Kay's Story, pt 2 - the letter continued

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Do you remember that day in Inverness, when Sylvia had stayed home sick, and you caught you breath at the sight of my hair flying in the wind by the river, like a proud banner unfurled to announce a victory?  At least, you described it that way.  There was something about that day I will always cherish.  Oh how young we were!  It was a glorious, blissful naiveté.  I think the war has stolen all of it from us at last—the War in all its craven, gaping, devouring blackness.  I wonder, shall we ever salvage ourselves from the graveyard of bitterness?  Only God can make new life and colour emerge in those charred corners of our souls.  Don’t stop clinging to Him, David.  Don’t.  Promise me again that you will hold fast to Him in all your ways.

            Not a day goes by in which I do not struggle to free myself from a plague of worries about you.  More than anything I am prone to worry that you have given in to despondency.  For you have surely suffered excessive sorrow, and I fear that it has finally caused you to turn from the One who has ordained these things from the beginning.  But you must “commit your way to Him, and He will act.”  There, now I am preaching again, but O how I long for you to cast your burdens on Him because He cares for you!

            While I am busy reminiscing, I must say that I am always amazed by how you never angered me.  I know that I caused you a storm of vexation and even resentment, but I could never gather up such sentiment in my heart toward you (although I have had my bouts of mild frustration and jealousy over you).  I hope you still do not hold onto any of the past bitterness I brought into your life.  I know we have resolved most of it, but I feel I must apologize again sincerely.  Won’t you forgive me again, David?  I was truly so thoughtless (especially regarding everything that happened with Reneé), so proud at times, too quick to speak, driven by fear.  I would gladly die a thousand deaths before causing you pain.  But here we are, nevertheless, doing our best to live and love in the aftermath of our flesh.  I’m so sorry I ever hurt you.  Even just as my brother and friend I owed you more respect, more honour.  I’ve learned hat much at least—the hard way.  Oh, but how in awe I was of you the whole time!  Pride clouds the truth so darkly.

            On a brighter note, I saw Reneé today, and the sweetness of her face tugged at my heart.  She still has that same smile, David—the one we both could have written songs about if we had not been preoccupied with…well, you know.  Anyhow, she said hello and told me about her new job as a teacher.  I could tell that she wanted to ask about you, but she never did.  It was right there, almost brimming over in her eyes, David!  I could see it clear and vivid, mixed with some other emotion I could not discern.  It may have been because some man was with her, doting on her with his glances, rather too serious and glum-looking for my taste, but very handsome in the way that is fashionable nowadays.  He also was in uniform, polite, but rigidly so.  I miss Reneé.  She left the Northridge church community when she took the teaching position out at Hampton.  So she only happens to venture into town on rare occasions. 

            I was forced to reprimand her for cutting off so much of that glorious brown hair!  Can you believe she would do such a thing?  You would have been proud of the firm rebuke I gave her—and rightly so—for all this nonsense of trying to follow the silly vogue of France.

            Oh David, just now the trees and I sighed in unison—a melancholy sigh—somewhat saddened by the changes whirling through our world, and the loneliness that looms here without you.  Your absence cuts down to my marrow.  It is so hard to bear, and to know that I may have to face it indefinitely.  For I have so little in the way of true comradeship.  No one has ever known such sacred unity as we have—I am quite certain of it.  And when it is taken away it leaves a canyon of empty shadows, impossible to replace, fill.

            I am not satisfied with my station in life.  God has seen fit to put me here, to teach me patience, humility.  But although I ought not murmur against what Providence has dealt me in infinite kindness and wisdom, I cannot lie and say I am not often unhappy.  I often imagine what my life would be like if I had followed my wild impulses when I was younger, to go alone to a far off heathen land and spread the Gospel of the Kingdom.  I was reading about India just today.  Uncle Frederick had a most fascinating volume all about the country and its peculiarities.  I can scarcely put it down.  I shall have to write you another letter about all I’m learning of that strange land. 

            You would be proud that I am keeping up my Latin, reviewing a verse or two of Jerome’s Vulgate every day.  My declensions have suffered rather much, I’m afraid, but in due time I shall regain my old familiarity.  I do enjoy it so much when I make the effort to be consistent. 

            Oh David, I nearly forgot to tell you: little Sam Robinson and his twin sister Mary fell into the Johnson’s well the other day!  You know how they are always hankering for mischief.  Well, Mary wanted to know what it would be like down at the bottom, so Sam lowered her down.  When he tried to pull her back up he slipped, lost his balance, and fell in after her with a great plop.  They came out of there as soaked as a pair of spring pollywogs.  It gave the town a frightful scare, and who knows what would have become of them if Granny Johnson hadn’t run out of dishwater so soon.  Can you believe those twins are ten already?  I certainly cannot.

            Well, I’ve gone and done it—I’ve made my soul weary with melancholy over all these memories and musings about you.  Just last night my eyes were spent with weeping over you in prayer and desperation.  Your absence aches down through the core of my being.  The great unknown looms before me concerning you.  If only I knew when or that I would see you again, hear your voice, feel the firm, hearty embraces you lavished on me so many times before.  But I do not know, and the thought often haunts me like a terror in the night, driving me to my knees again and again.  Sometimes I hold onto hope as a spider’s web tries to hold together before the trampling thunder of stampeding stallions.  The shreds and fragments of my faith fall as though lifeless; but my faithful Father knows my frame.  He remembers that I am but dust.  He shows compassion to this whimpering child and picks up my torn trust with gentle hands and restores it, breathing new life into it, laying upon it until the blood warms, making whole what has withered.  Oh David, who among all the gods is great like our God?  Who is a healer like Him, reviving the faint, binding up the broken?  He has shown His might among all the peoples; and He has shown Himself faithful to me—gracious beyond measure.  Oh precious Jesus—oh for grace to trust Him more. 

            And so it is with trembling hands that I hold you up to Him, entrusting your dear soul and cherished life to Him who rules all the world and calls the stars by name.  I know, in spite of my unbelief, that it is the best thing I can do for you.  I am not strong enough, but He is. 

I remain yours with the deepest regard and affection,

Elianna