I've Been Uneasy Since the War - Christianity Today

The call came late on a Monday afternoon. From the anxious tone of voice and strained words, I knew his needs were greater than my abilities. Something was drastically wrong.

“Yesterday I visited the Sunday school class you teach. The things you said really touched my heart, and I was wondering if I could talk to you sometime. You see, I’ve been uneasy since the war.”

When I began teaching a large Sunday morning class of single adults, the fear of calls like this one haunted me. It had been a pleasant surprise to find myself involved with a group of healthy people, some of whom were working creatively through the pain of a divorce, the death of a spouse, or the special problems of moving through life unmarried. Of course they had needs – deep, demanding ones. But there was the sense they were coping. The voice on the phone was different.

“I’ve been very uneasy since the war,” he said again.

Uneasy since the war? Which war? Vietnam? Korea? World War II7 My mind raced to paint a picture of the person speaking to me. How long could a person be “uneasy” and not deal with it? Just how uneasy was this man? He continued to speak a staccato stream of words and tightly-clipped syllables in a voice drawn taut by an unseen hand of fear. My immediate reaction was to think, “Be nice, be polite, be gentle-but get rid of him!”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed the Sunday morning class,” I said. “There are some fine folks in the group, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy getting to know them. I hope you’ll come back again. Thanks for calling.”

It was as if I had not spoken.

“I’d really like to talk to you,” he said. “Could we get together and have a cup of coffee sometime?” It was a request spoken in quiet desperation.

I hesitated, silently reviewing all the reasons I couldn’t do it. The week ahead was busy, and I had several afternoon meetings already. I was neither a clergyman nor a counselor. I was a layman with a full-time job and a family to support. I wasn’t spending enough time with my own children as it was, much less with strangers. Besides, what good could it possibly do?

Perhaps it was my curiosity to meet the man attached to the voice, or an underlying sense that God really did want me to respond that caused me to say, “Okay, let’s meet downtown tomorrow afternoon.” Following the click on the other end of the line I added, “But just this once.”

That night I began thinking about what might result from our meeting. Would the man become dependent and begin drawing time and energy from me in ever-increasing proportions? Did he want money? Just how deep were the problems that crept through his manner and voice? Shouldn’t I be spending my time with people who had the potential to go somewhere and accomplish something, rather than on those headed down a dead-end street?

Johnnie walked toward the coffee shop the next afternoon wearing a battered overcoat, carrying an umbrella against the threat of rain, and balancing an armload of books. He moved quickly, almost cat-like, down the sidewalk. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and he looked up at people only long enough to stay out of their way. His graying head was always slightly bowed, as if he were no longer willing to look the world square in the eye. I knew he belonged to yesterday’s voice even before he spoke.

After a quick handshake, we ordered coffee and he began to talk. For the next hour I listened to an incredible series of events I have yet to separate into fact and fiction. We went back to World War II, a B-17 mission over heavily defended German territory, flying home with eight dead men on the plane. A thousand planes were launched and only five returned. His was one of them. There was a head injury and a long succession of VA hospitals with varying diagnoses of his “condition,” but all ending with the same conclusion: ‘We don’t know what to do. We can’t help you.”

As Johnnie continued to talk, my mind tried to piece together fragments of information, jumbled locations, and chronological sequences that simply wouldn’t fit. For a few minutes the information would flow together; then there would be a trench warfare sequence in Florida, or a reference to coming home from Europe only fifteen years ago when the war had been over for more than thirty. It was like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle from pieces of five different puzzles mixed together in one box.

On the one hand, my worst fears were confirmed about the depth of Johnnie’s problems. They were far beyond my ability to sort out and solve. On the other hand, I had a strange sense that meeting with him was the right thing to do. We parted with vague plans to meet again in a couple of weeks.

During the next few days, I was disturbed at my reactions toward Johnnie and the situation. I wanted very much to help him, yet I found myself pulling back, reacting selfishly, and being resentful about his intrusion into my life. The same thought kept coming back: “This whole thing could become very time-consuming. Why waste time on a person where there is so little potential for productive results? You aren’t going to solve his problem. He’s probably been to a hundred doctors and psychiatrists who haven’t succeeded. Don’t get involved.”

As I prepared the next Sunday’s lesson, I was startled to discover a series of events from the life of Christ that had a bearing on the situation I faced. It seemed God was speaking directly to me as I studied his Word, and he was saying, “It’s never a waste of time to love and care for another person.”

Jesus’ disciples were always trying to keep him from “wasting time” with certain people. When little children were brought to him, the disciples rebuked those who brought them (Matthew 9:13). When a hungry crowd faced an evening with no food, the disciples said, “Send the crowds away so they can go to the villages and buy themselves some food” (Matthew 14:15). When blind Bartimaeus cried out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me,” many rebuked him and told him to be quiet (Mark 10:48).

Yet Jesus’ reaction was just the opposite. He welcomed the little children, fed the crowd of 5000 people, and opened the sightless man’s eyes. While the disciples tried to maintain exclusive relationships with people, Christ was the most “inclusive” person who ever walked this earth. He responded to those who came to him and went out of his way to reach out to those in need. I was reminded of his words, “The servant is not greater than his master.”

With Johnnie, the basic issue was not my inability to solve a serious psychological problem, but my unwillingness to love someone who in many respects was unlovely. The issue was my selfishness. I bowed my head and agreed with God that the job at hand was to extend his love through care and companionship to a person whom he had created.

It has been many months since Johnnie and I first talked. We visit often by phone, over coffee, and in other situations. His stories remain essentially unchanged. We talk of his visits to doctors, VA hospitals, and his continuing struggle against a world full of people who don’t understand him.

Johnnie is now in a rehabilitation program through social service agencies in our city, but progress has been imperceptible. My efforts to discover his background have left me no closer to the truth than when we first met. I do know he’s a lonely man, filled with fear, and desperately in need of a friend who loves and accepts him. I’m also learning that it’s not my privilege to label people a “waste of time” when they reach out to me for help.

Although it’s easy to focus on what hasn’t happened yet in Johnnie’s life, there are some beautiful things which shouldn’t be overlooked. He smiles a lot more now, and our conversations are full of talk about things he enjoys and feels good about doing. He has a friend to call when he needs one. Johnnie isn’t as uneasy as he was when we met-and neither am I. There has been no spectacular removal of Johnnie’s problems, but a miracle of love is in the process of transforming two lives.

-A Caring Layman