Lantern in the Storm

I

His mother’s words surprised me. She was sitting at a desk in the little waiting room across the corridor — a room provided for such vigils as ours. She did not sigh or gasp, nor sink down in her chair. With characteristic courage she lifted up her head and held her tear-filled eyes wide open. ‘His life was beautiful,’ she said. And I heard myself replying, ‘He was beautiful all through.’

He was like that — this fifteen-yearold boy. It is not that we idealize him now, because he died. We always thought of him in that way, and so did our friends. Even people whom we did not know would stop us on the street or at some social gathering and inquire about Graydon. They would explain that they had seen him somewhere, had had some casual meeting with him. ‘ He attracted me so much that I inquired about him and was told that he is your son,’ they would say; or, ‘I was impressed by his courtesy and his beautiful smile.’

Walking across the Cornell campus last June, we introduced him to a professor with whom we chatted for a moment. Twice afterward, in that busy reunion week, this professor went out of his way to speak to us of the impression Graydon had made upon him. It was like that, always.

He had all the gifts of physical beauty — a handsome face, clear blue eyes, a lovely skin, bright chestnut hair, and a pleasing voice with an unusual lift of happiness in it. I have felt a thrill of pleasure in his physical beauty as I have watched the graceful swing of his golf drive. On the day of his coming home from camp with the infection which proved to be fatal, it seemed to me that I had never seen so beautiful a boy. Probably I never had, for at that moment he was crowding back his sensations of pain in order that he might greet me with a smile. The glory of his brave, considerate spirit was shining through his sunburned face.

There were strength and depth in his character, and these qualities could be detected in an undercurrent of seriousness that was never far beneath the surface of his life. On the surface he was gay and fun-loving, always alert to play some mirthful boyish prank — but never one that hurt another person’s feelings. Frequent and quick as his flashes of humor were, they were always kindly disposed.

If some one trait of his was more frequently evident than any other, it was his courtesy, which was instinctive and spontaneous. His mother and I could still say, at the end of his days, as we had often said before, ‘He has never once failed in courtesy to us.’ Any parent of a vigorous warm-blooded boy in his fifteenth year will appreciate how much that simple statement means.

Or perhaps the trait most constantly evident in him was eagerness — a lively eagerness in his personal interests, a shy eagerness in whatever interested other people. He was eager to join in the play or the work that was going on, and eager to make it go well. When he was given a chore to do in the home, he brightened it by the spirit in which he went about it, and usually added some playful or artistic touch that showed the interest he had put into it, and made of it a personal contribution to the welfare or the happiness of the family.

A member of his Scout troop said, ‘When we went on an overnight hike every fellow came back feeling that he had had a better time because Graydon went. He did n’t play around with one or two of the fellows that he liked best. Every fellow felt the same about him, and every fellow had a better time because Graydon went.’ An older friend wrote of him, ‘I wonder if you, who were so close to him, really knew the power he had to make other people happy.’

Yes, we knew. The way in which a boy does a chore in his home is more revealing than anything his friends outside ever see. His gift for making other people happy, his courtesy, and the interest that he put into whatever he did, were animated by the spirit of eagerness that characterized his living.

II

We had always lived in New England until last year, when we moved to Virginia. Graydon loved the new home from the outset. The gracious manners and speech of the South were congenial to him. Of his own accord he adopted the colloquial ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ in addressing his parents or other adults, and, having adopted these words, he never afterward answered ‘What?’ when we called him, or said merely ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ in reply to our questions. It was characteristic of him to perceive the finest qualities in his environment and, unconsciously, to weave them into his own life.

Although he had this sensitiveness to the graces of conduct and speech, he was at the same time a lively, highspirited, sport-loving boy who defended his boyish ideals with a boy’s uncompromising and hot-blooded loyalty. Among his playmates at one time were some who did not always play fair; Graydon’s prompt resentment of their occasional unfairness gave him plenty of experience in defending his principles with his fists. Neither fighting nor boxing was congenial to his nature, but he fought with these boys when occasion demanded, and boxed with them between occasions.

Golf and Scouting were his chief delights, and he was eager to excel in them both. He played tennis, baseball, basketball, and football, but golf was to him a sport apart from all others. Anything associated with golf had a special place in his affection. Next to playing, he liked to caddy. He was ambitious to be a quite superior caddy — an ambition which I am sure he achieved. On the few occasions when he caddied for me he insisted on observing strictly all the requirements of his position. When we played together he was as likely to win as I. Eager as he was to have me play with him, he knew that I seldom played and never urged me to do so. ‘How about some golf, Daddy?’ he would ask, his face alight; and if I said that I’d like to play but could n’t very well manage it, that was the end of it. He would go off and caddy, or do something else, with a cheerful heart.

Here, in Virginia, his interest in Scouting was greatly stimulated by his liking for the boys in his troop and by his deep attachment to his Scoutmaster — a young minister of great personal charm, with quite exceptional gifts for his parish ministry and for his leadership in Scouting. I recall the tears in Graydon’s eyes when, last May, he told me that Mr. Dudley was leaving Lynchburg to go to a church in North Carolina. Among the most precious of my treasures is a letter which came to me from this young minister after Graydon’s death. In that letter he wrote: —

It was with the troop that I last saw him, a good Scout, jovial, healthy, and happy. It is the way I like to remember him. It is needless for me to tell his father that he was honest, truthful, loyal, and energetic, for you knew these qualities in him better than I. I never saw him exhibit a single negative characteristic. ... I often remarked to my wife, before and even since leaving Lynchburg, that Graydon was the only Northern boy I had ever known to become immediately popular with a group of Southern boys. I’ve known a good many to ‘make their place,’ but none other to find it waiting. Graydon was exceedingly popular with the boys of the troop.

There is a glimpse of this popularity in a gracious letter from the mother of one of the boys in this troop, and it is significant that without knowing us she was moved to write to us about Graydon: —

I saw that fine boy of yours at a Parents’ Night of Troop Three, and was so impressed with him that I asked my boy who he was. Billy’s reply was: ‘One of the finest boys I know, and smiles always.’ I am grateful that my boy knew him.

III

A water blister on his foot — that was all. Bacteria entered the broken blister and forced their way into the blood stream. Once they had entered that stream, so the specialist informed me afterward, there was no hope, and nothing that could be done for the boy. It was on Wednesday that he came home. Now it was Monday, a little after midnight. ‘That is the end?’ I asked, looking up at the nurse. She bowed her head.

Bacteria — the lowest order of life — had wrought this tragedy. The lowest had triumphed over the highest! Here was a boy in perfect physical condition, vibrant with health, energetic and athletic — a boy with a superior mind and high ideals, wholesome, affectionate, fastidious, tenderly considerate of others. And here, attacking him, were these bacteria, having neither mental nor moral qualities.

In a rational universe what outcome should one expect? It must be that the spirit of life that animated this boy’s body was the superior in power, in intelligence, in vitality. It must be that his spirit would be the victor in this conflict. The creative energy of the universe which had produced a life of such a high order must be capable of defending it. God Himself must care mightily that this life should live and fulfill its great promise. Although I was the father of this boy’s body, his spiritual nature was begotten of a divine source. Surely the power, the purpose, the intelligence, and the love within that Source were actively defending this boy against this low-lived organism. I reminded myself that the Allloving is also the All-mighty. I did not expect this Spiritual Power to interfere with the order of nature, but I did expect some evidence of the presence and the activity of this Power operating in and through the natural order.

I heard the last outgoing breath. There was nothing more — only stillness. ‘That is the end?’ I asked. And then the storm fell. It was as if a cold, sheeted rain had suddenly fallen around me, completely surrounding me with its down-pouring torrents. I was in an enclosed space — a sort of room within the room, only the walls of this inner room were walls of beating, beating rain. Everything else was on the outside of those walls. Inside, there were only my child and I.

So this was reality! All that had seemed impossible — that this boy’s life could come to this untimely end; that bacteria could destroy anything so good, so beautiful, so healthful as this boy; that the lowest should triumph over the highest — all this, which had seemed impossible and unreal, was real! And all that had seemed real — that victory would be on the side of goodness and beauty; that my boy’s life was defended by invisible allies which were equal to his need; that the Eternal Goodness must have provided effective support within the natural order for such a life — all this was unreal!

That there was a Supreme Power in the universe, I did not for a moment doubt. It was the discovery of the nature of this Power that took me by surprise. It was not the kind of power I had t hought it to be. I knew now how little I had understood it, how much I had misunderstood it! I had attributed to it certain qualities which appear in human life at its highest and best — justice, mercy, gentleness, kindness, love, compassion, an active supporting of the best elements in a situation, and an active opposing of the worst elements. The Supreme Power had displayed none of these qualities in this event. But, even though God did not have these qualities, which I had attributed to Him, they were nevertheless real. They existed. My boy had them.

IV

I walked across the corridor to the waiting room. The walls of ceaseless, pouring rain moved with me as I walked. They were now the walls of that little waiting room. Inside them, shut away from the world, shut away from the universe, shut away from God, there were only the two of us — his mother and I, the two who cared most, who alone in all the universe cared infinitely that this boy should live. I was aware that even the loved body of my son was now on the outside of those streaming walls — out there in the storm.

‘His life was all beautiful,’ she said. And as we spoke of him we discovered that we both were having the same feeling — a compelling feeling that we must not grieve. We attempted to explain to each other the reason for this feeling. There was no need. It had come to us both with the same understanding. Grief would be unfair to him. It would be a failing to appreciate the worth and beauty of his life. It would be disloyal to all that he was, to all that he stood for. He deserved the response of gratitude, not of grief.

This compelling feeling, which held our grief in check, came to us out of our boy’s life. It was an effect upon us of the beautiful qualities of his life. These qualities had been manifested in an area of existence which the bacteria could not touch. They existed still in that same area. They were not visible qualities, but they never had been. Now, as hitherto, they were the invisible qualities of his invisible spirit. Here, then, in this area of existence, was an organization of certain mental and moral qualities, and certain qualities of the affections, that existed in the very degree and in the very proportion in which this boy’s life had combined and established them. Despite the death of his body, this other organism still existed. It not only existed, it radiated energies which were able to make their way through the barriers of our grief and compel us to think of him in terms of beauty and victory.

It was not as possible evidence of the survival of my boy’s spirit that this experience was illuminating to me. My assurance of immortality is beyond the reach of doubt or the desire for objective support. What I did learn, and learned to my surprise, was the actual power of those qualities which had made his life beautiful. I discovered that they were more than qualities — they were energies. They were not only beautiful and lovable — they were also powerful. They were even more powerful than grief.

‘I can’t understand it,’ his mother said, ‘but I feel that I must not grieve. He was so fine — it would n’t be fair. I should be “letting him down.’” And all I could say was: ‘I understand. I have that same feeling. We must be worthy of him.’

V

But we had not come to the end of this strange experience, although, having spoken of it, we turned at once to the many things which had to be attended to that night. It was in the strength of the beautiful in Graydon’s life that we worked on, side by side, through that long night.

In the twilight of early morning we went to our hotel and were soon on the road to our summer home and the three children whom we had left there. They came out to meet us, disclosing by their quiet manner that they were prepared for what we had to tell them. As we sat talking on the porch steps we were unaware of the sunlight which was shining upon us from the sky, but we were aware, all of us, of a light that was shining in our hearts. We might have thought — their mother and I — that the children were merely reflecting the spirit which we were trying to communicate to them, had not the absent daughter written to us, from the distant summer school which she was attending, of her own experience which was similar to ours.

The days have lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into nearly six months since Graydon died. The ashes of his body are now a part of the soil of the Virginia that he loved. Throughout these months the tides of feeling have had their ebb and flow. The storm that fell on that night in August returns at times, and the pitiless rain pours down again in torrents. While the storm lasts there is darkness in the world, and darkness in my heart.

But, outside my heart, out there in the storm, a light always shines. It is not the love of God. That energy cannot pass through my resentment when the storm is on. It is Graydon’s beautiful spirit that shines out there — a lantern in the storm. In the midst of the storm it shines and shines, until its light penetrates into my heart and I am aware once more that out there, where Graydon is, there is not only truth, goodness, beauty, and not only a strength that is gentle and considerate and gracious, but also, out there where he is, there is happiness.