I’d like to introduce a man named Harold Wright, an uncomplicated Manitoba farmer born in 1897. At age seventeen, Harold marched off to fight in the war to end all wars. He survived, started a family, and saw his eldest daughter join the Canadian Women’s Army Corps in the war after that. Harold’s greater contribution to World War II, however, was proposing that his family take in three British evacuee children through the CORB (Children’s Overseas Reception Board) program. He had his reasons. So convinced was Harold that this would be a great idea, he signed up his family as hosts without a thorough discussion with his wife. Knowing his wife’s good heart, he felt confident she’d be on board.
Harold was wrong.
Mrs. Wright, while willing to take in a teenage girl as a possible friend for her hurting daughter, was unequivocally opposed to hosting the two younger children who came as part of the package. She had her reasons.
Meanwhile, their teenage daughter was opposed to all three house guests. She had her reasons too.
By the time poor Harold discovered he’d acted too hastily, he had some impossible back-peddling to do. A family of three children had already arrived on his doorstep—siblings aged 14, ten, and seven, determined to stay together come hell or high water.
Hell and high water came when the three kids feared separation and ran away. Harold found himself bumping down dusty country roads in his old Ford truck on a dark, muggy July night while he searched for three English youngsters who knew nothing about life in the Canadian wilds.
One can imagine what went through Harold’s mind. He’d been so well-intentioned. His generous gesture was meant to bring joy and healing to his family while also helping another family, providing their kids with a safe and peaceful childhood. Now he’d failed miserably. What if the children couldn’t be found? He aimed his headlights into the ditches on both sides as he feared the worst. How on earth could he explain matters to CORB? Who would tell the children’s parents back in England?
He finally found the runaways—alive but filthy, hungry, thirsty, smelling like skunks, and covered in mosquito bites and poison ivy. Harold was fit to be tied while anger and relief jockeyed for position at his emotional steering wheel. He had about three seconds to decide how to handle this unprecedented, vexing situation. Whatever happened in the next few minutes—and over the course of the next several years—would demonstrate the sort of man Harold Wright was.
Without giving away more details, I’m glad to report that, over time and with multiple opportunities, Harold proved himself worthy of the title “father.” Though he didn’t always get things right, he’d learned to walk by faith in a God who taught him to lead with love, mercy, and wisdom. A man you’d love to know.
Unfortunately, you can’t meet him in person. Harold Wright is a fictional character in my upcoming novel, “Even If We Cry.” Though he plays a small role in the tale, it’s a surprisingly significant one. I can’t wait to share this story with you. It’ll be out in early December.
Meanwhile, I want to say “thank you” to all you fathers who do your best every day to make life better for your families, your communities, and your country even when your confidence sags and circumstances seem impossible. Trust your Heavenly Father to lead and guide you in patience, wisdom, and grace. He will not steer you wrong.
Happy Father’s Day.
British evacuees during WWII. Photo: https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/education/resources/evacuation-canada/
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