“Fight the good fight of faith,
lay hold on eternal life,
whereunto thou art also called,
and hast professed a good profession before many witnesses.”
1 Timothy 6:12
“Older,” she said, “I am not getting old. I am getting older.” And we smiled.
Carol Jean Porter Phillips, age 84 and the beloved matriarch of our family, was beginning to fade. Dementia nipped the edges of her mind blurring so many precious memories I longed to hold on to.
There is still a file on my phone titled, “to ask mother.”
Through the years, we had talked about what it was like to be a teenager in World War II.
In an effort to stop the terrible march of fascism and imperialism that crept a little closer each day, she and her friends would peel the little aluminum pieces off gum wrappers, carefully rolling them into balls, some as large as an orange, to contribute for making bullets.
Women gave up their silk stockings so parachutes could be made, and families sacrificed sugar, butter, and eggs to feed the troops. Whether for gasoline, oil, firewood, or shoes, every ration card used, brought the possibility of the war ending and brothers and sons coming home alive.
Recently, I was in a restaurant that featured World War II pictures of soldiers kissing wives, girlfriends, and strangers. Of course, there was that picture of the sailor kissing the nurse (well, she was actually a dental assistant) in Times Square on V-J Day (Victory over Japan), August 15, 1945.
One evening I asked, “Where were you on V-J Day, mother? Was it exciting? How did you feel? What did you do?”
There was a pause. She didn’t remember much. Yes, she was happy, but for her, the celebration was incomplete.
I waited, and with a voice that sparkled with excitement, she began.
It was in the Autumn of 1945…
And yet, many continued to wait for a loved one to come home.
“Any news about Leslie, Carol Jean?” asked Fran.
Carol Jean sat with her Latin book open as Fran leaned in. The girls had been friends since birth and lived just a short walk away from each other on Rebecca Street, in the small but proud community of Glenwood, Illinois. Together they rode the bus to Bloom High School in Chicago Heights, a large, bustling school.
Many times, in quiet Glenwood, they had walked by the glass-enclosed case in the center of town. There, listed by rank, were the names of all the servicemen and women from Glenwood. Carol Jean’s heart swelled with pride that her big brother’s name was at the top.
Leslie Spencer Porter, United States Army.
The Porter family prayed together and hurt for the families whose loved ones now appeared in the missing or killed-in-action list to the right.
Despite the upbeat music of the Andrews Sisters piping through the high school cafeteria where they sat, Carol Jean sadly shook her head no.
Fifteen years older, Leslie, an ROTC grad, had known that if and when the U. S. entered the war, he would be in the army. And so, he was.
At first, due to his degree in agriculture, his service consisted of finding housing, camps, and offices in Britain for the American troops and land to plant crops to feed them.
After the Normandy Invasion, he was transferred to work in the Third Army under General George S. Patton. There he led the transportation of supplies to the battle lines, headed reconnaissance surveys to plan for roads ahead of the Front, and oversaw prisoners’ movement to the back lines.
Many years later, the family found out that Leslie was present at all of the major battles of the Third Army and later at the liberations of five Holocaust death camps. Though he received many honors for bravery, valor, and service, he, like so many veterans, said very little about his time on the European Front.
But this was not known to his teenage sister in 1945. The letters they received from Leslie were always heavily censored.
He was just her big brother, and she wanted him safely home.
Classes finished, and, as it was Friday, a sleepover at the Porter’s house was deemed an appropriate way to end the week.
Later that night, after popcorn, games, and pajamas, the girls pulled back the covers to crawl into bed. Suddenly, they stopped and turned their ears toward the crunching sound outside the window.
Gravel moved under someone’s considerable weight. It wasn’t Mr. Porter—he had already left for his midnight work shift. Opening the bedroom door, they watched Mrs. Porter make her way to the back door, where knocking could now be heard.
Suddenly, Carol Jean tore from the room and ran through the narrow home to the back door. Even muffled through wood, she knew that voice.
It was Leslie.
Hugs, tears, and rejoicing enveloped the three family members.
Then, almost as fast as she had left the room, Carol Jean ran back, slid by Fran, and knelt down by the bed.
“What are you doing?” her puzzled friend asked.
Without hesitation came the reply, “I have to thank the Lord for bringing Leslie home.”
This was it. The moment that would stay when so many other memories faded.
Prayer: a habit that would remain for a lifetime,
and gratitude – an attitude that would carry her through the lean times.
It wasn’t the last war my mother was to know.
There were wars of moving from state to state with a husband who fought God’s call,
of faithfully standing by her husband when he answered the call,
of raising five strong-willed children,
of caring for invalid family members,
of finishing college in her forties,
of widowhood, new careers, new countries, a new marriage, and old age.
Older age.
Finally, just a few more years remained. There was an illness so severe it demanded constant medical care and then a stroke. She fought her last war—kneeling—while lying on her back.
The eyes of her heart solely on Jesus.
I often wonder what she would have had to say about Covid-19 and all that transpired–the schools closed, the masks, the restrictions, the businesses boarded up, the loss of fellowship and freedoms we once had, the loss of those we love; the wearying, soul-crushing feeling of something never ending.
I don’t know her opinion about it all, but I do know that she would encourage me to be faithful—to continue fighting for the glory of God—the only cause that matters.
And she is not alone.
“Look up, child.”
Can you hear the whispers of the witnesses who have gone before?
None were perfect. Not my mother or any of the other saints who wait for us. Most are what she might have called “a royal mess.” What we might deem “a piece of work.”
All went through their own personal wars and pandemics.
Yet there they are—my mother, maybe yours, Adam and Eve, David, Jonah, Peter, Mary Magdalene, and more.
Lean in and listen, for surely, they are saying—
Your fight starts
on your knees;
your victory begins
with gratitude.
Thank you for the reminder to keep fighting, especially on our knees! ♥️
Melissa that was a blessing to read and soul stirring. Thank you for sharing
Thank you, Ron. Writing it was a conviction to me!
Love this, Melissa! May we all have the heart of a prayer warrior! Your mother was a blessing to know. (I think Bill looks a bit like Leslie.) Love you. Continue to roar!
Oh, yes, let’s roar together–especially in our prayers!
What a beautiful piece…!
Thank you, Mike. All for His glory!
What a touching and powerful story! Thanks for sharing this! And your writing skills encouraged me to share too.
Thank you, Larry. God wants to use all of our stories of grace!
Thank you, Mike. I had a beautiful subject :