For The Love Of Faith: The Beginning: The Beginning

By C. Frederick Haigh

November 1918: Nineteen-year-old James Sinclair is shot down over France. He would never forget the Great War and his near-death experience. Wealth and social status no longer seemed to matter. He wanted to be a hero. He made a vow to God and wrote about it in his journal.

 

October 1956: Ten-year-old Elle Hancock finds her Dadd

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Frederick Haigh
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798868926013

Book preview

FOR THE LOVE

OF FAITH

A Trilogy

Book 1 – The Beginning

"So Now Abide Faith, Hope and Love, These Three

But The Greatest of These Is Love"

1 Corinthians 13

This book was Inspired by my Sister

Her name was Faith

C. Frederick Haigh

To My Family

And the Spirits of Those

Who Have

Lost All Faith

Dear Faith,

Come hear mah bagpipes echo o’er th’ island nicht,

‘N’ let th’ moon dust dabble tis ancient light.

Come titch mah heavenly whisper in th’ twilight’s mist,

‘N’ rest upon mah shoulder ‘n’ offer me a kiss.

Fur I wull be thare waiting, ‘n’ dicht awa’ yer tears,

‘N’ protect yer heavenly spirit fae a’ earthly fears.

I noo gie ye a’ I hae, ‘n’ a’ I wish tae be,

Fer ye ur mah true Luve, mah Faith, ‘n’ oor Destiny.

Air Son Gràidh A’ Creideamh 

JWS

PREFACE

The only angel I’ve ever known, died that morning. Innocent me – I thought angels would live forever. I couldn’t stop crying. I cried all day. Angels aren’t supposed to die.

Later that night I walked out to the garden pergola and sat on our Stone of Scone. As I looked at the moonless sky, I had a strange sense I was not alone. A sudden gust lifted my hair and I heard something – maybe a voice. My saddened eyes darted as I stared at the shadows. Who’s there? I called out.

I quickly glanced at the wisteria vines, but they were still. I heard it again. After a moment I spoke louder, Is someone there?

My gown suddenly brushed against my arms and legs. I pulled it in. Where was this breath of night air coming from? My heart raced as I heard a man’s voice – soft, deep. I turned but saw nothing.

I’ve never been one to fear, but I knew I’d heard something and it was now after midnight. I stood and drew my gown closer. Who’s there? I demanded as I turned to go inside. I glanced up at the soft lit stars, then heard a distant tone. It faded then gently sang. I had heard this all before. It was a drone with chanter notes. That’s a bagpipe! I blurted.

Then he spoke. I recognized the word; it was in the old poem. After a long pause, I felt an inner warmth drift across my cheeks and shoulders. I closed my eyes as fears eased. It’s you, I know it’s you, I whispered.

I looked once more at the evening sky and asked a question, though I’m not sure why. I guess I just wanted to know – I had to know.

I listened as tears caressed my cheeks – his voice a sweet hush of assurance. Then amidst the ancient starlight I sat down on the old stone and cried again. Destiny had spoken. Her spirit was alive. Her story could now be told.

_______________

My name is Bonnye, spelled with a ‘Y,’ and a few years ago I graduated as a literature major. I’m five foot nine, my complexion is Caribbean-ebony, my eyes are hazel-blue, and my hair is gently scrolled dark. I’m also Scottish – blood and bones Scottish. I’m all that. But until my graduation reception in 2018, I had never asked about my heritage, or about my real grandpa, or even cared about the hushed whispers of family lore. And I had never asked grandma how she broke her arm, how she lost her innocence, or about her first love.

Sometimes love stories can be an aged enigma – a never cared about unknown. Even the charm of old black and white photo albums and tear-stained love letters can fade with the dust of time. And should you fathom all your family’s secrets, and all the passions and embraced kisses of past generations, stories of bravery, death, and true romance might still feel quaint, and certainly distant. Even reflecting on my own life’s journey, as a fool of convenience and circumstance, I had never really understood how destiny and sacrifice were needed for true love.

But angels know. They know every nuance of Faith and love, and every girl’s wishful dream of cherished romance. For on that day of celebration, that unforgettable graduation day, I met an angel and she answered. I heard her sing and saw her face aglow, and I held her hand as she quietly smiled. She showed me an ancient Gaelic poem and spoke of unbroken hope. She told me about heroes and dreams coming true. She told me about true love.

Her name was Faith, and she was my Grandma, and she is the reason this book was written.

I    THE MYSTERY

May 23, 2018

and October 12, 2017

Chapter 1​​The Source

Tuesday, May 23rd, 2018

Caithness, Cape Cod, Massachusetts

Three days following my graduation reception, grandma shared her romantic mystery with me. I had never seen her diaries before or known they existed. She also let me see grandpa’s leather-bound World War I journal. I now know they were the hushed whispers.

With a crossed-heart promise of respect, I opened the hundred-year-old journal first. I wasn’t surprised by the musty smell and the dark and brittle edges. Grandma suggested I use white gloves and a rubber thimble to turn the pages. The penmanship was quaint, and the sentences were curt with missing words, but I learned to read between the lines. Many were smeared and I sometimes had to guess at the meaning. I was struck by the bravery, tragedy and intensity of the Great War and the enduring charm of long-ago love.

Then I read through the eight diaries. The script was small and sometimes hard to read; no writing space was wasted. Several times I smiled at the simple assessment of complex events and many times I cried. And with some entries, I noticed a recurring struggle with loss. How could such sadness become my beautiful grandma, I thought? How could her Faith be so strong?

But what struck me most, was her innocent quest to find the hero she had lost and understand the deepest meaning of love – a love that could transcend time, bridge all doubt, and need no justification – a love that could shine a beacon across the ages. Her diaries challenged my own search for love – something I had never quite understood through high school and college. How would I find such true love, and how would I know it was meant to be?

Grandma’s diaries offered two questions – would I choose love or would love choose me?

Considering the first – would searching for love be part of my post-college five-year plan? Should I encourage some tokened wants, check off some boxes, and trail along some mystical journey looking for promises and charms? Would true love somehow be a reward for all my efforts?

Or the second – would love be born from ambivalence, suddenly charming my path in random events? Would a passing acquaintance, however happenstance, seem purposeful? Would my true love be an unforeseen ask? 

The war journal and diaries made me wonder which journey would be mine, or would it be God given? Perhaps you the reader have the answer. Have you found true love? Do you have Faith it was meant to be, and ordained to last throughout eternity? And most importantly, will your destiny be tempted by your choices, or are they one?

I believe this trilogy will offer an answer, but to many a reader it will not be obvious. Sometimes true love remains an enduring enigma throughout our lives – no more certain than Caribbean waves in moonlight or stars on a moonless night. Some of you will live a long life and never find it – even a long marriage. And some of you really don’t want true love, you just want to be happy. After all, the mystery of love is as old as the ages.

But before you read further, please remember that these words may be mine as an aspiring writer, but they are only a retelling of my grandparent’s journal and diaries. The story you will now read, is really their chronicle of love – their walk with destiny.

All the locations mentioned can be found on a map. The buildings and homes do exist. The dates and historical events they wrote about, did occur. Their innocence was real. Guardian angels live among us. And the love? Well, this is their true love story.

Chapter 2​​My College Choice

Tuesday, May 23rd, 2018

Caithness, Cape Cod, Massachusetts

I will start with the best decision I ever made – choosing the right college.

If you take the Interstate system west out of Boston and head over the Allegheny Mountains, through the Miami Valley and across the moraines of western Indiana, and then take a right on old US Highway 231, your first stop will be in a small town named Greencastle. I made that journey for the first time several years ago when I started scouting out colleges with my Dad. I’ve now repeated that trip more than a dozen times – sometimes by myself but mostly with my sorority sister Jaidan.

It’s not a bad drive, even in my 2014 Mazda. It takes less than fifteen hours on a fair-weather day or as I like to measure it, the time it takes to sing through all thirteen Beatles albums, from Please, Please Me to Let It Be. Or you could listen to Bob Marley, Journey, Foreigner, or most of the 70s and 80s bands. Jaidan and I have sung along with all those, and more. And since we were kids, we both dreamed of being singers, like Taylor Swift or Beyoncé.

It goes without saying that I love music, and especially singing, and as far back as anyone could remember, I wanted to be a singer. Mom said I started singing the day I was born; at least that’s what Dad told me. Anyway, singing was one of the reasons I picked DePauw University, but it wasn’t the only one. Just as important as studying voice were the family ties I now shared with my grandma and my namesake, Bonnye. They were both students there in the sixties, so DPU is kind of a family tradition. And anyway, unlike my two older brothers, Dad left the decision up to grandma and me.

But more enchanting than my love of music and family traditions, were grandma’s stories about her DePauw experience. She told me college would create memories that would last a lifetime. It would be about academic challenges, building dreams, learning, and love. Not just love of knowledge but also love for someone I had yet to meet.

And she said that love could bring with it emotions with tugs of happiness and sadness, sometimes on the same day. And when those moments impacted my studies and well-being, I would need a place like DePauw. It would be a great home away from home where errant dreams could be challenged, where lifelong friendships would begin, and where professors would be inspirational. And it would be a socially connected university where I could join Kappa Alpha Theta, and be her legacy, with an instant sisterhood of friends. All of that while attending one of America’s oldest music schools where the student to faculty ratio is five to one. 

She sold me on her love for DePauw, but she also hinted at an untold mystery shrouded in whispers, and an innocence left behind following her freshman year. She called it her true love story – something she had never shared with me or anyone I knew. Grandma told me that if I attended DePauw and graduated – if I were mature enough – she would share the family enigma and her aged story of sacrifice and love. 

As a student, I joined Kappa Alpha Theta just like grandma recommended, maintained a 3.8 GPA, and made the Dean’s List five times. But I changed one important thing; I switched majors from music to literature during my junior year. Instead of succeeding as a singer, my goal changed to writing the next great American novel. And that journey has given you this story.

But before I say more, there is something else I should emphasize. I come from ancestors who sacrificed emotionally and financially and fought on battlefields with values that never wavered. I carry the blood of those who made their lives extraordinary and did it so I might be blessed. Grandma said it was in my DNA and called it both a blessing and a burden.

The blessings were given the day I was born – love, comfort, financial, family. They were something I had never asked for, never earned, and sometimes don’t deserve. But on the other side, gifts at birth can also be burdens, like a debt owed to ancestors. The example they set, and their hopes, struggles, and dreams for my future could never be carelessly sacrificed. I could not betray my heritage. That, according to grandma, would be an unforgivable choice.

In essence, I could never just give up, nor could I stop listening to my multi-cultural heritage. For even if I lived to be a hundred, and someday became a mother, grandmother, or even great-grandmother, those voices of my past would still be speaking and teaching – still guiding my destiny. Instead, it was my responsibility to embrace the gifts and lives that had gone before and make them brighter yet. And then someday, pass them on, more precious from my touch.

Because, from the very beginning, like almost every newborn, I was expected to succeed. It was woven in my heritage and my song. And as my mom had said, I didn’t just scream when I was born, I sang.

Now, I need to take you back to that October day, when chance, or destiny, or whatever you want to call it, graced my life, and hinted at the innocence of a love that was meant to be. That moment was never anticipated, and at the time, only acknowledged as a brush of good fortune, but I now know it was when family whispers began to fade, and Faith opened my heart.

It was October 12, the day before the Dennison football game, and I was more interested in studying for midterms than sports. It was a Friday, and I was sitting in my study corner at the Roy O. West Library.

Chapter 3​​The Bonnye Box

Friday, October 12, 2017

DePauw University, Greencastle, Indiana

As I sit here it dawns on me how much I love libraries with their reverent silence and quiet breath of knowledge. I love the smell and the linear pattern of books, organized by subject and title – a balanced architecture to the eye and mind. There is also something sacred about the alluring nature of great literature, and the quizzical never-ending search to know more. In a way, I see it as a quest for an unfathomed essential – something a mind requires for excellence. Libraries offer only two constraints: time and a spirit for scholarship.

But then I’m also just naturally curious, which is probably why I like being a student. In fact, I must admit, that if it were ever possible – if I could afford it – I would probably go to college for the rest of my life. 

At least these are my thoughts as I try to focus on studying, which fortunately/unfortunately wasn’t happening – you choose. Instead, I was thinking about my grandma. She had told me that college was for learning and that libraries would be a great resource, but to never forget that the best lessons do not come from books, they come from enlightened experience. Maybe I needed that. Maybe I needed an enlightened study break.

I had muted my phone earlier, but that didn’t keep it from vibrating. In the climate of the library, and unable to focus, my phone was a reality check. Must be a text. I gave an awkward glance to my lap. It was Reagan, a post-grad TA at Olin. I read the text. You’ve got a package at Olin. Strange, I thought. A package at Olin? I wasn’t even taking a bio class.

I grabbed my stuff and headed for the front door. It was sunny – something I like – and it was Friday afternoon, the least stressful moment of a college week. I picked up my pace. In the distance, I heard the old campus bell toll four times. Jaidan would be finished in an hour.

I texted him back as I walked, Still at Olin? Leaves were floating from the maples and tumbling across my path, swirling into scattered piles, and making the familiar rustling sounds. I liked the sight and voices of nature, always had, especially the Fall – the gold and crimson colors, the dusty smell, the crunch of fallen leaves, and the football games. Just not the chill. Maybe it was a package from grandma – but she knew my address? Curiosity was getting to me. Reagan texted back, Yep. With that I made an abrupt right turn – Olin Lab was just a block out of the way.

As I approached, he rushed toward me, holding a package that looked like a long shoebox. Here! Must be yours. Name’s on it. We’re clearing stuff out. Gotta move. He boomed all of that in a matter of seconds, then handed me the package and sprinted off.

It was only a couple pounds and neatly wrapped in brown shipping paper with shiny tape covering the seams. I shook it but nothing rattled. Not a care package, I guessed. I stepped aside and studied the address. There were two glued-on labels – the old kind, white with red borders. My name, just my first name, was boldly printed on the top one and F. W. Olin Biological Sciences was on the other. There was no DePauw, Greencastle, or zip code – just the science lab.

There was also a barely noticeable stamped-on return address: U.S. Coast Guard Stamp, Naval Air Station, Miami, FL, 33177. It looked authentic. What the heck, I thought? The Coast Guard?

I looked closer. A pungent smell pricked at my nose. Weird, I yelled out and had second thoughts. It probably wasn’t good to stand outside Olin Bio and mess with an unknown. What if this was some sort of fraternity trick? That was always a possibility. Maybe some guy was filming me from a distance. Also, a possibility. I needed more privacy and a place to unwrap whatever this was.

I thought about heading to Theta but wasn’t that hungry and there would be sisters asking questions. That’s one of the great things about sororities, everybody cares – or maybe just everybody wants to know everything about everybody. But then I remembered my favorite spot to sit and think things over – a place more private than the sorority or library, and something grandma had mentioned before I left for college.

It was like a secret campus hideaway. She told me she had gone there fifty years earlier when she needed to pray and find some solace, and I had sought it out several times over the four years, especially when I faced stress or exams – usually both. As always, she was right. It was my proverbial refuge from the think storm place.

I headed for East College and Meharry Hall.

My curiosity was peaking as I walked. One thing that didn’t make sense was the missing address and the Coast Guard stamp. But my name was spelled right, so it had to be for me. But with no last name it was possible – if I gave it a stretch – that this mysterious package was meant for someone else.

As my pace quickened, I pulled my jacket tighter. Leaves were crossing my path, hundreds of them doing little cartwheels, others dancing in circles. They were everywhere – an unending golden carpet. I smiled as I tried to avoid crushing them, but it was a lost cause. Everywhere I looked they were cascading. Nature was always moving, beckoning, laughing, and sometimes yelling. I loved it.

Perhaps this hazy autumn afternoon would bring some nascent surprise – something worthy of reflection. Anyway, I had a premonition that this strange package, with a strange address, held a secret – a secret that needed an intercessor.

I walked past the old Columbian Boulder – a huge granite rock donated to the university from the class of 1892. For some reason the alumni thought that the 400th anniversary of Columbus’ voyage was worth celebrating. I often wondered if any Native Americans were in the class of ’92 – probably not.

Anyway, The Boulder, as its commonly called, is sometimes used as a destination for initiating fraternity freshmen. The accepted protocol is to run from your frat house around the boulder and back. Normally no big deal – except for initiating purposes, it’s gotta be done in the buff. Obviously not something traipsed in the light of day. The Boulder Run – as it’s called – almost always occurs between two and three in the morning during the first few weeks of school. Of course, the pledge class would like to keep it a secret, but unfortunately – or sometimes fortunately – someone tattles. Anyway, it’s been a tradition for many years and most likely will continue into the distant future. And, of course, it’s great entertainment when the word gets out.

I entered through the large western door of East College, a 150-year-old three-story building in the center of the campus. It’s crowned with two mansard towers, one housing the campus clock and bell, and a smaller one with an eight-windowed cupola. It’s an official historic landmark, with large iron hinges, massive oak doors, oaken floors, fifteen-foot ceilings, and a couple dozen classrooms. In the center of the building is an auditorium, named for Jesse Meharry. When it was built, Meharry Hall served as the college chapel and multi-use auditorium but is now mostly used for lectures and some concerts.

A few students were coming down the main stairway as I headed to the second-floor entrance. The hall seats around 750 in pew seating, and around the back and front are tall multi-paned windows with dark oaken shutters hinged on the sides. There’s a beautiful oak stage and lectern on the main floor, and an antiquated wooden centerboard stretching from the front row to the back, dividing the pews into two sides – most likely a relic from the days when young Methodist men and women were not allowed to sit together during chapel.

On the side walls are large oil paintings of each president since the university was founded in 1837 – all nineteen of them. President McCoy’s picture wasn’t there yet but he would be someday. They all end up hanging there. The atmosphere looks, feels, and smells historical. DePauw, and particularly Meharry, were steeped in tradition. A hallowed hall if you will.

But I needed to go up another flight. As I reached the balcony floor, I tested the latch. I was in luck, and quietly entered and glanced across the swept-around bench seats, hoping for total solitude. It seemed empty and, after a short pause, I shuffled towards the rear, sliding along the railing. I was headed for the seats in the back and the top row.

I had heard nothing but a few creaks and the wind buffeting against the windows. I sat down and looked again over the back railing and across the vaulted ceiling and lower-level pews. The sun warmed softly through Meharry’s ancient windows and shutters and chased the shadows across the hall. I could see dusty narrow fingers of light playing on the main floor and pews below. It seemed serene. I was alone. This was my refuge – a quiet place, a private place – in plain view, yet hidden.

With its unknown and obscure sounds, there are those who say Meharry is haunted – that if you are alone and quiet you will hear the whispers of old alumni spirits. I happen to be one of the believers, but I’m not here today to listen to ghosts – I’m here for a moment of discovery.

As I eased into my hideaway, I put the wrapped box on my lap and reached for my trusty Swiss pocketknife, a gift from grandma. I love that gadget.

I studied the wrapping. On the ends, the paper was folded neatly, then taped along each seam. I cut the end flaps, unrolled the paper, and lifted the thin cardboard lid. All I could see was bubble wrap. Eventually, I let the paper and box drop to the floor and set the bubble wrap on my lap.

Just then I felt a sudden draft touch my arm. Must be an open window behind me, I thought. Then something lifted my hair. I froze in my seat as I heard a sound – a soft organ-like tone. I had goosebumps. I guess it could have been the squeak of a classroom door, or just the wind. I glanced over the balcony but saw no one.

Then I heard it again; just a whisper – almost a moan. But this time there was also a man’s voice and a foreign sounding word. I was not alone. I kept still and listened. It might have been someone in the vestibule. But maybe by the stage. I quickly looked but no one was there. My heart raced as I waited. Time passed. After a long pause I looked down at the package then back up.

I thought of my grandma and smiled. She would be laughing at my fears. Have Faith, she would tell me. She was aways brave like that. I took a breath and looked back down but knew in my heart there had to be something special about that haunting tone and the strange word.

The wrap was secured by more tape and my little scissors were needed again. I cut it lengthwise, and it began to unroll. I decided to keep the wrap on my jeans for protection. I was now looking at a dark colored board – about a foot in length, maybe four inches thick, and five or six inches wide. At first glance it seemed old and slimy, almost black in color, with some areas a deep red. I noticed the coloring was lighter across the middle and darkened at the ends. Maybe it was a fish oil or grease. Whatever it was, it had an odor. 

As I studied it, I could make out six carved letters – all caps and evenly spaced across the board. They looked to be about two inches high, hand carved, and not very deep. It was my name.

Strange, I thought. What in the world was this? The whole thing smelled – possibly a rotting wood smell or dead sea animal smell. Maybe I assumed a sea smell because the Coast Guard had sent it. The oil, or whatever it was, was probably the source of the odor. I held it up to my nose. Yuck! I unconsciously yelled and heard my voice echo across the hall. Why did someone send me a reeking board?

As I moved my fingers across, they became stained – kind of a mahogany tint. I also noticed tightly bound cords wrapped several times around each end. They looked like thick braided strings, but I couldn’t be certain. I looked on the back and saw some scratches. But with the rotted wood, they might have been more letters.

As I felt along the bottom, I noticed a small circle. I placed the board where there was more sunlight and saw what seemed like a heart. What the heck, I thought? 

I turned the board back over and looked at my name. The odor was fading – either that or I was just getting used to it. Suddenly the light filtering through Meharry’s shutters began to dim. Maybe the sun was behind a cloud. I knew this mystery would need more time and better lighting. I slowly moved my fingertips across it again, then put the bubble wrap back around, slid it in the box, and rewrapped it. I was also getting hungry and knew Jaidan would be finished with choir practice.

As I gathered my stuff and headed out of Meharry, I said goodbye to my little spot. Sometimes the hall was locked up, so I was always thankful when it was open. I moved along the balcony pews and headed down the two flights and back out of the west door. I had a premonition earlier and now I had a spirit in my step – I had something to be curious about.

When I passed by the boulder a strange realization crept over me – could this have been for my great aunt? I was named after her – and she attended DePauw the same year grandma did. But no, that was fifty years ago. This board was way older. This was definitely a mystery worth writing about.

I thought about giving the Coast Guard a call – they could answer a lot of questions. One way or the other, this was an attractive subject for study, and as a curious student, I was easily challenged. I liked research and mysteries, and of course writing. And this board was certainly prescient.

And it dawned on me as a literature major, and as a senior, I am required to write a thesis or outline for a book. It’s part of my grade. I had a feeling that this unknown was my future topic or my first novel.