by Al Lacy
They waited for a long moment after knocking on the door, then knocked again. When there was no response, one of them said, “Let’s try the back door. Maybe they’re somewhere in the rear of the house.”
When there was no response, they stepped off the back porch and headed toward their horses.
“Hey, soldiers!”
Through the rain they saw a middle-aged man standing on his back porch. “Yes, sir?” said one of them.
“You fellas looking for the Smiths?”
“We are, sir.”
“They’re eating dinner with the Reynolds family, who live one block east and two blocks south.”
“Thank you, sir,” said one man. “Do you know the number on the house?”
“No, but it’s the second house from the corner on the west side. It’s the only house in the block with a big oak tree smack in the middle of the front yard.”
“Appreciate the information, sir. Thank you.”
The neighbor smiled. “Thought for a second there that one of you might be Captain Grant Smith. He’s due home pretty soon. You fellas know him?”
“Ah, no, sir. But we’ve heard a lot of good things about him.”
The neighbor grinned and nodded. “Well, anyway, you’ll find his parents and his sisters at the Reynolds house.”
The soldiers thanked him again, made their way to the front of the house, and mounted their horses. One of them commented that he was glad the rain was easing some.
Dinner was over at the Reynolds house and everyone had moved to the parlor. As Lydia talked about her plans to welcome Grant upon his arrival, movement out front caught Theresa Smith’s eye. She strained to see through the window, and her pulse quickened when she saw two men in army colors and insignias dismounting near the big oak tree. She jumped out of her chair and ran toward the door, shouting, “It’s Grant! It’s Grant! Oh, he’s home! He’s home!”
Everyone rushed up behind Theresa as she jerked the door open, saying, “Grant, you’re home! You’re—”
A great disappointment swept over the group when they saw the dripping faces of two uniformed strangers, who looked nervous and ill-at-ease.
Duane moved past Theresa and said, “I’m Duane Reynolds, gentlemen. May I help you?”
“I am Lieutenant Wesley Albright, sir. And this is Lieutenant Clayton Lewis. We’re looking for Mr. and Mrs. Scott Smith. We were told by one of their neighbors that they were here.”
“Yes, they are. Please come in.”
The soldiers removed their wet hats and dripping slickers before moving through the door. Scott and Marjorie stepped forward and introduced themselves.
Lieutenant Albright cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, could we talk to you in private, please?”
Scott frowned. “Is this about our son? Is this about Grant?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“We’re all family here,” Scott said. “This young lady here is Lydia Reynolds. She and Grant are going to be married as soon as he gets home from Mexico. Whatever this is about can be told to all of us.”
“Could we go into the parlor so all of you can sit down?” Lieutenant Lewis said in a soft tone.
Marjorie’s hands were trembling. “What is it? Please tell me! Has something happened to our son?”
“We’d really like all of you to sit down, ma’am,” Albright said.
When everyone was seated, the two officers remained on their feet, standing shoulder to shoulder. Albright cleared his throat again and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, we have been sent here from army headquarters in Washington. It is—it is our sad duty to inform you that your son, Captain Grant Smith, was killed in action on September 10.”
A collective gasp rose; then the group sat in stunned silence.
Albright continued. “He was in the battle at the Rio de la Compani in southern Mexico. He was shot while gallantly leading his company, and we are told that he distinguished himself in combat the entire time he was in Mexico.”
Lydia didn’t even feel her parents’ arms encircle her as she hunched forward and put her face in her hands. Billy was on his knees in front of his sister but didn’t know what to do or say.
Marjorie Smith let out a shaky whimper and closed her eyes. Scott’s arm gathered her to him. Sharon and Theresa rushed to their parents and fell on their knees in front of them, sobbing.
As Marjorie rocked to and fro, she wailed, “No! No, there has to be some mistake! My son cannot be dead! I won’t allow it! God won’t allow it! Please … please tell me it’s a mistake!”
Scott held her tightly and tried to give comfort to his daughters as well.
Tears coursed down Beverly Reynolds’s cheeks as she kept a tight grip on Lydia, who continued to hunch forward, her face buried in her hands. Tears dripped between her fingers.
Marjorie’s wails were wordless now as she hugged herself and rocked back and forth.
“Billy …”
The eighteen-year-old looked up at his father. “Yes, Dad?”
“Run and get Pastor Britton, will you, please?”
When Billy was gone, Scott looked at the soldiers and said, “What about my son’s body? Did they bury him in Mexico?”
“I’m sure they must have, sir,” Albright said. “No one said anything to the contrary when we were given the message of his death and told to bring it to you.”
“You understand, Mr. Smith,” Lewis said, “there wouldn’t be any way of bringing home the bodies of our men who were killed in Mexico. The common practice is to bury them as quickly as possible right on or near the battlefield.”
“Of course,” Scott said, nodding. “I should have known better than to ask. I’m not thinking too clearly right now.”
“Mr. Smith, we have to head back for Washington now. We want to say to you, to Mrs. Smith, to your daughters, and to Captain Smith’s fiancée and her family … you have our heartfelt condolences.”
Scott whispered for his daughters to stay with their mother and rose to his feet. Duane also stood and said, “I’ll get your hats and slickers, gentlemen.”
When the army messengers had stepped out onto the porch, they once again spoke their sorrow for the loss of Captain Smith, then strode through the falling rain to their horses. They mounted, saluted the house, and rode away.
Lydia stared at the closed door through which the messengers had just departed. Tears streaked her face and there was a faraway look in her eyes as she said, “Grant was killed on my birthday.”
Pastor John Britton sat in the Reynoldses’ parlor and did all he could to comfort the grieving families.
“Pastor, help me to understand,” Lydia said with trembling lips. “Why did the Lord let Grant and me fall in love? Why did He make it appear that we were so right for each other, then let Grant be killed? He’s the great almighty God. He could have protected Grant’s life and brought him home to me. Wouldn’t it have been better not to let us fall in love in the first place?”
Britton rubbed the back of his neck, looked at the floor, then raised his eyes to hers. “Lydia, I can’t answer for God. He doesn’t need me to explain why He brings things or allows them to come into our lives. But I can let Him speak for Himself.”
Britton picked up his Bible and began flipping pages near the middle. He stopped in the Psalms, flipped a couple more pages, and said, “Lydia, here’s what God says about your questions. Psalm 18:30. Let me read it to you: ‘As for God, his way is perfect: the word of the LORD is tried: he is a buckler to all those that trust in him.’ It’s those first seven words that I want you to grasp, Lydia. ‘As for God, his way is perfect.’ ”
“Mother showed me that verse several years ago, Pastor. I believed that God … that He had given me Grant as part of His perfect work in my life.”
“I know,” Britton said. “It hasn’t turned out as you and Grant had planned, Lydia. This is where faith comes in. As you well know, the Bible says we are saved by faith, and after we are saved, we walk by faith.
You must trust the Lord in this, believing that, ‘As for God, his way is perfect.’ The great and wise God of heaven has a perfect plan for your life. You must allow Him to work it out.”
Lydia closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at the pastor and said, “I am trying to let the truth of that verse come home to my heart, Pastor. But right now, the pain of my loss is tearing me up inside. Please … pray for me. I don’t want to do wrong before the Lord. I need strength from Him to get me through this.”
“I understand, Lydia, and so does the God whose way is perfect. You’ll see His perfect hand in all of this one day.”
It was early afternoon on Wednesday. Lydia was in the sewing room, working on a dress, trying to keep her mind occupied as much as possible. Her mother had gone to Gaithersburg with a lady from church.
Lydia’s attention was drawn from her sewing when she heard a knock at the front door. Laying needle, thread, and thimble aside, she hurried to the front of the house and opened the door to find three soldiers standing there. One of them, wearing corporal’s stripes, seemed vaguely familiar.
“Yes, gentlemen?”
“Lydia,” the corporal said, “you might remember me. We went to school together years ago. I am Gerald George. Do you remember me?”
“I thought you looked familiar. Yes, I remember you. Is there something I can do for you and your friends?”
“We’ve come to do something for you. We know you’ve already been told about … about Captain Smith. We fought under him, Lydia. We’d like to tell you some things about him, if you have time.”
“Of course. Please come in.”
When the three soldiers were inside, Gerald said, “Excuse me, Lydia. I’m a little nervous. I forgot to introduce you to these men. This is Lieutenant Dale Matison, and this is Private Dave Stanley.”
Lydia greeted both men, then looked at Matison and said, “I read your name in the Baltimore Press, Lieutenant. Grant saved your life, along with that of Captain Nathan Daniels.”
“Yes, ma’am. And he also led me to the Lord a few days afterward. I not only owe my life to him, I owe him for my salvation.”
Tears misted Lydia’s eyes. “I’m glad to know that.”
“We just returned to Fort McHenry yesterday, ma’am,” Matison said. “We wanted to come and see you, hoping that in some small way, our visit could bring you comfort.”
“Please come into the parlor and sit down,” she said, pulling a lace handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve. She dabbed at her eyes as she led them into the parlor.
The soldiers eased into overstuffed chairs, and Lydia sat on the edge of a small hardback chair and nervously twisted the handkerchief in her hands.
“We were there when Captain Smith was hit, ma’am,” Matison said. “We saw the whole thing. Would it help you to hear about it, or would you rather not?”
Lydia took a deep breath. “I know it won’t be easy for me, but I want to hear about it.”
Tears sprang to Lydia’s eyes when she heard the account, and she lowered her head and silently prayed for God’s grace. The soldiers sat still, each with his gaze riveted to the floor.
After a few moments, Lydia said, “Gentlemen, I’m glad I could hear it from eyewitnesses. Now I will not have to go on wondering just how it was. Did … did they ever find his body?”
“No,” Gerald said. “We had many men who were shot and swallowed up by rivers, and their bodies we never found. That’s war.”
Lydia nodded, biting her lips.
All three told her that Grant spoke often of her and of how much he longed for the war to be over so he could go home and make her his bride.
A bittersweet smile crossed Lydia’s face. “Gentlemen, I want to thank you for taking the time to come and see me. You’ve been a source of strength, and I’m sure this will help me to be able to go on. I mean it. Thank you.”
As Lydia led them toward the door, she said, “Gerald, I’m glad you’re not the mean bully you used to be.”
He grinned, pointed out his crooked front tooth, and said, “I think I started down the right path shortly after Grant—Captain Smith knocked this loose for me. I owe him a lot. You do remember that day?”
“Yes, I do.”
“We all owe the captain a lot, ma’am,” Dave Stanley said. “His memory will live on in our hearts.”
When the three men had gone, Lydia closed the door and leaned her back against it. She took a deep breath, then slowly reentered the parlor. She sat on the couch, closed her eyes, and let every word the men had spoken run back through her mind.
She bowed her head and thanked the Lord for sending them here. She wasn’t even sure why their visit was so helpful, but their words had relieved her sorrow, and the heavy ache in her heart was lightened.
That night, while lying under the covers in the darkness, Lydia whispered, “Grant, I know you’re in heaven and can’t hear me, but I still have to talk to you. It’s like the letters I wrote, knowing you would never see them. I … I just want to say, darling, that the tender flame will always live in my heart.”
High in Mexico’s southern mountains, Grant Smith and six fellow soldiers languished in the Mexican prison camp. There had been nine prisoners to begin with, but shortly after the fighting was over, two of the wounded had died.
The doctor who had taken the lead ball from Grant’s chest had done a reasonably good job, and Grant was healing steadily.
As time passed, Grant quoted Scripture to the other prisoners, and eventually all six men opened their hearts to Jesus. Grant and his companions prayed daily that the Lord would help them find a way to escape. They also prayed for their families. Four of the seven men were married, and the other two, like Grant, were engaged.
AS THE MONTHS PASSED, Grant was often in Lydia’s thoughts, but she stayed so busy there was little time to concentrate on her grief. She continued to work at the clothing store in Germantown and still did volunteer work three nights a week at the medical clinic in Montgomery Village. She also filled her time with service at church—singing solos, singing in the choir, and teaching a girls’ Sunday school class.
One Sunday in June, Lydia sang a solo in the morning service, just before the message. When she finished, amens rang out through the auditorium. After the service, Lydia was standing near the platform, talking to the parents of a couple of the girls in her Sunday school class. When they moved away, she turned to leave and found herself facing a handsome young stranger.
“Miss Reynolds, I’m Dr. Clay Price. I realize that you don’t know me, but I just wanted to tell you how very much your song blessed my heart.”
Lydia’s face tinted slightly. “Why, thank you, Dr. Price. It’s very kind of you to say so. Is this your first Sunday here at the church?”
“Yes. I just graduated from medical school in May, and I’m doing my internship at Montgomery County Hospital in Rockville.”
“How did you happen to come here to church this morning, Doctor?”
“I heard about it from a patient who’s visited here a few times. She told me Pastor Britton preaches the Word with power and always exalts the Lord Jesus Christ and makes the gospel clear and plain. She also said that souls are being saved here, and the church is growing. That’s the kind of church I grew up in, and the kind I’m looking for.”
Lydia smiled. “Looks like you found it.”
“I sure did. Well, Miss Reynolds, I’d better be going. Nice to meet you. And let me say again … your song was a tremendous blessing.”
Dr. Price spoke again to Lydia when he returned to Sunday services the next week. The following Sunday, and the one after that, they talked again. On his fourth Sunday at the church, Clay Price walked the aisle at invitation time to put his membership in the church. After the service he spoke with several people, wanting to get acquainted, but he made sure that Lydia didn’t get away without spending a few minutes with him.
Both Lydia’s and Grant’s parents noticed that the young physician had eyes for Ly
dia, and that his amiable ways made her smile more than she had since Grant left to fight in the war.
On the second Sunday in July, Clay found a private moment in front of the church to talk to Lydia, and he asked her if there was a young man in her life. She told him of her engagement to Captain Grant Smith, who had been killed in the Mexican War. Clay was very sympathetic, but he asked if he could call on her.
Lydia hesitated for a long moment, then said yes.
Time moved on. Though Lydia still carried loving memories of Grant, she found Clay Price to be very good to her. Slowly, ever so slowly, the ache in Lydia’s heart subsided. She was seeing Clay often, and every day the pain of losing Grant lessened and a sweet comfort and peace filled her heart where once there had been only loneliness and despair.
True to His Word, God made Psalm 147:3 a reality in Lydia’s shattered life as daily she claimed the precious verse: “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.”
On a dinner date in August, Clay took Lydia to a restaurant in Rockville. While they were eating, he brought up Lydia’s volunteer work at the Montgomery Village clinic and told her of a need in the hospital for nurse’s aides. With her experience, she could qualify as a nurse’s aide. The pay would be more than what she was paid at the clothing store.
After praying about it and discussing it with her parents, Lydia decided to take the nurse’s aide job.
Lydia was especially drawn to the children’s ward. When the doctors and nurses saw how adept she was with the little ones, she was assigned often to that ward. She spent many hours there, comforting children, calming their fears, and reading to them.
Many times when they were on the same shift, Clay would take a moment to stop in and watch Lydia with the children. On one occasion, when she was holding two children on her lap and in spite of their ailments they were laughing happily, he told her that someday she would make a wonderful mother.
The months rolled by. One cold, snowy morning in November, Lydia made her way up the snow-covered hospital steps and passed through the main door. She greeted two doctors in the hall and stopped at the nurses’ station to see what her duties would be that day. To her delight, she was assigned another shift in the children’s ward.
