The Healing Power of Love

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The Healing Power of Love

We dreaded Christmas that year. It was 1944, and the
war would never be over for our family.

The telegram had arrived in August. Bob's few
personal possessions, the flag from his coffin, the plan of
his burial site in the Philippine Islands, and a
Distinguished Flying Cross had arrived one by one, adding
to our agonizing grief.

Born on a midwest prairie, my brother rode horseback
to school but wanted to fly an airplane from the first day
he saw one. By the time he was twenty-one, we were living
in Seattle, Washington. When World War II broke out, Bob
headed for the nearest Air Force recruitment office.
Slightly built, skinny like his father, he was ten pounds
underweight.

Undaunted, he persuaded Mother to cook every fattening
food she could think of. He ate before meals, between
means and after meals. We laughed and called him "lardo."

At the Navy Cadet Office he stepped on the scale -
still three pounds to go. He was desperate. His friends
were leaving one after the other; his best buddy was
already in the Marine Air Corps. The next morning, he ate
a pound of greasy bacon, six eggs and five bananas, drank
two gallons of milk, and, bloated like a pig, staggered
back on their scales. He passed the weigh-in with eight
ounces to spare.

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When he was nominated Hot Pilot of primary training
school in Pasco, Washington, and involuntarily joined the
"Caterpillar Club" (engine failure causing the bailout) at
St. Mary's, California, we shook our heads and worried.
Mother prayed. He was born fearless, and she knew it.
Before graduating from Corpus Christi, he applied for
transfer to the Marine Air Corps at Pensacola, Florida. He
trained in torpedo bombers before being sent overseas.

They said Bob died under enemy fire over New Guinea in
the plane he wanted so desperately to fly.

I never wept for Bob. In my mind's eye, I pictured my
debonair big brother wing-tapping through the clouds, doing
what he loved best, his blue eyes sparkling with love of
life. But I wept for the sadness that never left my
parents' eyes.

Mother's faith sustained her, but my father aged
before our eyes. He listened politely whenever the
minister came to call, but we knew Daddy was bitter. He
dragged himself to work every day but lost interest in
everything else, including his beloved Masonic Club. He
very much wanted a Masonic ring, and at Mother's insistence
he had started saving for the ring. Of course, after Bob
died, that too ceased.

I dreaded the approach of Christmas. Bob loved
Christmas. His enthusiasm excited us long before reason
took over. His surprises were legendary: a dollhouse made
a school, a puppy hidden in mysterious places for little
brother, an expensive dress for Mother bought with the very
first money he ever earned. Everything had to be a
surprise.

What would Christmas be without Bob? Not much.
Aunts, uncles and Grandmother were coming, so we went
through the motions as much for memory as anything, but our
hearts weren't in it. Dad sat for longer and longer
periods, staring silently out the window, and Mother's
heart was heavy with worry...

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On December 23, another official-looking package
arrived. My father watched stone-faced as Mother unpacked
Bob's dress blues. 'After all this time, why oh why did
they - the nameless they - send his dress uniform,' I
thought bitterly. Silence hung heavy. As she refolded the
uniform to put it away, a mother's practicality surfaced,
and she went through the pockets almost by rote, aching
with grief.

In a small, inside jacket pocket was a neatly folded
fifty-dollar bill with a tiny note in Bob's familiar
handwriting: "For Dad's Masonic ring."

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the
look on my father's face. Some kind of beautiful
transformation took place - a touch of wonder, a hint of
joy, a quiet serenity that was glorious to behold. Oh, the
healing power of love! He stood transfixed, staring at the
note and the trimly folded fifty-dollar bill in his hand
for what seemed an eternity; then he walked to Bob's
picture hanging prominently on the wall and solemnly
saluted.

"Merry Christmas, Son," he murmured, and turned to
welcome Christmas.

By Mary Sherman Hilbert

Reprinted by permission of Mary Sherman Hilbert (c) 1998,
from A 6th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack
Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen.