Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

Every time we sing “Precious Memories” at church or for a funeral, I always think of my daddy’s Aunt Fairy, who raised him.

His daddy beat him, his mama left him so, without hesitation, Aunt Fairy and Uncle Oscar took him and raised him on their farm in the shadows of the Appalachian trail. When World War II came, Aunt Fairy, who had never heard of most of the places where they were going, prayed over each of her boys, including Daddy. Her prayer was simple: “Dear Lord keep them safe and ‘brang’ each of ‘em back to these here mountains.”

It was six months into the war that the telegraph company finally managed to find the Cannon farm in its Appalachian isolation. Her hands slightly trembling, her heart beating faster, she opened and read it.

To Uncle Oscar, she said. “J.C.’s plane was shot down off the coast of Italy. There ain’t no known survivors.” She swallowed back her tears. “For now, he’s listed as Missing in Action. They’re gonna keep searchin’.”

Uncle Oscar put his arm around her shoulders. “This here’s the time when we have to trust in the good Lord. He ain’t let us down yet.”

Aunt Fairy began a daily routine of finishing her chores then she, joined by her sister who lived across the road, walked to their little church a mile away. They fell in the altar and prayed that J.C. would be found.

Six months later, another telegram arrived. Aunt Fairy read it, slowly absorbing its message then flopped down in her chair, as tears slid down her cheek. J.C. Cannon was declared officially dead by the United States government.

“It is in order to have his funeral,” the telegram read.

So, three days later, the farmers laid down their work and their wives took off their aprons, put on their hats and they gathered in the same church where Aunt Fairy had knelt and pleaded with the Lord to send her boy home.

Sadly, the congregation sang one hymn then followed it with “Precious Memories.” On the front row, Aunt Fairy cried silently while Uncle Oscar fiddled with his hat.

The song ended then the minister stepped to the pulpit and opened his Bible.

Those in the congregation would later attest that something came over Aunt Fairy. Suddenly, she straightened her shoulders and stopped crying. Before the preacher could speak, she stood up, put her hand out and said in a clear, steady voice, “Stop. There ain’t gonna be no funeral. God promised me that He would send my boy home and I believe He will.”

That said, she turned and walked up the aisle and out of door. Wordlessly, Uncle Oscar got up and followed her out the door.

The war raged on for three more years while the Cannons knew only what they heard on their hand-cranked radio. They knew the other boys were safe because redacted letters arrived irregularly but nary a one from J.C. Still, Aunt Fairy remained resolute in her belief that she’d see all her loved ones again.

The war ended triumphantly and news trickled back as to when Daddy and the others would return. Aunt Fairy would not be moved. One morning as she milked the cow in the streak of morning sunlight in the barn, a dark shadow fell over the light.

She glanced up to see a tall, almost starved young man.

It was the boy who God had promised He would send home.

She jumped up, threw the milk bucket in the air and ran into his arms.

“I knowed God would bring you home!”

He had been captured by the Italians when his plane was shot down. He escaped, only to be captured by the Germans.

J.C. Cannon, a beloved science teacher, lived well into his 90s.

That’s why I always tear up at, “Precious Memories.” It reminds me that what seems impossible is always possible.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell series.

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