Restoration Review: Leroy Garrett, Editor

Travel Letter and Things Personal —

THIS IS MY TASK

It is amazing how the fabric of a single day in one’s life can be woven with both triumph and tragedy. In fact Sunday, June 3, 1984 would qualify as one of the most exciting days of my life. I had arrived in San Salvador two days earlier and was a guest in the home of Andrew and Kathy Fuller and their three young children. The drive from the airport gave little indication that I was in a nation at war, save soldiers along the way who were guarding various bridges and installations. As to whether one is safe in San Salvador depends on whom you ask. My hosts were calm and relaxed and moved about the city with the same sense of security as they would back home in the United States, or so it seemed. But in my short sojourn there I did not see a single tourist, and the U. S. Embassy tells our people to stay off the streets.

Since my host, an army officer, works with the Embassy, he goes first class. His almost-palatial home is owned by the widow of a former ambassador to the U.S., and a painting of her graces one of the walls. The several homes where I was a guest were actually small compounds in that they were completely walled in and secured. The spacious, tiered yard abounded with colorful flowers which bloom all year, including orchids. There was a variety of trees: coconut, lemon, orange, banana, grapefruit, and even avocado. All this was completely walled in, private, secure, and cozy.

We dined around an unusually large teak dining table and told Bible stories to the children. I studied “the Duchess on the wall,” wondering what kind of life she lived in her little mansion. The fact that her husband was killed as so many Salvadorian political figures are may indicate that her life was not unlike the quiet desperation I saw etched in her beautiful face and disciplined figure.

A Saturday visit to the Embassy was ideal since only guards were on duty. From the roof of the multi-storied structure one gets a panoramic view of a city that appears peaceful, nestled as it is in a valley surrounded by mountains. From that perspective one can hardly muse, “I look unto the mountains from whence cometh my help,” for in those mountains lurked some 12,000 Communist guerillas, a continual threat to tiny El Salvador. Our Embassy there is of course the nerve center of our efforts in Central America. I thought of our nation’s ordeal in Iran as I walked about the walled-in, heavily guarded Embassy. I noted that the ambassador’s suite is secured by additional locks and gates in the event an intruder should get as far as his office on the top floor.

There was mild excitement at one point when the guards manned their stations with machine guns and rifles drawn. I did not have time to ponder what it would be like to get caught in an Embassy take-over, for an official quickly explained that it was back-fire from a passing truck. San Salvador may be safe but it is nervous. I checked in particular to see if terrorists could crash the gates with a vehicle laden with explosives. No way.

It is at the Embassy of course that visas are issued to Salvadorians wishing to visit the United States, except that all that many are not issued. To receive a visa one must be able to prove that he has compelling reasons to return home, such as money in the bank or title to property. Otherwise many would migrate and never return. One big difference between “the land of the free and the home of the brave” is that we have to build walls to keep out while some other nations build walls to keep people in.

My host also took me to a Salvadorian army training center where we “worked out” within its protective confines. Even through I am somewhat older than he, I joined him in a two-mile run around the track, which may have surprised him. As I watched cadets doing calisthenics I spoke of the tragedy of their being trained to wage war against their own countrymen, even though I understood why. My host pointed to the grim fact that a high percentage of those boys would soon die in the conflict. The reality of that disturbed me as I watched them play their games, so full of life and each with loving parents destined to a baptism of grief.

The Union Church of San Salvador is an independent, English: speaking Christian congregation with an impressive edifice of Spanish architecture, and walled-in of course. It includes comfortable quarters for the pastor, and it supports itself in part through a gift shop on the premises. I was to be in its pulpit through three Sundays with varied assignments through the week. I spoke on the grace of God, which was warmly received by Salvadorians and Americans alike, a number of them visitors from Tennessee, doctors and dentists on their way to mission stations to do acts of mercy. I had a delightful visit with them afterwards, beautiful people.

When one sits in their simple but spacious “sanctuary,” he sees the huge volcanic mountain through the glass wall behind the pulpit, which a curtain hides from view (because of the glare) when the minister speaks. I told them it was the first time ever that I had preached with a volcano behind me, but that I had been in more dangerous situations! It was a delightful service. I was especially pleased to preside at the Table as we all broke bread together. But I also enjoyed teaching the Sunday School class which met out on the veranda, which was excitingly biblical. I could tell that the people were hungry for basic Christian teaching.

Union Church impressed me as being the way churches should be. They were simply the “gathered church,” and no one bothered with denominational labels. It was no denomination, though various denominations must have been represented. They didn’t care what I was and I didn’t care what they were. We were all believers or becoming-believers. We met in Christ’s name and we studied the holy Scriptures. We broke bread together. We were church, that’s all. We lingered long, visiting. I loved it. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.

A garden dinner that afternoon with Embassy people was a most unique experience, for I was able to visit with various levels of military, political, and diplomatic officials, and even a woman reporter. I had been reading about the problems of Central America, so I was full of questions. Is Nicaragua lost for good to the free world? Yes. Can El Salvador be saved? Yes, assuming that President Duarte can have even a moderately successful reign and that the U.S. will follow the recommendations of the Kissinger committee report. The death squads? Yes, of course, they are real and on both sides, which is the nature of war, which is dirty business both ways, as in Vietnam or any other war. Are we morally right to be involved? Yes, if you believe in freedom and democracy. But obviously the Communists see it differently. Does the press tend to be left-wing and critical of our role and is their reporting biased? Yes, for while what they report may be true, they select what they want to report. When the Communists blow up a hospital, killing and wounding innocent people, little is made of it. When American-backed Salvadorians do something like that, such as the murder of the nuns, it is a big deal.

While we talked a little child fell into the swimming pool behind me, and was of course immediately fished out. The best I can ascertain it was very near the time our little Christi was drowning back home. I have no psychic powers. I had no premonition. I was deeply involved in exciting and informative conversation with important people and I did not even think of home, though I am always saying to myself amidst my travels that I wish Ouida could be with me.

After some difficulty Ouida at last reached me at the Andrews home on into the night. From the garden dinner I had gone to a missionary’s home for further fellowship. The veteran missionary had a different view of things. Central America will not be saved by guns and bullets but by the nations turning to Christ, which they are now doing by the tens of thousands. The time will come when the guerillas will come out of the mountains and lay down their arms because of the Prince of Peace. But the missionary did a strange thing. As we walked out on the terrace overlooking the lighted city below us he began talking about how the heavenly Father loves children, of how in His great compassion He embraces His little ones. I had no idea of course that my precious little granddaughter was already with that loving Father and that Ouida was trying to contact me. It was as if the aged missionary had some premonition and was preparing me for the most devastating experience (by far) of my life.

I froze when Ouida told me that she had some very sad news. I knew it was not her aged mother who lives with us. There was no way for me to be prepared for what she told me. One of the grandest days of my life prefaced the most agonizing night of my life. I had the feeling that I simply could not bear it. I was in the home of virtual strangers, but because of our mutual love for Christ I found solace in their loving concern. Word quickly spread among the Union Church, who gathered in homes to pray for me. When word reached the Embassy people, they assured me that they could get me on the morning flight to the States, booked solid. In order to get home I had to accept their offer.

On the way to the airport the next morning I confided to the Andrews that in my delirium during the night I asked God to speak to me (through a tongue, a child, a dream or vision, anyway!) and tell me that He had taken Christi. That was the one way I thought I could stand it. But there was nothing. As I gained some control of my faculties I asked God to forgive me for such a request, for He has already spoken to me all He needs to, through His Son and through the holy prophets and apostles. Along with His suffering love I only needed time for healing, and that would come.

But Kathy Andrews came through with one that gave me the laughter I badly needed: Leroy, God doesn’t speak to Church of Christ people! I told her that I envy folk who are always hearing the voice of God. He even tells some folk, so they tell me, where to find a parking space.

The Andrews were so kind that they called ahead to Houston, where I changed planes, and informed the Bering Dr. Church of Christ of my problem, who had my dear friend, Charles Turner, at the airport to be with me until I flew on to DFW, where I was met by Weldon Bowling of our Denton church. We are sometimes idiots, aren’t we? I was hoping that Weldon would tell me it was all a joke, a cruel joke, and that I would find Christi at home with Ouida. I had him take me by the funeral home first of all. They had just received the body from the morgue, following the autopsy, and I questioned them about a bad scar on her left side, caused by a vicious burn. I was hoping they would tell me that there was no such scar on the child they had. My last irrational hope faded when the mortician told me that yes, he had noticed the scar. Deep grief can drive one to the edge of insanity.

Ouida and I had much of ourselves invested in that little girl who would turn four this summer, and she herself had suffered far more than any little child should. Ouida nursed her through several serious illnesses, some of them beside her bed in the hospital. The worst ordeal was when her gown caught fire, resulting in second and third degree burns. This called for weeks of meticulous nursing, in and out of the hospital. By the time we lost her she was with us nearly all the time. Her mother would take her on weekends in order to give Ouida a rest. On that Sunday afternoon she followed a dog (they think) to a distant tank. The sheriff reported that he found her little footprints leading directly into the water, as if in pursuit of the dog she had been playing with.

Her paternal grandfather, who lives next door at the farm, joined the frantic search to find her, and he was soon at the tank and might have saved her if he could have seen her, but her little body hovered just below the surface, so he hurried on to look elsewhere. By the time the sheriff found her it was too late for the paramedics to revive her even though they labored over her for more than an hour. It was a cruel thing for Ouida, who hurried to the farm some 12 miles from our home upon word that Christi was missing, to have to come upon such a scene. I cannot yet bring myself to walk down to that tank even though I am often at the farm.

As a father wrote of his son, run down by a drunk driver, in the June Reader’s Digest, I see Christi everywhere I go, for when I was home she went with me nearly everywhere I went. She was so hyper-active and difficult to watch after that I would relieve Ouida by taking her not only on my errands but to the various city parks, including McDonald’s little playground. We clocked many an hour together and I came to love her very much. Her hypertension caused a learning problem, so we had her in a special pre-school program during the last year of her life, and she was progressing, but she still could not talk, save a few words, though she understood most of what we said to her.

Ouida was convinced that our dear little one would not be able to make her way effectively in our cruel world, and on one occasion suggested that it might be an act of mercy if God should take her. But of course she did not want it that way, and she was pouring out her life so as to make the best of a difficult situation. One of our dear friends, a woman physician who often helped in diagnosing Christi’s problems, agreed with Ouida that life would be very difficult for Christi. And it was very difficult for Ouida, especially with her aged mother to care for as well, so much so that I feared I might lose Ouida long before her time. That is why I pitched in and helped.

Ouida has no doubt that Christi has been “delivered,” her word, and this is her consolation amidst the grief. And she cherishes the love affair they had. Christi would seldom give her a kiss when she asked for one, but when it was her idea she would smother Ouida’s face with kisses. And she would make her early morning round from her bed to ours, climb onto Ouida’s bosom and go back to sleep. It delighted her when I showed her grandmother affection in her presence. If I disturbed Ouida in the kitchen with a lusty embrace as I passed through, Christi would chuckle with delight, and if I broke the embrace sooner than she thought appropriate, she would take my hand and urge me to continue. Her delight turned into ecstasy when we would pick her up and make her the center of the embrace. We even “shaved” together, side by side, with gobs of lather!

In my almost unbearable grief I have found solace in praising God for His wisdom, goodness, and mercy, and thanking Him for teaching me more about how the kingdom of God is like a little child through Christi’s visitation. If because of Christi I understand our troubled world more clearly and love suffering humanity more dearly, then she did not live her few years in vain.

Friends have been gracious and words have been comforting. Our son David, home from his ministry in Chillicothe, Mo., assisted George Massey in the funeral by reading a prayer of the late William Barclay of Glasgow, Scotland, part of which said: “Make us to be sure that in perfect wisdom, perfect love, and perfect power Thou art working ever for the best.” The prayer goes on: “Help us to face life with grace and gallantry; and help us to find courage to go on in the memory that the best tribute we can pay a loved one is not the tribute of tears, but the constant memory that another has been added to the unseen cloud of witnesses who compass us about.”

Barclay could especially minister to me since he lost a daughter in a boating accident, along with her fiancee to whom she was soon to be married. In his Spiritual Autobiography he writes of this and concludes that there are three things to be said of such tragedies: (1) to understand them is impossible; (2) while Jesus does not give us solutions, he does give us the strength and help somehow to accept what we cannot understand; (3) rather than a reaction of bitter resentment and a grudge against God, one must go on living and go on working and find in the presence of Jesus Christ the strength and courage to meet life with steady eyes, and to know the comfort that God too is afflicted in my affliction.

Then there was Alexander Campbell whose precocious son Wycliffe drowned at age 12 in the mill pond on the family farm. Unlike Barclay, Campbell had to have an answer, which I now well understand. He supposed that God had need of his bright little boy in some other part of the universe, and so He took him and dispatched him accordingly. The mystery surrounding the boy’s drowning lent credence to this.

But Ouida’s response is the most helpful to me, reflected in that great hymn by E. L. Ashford, her favorite, which she sang to me in bed early one morning shortly after we lost Christi, all three verses.
It was touching when our church on the Sunday following Christi’s funeral sang this hymn to Ouida, who, like her Lord, quietly wept. —the Editor.

It is better to have loved and lost

Than to never have loved at all.