Grateful for Their Service

 

     At 95, Libby didn’t drive anymore, and she wanted to come to Writers’ Group. Two others also rode with me.

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   “The more the merrier,” I said. Writers’ Group took the whole morning at the library, and then we’d have lunch together.

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   Work at home bugged me while we visited. I needed to have an agenda written and copied for a meeting I’d chair the next morning. There was a bushel of apples sitting on my back porch waiting to be made into applesauce. The need for clean clothes had reached a critical point.

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   Relief flooded my mind when the gathering broke up. I took the first lady home; next I dropped off Libby. She left the car and went to her front door. It’s a habit of mine to wait until the door opens before I leave. But the door didn’t open. Libby fumbled with her purse. She wobbled.

   

   We jumped out of the car and scrambled to join her on the porch. We helped her sit down. She panicked because she couldn’t find her house key.

  My friend, Jeremy, checked around the back of the house looking for a way in. She labored to breathe.

   I wanted to call the paramedics. She said no.

   I emptied her purse and looked for the key. It wasn’t there. No window to get in by either, Jeremy told us.

 

   To calm her down, I joked with her. “Well Libby, you picked a lovely day to be locked out. We could just sit here all day and enjoy the weather!"

   "Any of your neighbors have a spare key?”

   “No.”

   “Do you keep one hidden outside?”

    “Oh yes,” she brightened. “I forgot.”

   

   She gave Jeremy directions, and he produced the key.

   We helped her inside. Her breathing was still stressed, but not as bad as before. I brought her a glass of water.

   Jeremy could tell that I was afraid to leave her. “Sue, we’re just a few blocks from my place. I’ll walk home. You stay and visit.”

   We found Libby’s key where she’d left it that morning. I asked if she lived alone. She lived with her son, but he was at work.

   “Would you like me to call him?” I looked everywhere for his number. Libby couldn’t remember where it was or where he worked.

   When I distracted her, her breathing improved. I asked her about the family pictures in her living room. Libby had been a nurse during WWII. She showed me a picture of her brother. He’d been a pilot in the war and had died when his plane was shot down.The longer we chatted, the stronger she got.

   Finally, she remembered where to find her son’s phone number. I called him, told him who I was, and why I’d called. He talked to Libby then talked to me again.“Mom gets these spells now and then. She’ll be okay. You can leave her.”

 

   Her son said she’d be fine, but I couldn’t leave and listened.

   She told me about being in England as a nurse. Many of the wounded were quartered in other places besides London. With bombs falling, you can’t drag patients into a bomb shelter quickly.

   She said her most important job came after her shift was over.

   

   “Many of the boys wanted to send a letter home to their families or loved ones.” Libby spoke softly. “After being on my feet for at least 8 hours, I’d sit at bedsides and write what they said for a couple more hours. It was a sacred duty. For some families, this was the last communication they would ever have from their soldier. For others, the joy of knowing their son’s life had been spared was a gift beyond measure. The letters always had the same pattern. They spoke of how much they missed and loved their families. They assured their loved ones that they’d return once their jobs were done. They’d ask questions hoping for a letter in return.”

 

   Libby had tears in her eyes as the memories flowed. The words, sacred duty, hung in the air between us. I soaked them into my soul as her confidant. At 4pm, she told me she was fine, and her son would soon be home.

   “You go on now. I shouldn’t have kept you here this long, but I’ve really enjoyed our visit.” Libby’s blue eyes danced behind her glasses.

   “I’ve enjoyed it too.” I held her hand before I departed, no longer worried about the work at home.

   

I didn’t complete everything that day, but God had a different plan for me. When I look back at this time, I’m thankful I got to be there for Libby. She was there for me as she served our country before I was born. We will never regret doing what the Lord calls us to do. Giving promotes thanksgiving. I thank God for Libby, her brother, and their service.

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You will be made rich in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion, and through us your generosity will result in thanksgiving to God.

(2 Corinthians 9:11 NIV)

Susan Boltz