Silent Star (9 page)

She and her mother talked long into the night, sharing memories of days gone by. They spoke of the Great War, the war that was to end all wars. Sadly it had failed, and yet Estella’s mother wasn’t at all surprised.

“War will only end when Jesus puts an end to it,” she said. Estella realized the truth of it and agreed.

Even now, the memories warmed Estella as she made her way in the cold night. She’d always had such a pleasant time fixing up the Christmas tree with her mother. This year, short of baking with Mary Beth, Estella really hadn’t done anything to get into the spirit of Christmas.

I’m sorry, Lord. Here it is your birthday and I’ve not even prepared.

She thought of the service to come that night and wished fervently that Andy had come with her. The poor man felt he had to hide away like some abominable monster. It wasn’t fair.

I know he feels rejected, Lord. I know he feels that the entire town of Haven has turned its back on him. I know in many ways they’ve killed his spirit. . . .

She looked up to the starry sky overhead. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Glancing at her watch, she made a decision. There was still time—if she hurried.

****

The little church had already started to fill up when Estella arrived. The organist played a soft medley of Christmas songs, and the music spilled out across the sanctuary as an embrace against the cold and hopelessness. Estella pulled off her scarf and glanced around, trying to decide where she would sit. Mary Beth quickly came to her side.

Hugging Estella, Mary Beth looked past her shoulder. “Is Andy coming?”

“No. He felt it would make everyone feel uncomfortable,” Estella said sadly.

“I wish he were here. He wouldn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“I know,” Estella answered, hugging the girl again.

“Can we sit together? Mama and Poppy are sitting over there with Kay and my sisters, but I’d like to sit with you too.”

“It’s good to see your mother here. Is she feeling better?”

“I don’t know that she’s feeling any more hope about Sammy’s chances, but she felt it was her patriotic duty to be here.”

“Why don’t we sit just there,” Estella pointed, “right in front of them.”

Mary Beth nodded. “That would be perfect.”

The service started shortly after the ladies took their seats. Pastor Bailey led the congregation in several songs. Estella’s heart was moved when they began to sing one of Howard’s favorite songs.

“ ‘I heard the bells on Christmas day, their old familiar carols play,’“ Estella sang, remembering Howard telling her that the song had been written during the darkest days of the Civil War.

“And in despair I bowed my head, ‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said, ‘for hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.’ ”

Estella nodded knowingly. Those could have been Andy’s words instead of Henry Longfellow’s. The organ played a small interlude and then they joined in the final verse—a verse of hope. It was as if the author had come out of a black and empty place and into the hope that God offered.

“Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep.’  ” A tear trickled down Estella’s cheek. No, God was not dead—He didn’t sleep. He knew exactly what was happening in His world. He knew the pain of His children. He knew how they longed for peace—perfect peace.

They concluded singing and took their seats while Pastor Bailey faced the congregation. “Many of you feel the sorrow expressed in this song. You feel God must surely be asleep—that He doesn’t care. Henry Longfellow wrote this poem during the Civil War. He needed to express the despair in his heart. His son, a lieutenant in the war, had been seriously wounded in battle and only two years earlier he’d watched his wife burn to death while he tried in vain to save her life.” He paused and looked from person to person across the congregation.

“He knew the sorrows of war and the pain of loss—just as you do. Tonight we’ve gathered to remember our losses—our sons and brothers, husbands and friends. Were it not for the war, they’d be sitting beside us at this very moment. Still, they are with us in memory.” His words became more impassioned. “And I know in my heart they would be the first to tell you that God is not dead—He does not sleep. He’s here with us now; He’s never left us for even a moment.”

Estella appreciated his words. It seemed God had given
the young man a powerful understanding of the emotions and needs of the congregation. If only Andy had been there.

“We’ve put up a Christmas tree, and tonight we’ll hang our gold stars on the branches to honor the dead. May it offer you comfort to know they are now out of harm’s way, safely at home with the Lord. May it comfort you to know that God is with you always, that He walks this dark valley with you, never leaving you for even a moment.

“Christmas is a time to reflect on God’s gift of love: Jesus. It’s a time to remember that love and the love we have shared with those who’ve gone on before us. As we hang our stars tonight, I challenge you to remember that love rather than the pain and sorrow of loss.”

The ceremony began with a representative from nearly every family in the congregation coming forward. As the stars were placed on the tree, Pastor Bailey read out the names.

Estella listened, hearing the names and the muffled cries in response. Mary Beth grasped her hand, and Estella could only imagine she was thinking of Sammy.
Oh, God, bring him back safely,
Estella prayed.

The organ played on softly and when the last person was headed back to his seat, Estella rose and walked to the tree. From her pocket, she pulled out a small gold star.

Pastor Bailey looked at her strangely. “I didn’t know you had family in the service,” he whispered.

She hung her star in plain view and turned to face the congregation as the pastor read out the name.

“Andrew Gilbert.”

Whispered comments went rippling through the congregation. Finally someone from the back called out, “He’s not dead—he’s not even in the service.”

“Well,” she began hesitantly, “that is where you’re wrong.” Her voice was soft and gentle, like a mother offering tender correction. She looked across the room, seeing each face—knowing they were all suffering, yet feeling confident that they needed to know what they’d done. “Andy serves, just as
your sons and husbands do. He bears the weight of a war-related job, and because of what that job represents, you have shunned him, pushed him away as if he had caused your misery. In the saddest way you’ve taken his life as surely as war has taken the lives of the boys represented here.”

Silence filled the room. Estella met Mary Beth’s face and felt encouraged when the young woman nodded solemnly.

“He’s just a boy . . . barely a man. Just like those we’ve sent across the seas. He needs love and companionship, but few of you have offered him much of anything but sorrow.” She stepped closer to the front row.

“Is it his fault that his job should give him such a horrible task? Should he have suffered—been put to death in the spirit—all because your own pain is so great? Has any one of you stopped to realize that many of the boys who fought and died . . . were Andy’s friends?”

She noticed Mr. McGovern. “Do you realize how Andy rejoiced when word came that your boy was found? Mr. and Mrs. Iseman, do you know how broken up Andy was when he had to bring that telegram about Sammy? It just devastated him.” She looked back across the room. “He’s just a nice boy doing his duty in the only way he can.” Estella could no longer keep the tears from streaming down her face.

Mary Beth got up from her seat and came forward. Standing with Estella, she put her arm around the older woman in support.

“She’s right, you know. Andy is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. He had to quit school when he was fifteen to go to work after his father died. I’m confident he never complained about it because that’s not the kind of person he is,” Mary Beth said softly. “But I do know he’s in pain all the time. I’ve seen him grimace when he walks. His own injury from the accident and then losing his folks have left him hurting.”

For several moments no one said anything. Estella looked at the congregation, desperately hoping she had gotten through
in some small way. They stared at her in stoic silence. Even Pastor Bailey didn’t know what to say.

“There’s a young man who is sitting alone tonight—on Christmas Eve,” Estella told them. “He has no one to comfort him, no one to share his fears. You’ll all go back to your homes and share your pain together. You’ll hope and pray and dream of better times while that boy is swallowed up in the sadness that has become his life. I don’t think it would be possible for me to stand before my Lord—to look Him in the eye—if I did less than extend the hand of friendship to one of His own.”

Estella headed toward the door with Mary Beth on her arm. They paused momentarily at the pew where the girl’s folks sat.

“Mama, Poppy, may I go with Mrs. Nelson?”

Her mother sat with her head bowed, but her father looked up and nodded. “I think that would be fine.”

Estella was proud of the girl. She had no idea what the future might hold in store for Mary Beth and Andy, but she thought they’d make a fine couple. Maybe the Lord thought so too. She smiled to herself and began to hum. It was a beginning.

SEVEN

Andy opened the door to his mother and father’s bedroom. The cold air rushed out, leaving him chilled. He switched on the light and looked around for a moment. The linoleum floor bore several rag rugs and at the window hung curtains his mother had made only a few years before the accident. Across the room his parents’ bed stood. It seemed small—cold.

His mother’s good friend Harriet had stripped the sheets and remade the bed with fresh linens after they’d taken Andy’s mother away to the funeral home. She said he’d feel better knowing everything was in order. He didn’t.

After that day, he’d closed the door and had never gone back. Today was the first time. He hesitated. It almost seemed to be sacred ground. Here his parents had shared their most private moments. Here they had talked about their hopes and dreams.

His father had papered the walls in a flowery print after his mother had spied it at the store one day. Confiding in Andy, his father had said he actually hated the pattern and would have preferred to paint, but that Andy’s mother had so loved it that he couldn’t help but love it too.

That was the kind of love they shared. They were truly one. One in spirit, one in flesh, one in heart.

Andy had never known more love and security than he had experienced here in this room. He warmed a bit at the memory. In this room he had been a little boy—a much-loved son. He had held no responsibilities and no worries. His father had provided for them, and his mother had seen to his needs. He’d been safe and well loved.

He caught sight of the reason he’d come. His parents’ Bible sat on the stand beside the bed. He crossed the room, feeling silly for the sensations that washed over him. He glanced over
his shoulder nervously, almost as if a ghostly image of his mother might appear before his eyes.

He took up the Bible and hugged it to his chest. He couldn’t explain his action, but it made him feel better.

He walked to the door and looked back again to the room. Happy memories came to mind—memories of coming here on Sunday mornings when he’d been a little boy. He’d been allowed to crawl into bed with his mother and father on cold winter mornings. Together the three of them would cuddle and talk about the day and then get up and ready themselves for church.

He could almost hear his childish squeals of laughter as his father tickled his ribs to motivate him out of the warm bed. Andy smiled broadly at the thought.

“Time to go, Andy my lad,”
his father would declare.

Andy jumped. His father’s words hung on the air—at least they seemed to.

“Oh, I wish you were both here—alive and well. I wish you could be with me tonight and help me through my fears.”

The words echoed in the silence of the room. The empty bed seemed a lonely reminder that they were gone for good. They were not coming back.

Andy turned the light off and then shut the door once again. He looked at the closed door and sighed. “I wish I were eight years old again and I wish this stupid war had never come.”

He reached out and fingered the handle. A part of him longed to go back into the room, curl up on the bed, and never again face the world. Why couldn’t things be good? Why couldn’t they be the way they once were?

“If only I’d died in the accident with you, Dad. Then we’d all be in heaven—we’d all be happy.” Death seemed such a kindness at this point.

With shoulders slumped, Andy made his way back to the kitchen. He sat down at the table and placed the Bible in front of him. How many times had he seen his mother with
this black book in her hands? Since his father’s death it had definitely been a daily event—maybe more.

She found such comfort here—such hope. Mrs. Nelson feels that way too,
he reasoned.
I’m sure for them it must have made a difference, but I don’t see how it can help me.

He opened the book and flipped through the pages.
There’s nothing here that will make sense of the war or the pain and suffering that’s going on. There’s nothing here that can make it all right.

His gaze was fixed on the upper right-hand corner of the page when Isaiah 53 came into view.

He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.
Tears began to stream down Andy’s face.

He knew. Jesus knew.

He knew what it was to feel completely despised—rejected. He knew what it was to have people turn away, to hide their faces from him.

He knew the pain in Andy’s heart—the deep wounds that others had given him. Wounds that he didn’t ask for, precipitate, or deserve. Through the blur of his tears, Andy read on.