The question wasn’t unfair, but Whitmore lacked the energy to afford it adequate contemplation. He held out the letter.
‘I’d like you to read it,’ he said, ‘if only to humour what I believe to be true.’
It read;
My dearest Julian,
How are you my darling? Truly I mean. Your last correspondence, although brave, did not fool the sensibilities of a wife. Your words carried a weariness. Rather like the old man with nothing left to see of life, but missing the contentment of a circle met.
I worry that perhaps you have seen more than should be seen by any man. That an entire generation has seen more than can be recovered. But I am reminded of “James 1:12”. You know how it goes, but to write it down so you may hear me directly is perhaps more restorative. “Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.”
And the men whom you serve to comfort, those poor men, so heavy in your thoughts, that carry the burden of taking a life, I simply cannot imagine. “And whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith.” “For nothing will be impossible with God.” Terrible cop-out to quote verses I know, but I cannot hope to word it better myself.
Forgive the briefness of my letter, but I must dash for now. Mrs Fothergill has doubled choir practice for Easter. Terribly early I know, but anything to keep her mind from poor Tom.
Our children bring me faith my darling. Faith that mankind will not only prevail, but shine like the stars that unite our dreams.
For now, your ever loving,
Helen.
Everett handed Whitmore the letter and smiled.
‘To have faith,’ he said, ‘is perhaps faith itself.’
‘Indeed so Mr Everett. Indeed so.’
War & Words Page 4
