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Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear:
though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.
Psalm 27:3

Dear friends,

These are perilous times. We hear of wars and rumours of wars and yet hope’s light will always shine as the brightest star in the firmament. There’s always an answer, and ultimately we have nothing to fear if we cling to the One who knows the end from the beginning. That’s exactly the thread running through my latest “Story of the Week.”

Confession time: early this week I had absolutely no idea what to write. My creativity was waving a tiny white flag and mumbling something about an extended coffee break. So I stepped away from the world’s noise and looked up. In a flash came the thought: “Write about the First World War.”

My first reaction was, “Really, Lord? Trenches and mud?”

But the nudge felt right, so I rolled up my sleeves, and before long the ideas marched in like reinforcements. The result is “Enemies by War – Brothers by Grace,” a fictional tale of bullets, mercy and grace in which faith stands taller than fear. I hope you enjoy it.

May your weekend be filled with joy, heaps of blessings, and peace that refuses to surrender.

Love

J.K.

Enemies by War – Brothers by Grace

By J.K. Stenger

_

The year was 1917. 

The ground shook violently, close to the trenches. A rumble vibrated through my body, while my ears tingled with an unfamiliar, intense pressure. An invisible, dark hand lifted me up, only to drop me back on the ground seconds later. 

Grenade? My ears rang, lungs burned. Mud pasted my eyelids; every blink felt like sandpaper. I wiped the dirt from my eyes and looked around in bewildered confusion.

 Where was I?

Surrounded by scraps of metal and clumps of wet, grimy mud I found myself in a crater. My leg was bleeding, but not broken; just a flesh wound. It would heal with time. I did not know how I got here, but needed to get back to the relative safety of the trench. Here, I was all alone and unprotected. I did not even have my rifle anymore. Did I still have my pocket Bible? 

Yes, to my relief, it was still there. 

With difficulty, I managed to peek over the edge.

 I saw smoke, fire and wasteland. 

Everywhere the horrible sounds of incoming shells, the shooting with rifles and human shouts. But my trench was nowhere in sight. 

A coughing noise startled me.

I looked back, and to my horror I saw an enemy soldier stumbling into the crater. His face was ashen with a look of pain but he, unlike me, carried a rifle and his bayonet flickered in the light. 

Then he saw me.

His expression changed. He pushed his tired fear and pain aside and allowed hardness and hatred to take their place. 

My heart pounded. Don’t move. Don’t blink.

He seemed unsure as to what to do, but he steadied his aim on my chest.

God help me, please.  

As in slow motion, I saw it happening. Only a moment and all would be over. The smiling face of my daughter appeared. She’d had her fourth birthday. The cake … the candles … her kiss. And what about Catherine, my lovely wife … Who would take care of her when I died? Not that I was afraid. Heaven would be much better than this hell on earth and yet, I needed to survive… But I had nothing to defend myself with.

My Bible.

It was foolishness. He would laugh at me. Mock me. Nevertheless, it was the only thing I could think of. I pulled out my pocket Bible and held it up as if it were a shield. War fell silent; time stood still. His eyes widened and for a moment he stared at me in wonder, while confusion washed over his face. Not too far away, another grenade exploded. There was German yelling nearby and a machine gun rattled off more deadly blows. When would he pull the trigger? 

But he did not. 

Instead, he lowered his rifle and threw it on the ground. His hand went into his pocket and to my amazement, he too retrieved a pocket Bible. He held it up for me to see and spoke, slow and deliberate: “Brothers?”

I stared at him in wonderment, nodded and whispered back: “Yes, brothers.”

Without saying another word, he approached. His grimy, unshaven face now carried a gentle smile. He crouched down beside me and while he ran his muddy hand over his helmet, he mumbled, “Terrible war. My name is Franz.” 

“Melvin,” I answered; still a little shaken. I stared at his hated uniform, but I saw no enemy. Franz was a young fellow. Blond curls peeked out of his helmet and I was sure he was no older than 19 or 20. Then he placed his Bible to his lips and kissed it. “Jesus ist King,” he said in his heavy German accent.

I nodded. He sure was.

Franz pulled out a smudged picture of a lovely-looking woman with a gorgeous smile. “Wife,” he said with obvious joy. “Lives in Koblenz.”

“Lovely,” I said, and then showed him a photo of my wife. He looked at it as if she were a Saint, nodded with respect and whispered, “A beautiful Frau.”

We were both at a loss for conversation. But words were unnecessary. We sat in silence, bathing in an almost sacred moment of peace in the middle of this crazy war. A shell landed just outside the crater but sizzled out. We revelled in a strange bond of brotherhood and felt safe. 

Dusk settled in and soon darkness would cover the land. It would make for relative peace and maybe, under cover of darkness, we each could slip back to our own trenches. Still, both armies sent out listening patrols and we had to whisper. A large flare shot out over our crater, briefly illuminating the grim, dismal surroundings in a harsh, white light. Yes, we had to be ever so still. Franz pulled out a German chocolate bar. “Eat,” he offered in a low voice. “It’s good.” He unwrapped the foil with the care of a surgeon. “First chocolate in three months. We share, yes?” 

He wanted to break it in two, but I stopped him as he did. An idea had risen.

“Communion,” I whispered back. “Let’s celebrate the Lord’s supper together.” I wasn’t sure he’d understand, but a serious expression appeared and he nodded. 

I took my canteen. It still contained some lukewarm coffee. I put it between us in the mud. Then I took the chocolate bar and while I closed my eyes, I prayed. When I looked up, tears streamed over the face of my newfound friend. I broke the bar in two and handed him a piece. It tasted so special, so otherworldly; I hardly dared to swallow. Afterwards I took the coffee, prayed over it and handed the canteen to him. 

We both took a sip of the precious liquid. No longer coffee. To us, it had become the blood of the Lamb that took away the sins of the world.

Darkness now covered the world, but I could have sworn our crater had become a sea of otherworldly light, yet invisible to anyone else. 

The words of a hymn rose, and I wanted to sing. A foolish thing, for singing would give us away, but I felt a quiet assurance God wanted me to sing and so I sang ever so softly. The eyes of Franz lit up, and he hummed along in German. 

Darkness lies on Galilee
Where our Lord’s disciples sail
When the Master’s form they see
And their hearts within them fail
But across the wind-swept night
Comes a message sweetly said
Stilling all their sudden fright
It is I be not afraid *

Tears filled my eyes and, while surrounded by hell, we found ourselves in heaven. Nobody ever spotted us and I am convinced an unseen cordon of angels kept the searchlights sliding past our crater.

We never slept that night, neither did we attempt to find our own trenches. We shared our life stories, our fears and our hopes, and most of all, we shared our faith.

At the crack of dawn, German soldiers found us. 

They were not so full of the light as Franz was. Despite his protests, they dragged me away and I ended up a prisoner of war. Back into the reality of a sinful world, but the peace I found that night remained with me forever.

***

Cologne, 1930

I limped down the centre aisle. My leg had never quite healed.

The church was full and the minister read from the Bible, getting the congregation ready for the communion service. 

I had come to Germany the day before. I’d heard about Franz, finally found out about him. He was now a minister, and I wanted to see him again.

He spotted me immediately and looked straight at me.

Did he know who I was? I recognized him. Still blond, although balding, but his eyes still sparkled with a gentle gaze. A slow smile widened across a weather-creased face. He too had recognized me.

At communion, I came forward and we looked into each other’s eyes. To the astonishment of the congregation, he pressed his arms around me and hugged me. 

One elder of the church expressed outrage and complained in German. I didn’t understand, but took it to mean, hugging was just not done in this church. Franz just hugged me even tighter and whispered, “Enemies by war, brothers by grace.”

The organ sounds swelled. The bread was broken, and the wine poured. For the second time in my life, I celebrated the Lord’s supper with Franz. This time not in a crater, surrounded by war and madness, but in a peaceful church where no artillery could reach. But both times, in the presence of God.

* Be not Afraid, by Eva Ottarson Brown Gilbert

___

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