John Goldsberry, my maternal grandfather, expected little from life and received less. But he did all he could to feed his wife and their seven children in southwest Missouri during the Great Depression. He farmed, worked odd jobs, and made moonshine—a long path of futility that marked much of his life.
In 1936, he worked as part of a road gang blacktopping roads around Buffalo, Missouri. He was paid fifteen cents per hour. One hot evening, he stood with the other workers at the end of a long, hard day, listening to their foreman lay out the plan for the next day’s work.
Then, from across the road and about a hundred yards away, hymns began flowing out the open windows of a country church. As night fell, the work meeting ended and Grandpa walked down to the church, squatted beneath an open window, and listened to the stirring music. The next morning, his children woke to the sound of their father singing hymns he heard in the dark.
That moment marked the beginning of a Pentecostal pull on the family. They all walked the six-mile round trip twice every Sunday (they couldn’t afford the eleven-cents-per-gallon gasoline). But Grandpa would not enter the building with them. He didn’t feel worthy to enter a holy place, so he continued to crouch beneath the windows.
In April 1937, the family loaded up their old pickup and moved to Ford County, Kansas. Two years later, sixteen-year-old Mary traveled with other teenagers from their church in Dodge City to attend a “youth rally” at a church in Sun City. There, she met a family of eleven kids named Chinn. One of the Chinn boys was the good-looking, adventurous, face-to-the-wind Jack.
Love sparked—but Jack had already pledged himself to the U.S. Navy.
Five years later, on October 24, 1944, Jack was aboard the aircraft carrier USS Princeton when she was destroyed by a Japanese bomb in the Battle of Leyte Gulf. He survived. Two months later, he married Mary. I am their firstborn. Vernon and Carl followed.
When, as a child, my mind finally connected the details of this story, I became obsessed with its hinge moments—the what-ifs:
What if the road foreman had not called for the work crew meeting?
What if cool air had forced the church to close the windows?
What if Mary had not attended the youth rally?
What if Jack had died in the waters of Leyte Gulf?
Each hinge carried the call of destiny. Grandpa wasn’t the only one crouched beneath that church window in the dark; my brothers and I—and all our children and grandchildren—were there too. And my dad wasn’t the only one struggling to survive a naval battle; all his descendants were also fighting for their lives.
Our story began when an eternal sound—a wind chime from Heaven—rode the breeze into the ears and heart of a poor man living in life’s shadows.
Grace found him. In the dark.
It was a night when “...for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined.” (Matthew 4:16, NLT)
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