Saturday, February 17, 2007

Dear God,

One by one I read them, the yellowed pages of letters written by my father during WWII. I wept. Hearing my father proclaim his love for my mother touched my heart deeply. As a young man he loved her very much.

The tenor of Daddy’s letters changes as he leaves an Indiana town of 500 for the Pacific Islands. A man now speaks, no longer asking about old friends dating in his hometown. He reflects back upon his mother’s farm cooking, Dad’s love for his boys. He urges his younger brother to get an education because he cannot enter the war due to a health condition. "My children will get an education…" He tells my grandparents. Already he is speaking about the future, about his unborn children, my sisters, brother and me.

He hates the war, keeps promising to come home soon and it’s only 1943, early 1944. He and his buddies loan money to a friend, help press his clothes and pack for him when he learns that his friend’s father has died. He remembers farm living and his desire to rent a farm when he returns home.

He grows anxious when he learns that he and his twin will be separated because of the loss of five sets of twins on the USS Lexington. The president tells the nation the loss is too great for any one family. But Daddy and his brother long to be reunited, to fight the war together, to return home at the same time. After my grandfather pleads with the president to approve his sons’ union, my father rejoices when he learns that permission is granted. Eight long months they were apart. My father remained at his station until my uncle arrived so they could be shipped out together.

Daddy tells his mother and father about learning to shoot a rifle, an M1, how many shots it takes to make "sharpshooter." Daddy couldn’t hurt anyone; I can’t fathom a gun in his hands.
I carefully hold the envelope as I pull out the letters. I don’t want to harm these treasures. I read probably 15 letters and can’t read any more for now. I’m learning things about my dad. I’m hearing his voice again. He has come back to life in my mind.
Oh, how I wish I had spent more time listening to Daddy talk about his early years following high school. I wish I had asked more questions, wanted to learn more about his life, his feelings, his fears, what he really thought about the war and his part in it. I wish I had gotten to know his friends, those brothers he carried with him every day at the end of the war, those men he hugged at the annual reunion. I wish a lot of things.

But for now my daddy is speaking and I’m listening, learning.

You return us to our roots,
our earliest beginnings.
You give us permission
to peer into the lives
of our ancestors.
You reveal their innermost thoughts.
And we sit still, listening.
The gift of these letters
is a profound one.
To hear my father’s voice
one more time
is far more
than I could have ever expected.
I’m overwhelmed
by their import.
How gracious you are,
God on High,
my Father.
What a sweet reunion
with my dad,
my Daddy,
first with the boy,
then the man.
How grateful my heart is,
to you,
the only One who
has the power
to return a father
to a daughter.
Thank you.

Love always, Andrea