Page 57 of Love Story
He leaned his head back and stared at the screen. A pretty blond anchor was talking about religious freedom. Something about the cases adding up. People were rising up against the church, looking to eliminate God from the landscape of America. A witch hunt, the lady called it. One that was overdue.
Wilson sat up straighter in his chair. What was wrong with people? He blinked his blurry eyes. Didn’t matter if he believed in God or not. The Constitution guaranteed Americans certain rights. Religion was one of them. The woman was saying something about some government officials wanting a state church. Something politically correct that everyone could agree on.
“Ridiculous!” Wilson shook his head and turned off theTV. He couldn’t watch the news tonight. Too many outrageous stories. He finished the rest of his beer and his eyes fell on the cross again. The one his wife had bought so long ago.
“I asked You for a sign, God. Remember?” Wilson heard the sneer in his voice. He didn’t care. God hadn’t delivered. Wilson had a right to be angry.
But, angry or not, the whole religious rights thing troubled him. How long before he would wake up to an America he didn’t recognize? The one he had fought for had already changed more than he could put into words.
Especially after five beers.
He stood and stretched. There had to be some way to pass the hours. He looked at the desk in the corner. His computer. That was an option. He could search what was happening with the Constitution lately. Wilson’s steps were far from straight, but he made his way to the desk and sat down.
As soon as he did, he had an idea. Facebook. He could check Facebook and find out what his friends were doing. Maybe one of them lived in the area. Someone he could take to dinner or to the bar. He opened his page and immediately saw the notification on the message icon at the top.
“Someone sent me a message.” Wilson grinned. “Well, look at that.”
He opened his private messages and furrowed his brow. Cole Blake? Who in the world was Cole Blake? Probably advertising. Wilson rolled his eyes, but just in case he opened the message. Right away he could see it wasn’t spam or an ad.
It was a letter.
His eyes worked their way down from the opening line.
Dear Mr. Gage,
My name is Cole Blake and I’m working on a heritage project for my school. I’m doing my report on my grandfather’s story. It happened a long time ago and I’m learning all about it. He said a Vietnam vet from Indiana was an important part of the story.
Are you the Wilson Gage who lived in Indiana and helped a man named John Baxter in the 1970s? If so I’d like to interview you.
I’m not completely sure what happened, my grandfather hasn’t gotten to that part yet. But I wanted to write now, so we could make a connection. I get extra credit if I interview another person who was part of the story.
So please could you write back and let me know if it is you? And if you want to do an interview, I can get some questions to you. Thank you, and God bless you.
Sincerely, Cole Blake
“Well, I’ll be...” Wilson leaned back hard in his chair and read the letter again. John Baxter. Chill bumps ran down Wilson’s spine. Of course he remembered the young man. Every now and then Wilson even wondered what happened to him. Did he and the girl find each other? Did he marry her the way he wanted to?
Back then Wilson had given the guy better advice than he’d have now. If the kid wanted to interview him, he was okay with that. He rattled off a quick message in response.
Dear Cole,
You found the right man. I can talk to you whenever you want. My number’s at the bottom of this note. Tell your grandpa I hope everything worked out.
Wilson Gage
Then he read the boy’s letter a third time. How was that even possible? John Baxter remembered him? From that night a lifetime ago? And now the man’s grandson wanted to talk. None of it added up. Why him? He was just an old forgotten Vietnam vet living in a little old house in Michigan. What could Wilson possibly add to John Baxter’s story? And suddenly the truth fell on him like the first summer rain.
This was the sign.
The one he’d asked for. Wilson sat there for the better part of an hour, trying to grasp the possibility of John Baxter remembering him, and how he must’ve helped John. A lot, even. Otherwise the man’s grandkid wouldn’t have tried to find him.
Yes, this had to be the sign.
The God he had once loved, the One whose reality Wilson had shared with a lost young man one early summer night decades ago, had not abandoned him. “I’m sorry, God... I never should’ve... never should’ve turned my back on You.”
Godwasreal. Of course He was.
And if that was true, then there was something he needed to do. Wilson felt tears sting at his eyes. How could he have chucked the faith he’d enjoyed for most of his life? The one Scarlett had shared with him. What was Wilson thinking? Had he really thought he could ride out his days without God?
