Cited in Below Me, the Clouds by Ron Collard pp 36-40
I shall never forget the morning of 14 June 1944. My father returned home for breakfast after his night watch with the ARP and with a tremor in his voice announced, “Hitler’s sending over pilotless planes.” This phrase struck terror in my nine-year-old heart.
For the past five years my life had been a confusion of fear, panic, noise and uncertainty of life. Such an existence left me with shattered nerves. As a result, I was ‘tied to my mother’s apron strings’ which seemed then to be my only security. Often, I suffered hallucinations, seeing her being removed in a coffin from our bomb-wrecked house. Whenever I ran, I frequently fell over for no apparent reason.
In spite of my unfortunate state, one thing stood out as a lighthouse in my darkness; the serene and peaceful lives of my two older brothers. They would walk serenely down the path to the shelter. Sometimes they would return to the house and bring back a tray of cocoa and some biscuits, chatting quietly together and often chuckling; the war did not seem to affect them.
Sleeping in the same room, I had noticed that my brothers would spend some time kneeling by their beds and reading a book before they went to bed. They also went to Crusaders every Sunday afternoon, but all this meant nothing to me.
One evening, early in 1945, when returning from an evening service, I was intrigued to hear my brother Harold speaking to mother about her distress in seeing her eldest son, Fred, go to Malaya as a soldier. Harold himself would soon be joining the army. She was naturally afraid that she might lose both sons in the war. He spoke to her gently of death as a gateway into ‘the Lord’s presence’ and not the end of life.
This reminded me of what Fred had said to me the day before he left for Malaya. I had been sobbing about his imminent departure when he sat me down, put his arm around me and told me about Jesus and the difference He made to living and dying. I cannot honestly say that Fred’s comforting words meant anything to me at the time but Harold’s subsequent chat with Mum prompted my memory and made me think.
When I went to bed that night I prayed that, if God could be so real to my brothers, would He please make Himself real to me in a way that I could understand.
Some three or four weeks passed and, typical of a nine-year-old boy, I forgot all about my prayer until one day I was surprised to find I was no longer fearful of the air raids! My hallucinations about Mum’s ‘death’ had gone and I was able to run without falling over. Coincidence, or had God answered my boyish prayer?
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