“All Bright in Front …”

As soon as we got home, Grandpa told our vicar about my father, and he immediately got in touch with an English chaplain in the south of Spain who held services for visitors all through the summer, and he started to visit my father and send us news.

It was on a day that we received a letter from him that Gran gave us a real surprise.

We were sitting at the window table eating our lunch on that ordinary September day when Gran suddenly put down her knife and fork and said, “It's no use, Herbert! I just can't stand it any longer!”

“Stand what, Elsie?” said Grandpa, getting up in alarm. “Is there something wrong with the meat pie?”

“Certainly not,” said Gran. “I made it myself. It's just that I can no longer stand the thought of that poor, brave husband of Alice's being in a foreign country with no family around him. If we sold the antique cabinet, I could go and put things right.”

“Well, if you feel like that, you must go, Elsie. But you mustn't sell the antique cabinet—that's been in your family for hundreds of years. I could sell some of the hens. They are a valuable breed.”

“Nonsense, Herbert,” replied Gran. “You know how much you love those hens! The cabinet was to have been left to Lucy, but I'm sure she'd rather see her father properly cared for. No, Lucy—it's no use looking at me like that because you are not coming with me. School starts in a week's time, and you must help take care of your grandpa. You know you'll never remember to take your medicine unless someone reminds you, Herbert. It's not that I want to leave you, but I don't like to think of that poor, dear man stranded in a place where no one speaks a word of English.”

I stared at her in amazement. No one had called him a “poor, dear man” when he was in prison! But there was no doubt about it; something had happened. We had become a family.

Gran was a woman of action. She visited the vicar that very afternoon, who phoned the English chaplain, who promised to meet her and find somewhere for her to stay. Four days later, Gran set off in her best clothes with her overcoat over her arm, as she would not believe how hot it was. Grandpa took her to the airport, and I stayed the night with Mary.

I was very glad to see Grandpa back, and we settled down to look after each other, although he almost lived from one letter to the next. Gran wrote nearly every day and seemed to be enjoying herself. She was actually staying with the English chaplain and went to the hospital twice a day where she read aloud to my father and took down messages from him for me.

“But why can't he read himself, Grandpa?” I asked. “And why can't he write to me himself?”

“I don't imagine he's strong enough,” said Grandpa, looking distressed. And I think it was after that that we stopped talking about Daddy coming home.

I missed Gran a lot, but it was very relaxed living with Grandpa. I was enjoying reading my Bible now and going to church on Sundays. It seemed different—not just an old building where I had to go with my grandparents, but my Friend Jesus' house, where I could talk to Him. The words of the service meant so much more—“I believe in the Lord, the Giver of life.”

Life! I'd been so near death that the very word was precious. Conchita had nearly lost her life. My father had looked so still and grey on the beach, but he'd lived. Then there was the figure on the crucifix at the hospital—Jesus had come back from death.

After dinner one night, I went to my favorite seat on the rockery behind a screen of hollyhocks and started to read the gospel of John. I read very slowly on into the third chapter. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”¹

I looked around. Everything was dying, but it didn't seem important because everywhere there were signs of new life. The butterflies on the Michaelmas daisies had once been caterpillars, but each one had turned into a chrysalis, then at last had come bursting out as a bright butterfly.

“In Him was life,” and as I read, I understood, although I could not possibly have put it into words. My Friend Jesus had not only lived on earth, and healed the sick, and been kind to children. He was also God, and He had given me everlasting life. I thought of Daddy, and wished that he could believe too.

A week after Gran left, I went back to school and enjoyed telling my friends about all my adventures in Spain. I even showed off by speaking a little Spanish to them!

I was very busy helping Grandpa in the house and doing my homework, but I tried to read a little of John's gospel every day. I got up to chapter 11. One Saturday, two weeks after the beginning of term, I went to the woods with Shadow, taking my Bible with me. It was the first of October, and I was excited because I knew Don would be home for the weekend. I hadn't seen him since my holiday.

I picked some blackberries, then sat on a tree trunk and read John chapter 11. Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?”² The flowers' petals fell off, and seeds fell to the ground and were buried by leaves, but the spring always came again with fresh growth. I put my Bible back in my pocket and went home, thinking about the apple-and-blackberry pie I would make for supper.

“Grandpa,” I called at the front door, “where are you? I'll get dinner.”

There was no answer. I glanced into the living room and there he was, sitting at the table, his face buried in his hands, an open letter in front of him. I stopped dead.

“Grandpa,” I cried, “what's the matter?” Shadow, sensing trouble, trotted forward and laid his nose on Grandpa's knee.

He looked up quickly and his eyes were full of tears.

Then I realized I'd known deep down ever since Gran had gone away. This was what I'd really been waiting for, and this was why life and death had seemed so important.

“My dear, dear, Lucy,” said Grandpa. “I don't know how to tell you …”

“It's Daddy, isn't it?” I whispered, for my throat felt rather dry. “He's dead, isn't he?” Then I ran into Grandpa's arms and we cried together, and Shadow licked each of us frantically in turn.

“He died on Wednesday,” said Grandpa at last, “but Gran didn't phone because he wanted you to have this letter as soon as you heard. He knew he couldn't last long. That was why he wanted you to leave. He wanted you safe and settled at home when you got the news. He wrote this letter just a little at a time on the days when he felt better. Would you like to read it here with me, Lucy, or would you like to take it away by yourself?”

“I think I'd like to read it alone,” I said, drying my eyes on Grandpa's handkerchief. “Do you mind if I go back into the wood for a bit?”

“Not at all, dearie. Just come and have your lunch when you're ready,” said Grandpa. I clutched my letter and went out, with Shadow trotting quietly beside me, trying to comfort me.

It seemed strange reading a letter from someone who had died. I went back to my tree trunk and looked around me. Autumn had come early that year, and the trees were glorious in their dying colors. The silver birches were pale gold and the horse chestnut a vivid yellow. Acorns and shining chestnuts lay among the leaves, seeds of life waiting to send up their shoots of new life. I drew a deep breath and opened my letter.

It was quite long. He had written on different days, in rather shaky handwriting. He told me how much he loved me, and how sorry he was about the years we'd missed when we might have been together. He spoke of Gran, and how good she'd been, how thankful he was that we'd all got to know each other, how glad he was to leave me in such good care. I read very slowly, for the letter was nearly finished now, and he hadn't told me what I so wanted to know.

I drew another deep breath and read the last paragraph. “Don't be sad, Lucita. It's the best, happiest ending. I want to tell you that I now know that we shall see each other again—you, me, your mother. Jesus came just in time. The chaplain was a help, but it was you who first showed me, on the beach that day. It's like you said, the cross is behind and it's all bright in front …”

The writing trailed off as though he had been too tired to finish the letter. He had probably meant to go on, but he had written all I wanted to know. A robin on a mountain ash tree suddenly sang for joy, and I looked up through my tears at the blurred gold-and-crimson sunlight. Daddy was right—it was all bright in front. He had passed through death into life beyond—from winter to springtime—and for me, too, nothing would ever be the same again. Daddy had opened up a whole new world to me. I'd seen the sea; I'd learned to love Spain and poetry and Lola and Rosita. One day I would go back. Best of all, I'd found out the real secret of eternal life. In Jesus there was life, now and forever.

Shadow suddenly barked. I brushed away my tears and looked up again. Don was racing through the wood on his way to the cottage, a living, bounding creature leaping over the crimson brambles. He turned his head and saw me.

“Hurrah, Lucy!” he shouted. “All safe home at last!” Although he didn't know it then, his greeting had a special, deeper meaning.

My mum and dad were both safe home at last—together.

Forever.

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1. John 3:16.

2. John 11:25–26.