A Book of American Martyrs(13)

And now it seemed to me again, as the Professor’s gaze had lighted upon mine, that I was not a true protector of the weak and helpless, but a coward who had no right to call himself a Christian.

A Christian is one who will sacrifice his life, in martyrdom. I have long known this, but did not want to acknowledge it for it is far easier to hide within the family, to claim that the love and protection of your own family is your sole responsibility.

How long it was, how many minutes, lying awake and trying to sleep despite these condemning thoughts and trying not to listen to the labored breathing of the woman beside me. Until at last—as I knew it would—her breath seemed to stop—and then, after some desperate seconds, during which it sounded as if she was being strangled, I would nudge her awake begging—“Edna Mae. Breathe.”

And then, my poor dear wife would emit a startled snort, and for a confused moment she would seem to be awake; then lapsed back into sleep, close beside me.

She is with Daphne now. The child has her.

Almost I could see our daughter’s small arms tight around Edna Mae’s neck, pulling her down into blackness like black muck.

Yet there was no sound from the child. It is rare that you will encounter a child who makes no sound.

She is happiest with Daphne. They are with the angels. It will be the kindest thing, to send the mother there, to be with the child to comfort her.

This night was not the first night that I had pondered my responsibility to my poor dear wife. Yet this was the first time that I dared to raise myself on my elbow, beside her, and removed my pillow from its place and considered how, to put the grieving mother out of her misery, it would be a mercy; and the words misery, mercy echoed in my mind as sometimes a popular song will seem to catch itself in your mind and resist expulsion like something sinewy caught between the teeth. Misery, mercy. Jesus seemed to be urging me, to this contemplation. For this could not be an accident—could it? The very sounds of the words, like music.

For of all beings Jesus is most kind, and does not wish us to suffer as He suffered in our place. Tentatively I lifted the pillow to ease down against Edna Mae’s face, that would grow contorted as her breathing began again to slow, and a choking sensation seemed to grip her causing her mouth to twitch and grimace in a grin like a Hallowe’en pumpkin that is not like any expression on the face of my poor dear wife, that I have ever seen, and that filled me with dismay.

She will not struggle long. For you are strong, and know what must be done.

It is true, I am far stronger than Edna Mae. And yet, the strength of a smaller being, a child for instance, or a cat, can be considerable, and a surprise. And if the creature rakes your hands with her claws, your strength will be daunted.

Still, if I pressed the pillow hard against her face, and pinioned her head against the other pillow, and that against the mattress, and if I did not weaken, Edna Mae would not struggle long. And it would be a mercy, to put the poor woman out of her misery.

Edna Mae would not then grieve for our lost child, who is with the angels and with Jesus. It is wrong of Edna Mae to so mourn Daphne, if God has taken her to dwell with Jesus. In this she is a poor model for the children.

It is not always clear what our duties are. I am the father, and I am responsible. If I were to put Edna Mae out of her misery, I would not be blamed. That is, I would not be blamed by God.

Her eyes cast on me would not then blame me. She would not caution the children not to cry within their father’s hearing.

In the morning Edna Mae will (probably) not recall where we were tonight. If I recollect for her, and repeat some of the remarks of Willard Wohlman, she will quickly say yes, she remembers. And indeed, she will remember something.

The difference between true and false memories is not always clear.

I had begun to press the pillow harder upon Edna Mae’s face. The entire face must be hidden (from my eyes) though it is only the mouth and nose that must be covered. Close in the darkness Jesus stood by to observe.

If she resists, then you must take away the pillow at once. It will be her choice, Luther. Not yours.

Yet the pressure of the pillow on the face was not extreme. It was as Jesus advised, the choice must be Edna Mae’s and not mine.

The thought came to me also, with the force of a hammerstroke—“If I smother my wife it will be a clear sign that God does not favor me. God does not have a plan for me.”

Similar thoughts, I had sometimes spoken aloud. On rooftops, where the hammering of nails into fresh lumber would disguise my words and no one would hear.

When it had become clear to me that I would not be a minister in the St. Paul Missionary Church, despite the strong wish in my heart to be such, but only a lay minister, for there was doubt among the elders as to my ability to “capture the attention” of a congregation, and doubt regarding other aspects of the minister’s life. At first it was wounding to me, to realize this, but then, as it was explained to me by persons whom I admired, it was God’s decision and not theirs—It is the will of God, we have only to accept it.

And then, when this explained to me, by an elderly minister whom I respected above all others, suddenly the scales fell from my eyes, and I understood.

The will of God, we have only to accept.

There are many ways to serve God, Luther. There is not only the way of ministry.

This is the great wisdom of our lives. You do not struggle against God’s plan for you. Nor do you attempt to appropriate a plan for yourself, in pretense that it is God’s plan.