The Keith's had been in America only six months after WWII when the State Department ordered Mr. Keith back to Borneo in charge of food production. Though not unexpected, the order fractured the family and re-opened wounds hardly healed from the earlier Japanese fracture in 1942. The Keith's thought they couldn't bear it then, but did. They thought in 1945 they couldn't bear it, but found the strength.
She accompanied him by taxi to the Seattle train station at midnight. To the train. Where she left him after hugs, kisses and repeated "I love you." She walked away, only to return for more of each. When the train left, she walked aimlessly to the taxi. As aimlessly took a rear seat as the solicitous driver opened the door. Across the seat to the middle she scooted, alone with her thoughts. Suddenly, as lonely as she had been three years before when seeing her husband for the last time, she began to weep, and continued to weep, convulsively heaving her tears. The driver, by now not just a conveyance to a destination, but a participant in a heart-shattering drama, didn't know what to say, unschooled in crisis management. So he turned slowly and simply said, "I'm sorry, lady." Three Came Home, 314-315 No preacher could have said more. No crisis counselor could have done more. "I'm sorry, lady," his own grief mixed in the words, expressing sympathy with a stranger he hadn't seen before, and wouldn't again. But words which expressed the common humanity each shared in that instant. And we are reluctant to say anything to people in grief or loss or pain, thinking we don't know what words to use? Why not, "I'm sorry." Or, "I'm so sorry." Or, "God bless you in your time of need?" As a six-year-old boy in 1942, I accompanied my family to the Lincoln, Illinois depot to see my oldest brother off to war. I don't remember his wife's reaction. I've not forgotten MOM's: sobbing tears a boy my age couldn't handle, and turned away, with Dad standing by, fighting his. Finally, the train, loaded with soldiers having said farewell at other stations, slowly pulled away, leaving families behind. All I remember after that was walking ahead, hearing MOM wail through her tears, "I'll never see him again." I still remember the words! There was no one to say, "I'm sorry, lady." Grief counselors didn't exist then, and we wouldn't need them now if we were tougher people. But there are some life-events always remembered because we can't forget them. And as a minister of the Gospel, I can verify that it doesn't take a college education, or a Dale Carnegie course, to know that a sincere expression of sympathy to one in despair is more than enough said. Amen.
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