Becka Defined

Willa was the only thing on my mind when I woke up. Reviewing all possible treatments, medications, IV fluids in my mind I wondered, did we do everything? A litany of what we needed to check and tests to be done scrolled through my mind. Maybe I shouldn’t wait to contact Dr. Cliff, Willa’s attending doctor. I called and left a message for Dr. Cliff asking him to call me when he had an opportunity. Meantime, Sophie filled me in over the telephone on all the children on my case load, especially Willa. The girl was not speaking to anyone, not even her mother, although she was awake. She would not eat. She took her medicine and her shots without resistance. Dr. Cliff was a competent and compassionate pediatrician. He could be trusted. It was difficult to let go, but I was not scheduled to return for another 36 hours. There was nothing to do but wait.

Memories enveloped me again; it was 1939, Belmont, North Carolina. I was twelve years old that summer, and the only girl of four children. I saw Papa’s beautiful face as he preached behind the pulpit. He was so wonderful. He sang and praised the Lord with abandon. His joy was contagious.

Why did Papa love the Lord so much? He had suffered all his life with pain, with loss, with rejection. I tried hard to remember what he said when he preached. I could clearly picture him in my mind - a picture of happiness and contentment but I could not remember what he had to say about God.

Then a chill ran through me, worse than any Ohio winter. God! I felt bitter resentment. Anger at God! “Why am I so angry with God and my father not angry with God?” I wondered.

I was three years old when Mama died while giving birth to Benji. I couldn’t remember her face, only the image of her in a photograph. Benji was mentally retarded but he was one of the joys of my life. I wasn’t angry with God for those things but Papa should have been. Papa’s mother was murdered and he witnessed it. He should have been angry about that. He lost his first wife during the first war. He should have been angry about that. He lost his leg in the war. What about that? We lost Gammy, mama’s mother and then Pappy, mama’s father. Papa was very close to both of them.

Later when my brother Aaron died at the beginning of WWII, and Benji died when he was 22, that should have been the last straw. God had punished us enough. Papa’s faith was strong, instead of anger he praised God for his two remaining children, me and Matt and his daughter-in-law, and his grandchildren.

But me, I had no use for God.

I know why 1939 kept returning to my mind but I felt sick, cold and scared, and I tried to put it out of my mind