One dark, blacked-out evening early in 1945, when returning from an evening service, I overheard my brother Harold quietly speaking to mother.
She was distressed at seeing her eldest son, Fred, go to Malaya as a soldier. Harold himself would soon be joining the army. She was naturally afraid that she might lose both sons in the war. He spoke to her gently of death as a gateway into ‘the Lord’s presence’ and not the end of life.
Jesus makes a difference
All this reminded me of what Fred himself had said to me the day before he left for Malaya. I had been sobbing about his imminent departure and was half way up the stairs to have a good cry on my bed when I met him coming down. He sat me down on the stairway, put his arm around me and told me about Jesus and the difference he made to living and dying. I cannot honestly say that Fred’s comforting words meant anything to me at the time, but Harold’s subsequent chat with Mum prompted my memory and made me think.
