“We’re never going to find it,” Mother said. “I’d rather go find the river if it’s all the same to you.”
Daddy looked at his wristwatch. “Let’s give this another hour. Then we’ll go find the river. We’ll need it by then.” He smiled over at her, his face red and covered in sweat.
After they’d pretty well covered the area with holes, Daddy sped away and walked around it again. “You know, we might not even be at the correct ward.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Mother said, her tone increasingly exasperated.
Daddy held up his hand. “Hey, have a little faith, all right? Have I ever let you down?”
“Do you want me to start a list?”
He grimaced. “As long as it starts after 1945 it should be pretty short.”
He studied the area again, walking about thirty yards away from us. He walked in another circle, uncovering more debris, and waved Diego over to swing his bolo again. Then they marked off another area, and Daddy and Henry went back to digging.
Just when I thought Mother was going to order them to stop, Daddy called her over. “I think I found something. Come look at this.”
Mother walked over and looked into the hole Daddy had been digging. She gasped and covered her mouth. “It can’t be.”
Daddy bent down and lifted a filthy rectangular shape out of the ground. He dropped it and hit it several times, knocking the dirt off. Then he stood and gestured toward it. “Go ahead, Ruby. Look it over and see if it’s yours.”
She knelt down and looked over what appeared to be a very old suitcase. She stood it up and knocked some more dirt off. I could just make out a hole in the top corner. She laid it flat again and juggled the latch several times before it finally popped open. I watched as my mother sat back on her heels and wept.
“What is it?” I asked as I came closer.
Mother reached inside and lifted out what was probably once a white dress, but it had yellowed somewhat. It was covered in tiny red roses. She held it up and showed it to Daddy, who smiled from ear to ear.
“I told you we’d find it,” he said.
Mother brought the dress to her chest, still crying. “Thank you,” she said. She leaned over the suitcase again, moving items around and laughed as she pulled out the mangled gun. “I guess this isn’t any use to anyone.”
Daddy chuckled with her. “Why did you even keep it?”
She shrugged. “Because it was from you.”
She dug around another few seconds before her eyes flooded with tears again. “Oh, Matthew. Look.”
She held up a small square in her shaking hand. Daddy reached for it, and I came to look around his shoulder. It was an old picture, nearly faded. Four people stood together smiling, and I recognized Mother and Daddy. It took me a moment, but I also recognized Uncle Henry.
“Who’s that other girl?” Henry asked. He’d come up on the other side of Daddy.
“That’s your Aunt Janine,” Mother said. “Henry married her the same day your father and I married.”
I looked more closely at the photo. They were all gaunt, with their cheeks sunken and their bones protruding. Mother had on the very dress she’d just held up, along with huge army boots on her feet. They were a mess. All four of them. And they radiated happiness.
Mother stood and came over to us. Daddy handed the picture back to her. “All right,” he said with a gentle smile. “You happy, Mrs. Doyle? Can we go home now?”
Mother nodded and came into his embrace. “We can go home now.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ve always hated the jungle.” He released Mother and picked up her suitcase. “Diego, my friend. Thank you so much for once again helping me to find my way. Now, can you please help me find the fastest way out of here?”
Diego threw his head back and laughed. “Sí, Major!”
The End
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Author’s Note
Writing the Healing Ruby series has taken me on a journey I would never have expected. In the kitchen of my Aunt Sharon’s house in April of 2011, where I first heard stories of my grandmother Ruby’s mysterious gift, the idea that first hatched in my mind was born out of my reluctance to accept something so preposterous.
Like Ruby Graves, my grandmother grew up during the Depression. She lost her father to diabetes, and soon thereafter, the family lost everything they had. Just like many American families during these years, they struggled to survive while building deep connections with their family and neighbors.
Since publishing the first book in the series, I’ve had the privilege of hearing even more stories of my grandmother’s childhood, of how her two older brothers, George and Percy, teased her to no end; of her devotion to my grandfather, Homer, and her six children; and her independent spirit that has passed through several generations of Hays women. We’ve laughed at her exasperation every time Homer would call her his “little girl” just to rile her. We’ve argued over who was her favorite grandchild (just for the record, writing a series of books based on her as the main character has put me way ahead of the rest of you). We’ve remembered so many of the little things that made her special to each one of us.
But the “gift” has always been something that’s difficult for me to accept. I’m a believer, and I accept Jesus as my Savior based on faith. And I believe God heals. But I still look for logical patterns, evidence that rings true, and above all else, truth. Ruby’s experience of the supernatural bothered me, even as I wrote about it. Even though I knew my dad and my aunts wouldn’t lie to me about my grandmother, so she must have had this gift. Their testimony rang true, but it still unsettled me.
Early on, I knew that Matthew was the character I related to the most: his doubt and fear, and in this last book, his reluctance to accept his security as a child of the one true God. I’ve often asked myself why it’s so easy to believe the lie that I’m not loved, that God doesn’t see or hear me when my world shatters. Why do I feel alone when I cry out to Him?
No one speaks agony of the soul like David, and Psalm 42 is the cry of my heart in those most lonely moments:
1 As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, my God.
2 My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
3 My tears have been my food
day and night,
while people say to me all day long,
“Where is your God?”
4 These things I remember
as I pour out my soul:
how I used to go to the house of God
under the protection of the Mighty One[d]
with shouts of joy and praise
among the festive throng.
5 Why, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.
6 My soul is downcast within me;
therefore I will remember you
from the land of the Jordan,
the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
have swept over me.
8 By day the Lord directs his love,
at night his song is with me—
a prayer to the God of my life.
9 I say to God my Rock,
“Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I go about mourning,
oppressed by the enemy?”
10 My bones suffer mortal agony
as my foes taunt me,
saying to me all day long,
“Where is your God?”
11 W
hy, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.
In the end, writing these stories has brought me along in my own walk with the Lord. I can’t understand why He has allowed the pain I’ve experienced, but I know it has nothing to do with His love for me. Like David above, I can only conclude that no matter my circumstances, no matter the fire that surrounds me, I put my hope in God, and I will forever praise Him.
So I came to the place where I can accept that my grandmother had a gift I don’t understand. It only makes me love her more, and it makes me praise God even more. I don’t have to understand it. How God works through each person is unique. It’s what makes Him infinitely “other” than us, and at the same time, infinitely able to understand us.
I say all this to hopefully encourage you. When you are in that darkest of places, when you cry out from a depth inside your soul known only to you and God, He sees you. He hears you. He feels your pain. He has suffered with you, but more importantly, He has suffered for you. He will not lose you in the fire. Take your eyes off the flames, and put them on the Savior standing beside you.
Yes, our Savior died a horrible, gruesome death for us. But that wasn’t the end of the story. Jesus lives. And we serve a Savior who is still standing beside us, still speaking truth to our spirit, if we will only listen and believe.
Recommended Reading
The titles below were invaluable during my research into the guerrilla warfare that took place in the Philippines after the U.S. surrendered, along with the effects of the war on soldiers once they returned home. There are many more books available that I simply do not have the space to list. But if you’re interested in reading more on these topics, this is a great beginning.
Lieutenant Ramsey’s War by Edwin Price Ramsey and Stephen J. Rivele
Agent High Pockets: A Woman’s Fight Against the Japanese in the Philippines by Claire Phillips
Soldier from the War Returning by Thomas Childers
The Hidden Legacy of World War II: A Daughter’s Journey of Discovery by Carol Schultz Vento
Behind Japanese Lines: An American Guerrilla in the Philippines by Ray C. Hunt and Bernard Norling
Once a Warrior—Always a Warrior: Navigating the Transition From Combat To Home Including Combat Stress, PTSD, and mTBI by Charles W. Hoge
More titles from
Jennifer H. Westall
Acknowledgements
This book has been a journey into my own soul from start to finish, and I have to thank God first and foremost for bringing this story to the page. I have a thorough process of outlining an entire book before ever writing a scene, and a thorough process of planning and outlining a scene before I write it. Every time I sat down to type out a scene I had meticulously planned, something took over my fingers and a scene I did not recognize would appear. I fought this for a while, getting frustrated that I kept having to erase my plan and rewrite it, but much like Matthew, I finally surrendered to it and stopped planning everything my own way. What happened inside my own heart was beautiful and something I’ll never forget. I know that my words aren’t perfect, and to say that God wrote this story might be a bit dramatic, but in my heart, I know where the words came from, and it wasn’t from me.
I must also thank my beautiful family, David, Brody, and Fox. You guys make life so much fun, and you make the best distractions any writer could hope for. My parents have continued to be a huge encouragement, always listening when I need to talk out my what-if questions. There’s nothing like a family behind you to give you wings to chase your dreams.
I also have to thank my editor, Bryony Sutherland. I always hesitate to expound on her enormous contribution to my career, because with each successive book she is harder and harder to schedule. I’m afraid if word gets out how amazing she is, I will have to plan books for years in advance. And Bryony knows how that whole planning thing goes for me. She is wise, patient, steady in the face of my whirlwind writing schedule, and she always has a word of encouragement when I need it the most. I can say without a doubt that this series would have never been possible without her. Thank you, Bryony. I cannot say it enough.
Lastly, I want to thank all the readers who have emailed me or commented on my Facebook page their enjoyment of the series. You’ve all been patient as I slowly delivered one installment at a time, encouraging me, and sending so many prayers up when I needed them. I’ve prayed for many of you as well. You’re all a tremendous blessing, and I love the community of believers we’ve built. I hope we keep adding to our numbers! Thank you to all of you who have so enthusiastically shared these books with family, friends, neighbors, and fellow church-goers. Your excitement has been so encouraging. And I love you all so much!
About the Author
Jennifer Westall is the author of the beloved Healing Ruby series, an enduring love story spanning the Great Depression and World War II. She's also the author of Love's Providence (2012), a contemporary Christian romance novel that navigates the minefield of dating and temptation. Over her short publishing career, she has moved quite a bit, and looks forward to one day settling down with her husband and two boys. She homeschools by day and writes by night, thus explaining those pesky bags under her eyes. Readers can connect with her at jenniferhwestall.com or find her on Facebook and Twitter.
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