She Was:

By Bud

Cynicism developed early in life is a condition from which full recovery is unlikely. Direct exposure to repeated claims of personal holiness formed a wall of resistance and resentment. When those claims were clearly contradicted by observed behaviors, he was destined to form his own system of unbelief. Events of personal loss, perceived abandonment, and hardened independence left his mind firmly fixed in a form of agnosticism at the age of seventeen. Parentally forced to attend a Christian college, with no financial assistance, his unbelief constructed an impenetrable shell. Then she appeared. With what seemed to be a coincidental meeting of their eyes, no words exchanged, he suddenly realized hope that might change his miserable, lonely existence. Nagged by his cynicism and resentment, the hope quickly changed to an impossible wish. He knew that his view of religion would not change and he knew that the ladies on the campus were likely to be seeking Christian mates. In spite of those factors, he continued to search the campus in the hope that he might find her. Another "coincidence" gave him her telephone number, which led to an informal meeting. He was surprised when she invited him to join her for the campus prayer meeting. Becoming better acquainted, he saw in her a person who clearly enjoyed a real familiarity with God through Jesus Christ and whose conduct bore witness to it. He informed her that he could not be a Christian. Her simple reply was "You will be." Throughout the succeeding years, her prayers sustained him through military service and ultimately presented a most unexpected path to his salvation. Together, they enjoyed an endless, limitless love for each other that held them through the harsh realities of life. This is a true account of pure, unbroken devotion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641918756

Book preview

Chapter 1

Breathtaking Beauty

What else was there to do on a warm afternoon in a strange and overwhelming place? Classes would begin in a few days, and having just moved into the rowdy dormitory, a newly made friend and I decided to sit outside on the concrete steps of the building. Our conversation included all the things you might say to become better acquainted, but we both knew our minds were more passively focused on the conversation and more directly focused upon the young women walking past, many of whom were exploring the campus for the first time. The summer semester was about to begin, so quite naturally strolling was a way to become oriented to the environment. Most were walking with leisure in groups of two or three.

The campus of a Christian college in the nascent days of the 1950s would seem a strange and foreign culture if viewed from the contrast of this generation. Casual attire for those young women would generally include skirts and bobby socks. Dressing modestly was not only expected; it was demanded on this campus. Gazing from our perch on the steps, it was clearly seen that all of these ladies were compliant with the expectations.

Subconsciously, my new friend and I were making important decisions or maybe even judgments—some were pretty, some were mediocre, and some were, quite honestly, downright ugly. That last opinion seemed to prevail. Later, I learned this axiom circulated throughout the male student population: There are two kinds of girls. There are pretty girls and there are the girls on this campus.

There is no way of knowing how long we sat there, but I noticed that twilight was gently softening the objects within our view. Only a few people were still wandering around in the cooling air when I suggested that we go find some food. While shuffling our feet and shifting our weight to stand, I glimpsed movement of someone nearing from our right.

The two young ladies drew nearer, casually strolling and enjoying an apparently amusing conversation. I settled back down on the step. These girls were approaching on the sidewalk immediately in front of the steps on which we were sitting. Neither my friend nor I spoke a word. The gentle chuckling of their voices seemed to reflect the calm of the twilight. They were not loud, they were not hurried, and they were not even noticing that we were sitting almost directly in their path. Walking toward us, the one on the left captured my attention.

I had enjoyed dates with several girls while attending high school. I had a reputation for dating respectable, attractive girls; and while each held my full attention for a while, I was likely to soon be pulled aside by another pretty face and captivating figure. I liked each of those I dated, but I enjoyed keeping all options open. None could expect to hold my attention exclusively. Certainly, there were some who did not find in me the answer to all of their expectations. So whether it was she or I, one of us would eventually become disengaged.

There was only one girl with whom I had made the mistake of going steady. The breakup was unhappy and resulted in hurt feelings. At that time, it was expected that someone who had earned a varsity letter jacket would give the jacket to his girlfriend to proudly wear as a symbol of a going steady relationship. I had given my varsity jacket to this girlfriend, but when the relationship ended, she would not return it to me. Her anger may have prompted her to incinerate the jacket, but I never saw it again, so I determined that I would never repeat that mistake of going steady.

This girl approaching on the sidewalk was really different from the other girls I had seen while sitting on the steps. With her head tilted slightly downward, she raised her eyes to mine. When our eyes met, I literally could not breathe. Holding my breath, I sat stiffly, with eyes glued to the most unblemished beauty imaginable. She smiled shyly. She actually smiled at me! I am not sure I returned the smile. I see myself openmouthed, wide-eyed, blushing fiery red. The soft light reflected from her long, glistening, medium-blonde hair as I watched her strolling on after having passed. She wore a snow-white blouse and a flowing, patterned skirt. That picture is so burned into my memory that I still find it easy to recall.

Although she was wearing bobby socks, I could see that her slim ankles were perfectly shaped. Her figure, although mostly hidden by the loose-fitting blouse and skirt, was the most exquisitely perfect I had ever seen. Even more perfect than the catalog models. I could not speak. I could only force myself to breathe until she had faded from view.

My new friend said, What happened to you?

I could only say, Did you see that?

What? he asked.

I asked, "Was she beautiful?"

I was now beginning to wonder whether or not it was real. Perhaps it was just a sight dreamily tinted by the glow of twilight and a spell cast by the rustling of her skirt in the evening breeze.

He answered, "She may be the prettiest girl I have ever seen."

Then I made a solemn vow, stating it quite calmly, "I am going to marry that girl."

My friend laughed aloud and said, "As if she would give either of us a second look."

I allowed several seconds to pass, and while staring directly into his eyes, I spoke slowly in the most serious tone I could muster: "I. Am. Not. Joking. That girl is going to be my lifetime companion."

Dream on, he said, and then my new friend suggested that we go find something to eat. I had heard of an inexpensive restaurant within walking distance that attracted college students, and he agreed that going there would be a good idea.

When we had finished our sandwiches, I had my head down, looking into my billfold while heading toward the cash register. Focused upon drawing the money from my billfold, I was oblivious to everyone around me. When I had reached the cash register, I raised my head. She was standing within arm’s length from me, waiting for change from the cash register. My breath caught in my throat. I knew I had to speak to her, but what do you say to someone who had just stepped right out of heaven? She had to be an angel; no human could possibly have such perfection.

I could think of no intelligent words. I knew if I tried to find the right words, I would only stand and stammer; and by the time I could speak, she would be gone. I told myself to relax and be casual. I also told myself that speaking foolishly might close the door on ever seeing her again.

Wow! Look at all of that money. You could pay for mine too, I blurted. Stupid! What an absurdly insane way to introduce myself. I knew she could see that I had awkwardly stumbled over my own feet, and she probably expected to look up and see me drooling.

She finished counting her change, looked up smiling, and said, If you only knew.

Four words. She had actually spoken four words to me! Her voice was soft and sounded like the song of an angel. I could not draw my eyes from her astonishingly beautiful face. Her eyes were as blue as the clear sky after a summer shower. Her heavenly soft hair tumbled gracefully over the left side of her flawless forehead as though placed there by some famous stylist. Her velvet skin begged to be kissed. Her lips were deliciously shaped, and when she smiled, her perfect teeth sparkled. If I only knew what? I wondered.

She turned and, together with another girl, left the restaurant. I knew I had to see her again, but how would I find her? What was her name? Did she live on campus? Was she a local girl? Why on earth did I not introduce myself and get her name?

After that face-to-face meeting, her image would not leave my mind. The fear of having lost track of her haunted my days and nights. I would often tell myself to be realistic, that a girl of such beauty could never be interested in me. I knew that I was actually unworthy of anyone at all.

Chapter 2

Above My Level

Every life has its own scars. Some scars from my childhood and youth have, until this point, been fiercely concealed. That is not to say that my life has been more difficult than others; only that the scars are better hidden to protect the feelings of those about whom I care. But history is history, and recounting mine is important to understanding my reluctance in my approach to the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and her phenomenal ability to understand even before she was informed.

My mother was affectionate and tenderhearted. My father took advantage of her and was an overbearing man who always had to be in control. He made unrealistic demands, and I thought he treated her as one would treat a slave.

Money was scarce, at least in my childish view. Mom was granted an allowance by my father. This meager sum was meant to provide food and supply household needs. I sometimes heard her telling my father that she could not provide everything with the limited allowance. His stern reply was always You will just have to learn to make do. World War ii was raging, and everyone was forced to sacrifice for the support of the war.

The government rationed nearly everything. Purchasing an item not only demanded money, but depending upon the item being purchased, an appropriate number of ration stamps would also be required. Going to the grocery for my mother meant that I not only had to be careful in counting the change but also in counting the ration stamps. If the supply of ration stamps or tokens was exhausted, one could not even purchase food.

Preserving ration stamps for essentials became imperative. Manufacturers of food for livestock began using colored, sometimes decoratively patterned cotton sacks for delivering the animal food to market. The used sacks were shared with neighbors and traded for matching colors or patterns. The sacks were laundered and became fabric for making clothing. The precious ration stamps could then be used for necessities other than clothes in many cases. My mother sat before a treadle sewing machine every evening when I went to bed where she would make shirts for me and dresses, occasionally, for herself. My father would not wear homemade clothing. I cannot remember wearing any kind of purchased clothing during that time of my childhood. Nothing salvageable was ever discarded. Mom spent many hours making garments from feed sacks, patching and repairing garments, or darning socks.

My father paid little attention to me. He rarely talked to me, and he was insistent that I not become an embarrassment to him in the church and in the community. He was the pastor, and he would never let anyone forget that he was in charge. When he directed me to do some task, it was never done well enough or quickly enough. He vented his wrath using his leather belt to deliver merciless beatings that always seemed to continue endlessly. I often saw Mom weeping during those beatings. Seeing her tears only served to magnify his anger. His most memorable words to me are You’ll never amount to anything. Often, when he was away from us, Mom would tell me how proud I made her. She said, Don’t listen to him. You are going to grow up to be a great man.

Mom was the only person doing any household labor. She was a small woman whose physical strength was greater than one might expect to see. I took great pride in helping her with dishwashing and drying after each meal. I also carried firewood for the stove into the house and discarded ashes, but I was too young for the heavy work. For example, she carried buckets of water and lifted them to the top of the stove where they were heated. She then had to carry the water buckets from the stove top to the washing tub. Heavy baskets contained dirty laundry which she carefully washed and then hand cranked through the rubber rollers of the wringer. She lifted and carried the weight of the wet load to the backyard where she stretched to reach the clothesline and hang the laundry. She then had the task of carrying the buckets of dirty water to the backyard where she emptied them on the grass near the outhouse. Then she repeated the same exhausting labor with the next basket of soiled items until that week’s laundry was completed. She repeated the process each Monday.

Alone she prepared each meal and maintained a spotlessly clean house. She scrubbed and waxed floors on her hands and knees. The burden borne by my mother was so great that it began to erode her health. She never rested, and she was frequently unable to eat. Shortly after my eleventh birthday, my mother died. She died a few days after her thirtieth birthday. I have been unable to dismiss the thought that Mom might have lived to an old age if my father had only given her a little help.

My mother’s death occurred late at night. I had not been told that her illness might be fatal, so I was not with her in the hospital at the time of her death. Waiting at home that night, I heard my father’s footsteps when he crossed the porch to the door. I was confused because I thought I heard multiple footsteps on the porch. When he entered the house, I was surprised to see that my grandparents, my mother’s parents, had arrived with him. I immediately asked, How’s Mom?

My father’s reply was a curt She didn’t make it.

I questioned, What do you mean?

He simply said, She passed away.

I then noticed that my grandparents were crying.

My grandmother pulled me into her embrace, and while my tears flowed, she endeavored to speak words of comfort. I could not be comforted because I was experiencing a pain I had never before known.

When the adults had finally decided that we should all go to bed, my grandparents were directed by my father to sleep in the bedroom he and my mother had always occupied. My father took the other twin bed in my bedroom. I could not relax to sleep because of my heavy heart and endlessly flowing tears.

In the darkness, I spoke to my father, Is Mom really gone forever?

He replied, Yes. Now shut up and go to sleep.

After several minutes, I listened to the regular rhythm of my father’s breathing and realized that he had gone to sleep. I wondered how he could sleep so peacefully in such a terrible time as this. While I lay crying, he was sleeping with no apparent concern. Much later into the night, I said, I will never see my mom again.

The spoken words awakened my father. Angrily, he asked, What did you say? I repeated the words I had spoken, and he said, I told you to shut up and go to sleep. Now don’t bother me again.

I did not bother him again, even though I did not sleep. I felt the pain of real sorrow for the first time in the eleven years of my life, and I was unintentionally forming my first lesson of hate.

After three months, my father announced that he was going to be married. I was both hurt and angered when the announcement came because it appeared to me that he had never shown any regret for the loss of my mother. I was pushed into becoming better acquainted with hate. He remarried six months following Mom’s death. The age of the lady he married was midway between my age and my father’s age. Although I think she was quite a wonderful lady, I never really got to know her. A new child was born, and I became a nuisance to my father and his growing family. He packed up my few belongings and took me to a distant city where I would live with his parents, my grandparents.

My grandfather was a good-natured man who worked hard. He owned a very labor-intensive business that required much more of his time and energy than most other types of ordinary employment. He took great pride in the quality of his work and only employed men who would maintain that quality. He was highly respected, and there was always a great demand for his services. My grandmother was loving, even somewhat doting. I lived with my paternal grandparents during the school year and, with a bicycle, maintained a newspaper delivery