morning I lay my requests before you
    and wait expectantly.

—Psalm 5:3 NIV

Us in 1989

 

As a working mother of three, time alone with God seemed an insurmountable challenge. I’d read a verse or two from my Bible at bedtime when I could hardly keep my eyes open, then mumble a prayer as I drifted off to sleep. Then I attended a women’s retreat where the speaker challenged us to spend an hour a day in prayer, promising it would change our lives. It seemed she was asking for the moon. The only way I could see to make that happen was to rise an hour earlier in the morning. An extra hour meant setting my alarm for 5:30.

I did it. Crawling out of my warm bed when that annoying alarm went off was the last thing I wanted to do. Thankfully, we’d already learned to keep our alarm clock across the room, eliminating the snooze option. I made myself a cup of coffee and lit a candle, then plunged in. I discovered that by journaling my prayers first and reading scripture second, my eyes were opened to the cries of my heart before I feasted them on God’s word. His promises began to jump off the page and fill a need. Not every day. But often enough that the habit became something I wanted to do. Like returning to a good novel to see what happens next, I wanted to see what God had for me that day.

Thirty years later, I’m retired. Yet I rarely sleep past six, eager to continue this intimate relationship with my Lord.

 

Questions for Reflection: What steps am I willing to take to experience increased intimacy with God and let Him set the tone for my day?

Psalm 4: Skills Worth Honing

 

 

 Let the light of your face shine on us.

—Psalm 4:6b NIV

 

I led my church’s drama team for twenty years. In that time, I heard my share of memorized and mis-memorized lines, including from my own mouth. Because memorization is a key requirement for actors, I decided we could hone this skill and grow spiritually at the same time by spending a portion of our time together memorizing scripture. I chose Psalm 4. I wrote out all eight verses on a whiteboard and we read them aloud together. Then I erased one or two random words, leaving lines in place of the missing words. We read it aloud again, filling in the blanks. We repeated that process until nothing remained on the board but blank lines. My teammates were astounded that they could remember them. Any trick that helps us hide God’s word in our hearts is legitimate if it works.

Because our ministry was done from the stage and in the spotlight, we sometimes discussed and wrestled with our private motives. Were we in this for our own glory or for God’s? For us, one of the key points of Psalm Four became the last half of verse six. How much better to ask God to shine His light on us, reflecting His glory to others. That became our prayer each time we performed. 

Questions for Reflection: How can I challenge myself to memorize more scripture? In what ways can I apply that memorized wisdom to the difficult questions of my life?

 

PSALM 3 - When You're Feeling Less-Than

 

But you, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high.

I call out to the Lord, and he answers me from his holy mountain.

—Psalm 3:3-4 NIV

I woke up early, eager to run to my computer and look at Amazon reviews. It was launch day of my first book, and I couldn’t wait to read the reviews. The first one knocked the wind out of my sails. It began, “I wanted to like this book, I really did.” You know that any sentence starting like that can only be followed by a but. This one certainly was, and the but was followed by a stream of abuse. 

My very first review of my very first book was so horrible, I had to laugh—between tears. Convinced my career as a novelist had ended before it even began, I said, “Well, Lord, I guess that’s that. I’m not meant to write books. At least I tried. I’ll see what else I can find to do.”

Thankfully, this initial horrendous review was soon eclipsed by many lovely ones, and I went on to publish, to date, eleven books. While my book’s reviewer can hardly be counted as an “enemy” in comparison to the enemies of David, who wrote Psalm 3 amidst the real threat of death on all sides, I certainly felt attacked and defeated. Even in small matters like a negative book review, it’s life-giving to know God is my shield on all sides. He lifts my head from shame and strengthens me for life’s journey.

Question for Reflection: Where am I allowing an enemy to defeat and discourage me instead of trusting in God as my shield?

Psalm 2: When you just can't take it anymore...

John Lennon & Yoko Ono's poster in Times Square, 1969

 

 Therefore, you kings, be wise; be warned, you rulers of the earth.
 Serve the Lord with fear and celebrate his rule with trembling.

—Psalm 1:3 NIV

The ache in my gut grew as I watched the nightly news, and questions flooded my sickened heart. Will the rioting never end? How long can a war last? Who died of hunger today? Bomb blasts? Suicide? How can the world’s leaders hold such opposing views and all believe they are right? Feeling helpless to make even the smallest change, I turned off the television and muttered, “O Lord. You see this? How can you stand it? Why can’t they all just serve you as faithful rulers and kings?”

It was a prayer of sorts, I suppose. As I read all of Psalm 2, God brought two thoughts to mind. Praying for those world leaders is not a pointless act. Though we cannot see the results, God is at work. He hears our prayers. He will make things right in his time. 

Secondly, God reminded me that each of us is the leader of a kingdom in some small way. Maybe it’s a business or family. It might be only a kitchen or a desk. For some, it’s limited to a bed or a wheelchair. No matter how small, we are each responsible for our attitudes, thoughts, prayers, deeds, and words. Imagine a world where not just every leader but every individual followed after God with their whole heart in true humble leadership. There is always something I can control. Start with that.

Questions for Reflection: Have I prayed for the leaders of my community, my church, or my country today? Am I managing my own tiny kingdom God’s way?

Sundays in the Psalms: Psalm 1

 That person is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither—
    whatever they do prospers.

—Psalm 1:3 NIV

The river property to which we moved in 1988 was populated equally by oak and poplar trees. When we moved away fifteen years later, only oaks remained in our yard. While poplars spring up quickly, they do not put down deep roots in sandy soil. Over the years, we watched the pretty but weaker poplars succumb one by one to storms—leaving us with a mess to clean up each time. 

Our family in our yard in 1994. Already, most of the poplars had fallen, leaving the stronger oaks. Our daughter is seated on one of the poplar stumps.

An oak tree takes much longer to grow but sends its roots down deep, through the sand to the rich soil and moisture below. It stands firm against the storms and lives to a ripe old age. Later, it provides the more valuable wood for sturdy furniture and cabinets. 

Another twenty years have passed, and still those oaks remain on that property. This visual has stayed with me, reminding me of the promises in this first chapter of Psalms. If I focus on what is above the surface, on what others see, I will never develop the strength I need for a fruitful, useful life. But when I allow my spiritual roots to grow deep by focusing daily on God’s ways and Word, I can be like that sturdy oak—unfazed by life’s tempests. Rooted and grounded in His love, so that I can share it with others even when difficulties come. 

Question for Reflection: What habit can I form this year to make my roots grow deeper into God’s rich soil?

What Happened to the Bech Family?

 In this series, I'm sharing some of the stories not covered in my new novel, Even If I Perish.

Not all the passengers aboard the SS City of Benares were part of the CORB program. A few private fee-paying passengers booked passage on board for various reasons. Some were VIPs on government business, others were continuing their flight from Nazi-occupied Europe. A few were mothers taking their children to North America and leaving their husbands behind to continue their contributions to the war effort.

Among the mothers was Marguerite Bech, along with her three children: Barbara, 14, Sonia, 11, and Derek, 9. Marguerite had vivid memories of Zeppelin raids during WWI and had become more and more terrified as air raids began in their small town of Bognor. As overhead dogfights took place on the Sussex coast where they lived and bombers crashed on the beach, Marguerite made the decision to take the children to Canada, where they could spend the remainder of the war with old family connections.

The Adelphi Hotel

The first leg of their journey on September 11, 1940, took them to Liverpool’s premier hotel, the luxurious Adelphi, where the children were impressed with a whole suite just for them and an ensuite bathroom—something they hadn’t seen before. They gladly settled into their beds, only to be disturbed by a knock on the door. The air-raid siren had sounded, and they were to evacuate to the basement—the former Turkish baths, or hammam. So, they packed up and spent the night on wooden benches surrounded by mosaic tiles, the crashing and banging of bombs dropping around them. Near morning, they were allowed back to their room, where they tried to grab a couple of hours of sleep before having to leave for the docks. Sonia, 11, admitted to a sinking feeling as they boarded the Benares, but in the rush and excitement around her, she quickly forgot her misgivings.

Although housed at the opposite end of the steamship from the CORB children, the Bechs were equally as impressed with the posh liner and the abundance of food onboard. They quickly made friends among the other first-class private passengers, barely aware that so many children were on board.

Marguerite made sure her children took the daily lifeboat drills seriously, wore their life jackets at all times, and kept an emergency bag packed and ready to grab in the event of an emergency. Barbara Bech later wondered whether the drills left the children with a false sense of security. Sure, they knew what to do if the alarms sounded. But they never did the drills at night or during a storm, and they never lowered the boats. “Nobody would have dreamt of discussing not getting to Canada,” she said. “We were on our way and that was it.”

When the ship was torpedoed on the night of September 17 in the middle of a storm, they felt ill-prepared indeed. They dressed and gathered at their muster station, where they awaited further instructions that did not come. Finally, a crew member burst in, shocked to find the room still full of people. “Get to your lifeboats because the ship’s going down!” he hollered. The Bech family clambered up to the lifeboat deck, but the boats had all been lowered to the water. Barbara volunteered to go down on the ropes. She’d learned to climb up and down ropes in gym class, but didn’t realize her stiff, lace-up shoes would not grip the rope. Hand over hand, she managed to lower herself to the boat below, already filled with passengers. Soon, her boat drifted away from the sinking ship without her family.

Marguerite, Sonia, and Derek ended up on a rickety raft to which they spent several hours clinging by their fingernails. At daybreak, another lifeboat picked them up. Not until they were rescued by the HMS Hurricane around six p.m. on September 18 did they learn that Barbara had survived and were reunited with her. From Scotland, the family caught a train to their home in Bognor Regis where they remained. Only Sonia eventually made it to Canada, where she taught school for three years before returning to England.

Their story can be read in more detail in Miracles on the Water: The Heroic Survivors of a World War II U-Boat Attack, by Tom Nagorski.

What Happened to John?

In this series, I'm sharing some of the stories not covered in my new novel, Even If I Perish.

John Baker was only seven years old when he boarded the SS City of Benares with his 13-year-old brother, Bobby, and 88 other British children. Together with their adult escorts, they would sail to Canada to avoid the bombings occurring almost nightly back home. They set sail on the evening of Friday, September 13, 1940, after two days and one night waiting in the Liverpool harbor for conditions to be safe.

Aboard the former luxury liner, John quickly earned the nickname The Lost Boy. “The thing was,” he explained in later years, “I found the ship a very confusing place. It was huge as far as I was concerned. I wanted to explore, as kids do, and the number of times I got lost was unbelievable.”

Fortunately for John, his brother Bobby had been instructed by their parents to look out for him. Bobby did so with such dedication that when the ship was torpedoed on the night of September 17, he made a life-altering decision.

John recalls being the first in his cabin to hear the alarm bells and wake up. The children had been told that drills can happen at any time, and he assumed it was a drill. “I had my blankets wrapped round me Navy-style in a sort of cocoon, so I was trying to kick my bedding clear,” John remembered years later. “I fought my way out of bed and ran around, waking everybody up. There were four of us in the cabin, and I woke my brother up and the boys in the other bunks.”

Alarm bells and chaos continued as the boys made their way out into the corridors and up onto the deck. Only then did John realize, despite knowing the correct procedures, that he’d forgotten his life jacket. 

So I said to Bobby, ‘I must go and get my life jacket,’ and off I went like a rocket. Fortunately, Bobby very sensibly grabbed hold of me and kept me close. He restrained me forcibly from going down there and getting lost again,” John said. “Instead, he gave me another life jacket. Now, whether he gave me his own life jacket in place of the one that I left behind, I do not know, and I shall never know. But he knew the drills, and it was drilled into us every time, to bring your life jacket and to put it on. So he put a lifejacket on me.”

After a horrendous ordeal wherein the boys’ lifeboat mislaunched, plunging them into the sea, they had to climb rope ladders back onto the ship. Their lifeboat was pulled up and loaded a second time. All of this was taking place during a vicious storm, with the crew and passengers scrambling for their lives, many screaming and dropping into the freezing waters of the North Atlantic. In the pandemonium, John lost track of Bobby.

Some 20 hours later, the HMS Hurricane rescued those remaining alive. Once names were collected, little John knew for sure his brother was not among the survivors, though his little heart was too young to process the truth. He returned home to his parents, the only survivor of the nine children from Southall, Middlesex, who’d been aboard. In a time when it was believed that not talking about such trauma was the healthiest directive, only in later years, when the survivors held reunions, did John allow himself to think or speak about the tragedy.

“Bobby gave a great gift to me,” he said in 2005, “and I shall forever be grateful. Because of that life jacket, he has given me 65 years of life that he didn’t have. So I’m grateful.”

Hope you can make it!

 

What happened to Michael?

St. Jude's church where Michael's father was vicar.

In 1940 England, a 23-year-old Theology student named Michael Rennie was preparing to follow his father’s footsteps and become a vicar. A keen sportsman and newly graduated from Keble College Oxford, Rennie was an ideal candidate to serve as a volunteer escort to a group of children evacuating by sea to Canada. Out of hundreds of applicants, Michael was accepted and placed in charge of 15 boys. Together with the other CORB children and escorts, they set sail on Friday, September 13, 1940, aboard the SS City of Benares.

Michael Rennie quickly became extremely popular with the children. Boys and girls alike admired his athletic prowess and his ability to organize games and make every moment on board fun. His boundless energy in leading games made him a favorite of the other escorts as well. He earned the respect of all. The future for this young man looked bright—for this voyage and beyond.

By September 17, the City of Benares had reached the “safe” zone—250 miles (402 km) west of the Hebrides. What officials had not factored in, however, was that the Nazis now occupied France. This expanded their reach of communications so that their U-boats could venture farther out. During the day, the Benares was spotted through a periscope by Heinrich Bleichrodt, captain of the German submarine U-48. That night, despite the rising storm, Bleichrodt fired a torpedo that penetrated the ship’s hull. It exploded, filling the ship with the acrid smell of explosives.

Captain Nicoll gave the order to abandon ship. Children, escorts and passengers started boarding their lifeboats, a process hampered by the storm and the loss of power. The ship sank quickly, its bow rising from the sea. As it disappeared into the rough Atlantic Ocean with its emergency lights still blazing, Michael Rennie knew he had to save as many people as possible. Over and over, he dove under the frigid water, assisting others into lifeboats while disregarding his own safety. Eventually, he succumbed to exhaustion and exposure.

After the ordeal, one young survivor, Louis Walder (brother to Bess) wrote a letter to Michael’s father in London. He’d been one of Michael’s boys and wanted the Rennies to know what a hero their son had been. He wrote:

Dear Reverend and Mrs. Rennie,

The first time I saw Mr. Rennie, your son, after the torpedoing of the ship at 10 p.m. on the Tuesday night, was when he was helping the children to their lifeboat, often at great risk to himself as the ship was badly damaged.

Then when he could do no more he got into my lifeboat and sat on a seat holding two small children in his arms.

Then the rope by which the lifeboat was being lowered jammed, and so he cut it through with his penknife so as to make it easier. Then whilst the boat was going the rest of the way down, it tilted and the occupants were catapulted into the stormy sea, your son included.

Here I lost sight of him until later on when I saw him on a raft. The lifeboat I was in managed to pick him and others up. After he’d been in the boat some time he saw a number of children in the water in danger of drowning, so he promptly dived in again and again to rescue them, which he did most successfully.

The other men warned him repeatedly not to do so as he’d grow exhausted, but he said, “There are still children in the water, and I must get them.” The other men did their best for the children already in the boat in helping them.

This naturally exhausted your son a great deal, but he continued encouraging the people with words of comfort.

Then the seas grew much rougher and the waves higher and higher and the boat got water-logged, the water reaching to my chest, about four feet deep. The water level rose much higher and we were seized with cramps and got very stiff. Still, Mr. Rennie persuaded us that help would come, and even told us what to do when help came.

Then at about six on the Wednesday evening, Mr. Rennie caught sight of a warship and tried to stand on his unsteady seat (which, as everybody said, was the act of a courageous man) in order to wave to attract the attention of the warship.

However, this was when the tragedy occurred. Owing to his repeated efforts to rescue the drowning children, Mr. Rennie’s condition was naturally more exhausted than the other men’s and owing to the great strain, your dear son collapsed, and fell, I think, dead into the water which filled the water-logged boat. The men in the boat tried with all their strength to lift him out of the water, but being themselves exhausted, and Mr. Rennie being dead-weight, it was impossible to do so. And so he died in helping others right to the end.

His last words were, “Hurrah! Here comes the destroyer. Thank God.”

A Czech and a German refugee sat near your son, and one of them said a prayer for your son in which the others joined.

I’m sorry I live so far away, as I expect you would like to talk to me about your son. I’m sure he was a very brave man.

Yours sincerely,

Louis Walder   

What Happened to Beth?

Like many British children, 14-year-old Beth Cummings was eager to be a participant in the CORB program and go to Canada to escape the war. She had already been evacuated the year before, to Chester—only 17 miles from her Liverpool home. While she and her friend Thelma were fortunate to stay in a welcoming home, not all the children were as lucky. Hosts were expected to take in children whether they wanted to or not, for eight shillings a week. Since the threats of war had not really happened yet, students began returning home on weekends and then many simply stayed home until the scheme fizzled out.

By the summer of 1940, however, bombs were dropping and children and parents alike could see the value of moving kids to safety. Beth was delighted to learn she’d been accepted to go to Canada and excitedly boarded the SS City of Benares on September 12 with her new friends—among them her new bestie, Bess Walder, 15. Beth and Bess quickly became inseparable. They hoped and prayed they’d be placed in the same home—or at least the same community—once they reached Canada. 

Alas, that was not the end result of their voyage. Only a week later, Beth would be telling her amazing story to a newspaper reporter from her hospital bed:

“On our fifth day at sea, the seventeenth, the weather turned for the worse and we all spent that day in our cabins, most of us seasick. Just after ten pm, we heard two explosions. We heard someone yelling that the ship had been torpedoed. I rushed out of my cabin into the corridor and headed for our muster point. I met up with my new friend, Bess. Bess had to fight her way out of her cabin because a cupboard had fallen against the door. We rushed to the lifeboat deck to find chaos and panic, and no sign of Bess’s brother, Louis. We were guided to lifeboat Number Five, which launched at a terrifying angle. The sea was so turbulent, and we all spilled out.”

What followed was the most grueling 18 hours Beth would ever experience.

“Bess and I managed to swim to our waterlogged lifeboat and hang on as best we could. Eventually, the boat tipped upside down and we grasped the rope that ran along the spine. Several others hung on with us. Bess hung on the opposite side of me, so we could see only each others’ hands until a wave carried us up, then down again. On the way down, we could glimpse each others’ faces for a second. Then our bodies would slam against the boat and the whole thing started over again. At one point, I lost my grip and slipped off but I was able to grab the rope again.” 

Last month, I told about how the girls were eventually rescued and returned home by the HMS Hurricane. Beth spent three weeks in the hospital, recovering from badly frostbitten and infected feet. At her mother’s encouragement, she used the time to write down everything about the ordeal. As a result, she retained clear and sharp details.

Although they never made it to Canada, both girls survived World War II and remained friends for life. They even became sisters-in-law when Bess met and married Beth’s brother, Geoff Cummings, in 1947. Bess went on to organize several reunions of the Benares survivors in the years that followed.

“What I think helped me and Beth to survive as we did was that we were doing it together.”  (Bess Walder, quoted in Children of the Doomed Voyage, Janet Menzies, 2005)

What Happened to Bess?

This series of blog posts will cover some of the stories not covered in my new book, Even If I Perish.

In 1940, numerous upper-class women and children had already fled from war-torn England to Canada and the United States, but many who wished to leave could not afford to. The Children’s Overseas Reception Board (CORB) was formed and tasked with running the scheme, and 211,000 children applied. Among them were 15-year old Bess Walder and her 10-year-old brother, Louis, from Kentish Town in northwest London.

Every day, Bess watched for the postman from the top of her family’s house. With so many bombed-out buildings in her line of sight, it was easy to see him on his route, and she made a deal with him. “I’ll be watching every day,” she said. “If you have an envelope addressed to my parents and it says, On His Majesty’s Service, will you wave it at me as you come down the street?”

Although the friendly man called her naughty and told her he couldn’t do that, one morning in late summer, he did. As he picked his way through the bomb-damaged pavement, he waved a large brown manila envelope. Bess and Louis tore down the stairs and out into the street. Knowing better than to open the envelope, they took it to their mother, who tucked it into her apron and continued with breakfast preparations.

When she finally relented to her children’s impatient begging, she scanned the letter and told them they’d been accepted. They were going to Canada. The pair exploded into cheers of “Hooray,” not once considering how their reaction might pain their mother’s heart. For them, it seemed like one big happy adventure.

Bess and Louis didn’t have long to wait. By September 9, children from all over England were headed for Liverpool where they would gather and from where they’d embark. On September 12, 90 “seavacuees” between the ages of five and 15 and ten adult escorts found themselves all in the same boat: the SS City of Benares, a luxury liner. The children reveled in the sumptuous surroundings, first-class accommodation, and food more varied and abundant than most had ever experienced. Bess quickly made friends with a girl named Beth, from Liverpool.

Tragedy Strikes

After the children had gone to bed on September 17, a torpedo from a German U-boat found its target and breached the hull of the City of Benares. The ship sank within 30 minutes. Beth and Bess found themselves in the same lifeboat, which quickly capsized in the horrendous storm. Soaking wet and freezing cold, the girls and a handful of other passengers managed to clasp their hands together across the overturned boat’s keel. The two girls hung onto each other and encouraged each other through the longest night of their lives. Each time a wave lifted the lifeboat to its crest, they caught a glimpse of the other’s face, then prepared for the slam their bodies would receive against the boat’s side when the wave came down again. Over and over, the girls fought the temptation to simply let go and surrender their bodies to the sea.

When morning finally came, they discovered to their horror that only one other passenger remained hanging from the boat, and he appeared to be passed out or deceased. To their great disappointment, no rescue ship was in sight. The girls continued to encourage each other. “I’m all right, Bess, are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m all right. Are you all right, Beth?” Bess’s biggest concern was for her brother, Louis. She had no idea which lifeboat he’d gotten into, if any. Was he dead or alive?

All through that day, the girls hung on, their hands numb as they curled around the ropes of the boat’s spine. They promised each other they’d hang on, no matter what. Daylight was beginning to fade again when they spotted their rescuers. The HMS Hurricane had been dispatched to the location of the sunken ship. When sailors spotted the overturned boat, they rowed to it in a smaller boat. One of the sailors climbed onto the lifeboat’s keel. The girls’ hands were so tightly clenched that the rope had to be cut to release their hands. As much as they wanted to let go, they could not. The sailor rescued Bess first. Once she was in the boat, he went back for Beth.

With a broken leg, many lacerations, and still worried about Louis, Bess had trouble resting in her bed onboard the rescue ship. When a sailor walked into sickbay with a surprise—Louis, alive and well—she felt she could endure anything.

Beth and Bess remained best friends and eventually became related through marriage. I’ll tell Beth’s side of the story next time.

Of Fear and Aging

 In 1986, my father died of pancreatic cancer at the age of 67 years and 15 days. Today, my husband turns that exact age. 

People kept saying Dad died too young, but to me, he was old. Sure, I grieved for him and wished he could have stayed with us longer. But I figured he’d lived his life. More significant to me was that 27 was too young to lose one’s father.

My perspective has changed. I mark this day in my husband’s life, knowing I’m only a year behind him. I recognize that I could lose him, or he could lose me—as though that hasn’t always been true. I ask myself which I’d prefer—to go first or to be left alone—as though the choice is mine. Some might say I do have a choice, and in today’s world, I suppose I do. That’s disturbing.

I’m not afraid of death. The aging process, however, I’m not crazy about. These days, my siblings and I are observing our mother’s growing confusion and forgetfulness. Though her body remains healthy for 93 (and for that we feel grateful), her short-term memory is almost nonexistent. This requires more patience than I ever needed with my children to answer the same questions repeatedly. I fear the same happening to my husband, and/or to me. I suspect the odds of dementia happening to at least one of us are probably close to a hundred percent. How loving and patient will I be when it’s in my own house, my own bed, my own brain? And that doesn’t even factor in the long list of other maladies that can cause a long, slow, painful decline leading to our last breath. Modern Science has given us longer life expectancy without the quality of life to match. We’re all living longer, but does anyone truly want to? I’d rather die “much too young,” thank you very much.

Such fear-filled thinking can make me spiral down all too quickly—until I turn to God’s word. He is not the author of fear. His words remind me that each day is a gift from Him, with purpose in it regardless of my circumstances. With Himself in it, regardless of my weaknesses. He’s got me through every difficult and heartbreaking day I’ve known until now, so why would that change? He tells me my future is secure, I am His for all time and beyond time. That no power can withhold my inheritance in heaven or my security in Him. So, no matter what comes my way—whether caring for another or becoming the dependent one—He will never let go of my hand. He will give me the grace and endurance to do whatever I’m called upon to do, when I need it and not before.

With this knowledge, I can live today with purpose and abundance. As I walk in obedience to Him, focused on whatever lies before me in the moment—including the interruptions caused by my own or others’ human frailties—I can trust Him to be my strength and guide until my journey here on earth is done.

II Corinthians 12:9

 “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’”

 I Peter 1:4

 “In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil, or fade—kept in heaven for you.”

 Psalm 37:23-24

 “If the Lord delights in a man’s way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand.”

 

War Brides, Part 1: Embarassing Misunderstandings

His uniform, clean and polished for a wedding.

During World War II, Canadian servicemen spent more time away from home than any other nationals—some as long as six years. While British soldiers saw action beginning in 1939, however, the Canadians who were shipped over as early as 1940 remained primarily in England until 1943. This gave them plenty of time to find English girlfriends, and, in many cases, wives. 

Nearly 48,000 women from Britain and Europe immigrated to Canada to begin new lives with their Canadian husbands—often without their husbands and some with young children. While some left their husbands behind, still fighting in Europe, other women were left behind to wait after the war when their husbands were shipped home. In each case, the adjustments to be made were enormous.

Their stories are fascinating, astonishing, and often humorous.

More than one young woman described instances of extreme embarrassment when naïve Canadian boyfriends handed them money in public places, not understanding how this act appeared to onlookers. In one case, the soldier had offered to pay for their tram ride. Not being familiar with British currency, he reached in his pocket, pulled out a handful of change, and held it out. “Here,” he told his date. “Take what I owe.”

In another case, the embarrassment surrounding their leave-taking nearly ended the relationship after a week. Betty was seeing Ken’s train off at the station. As an afterthought, Ken handed her money in clear view of all the other troops, asking if she could get his civilian shoes repaired while he was away. Though she wanted to die on the spot, Betty forgave Ken his faux pas and their lovely courtship continued when he returned.

Connie Robitaille’s Canadian husband, Roger, had been sent home while Connie stayed behind in England, awaiting word that she could join him. When a puzzling letter arrived from Roger, Connie shared it with her friend. Roger had written to say his brother was getting married. “There’s to be a bridal shower here, so everything needs to be clean as there’ll be a lot of women here.”

Connie and her friend certainly knew what a shower was, but they’d never heard of a bridal shower. The only conclusion they could reach about this odd Canadian custom was that the bride-to-be must be required to take a shower in front of all the other women.

“Aren’t you glad you were married over here?” Her friend asked.

Connie surely was.

More next time. 

A Rotten Thing

Imagine that you’ve worked at the same company, in the same position, for 14 years. You like the job. You’ve never missed a deadline. You’re pretty decent at it and the clients/customers love you. Then one day, you receive a second-hand message from the new boss:

While you are welcome to continue coming to work, you will no longer be paid.

What do you do?

Essentially, this is what happened to me with my newspaper column in July. The new owner decided freelancers would no longer be paid—take it or leave it. Sure, I realize I wasn’t an employee and it’s not quite the same. It sure felt the same, though. It may have gone down more smoothly if I’d been told, “Sorry. Although we appreciate your work, we can’t afford to keep paying you.” At least I wouldn’t have felt so undervalued. But there was zero communication from the new owner—just a message conveyed by my editor, with his regrets.

I chose to leave it—and then felt like the greedy one for not staying on to work for free.

I felt bummed, but I’d also been in similar situations before—often enough to know that if I waited awhile, I’d see why it needed to happen. My faith in God has taught me that he truly does have my best interest at heart, even when I can’t see it.

A couple of months later, I was gearing up to launch another book. I was also starting a new writing class which had me teaching three hours a week for eight weeks. When my mother suddenly required round-the-clock care, my available time was cut in half. For six weeks, my sister and I tag-teamed in caring for Mom. Between that, the class, the book launch, my regular homemaking tasks, and other writing commitments, I felt completely overwhelmed. Having to meet a weekly column deadline on top of it all would have finished me. By Thanksgiving, I was truly grateful for that column’s demise.

I still think what happened to me—or, more accurately, the way it was handled—was rotten. But I hope my experience encourages you. Next time something rotten happens to you, as it inevitably will, wait. Wait with a “watch and see” expectation. “What are you up to, God?” is a great question.

He won’t always show you. Sometimes, he does.

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)
 

"I Want Mum"

As an adult, Mary Ann Waghorn’s memories came in snippets of black and white and gray. As a seven-year-old, she’d been told she was going on a holiday to Canada. She had no concept that she’d be leaving behind her three-year-old brother or the many aunts, uncles, and cousins who made up her happy extended family in Maidstone, Kent, England. Early in August 1940, she waited excitedly at the Maidstone West Station with her heartbroken mother. Mrs. Waghorn had agreed the evacuation would be best for her daughter but found the goodbye unbearable.

Mary Ann spent two days in the nearby town of Eltham in the care of CORB volunteers (Children’s Overseas Reception Board), until her party of 200 children was assembled. They traveled to Liverpool where Mary Ann remembers feeling nothing but confusion. The voyage across the North Atlantic on the Duchess of York proved no better. Most of the children were seasick and cold. On August 11, they docked in Canada.

The Duchess of York

Although Mary Ann was a CORB evacuee, it was up to the Toronto Children’s Aid to match her to a family. The process took weeks, during which time she stayed at Hart House, University of Toronto. Finally, she went to live with Roland and Coral Mann in Leaside, a small town on the outskirts of Toronto, and their twelve-year-old son, Teddy, and their dog, Sport. Since the Manns’ parents had been born in England and Scotland, they had close ties to Britain and Mary Ann fit in nicely despite her unsettling beginning. Mary Ann was soon calling her foster parents “Uncle Roly” and “Aunt Coral.”

Teddy proved to be an exceptionally patient big brother. He took Mary Ann skating, taught her to row a boat, fish, and bait her own hooks. At one point, Mary Ann announced to Mrs. Mann that when she was twenty, she would return to Canada and marry Teddy.

Although she looked gaunt upon arrival, she quickly gained weight and made lots of friends in her community. She recalled people being nothing but kind and compassionate to this little English girl. While Mary Ann appeared happy and well-adjusted, her inner feelings came out in her drawings. Her foster mother recalled her drawing pictures of girls in various activities like jumping rope or pushing a baby pram. Always, the girl was saying “I want Mum.” She drew great comfort at Christmas when she received some of her familiar toys from home.

The Manns found it a challenge to know how much news about home to expose such a young child to. At first, they never listened to war news on the radio. Later, Mary Ann was encouraged to take an interest in what was happening and to participate in fundraisers. Letters, photos, postcards, and cables kept her in touch with home.

Mary Ann says she’d have been happy to stay with the Manns after the war had they not so carefully kept her family in mind. Almost five years to the day she’d arrived in Canada, the Manns took her to Toronto’s Union Station where they said a tearful goodbye in front of newspaper photographers.

After a week aboard the Louis Pasteur and another train ride, twelve-year-old Mary Ann reached home—much taller and with a Canadian accent but otherwise the same girl with long blond braids. The brother who had been only three when she left was now eight and barely remembered her. Naturally, he resented this sudden intrusion of a big sister into his only-child status. Mary Ann, used to the older Canadian brother who’d doted on her, resented him as well and they fought a lot. She found the adjustment back to British school and life harder than the first change. Over time, she settled in.

For the next forty years, Mary Ann wrote monthly letters to the Mann family. On the four occasions when they met, she admitted feeling closer to them than she did to her own family.

His Body Kept Score

(NOT John Hutton's house!)

John Hutton’s mother died when he was only five years old, leaving him to live with his widowed father and his grandmother in a big old house in Colchester, Essex, England. One day in July of 1940 when he was seven, John’s father informed him he would be leaving for Canada in three days. He asked where Canada was and whether he’d be able to speak the language. His Uncle Leslie showed him on a map where he’d be going—to Toronto where people spoke English and where he’d be near Niagara Falls, the largest waterfall in the world.

Niagara Falls

Years later, John would recall his father taking him and his rucksack to the train station where he joined several other children embarking on the same journey. None of them had any comprehension of how far they would be traveling or for how long they’d be gone, but John felt the vision of his hometown receding into the distance staying with him throughout his five years in Canada.

The children waited in London through the Battle of Britain, and the gunfire overhead confirmed their parents’ decision was a good one. After they finally took the train to Liverpool, John boarded the troop ship SS Oronsay for Halifax. The crossing took two weeks, which were filled with lifeboat drills and activities organized by the CORB staff (Children’s Overseas Reception Board) who accompanied them. Among his memories are the massive ships in their convoy, the long series of tunnels they walked to reach the Halifax train station after disembarking, and the lower platforms of Canadian train stations that required them to carry their luggage up several steps into the cars. Big steps for a seven-year-old.

SS Oronsay

The journey to Toronto took four days and three nights, and John was impressed by the endless forests and lakes, relieved only by small clusters of wooden buildings. He and the other children were stumped when, at every stop, they were greeted by loud cheers from Canadians.

John settled in with his foster family but grew increasingly withdrawn, concerning both his foster parents and his father back home with his fibs and minor misdemeanors. When his foster family moved away a year later, John was taken in by the Pellett family in the village of Agincourt. Here, he fitted in nicely and found himself at home with foster parents whose families descended from Britain and their two young children.

Soon, John was calling Mrs. Pellett “Mother” and keeping his two fathers separate by referring to his foster father as “our daddy” and his father as “my daddy.” He feared that “My Daddy” would be called up as a soldier and have to leave Colchester.

John was constantly in trouble at school for being inattentive and the Pelletts knew he worried about the war. John grew so anxious that in March 1942, they took him for examination to the Sick Children’s Hospital. Doctors agreed John was worried about the war and there was nothing they could do. When Mr. Hutton’s job was declared war work and the danger of his inscription faded, John settled down. He stayed busy with school, church groups, Cubs, and friends. Though frequently plagued with illness as various anxieties arose, John eventually settled in with improved grades.

In July 1945. John left behind the foster family he’d grown to love and returned home, a tall, heavy, twelve-year-old wearing long pants and carrying a fountain pen gifted to him by his school in Canada. Later, John admitted that it took him a full three years to feel at home in England again.

 

You're invited!