From the torn fabric of Edgar Williams’ flag, disturbed by
the constant wind, came the only sound traveling through the frigid night air.
How that old flag had managed to stay flying high through the soul-sucking
north winds is beyond me. I remember when Colonial Edgar Williams sunk that
flag pole in front of the church building and hoisted Old Glory for the very
first time. He stood at the base, head cocked back, looking up, and his right
hand, covered in age spots, held in a rigid salute, tears in his eyes. He was
the only living war veteran in Faith, Alaska. Now the commotion going on over
in Europe, led by some Nazi named Hitler was accelerating; Colonel Williams was
convinced that a second world war was looming.
That flag reminded him of his own battles fought on foreign soil, “No
one will ever take this flag down, not as long as I’m alive” he oft boasted. I
guess his declaration included the Alaska winds.
The colonial is dead now; I
think most the folks that called Faith, Alaska their home are probably dead.
But that flag with her forty-eight stars and thirteen stripes just keeps flying.
The generator finally gave up its own ghost. It wasn’t doing
much good, but the sound of the worn out motor had at least offered some hope.
It sputtered out a few hours ago, tank bone dry with no kerosene left to feed
it. It doesn’t matter; anything that required voltage to run had either frozen
useless or was buried under tons of snow. In the end the only thing that old Delco light
plant delivered her current to was the lights on the Christmas tree that Andrew
Peck had raised such a fit over. Well those lights were dark now, Andrew Peck
will never know, he’s dead too.
Just a few minutes ago I thought I heard someone coughing. I
can’t be for sure; sounds will play tricks on you when the air is so thin. Even
with what’s left of the roof sitting on the floor or on top the pews, the
room is still too dark to see more than a few feet. The light from the moon
shines into the room when the clouds move away, but they don’t move very often.
Michael is near
enough for me to see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. He sleeps most
the time, and that is good; both his little legs are broken. He’s not crying
any more, I think the cold air may have numbed all the pain he was having. Every
few minutes I place my hand on his forehead just to feel the warmth. If he feels
warm then he has to be alive. I touch him because the movement of his small
chest alone is not always convincing enough. Michael knows his legs are broken,
earlier he asked me if I thought he would be able to play ice hockey again.
“Michael Goode, I am certain that you will play again. I
wasn’t going to tell you, but for Christmas I got you a brand new pair of
skates. I would sure hate to think that those skates will go to waste.”
A small smile had surfaced on my son’s face, but he returned
no words. I had ordered those skates from the Sears and Roebucks catalog back
in June, which seems like a long time ago now. It takes quite a while to get
things in the mail to Faith, Alaska, even for Sears and Roebucks. I placed my hand on his small chest, waiting
to feel movement.
“Trust in the Lord.”
How many times had I said those very words to others as I stood behind the
pulpit of Faith Baptist Church? People needed to hear these words, even when
they didn’t want to, even when it seemed that their situation was bigger than
God. Yes, people in small towns like Faith sometimes have big problems. This
one, well this one is really big.
No one that knew me would have ever believed that one day I
would be standing behind a pulpit preaching the Word of God. Like the rest of
my family I had come to Alaska to be a coal miner. Miners are a rough group; I
could cuss with the best of them and drink most of them under the table. I was
young, cocky and stupid. Well the stupid part usually causes the pain, and it
did for me. I wasn’t paying attention one day as I climbed out of the shaft and
missed my step. The fall broke me up pretty bad, both hips were shattered; that
pretty much put a quick end to my mining days.
The good Lord had blessed me with the gift of gab, I guess
for a pretty good reason. During my long recovery I read the Bible every day,
and before I knew it the Lord was calling me to use my gift of gab in Faith,
Alaska. So I set aside the cussing and drinking and have been preaching ever
since.
“Trust in the Lord”, I could see my breath as I uttered
these words out loud. It was getting colder as night crept slowly towards
morning. I looked up through the large hole where the roof to the church use to
be.
“Michael.” I whispered to my son.
No response. I moved my hand to his forehead; it was still
warm, but not as much.
“Michael, can you hear me son?”
I thought about the time that Joshua Nance’s wife lay sick and
unconscious in their bed. Joshua had called me to their house because Doc
Edwards had told him that his wife may never wake up again. A virus had taken
over her, not enough to kill her, but enough to take away everything that made
her who she was. I had prayed with Joshua and then suggested that he talk to
his wife. “Just sit by her bedside and talk to her Joshua. She might hear your voice;
that might be enough.”
I started to talk to Michael. My voice and that flapping
flag were the only sounds in Faith. When my son was little, two or three years
old, he begged me every night to tell him a story. He would fight sleep until I
did, and then fight it again until the story ended. I needed Michael to fight
now. So I started telling him a story; a story about the avalanche that took
away our home, a story about the last Christmas tree...his Christmas tree.
