The Victory Club

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  "That would be nice. Thank you for offering." She gathered her pocketbook and sweater while he said good night to his children.

  After leaving the house, they walked in silence for three blocks before Stuart spoke. "You seemed upset back there."

  She glanced his way and gave him a brief, sad smile. "I miss Richard. Sometimes, when I see Greg and Dottie together, it hurts."

  "Yeah, I understand what that's like."

  Empathy squeezed her heart. "Any word?"

  "I heard from Frances." He shoved his hands into his pant pockets, his gaze locked on the sidewalk a few steps in front of him. "She says Pen's in San Diego."

  "What do you intend to do? Will you go down there, try to convince her to return to Boise?"

  "I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

  "I'm not the right person to ask. I've made too many mistakes of my own."

  And I forgave you, beloved.

  Her heart fluttered at the soft voice in her heart, and it made her wonder if Stuart didn't deserve a chance to hear it, too.

  "Stuart, why don't you ask God what He wants you to do?"

  He released a humorless chuckle. "I don't think God would listen to me. I'm not the religious sort."

  Lucy stopped walking. "It isn't about religion. It's about a relationship with Jesus."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Too often, religion is just a set of rules to live by or rituals to observe. But that isn't what Jesus wants from us or for us. Jesus wants us to know Him, to love Him."

  Stuart shook his head.

  "He wants us to delight in Him so He can give us the desires of our hearts. He wants to make you His child."

  Stuart's expression changed from skepticism to puzzlement. "You really believe that, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "So, then what? If I believe all you're telling me, then is everything supposed to go right from then on? I get what I want from God. Is that what you're saying?"

  "No, that's not what I'm saying." She leaned toward him, willing him to understand. "We get what He wants, and that's always what's best for us."

  His face darkened. "What if He wants Pen to stay in San Diego and never be a mother to our kids?" Challenge sharpened his voice, hinting of anger. "What if God wants your husband to die in Europe?"

  His words hit Lucy like a fist. She sucked in a gasp of air, at the same time pulling back from him.

  "I'm sorry," he said—but he sounded more frustrated than sorry. "I can't accept the whole Jesus-loves-me-this-I-know thing. Maybe it works for you and your friends, but it won't work for me. I'm not saying there's no God. Maybe Jesus did die on the cross and all that. But when I see the stuff that's going on in the world, it's hard to believe He cares all that much about any of us."

  Lucy knew he was wrong. God cared, infinitely more than she would ever understand. But she had no reply, not with Stuart's question ringing in her heart: "What if God wants your husband to die in Europe?"

  "Look—" Stuart motioned with his hand, indicating they should resume walking— "Let's change the subject. I don't suppose you care about the Dodgers' eight-one loss to the Cubs?"

  "Not really." Lucy fell into step beside him. "What if God wants your husband to die in Europe?"

  God knew the number of their days from birth to death. No one could snatch a life out of His hands. No one. So was it His will for Richard to die in the war? She'd never let that question surface before. She'd known he might die, that he could die, and she'd prayed that he wouldn't. But was it possible Richard wouldn't come home because it was part of God's plan?

  A headache pounded behind her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and index finger in a futile attempt to stop it.

  "I'm sorry, Lucy," Stuart said in a low voice. "I shouldn't've said what I did. It was thoughtless. You've been a good friend to me and the kids since Pen left, and I should be more careful what I say."

  She lowered her hand. "It's okay. Really it is."

  But it wasn't okay, because now the question continued to ring in her heart: Was it possible Richard wouldn't come home because it was part of God's overall plan?

  * * *

  When Lucy arrived home twenty minutes later, she dropped her pocketbook on the stoop without going inside and crossed the backyard. Nine straight rows ran the length of her Victory Garden, and at each end were tiny stakes wearing empty seed packets, a reminder of what produce to expect come harvest-time.

  How long would it be before the first shoots broke through the soil? Sunshine and water had begun the growing process, though there was no evidence of it yet. Germination and growth happened underground first.

  People were like that, Lucy thought. So much going on beneath the surface. Growth that could take days, weeks, months for others to see.

  God, do You see growth in me? I don't want to be dormant. I want to be fruitful. I want a harvest of faith and obedience.

  She squatted and touched the loose soil, warmed by the sun. God, when He created the world, had made the earth fertile. He designed it to grow food to sustain man and beast. He looked on His creation and called it good. If not for sin, she thought, there would be no weeds, no thorns.

  You could remove weeds and thorns from the earth, Lord. You could remove evil, too. She drew a slow, deep breath. You could end this war and stop the killing. Why don't You?

  Wasn't it a paradox that God, who was good, allowed evil to remain?

  "If we understood everything," her pastor once said, "then we would be God. We will never understand everything. God's riches and wisdom and knowledge are too wonderful for full comprehension."

  But I want to understand, Lord.

  The questions churned in her mind. If God was firmly in control of events, if He truly held the future, then what about free will? Was what happened completely out of her control? Had she no choice, no say? She'd read in the Bible that God changed His mind in response to an act of man. So did that mean her actions could change God's plans?

  Lucy stood, raised her eyes toward heaven, and said, "I want to understand the whys, Lord, of what happens in the world. Is that possible? Is it wrong to want to know?"

  Chapter 52

  Dottie awakened slowly. Through closed eyelids, she became aware of morning sunlight falling onto her face, accompanied by a feeling of decadence for having slept late, something she got to do only when Stuart Maxfield had the night off from work and his children stayed at home with him.

  Smiling, contented, she moved her arm across the sheet, but discovered Greg wasn't beside her. She opened her eyes.

  The bedroom curtains were pulled open wide. Greg stood at the window, his face toward the sun. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he saw the world outside—the morning light, the dew on the roses in her mother's garden, the green grass, the birds in the willow tree near the back fence. But she did know better. His beautiful eyes saw nothing.

  A sharp ache pierced her heart. Oh, God. His beautiful brown eyes. Will he never see our child with those eyes? I want him to see our child.

  As if she'd spoken the words aloud, Greg turned toward her. "Hey there, sleepyhead."

  She sat up, leaning her back against the headboard. "How did you know I was awake?"

  "You make a funny sound in your throat when you first wake up."

  "I do? I didn't know that." She yawned as she glanced toward the alarm clock. "I can't believe the time. How long have you been up?"

  "Not long. Your mom already left for work." He stepped toward Dottie and sat on the edge of the bed near her hip. "I've been thinking I should get a Seeing Eye dog."

  He's giving up on regaining his sight.

  "It would mean going away for a few weeks of training."

  Dottie placed a hand on her abdomen. "How soon would you go?"

  "I don't know." He covered her hand with his own. "Don't worry. I'll make sure it's not when the baby's due."

  She smiled. How well he knew her.
<
br />   "The fellow I talked to at the hospital last week told me there's a waiting period to get a dog. I'm not sure how long that period is. Weeks. Months, maybe."

  "But what … what if you regain your sight? The doctors haven't ruled out the possibility. Maybe you should wait a little longer before you get a dog. They said—" Seeing his expression, both patient and pained, Dottie swallowed the remainder of her argument.

  Greg linked fingers with hers. "Princess, we make plans, but the Lord determines our steps. Let's see where those steps take us."

  But it seems unfair that you should never again see the sky, never again be able to play baseball with your friends, never hold your firstborn in your arms and see his smile.

  After a period of silence, Greg whispered, "Our steps and our stops?"

  "What?"

  His smile was pensive. "There was a Christian in my unit. Bryant. We used to talk about our faith and the Bible a lot. Bryant told me a story about a man in England named George Muller." Greg spoke softly, yet with an undercurrent of strength in his voice. "Muller lived in the 1800s, and he saw how bad things were for the orphans there so he decided to do something about it. He wasn't a man of means. He didn't have any money. But by faith, he opened an orphanage for a couple dozen girls. Over the years, God kept answering Muller's prayers of faith for the needs that arose, and by the time Muller died, his orphanages had helped more than ten thousand orphans."

  Dottie listened to her husband, knowing he told her the story for a purpose. Yet she wondered what a man from another century had to do with Greg regaining his sight or getting a guide dog.

  "Psalm 37 has a verse that says, 'The LORD directs the steps of the godly.' The story goes that George Muller added two words to it. He changed the verse in his Bible to read, 'The LORD directs the steps and stops of the godly.'" Greg squeezed her fingers. "Do you see, Dottie? God orders every detail of our lives, both the steps and the stops. Maybe this blindness of mine is one of our stops because He loves us. We can trust Him with it."

  "But didn't you say this Muller prayed and had his needs met? The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and wonderful results. Right? If we prayed harder—"

  "Dottie." His grasp tightened on her hand. "God delights in every detail of our lives. He's holding our hands like I'm holding yours now. He's holding on tight. He won't let us fall. We might stumble, but He won't let us fall."

  "But—"

  "Princess, I'm not afraid of being blind if that's what God allows." With that, Greg slid closer and drew her into his embrace. "Let's see where He's taking us." His breath whispered through her hair. "We may find we're on the greatest adventure we can imagine."

  To: Mrs. Richard Anderson, Boise, Idaho, U.S.A.

  From: 1st Lt. Richard Anderson

  Wednesday, May 19, 1943

  My beloved Lucy,

  I'm sending this letter through a buddy of mine instead of using a regular V—Mail. I have too much to say for a single V—Mail. And maybe this will get to you uncensored. My friend says it will.

  There's a full moon tonight. I'm sitting on the bank of a river while writing. I come to this spot a lot, to think, to meditate on God's Word, to pray. For a change, the sky's not overcast with low-hanging clouds. No rain is weeping through the trees. Instead, it's clear and I can see a million stars overhead. The air is sweet. The airfield's not far off, but it's quiet for now. No roar of engines to disturb the night.

  "Be still, and know that I am God. I will be honored by every nation. I will be honored throughout the world."

  I wish that time was now, Lucy. I wish the whole world would honor God, that they knew who He is and would worship Him. I'm ready for Christ to return.

  We had a close call on our bombing run today in the Boise Babe. That's what the boys in the squadron dubbed our Fortress. Did I tell you that before? First we ran into flak and ground fire. We were flying at about 60 feet at the time. Low enough to see the men who were shooting at us. Then there were German fighters coming at us from every direction. A cannon shell exploded beneath my seat after coming through the aircraft, just missing Eddie Caldwell, my navigator. Could have torn off his legs, it came so close. My mid-upper gunner was nearly hit in the head with another shell, and he got a nasty burn on his hand. The whole aircraft was shot up from end to end.

  I wasn't sure we would make it back from this mission. Had some tense moments.

  But we did make it, and I'm thankful for another night on this earth, another chance to write and tell you how much I love you. Do I tell you enough, Lucy? I'm not sure I do. These letters and too few memories—that's all you've got of me. Are they enough?

  It was about 3:30 when we landed in England. Glad to be alive, all of us. Eddie and I headed for the hut for a quick shower, and the chaplain met us on the road. He had a yellow envelope in his hand. Eddie grabbed my arm. I think he was more scared to see that wire than he was when that shell ripped through our plane. But it was good news. He's got a son! Eddie Jr. arrived about a month early, but I guess he's doing fine and so is Eddie's wife.

  A few weeks ago Eddie managed to get his hands on a box of American cigars. He's been saving them for this occasion. He passed them out to the boys in the squadron. Somebody else had a quart of whiskey, so those who cared to imbibe did so, even though there wasn't a lot to go around.

  With the way they all carried on, you'd have thought Eddie was the one who did the hard work of bringing that baby into the world. And Eddie, well, he acted plum loco. You never saw a guy so delirious with joy. Maybe they're all still celebrating, but I had to get off by myself.

  Lucy, I'd sure like a chance to be a father to our babies. I must have told the Lord that a hundred times. Did I ever say the same thing to you? Do you know how much I'd like to see you cradling our son or daughter in your arms? I can imagine you sometimes, sitting by the window in a rocking chair with a soft blue or pink blanket falling over your shoulder, your head tipped down as you stare at the bundle in your arms. I can imagine it so clearly it makes my chest hurt.

  I remember reading—I think it was in Psalms—that the children born to a young man are like sharp arrows in a warrior's hands, and that the man whose quiver is full of them is joyful. I was too young, I guess, to appreciate the truth of that verse. But today, when the flak and shells hit our bomber and I knew we were in bad shape and I wasn't sure we'd make it back, well, I had to wonder if I'd ever have even one in my quiver. I had to wonder if God was saying no to my prayers to come home to you.

  Maybe this is nerves talking. Maybe it's that with each mission I fly and each time I see another plane drop out of the sky, I know the odds are growing that my plane could be next.

  Paul said, "For to me, living means living for Christ, and dying is even better." In my head, I know what he meant. Dying means an end to the troubles we have in this world. Dying means never seeing a comrade in arms shot and bleeding and suffering. It means never seeing another plane going down in flames. Dying means no more tears or sorrows or wars. But, Lucy, dying also means not seeing you again. At least not in this earthly life. I know I'd see you again someday in heaven, but I'm selfish enough to want to see you here, now.

  I'm selfish enough to want to raise our children together, to grow old together, and bounce our grandkids on our knees together. I imagine myself sitting on a front porch with you. Your face is soft and creased and your hair is gray. You wear glasses on the tip of your nose and there's a quilt wrapped around your legs to keep off the chill while the sun sets.

  Can you imagine that, too, Lucy? I want that future so bad I can taste it.

  It won't be long now before the Allies invade Europe. With the North African campaign ended a week ago, that gives us a base near the toe of Italy's boot. The bombing of strategic sites in Europe will increase now. The bombers will be able to fly farther than we could before. I don't think I'm breaching anything classified to say that, although the censors wouldn't like me doing it. Still, it's got to be common knowle
dge, even in the States. The Germans and the Italians won't be surprised when we push across the Mediterranean. They're preparing for it. Any fool could look at a map and see what's coming next. The months ahead are going to be unlike anything any of us, friend or foe, have seen yet.

  Lucy, please forgive me if I die over here. Sound crazy? I suppose so. Still, I'm asking. Don't be mad at me if I don't make it home. It won't be because I don't love you. I love you with everything I am, everything I ever hope to be.

  Maybe you're feeling these same sorts of things. Your letters lately have seemed different. I hope you're okay. I want you to be okay. I want you to be happy. I pray that God will give you joy, Lucy. No matter what comes, I pray that God will give you joy.

  I'll love you always,

  Richard

  To: Ist Lt. Richard Anderson, APO, N.Y.P.E.

  From: Lucy Anderson

  Saturday, June 12, 1943

  My dearest darling,

  Today the postman delivered your long letter. I was so excited to get an envelope rather than a single sheet of paper. The letter came to me with every word intact. The censors cut nothing out.

  But there are tears in my eyes as I begin to write this reply. My heart is full of too many emotions—pain, fear, love, and more love. I miss you so much, and I wish I had words to write that would encourage you and bring you peace and comfort. Or perhaps make you laugh. But all I can do is tell you what's happening to me and around me and inside me. I hope that's enough, darling.

  A week ago, Stuart Maxfield challenged me with a question about God's will, and all week, I've been pondering terms like predestination. God's sovereignty, and mankind's free will. I've tried to find understanding by reading the Scriptures and asking the Holy Spirit for illumination.

  All week, I have felt like Jacob of the Old Testament, like I was wrestling with an angel of God. "I won't let you go until you bless me with understanding," I cried to the Lord. Jacob got his blessing when he wrestled. His name became Israel because he struggled with both God and man. And he won. But I haven't won. I don't understand any better the complexities of war and death and evil and senseless loss.