Free Bridge to Haven by Francine Rivers Page B

a stool at the counter and took one next to him. “Good morning.”
    Susan Wells stood a few yards away, jotting down an order. She glanced at Zeke. “Be right with you, Pastor Freeman.”
    Dutch looked at him solemnly. “Any word from that boy of yours?”
    “He’s in Texas, training to be a medic.”
    Dutch rubbed his head and rested his arms on the counter. “Not much I can say to that, is there?” He sipped his coffee.
    “How’s Marjorie?”
    “She won’t set a date yet.”
    Zeke knew what the problem was. “Have you put away Sharon’s picture?”
    Dutch frowned as though thinking about it. “Is that what’s bothering her?”
    Bessie came out of the kitchen with plates stacked up her arm and delivered the breakfast platters to a booth near the front. “Mornin’, Zeke. Susan, see he gets what he wants.”
    Susan set a mug in front of Zeke and filled it with steaming hot coffee. She refilled Dutch’s. A bell sounded, and Susan headed for the kitchen.
    She came back and asked Zeke if he was ready to order. He said he’d like the lumberjack breakfast with orange juice. She didn’t linger.
    Dutch watched her go. “I don’t think she likes you.”
    “I make her nervous.”
    He laughed. “You used to make me nervous, too. I knew you were after my soul.” Dutch raised his hand for the check. “Gotta get back to work.” Susan put his bill on the counter in front of him. As she headed for the register, Dutch stood and slapped Zeke on the back. “Good luck, my friend. I think you’re going to need it.”
    Zeke took Joshua’s latest letter out of his jacket pocket. He’d read it a dozen times already and would read it a dozen more before he received another.
    He wondered what war would do to Joshua. Some men survived physically, but came home soul-wounded. Gil MacPherson still had episodes of deep depression. The onset of the Korean War had stirred up his nightmares again. The poor man still dreamed of the carnage of Normandy and friends who’d died there, one in his arms. Several others manifested battle fatigue in lesser degrees. Michael Weir worked constantly, leaving his wife alone and lonely. Patrick McKenna drank heavily.
    Oh, Lord, my son, my son . . .
    His son was a man of peace being called into war. He’d be in the middle of the fighting, traveling with his unit, carrying medical supplies. He had to be ready to give emergency aid to the wounded. Zeke had to remind himself frequently that no matter what happened, Joshua would never be lost. His future was safe and secure, even if his body wasn’t. Despite knowing that, fear could be a relentless enemy, attacking him when he was tired and most vulnerable.
    “A letter from your son?”
    Startled, Zeke glanced up. Susan held his breakfast platter and a pot of coffee. “Yes.” He folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
    She set his plate down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
    “I see it as a kindness that you did.” He smiled. “He’s doing well, but asking for prayer that he will be up to the job they’re giving him.”
    “What job will he have?”
    “Medic.”
    “Oh.” She closed her eyes.
    Her reaction allowed one of Satan’s darts to get through a chink in his armor. Fear clawed at him. Lord! Zeke prayed. Lord, I know You love him even more than I do. “God is sovereign, even in times of war.” He took up the napkin and unrolled the silverware.
    “You’re not afraid for him?”
    “Oh, I know fear, but every time it hits me, I pray.”
    “Prayer never did me any good.” Her expression grew troubled. “But I guess God listens to ministers more than someone like me.” She moved away before he could comment, and she kept her distance. She filled his cup one more time and left his check on the counter. Zeke left enough to cover breakfast and a generous tip. He turned over the check and wrote, God listens to everyone, Susan.

    1951
Dear Joshua,
Peter said training to be a medic means you will