Summer, 1952
Beeping monitors, tubes and needles:
Jim Caswell was drifting in and out of consciousness,
occasionally detecting doctors and nurses speaking by
his bedside in hushed tones. It had become abundantly
clear to him that he was in the process of dying.
He would spend his last days trapped within his mind; reviewing the events of his life and wrestling with his past.
His father had worked in the coal mines
of West Virginia; a violent, alcoholic man who
regularly beat his wife and children.
Growing up he lived in constant fear of those nights when "Daddy" would come home drunk and full of rage. While he certainly hated being beaten by his father; he had been far more traumatized by watching his sweet mother being brutalized by this angry, sadistic man.
Little Jimmy shed no tears when his father died of black lung at 48, and he would suffer the rest of his life from the corrosive power of the hatred he felt for the man.
But now it was his turn to die ... alone,
trapped in a hospital bed with his anxious thoughts.
His own family had been torn apart by his addiction to
alcohol - the only inheritance he'd received from his father.
He couldn't blame his wife for leaving, but he was
deeply hurt that both his children refused to talk to him,
even as he faced the end of his life. His two remaining siblings lived out of state and had their own families to tend to, but he did receive a phone call from his sister, Betty Jean, in Ohio.
Unable to talk on the phone, the nurse took a message
that said his sister had written him, and he
should expect her letter any day.
The following Tuesday, around mid-morning, the nurse came into his room with the letter. Despite the fact that he was unconscious, she thought she would still ask him if he wanted her to open it and read it to him, and she wasn't surprised when she got no response. Having been a nurse for many years, she understood that patients
were often aware of what was going on around
them while unconscious, so she decided to
open it and read it to him.
Dearest Jimmy,
It breaks my heart that I can't be there with you, but there's just no way for me to do it. I hate the thought of you being there by yourself - you know I'd come if I could.
I've enclosed a picture I found when I went through Mama's things. I believe it was taken by Aunt June that summer she came out after Daddy died. Remember she had that Brownie camera? I thought you might like to have it. If you look on the back you'll see Mama wrote on it:
Jimmy,
Mama's little man
Summer, 1952
Weren't those happy days, Jimmy? Lord, forgive me for thinking it, and worse yet for saying it; but life got so much better after Daddy died. I know we didn't have much, but at least we didn't have to live in fear of those really bad nights anymore.
I finally made peace with my feelings about Daddy. I've come to understand that he was a very sick man, and I know it's hard, but I want you to find it in your heart to forgive him too.
Speaking of Aunt June. That was the same summer she drove you and me all the way out to Wheeling to that tent revival - remember? People were talking in tongues and all those men dancing around holding snakes, remember? We didn't know what to make of all that.
But, I bring all this up to make a very important point. If you recall, when all the tongue talking died down and the snakes got put away, that traveling evangelist preached a fiery sermon and then made an altar call. Remember how you and me held hands and walked down that long aisle to the front? That night we both said "yes" to Jesus, and despite all you and me have done or didn't do; no one can take that away from us.
Oh, Jimmy - just know I'm praying for you. I'm asking God for a miracle; praying that the Lord heals you, but if that's not His plan, I want you to cling to Jesus. Don't be afraid, sweet brother.
I love you.
Your sister,
Betty Jean
Once the nurse finished reading the letter she was surprised to hear a faint, whispered, "thank you," which assured her that she had done the right thing. She told him that it had been an honor to read such a sweet letter, and before she left, she placed the photograph from his sister in his hand and closed his fingers tightly around it. She told him that he could look at it later if he was feeling better.
The following morning, unafraid;
James Lawrence Caswell held firmly to
his faith and his photograph, as he took the
hand of Jesus, who carried him home to glory.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow
of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me ..."
Beautiful!
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