66 
Sharing a Corner of God’s Heart

Unaware of Jocelyn’s fears concerning him, Charles paused briefly, sat back, and glanced at her face in his photograph again. He smiled to himself, then whispered, “God bless her . . . take care of her during this time, Lord.”

A moment or two more he sat, then began again to write.

I do not mean to make you sad, my dear Jocie, he continued, but I know you will want to know my heart during these times when we are apart. So I will share with you an experience I had two mornings ago. It was sad, I have to say, and I found myself nearly overwhelmed with grief. Yet I cannot help but think it was a significant revelation the Lord gave me through it.

We had been engaged the day before with a German U-boat. It was our closest call yet. We were actually hit by one of the torpedoes, but without sustaining damage. Shortly afterward we sunk the U-boat. It was an event which had a marked effect on many of these boys who are turning into men perhaps more rapidly than is desirable under normal conditions. War does that. These are not desirable conditions, and we are at war.

For a brief time there was great elation at the sinking of the U-boat. But then in some of the younger midshipmen the realization set in that, in saving our own vessel, we had actually sent a submarine full of German youths to their own deaths. For the first time since sailing from Scapa Flow, the war suddenly became very personal.

I noticed a marked change in George the next time I saw him. I think he felt it acutely, as he was in charge of the radio in the torpedo command room itself where they actually launched the weapon. I could see it weighing heavily on him. Had we been at home, I think he may have fallen into my arms and wept manly tears of youthful confusion and uncertainty and grief. But he must be a man too. And though I sensed a slight quiver in his lip as we looked one another in the eyes, I knew they were feelings he had to keep inside for the present.

I immediately went to my cabin, however, and wept in his stead. That brief quiver of his nearly grown-up lip, as I remembered holding him in my arms when he was no more than two, nearly broke my heart. . . .

As he wrote the words Charles could not prevent renewed tears. He had no choice but to set the letter aside and briefly turn away. He picked up his pen again the moment his eyes would allow him to see and resumed.

A child never knows a hundredth of the things a parent feels on his behalf, or the depths of love that swell the heart, sometimes over the tiniest things. How quickly they grow, how fond do those childhood reminders become in the parental storehouse of treasured memories.

Does a child ever know? Perhaps not. Did my own father and mother feel the same things I now feel for our three dear ones? It is hard to imagine. Yet perhaps that is part of the eternal parental sacrifice—to love a hundredfold more than that love will ever be known.

I wax philosophic! Forgive me, my dear Jocie. When a man is alone like this, feelings rise that can only be relieved by attempting to put them to paper.

Perhaps it was in part the tears I shed for George on the afternoon of the U-boat sinking, and the stab in my heart every time the image of that quiver of his mouth came back to me, followed by his having to force the anguished feelings inside rather than release them, that kept me near tears all the rest of the day. The feeling persisted that night. I slept poorly and awoke as dawn was just about to break.

An overpowering sense of what I can only call sadness nearly engulfed me. I don’t remember ever being so sad in my entire life. Everywhere I ached, with almost the physical sensation of pain, for sheer dejection and utter despondency. My heart was so heavy that I literally did not think I could pull myself out of bed.

But I did. For activity of any kind was the only possible relief. I thought that if I could just feel the wind and salt spray on my face, and take a few deep breaths of it, perhaps I could allay this melancholy that had so filled me and made me feel as if I were just going to give up and expire from it. Is it possible literally to die from sheer sadness? I do not know. But after this experience I wondered if there may actually be such a thing as a “broken” heart capable of crushing the very life out of a human soul. I do not say that I was close to that point. Yet I can say that never have I felt such abject despondency.

I dressed and went up on deck, where a thin light was just beginning to make the Mediterranean visible. Even before I was standing at the bow I knew what had caused the sadness, though it had only just come to my conscious mind.

It was this—I had the overpowering sense that I would never see Amanda again. And it was just too much to bear. The agony of the thought was like a thousand knives piercing my heart. How much I loved her, and love her still. The thought of never again holding her in my arms and feeling her arms around me, and hearing her tell me that she loves me too . . . the idea of it was more than I could bear.

I burst out crying like a baby, right there on the bow of the Dauntless as we ploughed through the sea and as my burning face rushed through the cold, damp, dark morning air. I was thankful for the early hour. I felt such hope for Amanda only a short time ago. I had the sense that her homecoming had begun. Now this. I did not understand why.

How long I wept, I have no idea. I don’t even exactly know what I thought about. But when I came to myself and realized that my eyes were drying, it was fully daylight and I could hear voices about me in indication that the ship was coming to life.

Then came the revelation which prompted this letter. I found myself thinking about the cross, about the agony of what it must have been that our Lord suffered. The thought of the pain he felt as he hung there brought tears to my eyes again. For I realized how minuscule was the pain I had just been feeling moments earlier in comparison with the agony of his suffering. For a moment I felt in a small way privileged to have felt the anguish I had on that morning, for it caused me to reflect on that far greater anguish he felt on our behalf.

Then further came the realization that the Father himself suffered, too, on that crucifixion day—suffered in a way perhaps even greater than the physical torment of the Son. For the Father had to suffer the loss of a Son whom he loved. And perhaps my losing of a daughter—though I pray it is but temporary—is a price I should be willing to pay, maybe even be glad to pay, that I should rejoice to suffer, that third portion of my fatherly dreams and ambitions gone—in order that I might be able to identify with one tiny corner of God the Father’s heart.

He lost a son. And perhaps blessed are those who are called in this life to experience such a loss, that they might yield the anguish and sadness of that parental loss up into his Father’s heart even as Jesus, the perfect and sacrificing Son, yielded up his own anguish into his Father’s heart, that the world might be saved.

Not only that, the Father lost his only Son. We have not suffered near so great an agony. We still have our dear George and Catharine—God bless them!—and pray daily that our dear Amanda will be restored to us as well—and God bless her! So how tiny, really, is our suffering compared with his. Were we to suffer even a millionth the pain man’s sin causes the Father-heart of God, we would surely die! Yet by such glimpses as our own suffering affords us of that greater divine suffering of eternal Love do we perhaps apprehend God’s heart a little more directly.

Periodically I recall that sermon I preached in Timothy’s church so many years ago about intimacy with God and the universal need to become children and return to our Father. I suppose in a way Amanda is only living out a microcosm of that universal human prodigality of which we are all a part. In my own way I am just as in need as she of learning to be my Father’s child. It is the one thing we are put on this earth to learn—childness—yet the one thing we most resist submitting to. It is curious, is it not, that God made our greatest need that which we strive most fiercely against?

After all these thoughts had gone through my mind, I then tried to find comfort in the fact that in the Father’s heart is nothing ever lost—not one of a mother’s tears, not a second of a prodigal-father’s grief as he waits gazing down the empty and silent road. I resolved, whenever I am in any kind of pain or mental anxiety, to remember the suffering Jesus endured for us, and to thank God for the privilege he allows us to suffer, that we might in this small way partake in the reality, and the ultimate victory, of the cross.

And I tried to give my own heartsick condition over to him, to place in his Father’s heart—remembering that I am his son too, and a prodigal one at that as I suppose we all will remain to some degree while in this life—to hold in his heart until that day—

A knock sounded on Charles’ cabin door. He glanced up. How long had he been sitting at his desk? It was light out.

He rose to answer it. There stood Captain Wilberforce.

“A private communication for you, Commander Rutherford,” he said. “It was relayed by wireless and received only minutes ago. It is from the First Lord of the Admiralty.”

He handed Charles the envelope, then turned to go.

“Just a moment, Captain,” said Charles. “There may be something here we need to discuss.”

Charles opened it.

To Charles Rutherford.

For your eyes only.

Dauntless not to participate in Dardanelles offensive. Captain will be ordered to put in at Salonika. You will be met and taken ashore. Major defection to Allied cause has occurred to be placed in your care. When secure, set sail for Scapa Flow immediately. Imperative top secret. Information in his possession could end war within months. None aboard must know mission. Keep identity and presence absolutely unknown. Security breach feared. Must remain isolated from all crew. You must be only contact until I see you. Give my apology to Wilberforce. All for his safety and that of crew. He will be fully briefed at Scapa. Be assured all being done by my direct order. You will be given further orders onshore.

W. Churchill

Charles folded the paper and glanced up at the captain.

“Mr. Churchill asks me to apologize personally to you,” Charles began, “for keeping you in the dark. He says it is a matter of your safety and the crew’s, and that he will brief you fully at the first opportunity.”

“What’s it all about, Commander?” asked Wilberforce.

“Actually,” smiled Charles, “I don’t know much more than you. The message is rather cryptic. Apparently you will shortly be receiving orders to put in at Salonika—”

“Yes, they came at the same time as this communication to you.”

“I see—well, apparently once we dock, I am to meet a liaison onshore from Mr. Churchill who will give me further instructions. I believe at the same time you will be given new orders as well.”

Captain Wilberforce nodded.

“Well, it does appear to be something of a mystery,” he said. “I suppose we shall know more when we reach Salonika day after tomorrow. And putting ashore,” the captain added, “will allow us the chance to collect all the men’s mail and get it on a transport back home.”

“Right,” rejoined Charles. “I shall have a whole sheaf of letters for the packet myself! I am just finishing up another right now.”