Editor’s Reflections -- By: William David Spencer

Journal: Priscilla Papers
Volume: PP 23:3 (Summer 2009)
Article: Editor’s Reflections
Author: William David Spencer


Editor’s Reflections

William David Spencer

Family is very precious to me. Those of you who have read our book Joy through the Night will know that my family was profoundly affected by the death of my sister in a drowning accident at a public pool on a playground field trip. Two years later, my father was critically injured in a work accident. Self-employed, he was plunged into financial difficulties. This was in the 1950s, when fewer cultural nets were in place in the United States to catch such victims of catastrophe. Through this all, my parents tried valiantly to hold our dwindling family together.

Years later, after my father had died, my mother, in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, was overcome by hypothermia. At the hospital, a doctor attempted to ascertain whether she was well enough to be released. Stepping out in the hall to keep her from being distracted, we heard him ask: “How many children do you have?”

“Three,” said my mother confidently.

This was a Chestertonian moment. My wife, Aída, and I stared at each other in what would have been described in former times as “wild surmise.” “Three?” I mouthed silently at her and shrugged quizzically, as she raised her eyebrows.

“What are their names?” asked the doctor.

“Carol, Billy, and Bob,” said my mom. Carol was my sister’s name. I was “Billy.” But, who on earth was Bob?

When we finally went into the room, I asked casually, “Who is Bob, Mom?”

“I don’t know,” said my mom.

“You told the doctor you had three children. Carol, Billy, and Bob. Who is Bob?”

“He’s my other son,” she said simply, and that was all she could explain. Later on, she managed to reveal who Bob was. My mother had had a few miscarriages, but I remember a pregnancy several years after Carol died, when I was still somewhat young, when my parents prepared me to receive a little brother. I was all excited by the prospect, but the child never came home. Later on, I figured out he was stillborn. Though my mother and I were very close and she shared many secrets with me, her sole surviving child, this was the first mention of him since his death at birth. I never knew my mother had named him. She had locked this information away in her heart and only incipient Alzheimer’s finally loosened the guard of her self-protecting will and allowed his name to emerge in full family memory. Though he did not survive his journey into our world, this child was precious to my mother. He had had a name and, thirty years after his death, she still remembered him and counted him among her children.

In an even more profound way, we are precious to God. Humanity has been created by the God W...

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