Read Online Letters from War by Mark Schultz - Free Book Online Page A

cheeks.
    â€œWherever he is, James is fighting. He’s fighting to be back here, standing where I’m standing, holding Richie in his arms, and looking at you and laughing and loving.”
    Britt nods and sighs and wipes away more tears.
    â€œI wish he knew that he has a son to hold.”
    â€œI think he knows. Maybe deep down, in some strange and untold way, God whispered to him that you guys had a son.”
    â€œIt’s hard to think that—to think that he’s alive and hurting or that he’s dead.”
    â€œI know,” Beth says.
    â€œAm I being selfish asking God to keep him alive?”
    â€œAbsolutely not. My dear, you’re just being practical.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œI still don’t know why God took Richard so early. And there are times, God knows, that I grow resentful and angry. But that’s the beauty of prayer. We can talk to God and know that He will hear us. He’s heard a lot from me. He knows. He knows and I have to believe that He cares.”
    â€œYou, resentful and angry? Please.”
    â€œI’m a woman,” Beth says. “I know how to put on a pretty face and hide the wrinkles well.”
    Before leaving the house just after sunset, the two women do what they always do.
    Pray.
    It’s still something that Beth can’t fully fathom. This ability to come before the Maker of heaven and the stars and mankind to petition Him. This opportunity to ask.
    Not every prayer is answered, and Beth knows this the hard way.
    Yet some are.
    And everything, every single thing, is part of His plan.
    If she didn’t believe this, she would break down and would never, ever,
ever
move on.
    Being able to share a little of this with her daughter-in-law is a gift.
    Even if the gift she shares comes wrapped in pain.
    June 24, 2011
    Dear James,
    If only you could see Britt. She loves you more today than on the day you two married. I can see it in her eyes, can hear it in her words, can feel it when I hold her hand.
    Sometimes it’s good to be reminded—even by your mother—that you are missed and you are loved. I’m not the only one who misses you.
    Last night I had this dream of walking up to your house and opening the door and seeing you standing there with Richie. You handed him to me and I could see stains on your shirt—something green and messy. It was quite the vivid dream. It probably didn’t help that not only did I see Britt and Richie last night, but I was going through old photo albums.
    You always looked like a baby version of your father. The shape of his face and the twinkle in that smile.
    Richie has that same shine about him.
    I know what an amazing father you’ll be one day, just as your father was. Sometimes these dreams that come—sometimes I feel they’re gifts. Not premonitions or visions but gifts of what could be. When I woke up last night, I prayed that a dream like this could one day be reality.
    I told God I’d splatter you with green goop myself.
    Anything to bring you home.
    Anything to keep you safe.
    I love you and I still fight for you. God hears these prayers, I know He does. And so I know He watches over you.
    Mom

    The enemy waits and watches, wanting to destroy any semblance of hope, wanting to dismantle any series of prayers.
    As Beth watches the news, a small part of her gets flattened. Like the tread of tires in soft mud, the marks are imprinted and won’t go away any time soon.
    Beth likes this particular anchor on NBC. She likes the integrity and grace with which he handles issues, like the one he reports about today. Another wave of deadly violence in Afghanistan, another list of casualties. One report details how the soldiers die; another then quickly goes into the seemingly endless war that the locals and Americans are getting tired of.
    She turns off the news and sits on the edge of her couch.
    Dear Father, be with those families today. Give them extra