Vanished

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

With only the barrel of my gun poking out from under the leaves of my hiding place, I aimed at the head of my target. I moved the gun just enough to allow the crosshairs of my scope to center over his heart. I was only seconds away from firing the shot that would take the life of a living breathing creature. Once the trigger was pulled the bullet could not be called back. The decision would be final but if I hesitated I might be spotted and the opportunity for a clean shot would vanish. I exhaled slowly to expel all the air from my lungs. With my body rock still and steady, I squeezed the trigger. My Remington 270 bolt-action rifle kicked and the bullet left the barrel and traveled toward its mark. By the time I heard the crack of the rifle he toppled over from the impact of the bullet.

I had spent considerable time preparing for this moment. The previous day I scouted the area, first finding were the herd bedded down at night and the trail that the elk made as they moved to and from that secluded place. The same afternoon I spent some quiet time sitting and observing the surroundings. I wanted to determine the general direction of the wind so that I could position myself downwind of the incoming animals because elk have a keen sense of smell. Being positioned downwind of these wild creatures was essential for a successful takedown. Today I didn’t want the slightest movement to be noticed so I camouflaged my gun barrel with mud because it was shiny and made of stainless steel. Elk do not distinguish color but they are easily alerted by movement. I found a fallen tree about fifty yards from the trail. Lying prone behind that tree, I covered myself with a blanket of leaves as though the wind had blown them against the log. Now it was time for the hardest part . . . patiently wait and remain as still as possible.

This would be my third elk to take home if I proved successful in my hunt. The first was a cow elk that my son shot proxy for me. Proxy means to stand in for or to take the place of. I know it is illegal to shoot a game animal by proxy but it was the last day of the hunt and I injured my back lifting snowmobiles for the trip into the woods. I was in so much pain I could not raise my rifle and hold it still long enough to take a shot. I’m not trying to justify my behavior of having my son shoot the elk. I am just explaining what led up to that decision. I named that first elk Ethyl. You might think it odd to give a name to an animal that you were going to kill and eat. I have always valued life and the sacrifice that is made by an animal that gives its live for my benefit. This tradition of naming the animals I personally shoot started when I shot a hog in the back woods of South Georgia. I named that hog Dexter and we recognized him for his sacrifice each time he showed up on our dinner plates.

The second elk to be served at our table was Nate. His real name was Nathaniel but I shortened it to Nate. Today I employed the same technique I used when I successfully tracked and shot Nate. Nate followed textbook behavioral patterns just like the guide on my first hunt, Cal Haskell, taught me. Nate, the bull elk waited for all the cow elk to cross the clearing before he ventured into the open. For a few moments I was upset at myself for not going ahead and taking an available shot at the largest cow. I was mentally kicking myself for all the time I had laid in the snow behind a fallen tree in the mountains of Southwest Wyoming and now I would probably go home empty handed. Snow was falling and light was fading. As I was about to stand and brush the snow from my clothing, the bull elk stepped into the edge of the clearing. Sniffing the air for danger and sensing no alarm, he eased out into the meadow and followed the path that the cows had previously walked. A bull elk is always willing to sacrifice the cow elk for his own safety. The bull lets the lead cow saunter out into the unprotected open area. The remaining cows follow her and if they experience no danger crossing the clearing, about two minutes later the bull elk makes his way across the clearing. That certainly doesn’t sound very chivalrous but I didn’t write the rules of nature. I just studied them to try and use them to my advantage. If a hunter shoots one of the cows as they cross the open meadow, the bull reverses course and heads into the safety of the dense vegetation. The hunter never even knows that a bull was present.

Today my hunting permit was a combination permit that allowed me to shoot either a bull or a cow elk. I decided that I would hunt for a young bull. He would be larger than the cows and provide more meat but he wouldn’t be tough to eat like the old larger bulls of the forest. These younger bulls usually had only eight to ten cows that they had successfully stolen from a larger heard. I wasn’t worried about the survival of the herd if I shot the bull. There were always young bulls lingering beyond the tree line waiting for an opportunity to move in and take over. As you can see, the bull elk doesn’t provide protection for his harem. He uses them for his own protection and is willing to sacrifice them to preserve his own life. He will desert them once they were heavy with calf and he will spend the winter months either alone or with other bulls. It is like joining a bachelor club with other bull elk who were your arch enemies just a few months ago. In some ways these bulls are like men; they get along great together until they fall in love with the same female and then the swords are drawn. Or in the case of bull elk, the antlers begin to clash.

Today things looked perfect. I moved into position in the mid afternoon so that I would be in place well ahead of the herd’s return to the secluded bedding place. That is provided that the elk made the decision to return to this same place they had used for sleeping for several nights. If it is a moonlit night the elk will often feed through the night and sleep during the day. Tonight would be dark and they would bed down until dawn. There was a light breeze in the air that worked to my advantage for two reasons. First the wind was in the direction that carried my sent away from the trail and second, the rustling of the leaves in the wind helped muffle any rustling of leaves I might make as I adjusted in my hiding place behind the log. The time spent waiting wasn’t nearly as bad as I sometimes make it sound. I love the solitude of the forest. It brings peace to my heart as I hold perfectly still, only moving my eyes as I observe nature in all its glory. I use this quiet time to engage my mind and reflect upon pleasant memories of my yesterdays. Keeping my mind active reliving old memories also helps me not focus on how cold or wet or uncomfortable I might be at the moment.

This elk hunt was taking place in the Canadian Rockies so I decided to name my bull elk something that started with a “C” for Canada. I chose the name Clayton and I could already imagine the family referring to Clayton when we sat around the dinner table. At least I hoped that I would be successful and that Clayton would be invited to dinner on many future occasions. But what happened next changed all that. Sitting around the table enjoying a home cooked meal with family and friends was part of my past, not my future. I would not be going home and Clayton would not even be a name known by my family.

As the sun began to set the elk herd did return to the secluded bedding place just like I hoped. The cows all followed the lead cow in single file like dairy cows headed for the barn to be milked. They were a beautiful site and I could have easily shot one of them but I was waiting for Clayton to come along. If my plan worked, the bull elk would soon follow them up the trail. One minute passed then two minutes and Clayton didn’t show. Maybe something had spooked him. I decided to give him more time. I knew that I could easily wait until just before dark and work my way down to were the cows were grouped together and possibly get a shot at one of them before they startled and fled all directions. Down deep inside I was mentally begging for Clayton to come into my view. All the preparation, all the planning was for this one minute . . . and it looked like Clayton was going to be a no-show.

Then above the rustling of the leaves I could hear a noise that I did not recognize at first. To my surprise it was a group of men talking in hushed tones as they walked along the tree line of the clearing. Eyeing them through my scope I could see that they all carried guns but the guns were not hunting rifles. They were automatic military combat style weapons. No wonder Clayton hadn’t shown. He was probably two miles away by now with all the noise this group was making even though they were speaking in muffled tones.

With all this noise my plans were collapsing around me. Clayton would not be coming this way. He would probably not come back all season unless it was to gather up his harem. And he would only do that if some of the cows had not conceived yet. It was certain that my bull elk Clayton would not be paying us a visit at the dinner table this season. There would be no stories of how I outsmarted the young bull. I never really understood this macho business anyway. Take a creature of the forest who can easily travel forty miles a day or stand perfectly still for an hour to evade detection and pit him against a rifle bullet that travels in excess of thirty-one hundred feet per second with a knock down force of a hundred pound sledge hammer and where is the macho in all that.

Suddenly everything was reversed; I felt like the one being hunted. Although these men didn’t know that I was even there, I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck as I realized that these men were of Middle Eastern descent. I was afraid. Lying by the fallen tree trunk under the cover of leaves I was so focused on what was taking place that I forgot to breathe. Suddenly my lungs were about to burst for lack of oxygen and I had to force myself to breathe steady and slow. This was no time to panic and reveal my hiding place.

What were these men doing out in the mountains of the Canadian Rockies? The small packs on their backs revealed that they were not prepared for long term camping but were most likely just moving through the area. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying although they were only fifty yards from me. With a sickening feeling it occurred to me that these men may be attempting to travel through the country undetected? If this were the case they would kill me on sight. I had to remain unseen and somehow get back to civilization and warn the authorities of what I had discovered. Hunting was no longer on my mind. In fact, hunting for that bull elk Clayton seemed like an event that occurred days ago instead of just moments in the past. Surviving to warn someone about what was going on was my only concern. I now wished that the barrel of my gun was not even poking out of the leaves of my hiding place. I wanted to be invisible, to disappear into the ground until danger passed.

The large sniper’s scope mounted on my rifle only added to the possibility that I would be spotted. My sons had chided me about having a sniper’s scope on my rifle. The scope was a present from a friend who thought I needed every advantage possible. Not wanting to move anymore than necessary I decided to leave my rifle in place although it was visible if someone looked directly at it. Through the powerful light-gathering sniper’s scope I slowly scanned the faces of the men. I was stabbed with fear and my mind didn’t want to believe what my eyes were seeing. I recognized one of the men in the middle of the group as Bin Laden, the most hunted terrorist in modern history. I recognized him from having seen him on TV. My heart raced. I brought his face into sharp focus just to make sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. Yes, this was the man I had grown to despise. Not because of anything he did to me personally but for his open declaration to destroy us as a nation. The government and news media judged him guilty and now I had the chance to eliminate him. I knew that killing him would mean forfeiting my own life. I continued to shift the view in my scope back and forth between his heart and his head. A battle was raging inside of me. I knew that if I did not act soon I might be discovered and any chance of eliminating the world of this terrorist would be gone. I thought of my family. I thought how insignificant my sacrifice would be compared to the alternative of letting him live and continue to wage war against my country.

As I lay there under the cover of leaves behind the fallen tree I wondered what had brought me here. Why was I here at this moment in time with a high powered rifle equipped with a sniper’s scope? In the chamber was a 140 grain Boat-Tail Special-Performance bullet. The safety was off and the most hunted fugitive in the world was unaware that he was in the crosshairs of my scope? I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t feel lucky. I only felt duty. I wished that someone who wanted to be a hero was here in my place. I wish that someone who had trained for years and years for this very moment was here to realize the fulfillment of his lifelong training. But it was me. I was the one lying behind this tree covered in leaves with a gun pointed at this fugitive.

I knew that whether I was successful in taking this terrorist’s life or not, I would not be heard from again. My family would never know what happened to me. I just went hunting one day and never came home. I just vanished. My situation reminded me of the story of my great great grandfather. One morning after breakfast he put on his hat and went out to plow the field. When he didn’t return at suppertime a family member was sent to find him. The old mule was standing in the middle of the field still harnessed to the plow. And my great great grandfather’s hat was lying on the ground nearby. That was all that was ever found of him. He was never seen or heard from again. He just vanished. After days pasted and he did not return, the family decided that their father and husband just grew weary of his responsibilities and walked away. Will my loved ones have similar thoughts about me when they never heard from me again? That thought pained my heart even more than the thought of dying.

Whether anyone ever knew what happed to me or not, if I took this terrorist’s life I understood that his legacy might live on for years with the world continuing to believe that he was alive. There would probably be news reports and sightings of him to make the public think that he was still leading his followers. But one American would know that blood no longer flowed through his veins. And this little Remington 270 bolt-action rifle would instantly become the most famous rifle in the world. But it would never be auctioned off to the highest bidder. It would be lost to history; left to rust away in a high mountain Canadian meadow next to me, buried in a hastily dug shallow grave to hide the evidence of what occurred this day.

I thought of my wallet inside my hip pocket and what personal information it might contain that could lead to retribution on my family. I desired to destroy all items of personal identification that I didn’t want found by these men. If I hid the whole wallet they would probably look for it. I scraped out a shallow area of dirt beneath the fallen tree and hid my identification information. I left a copy of a poem in my wallet I had written some years earlier. The poem was about love and I wanted these men who seemed so full of hate to know that I knew what love was. Even though I would be despised by them for what I was about to do, I now understood what it meant to give your life for what you believe.

I thought of the families who had lost loved ones during the 9-11 attack on the World Trade Center Towers. I reflected on other acts of violence around the world such as the attack on the USS Cole in Yemen and the attack on the Marine barracks in Beirut, Lebanon. I not only thought of the Americans who had lost their lives through these terrorist attacks but the tragedy and heartache on the other side of this battle as well. What about all the young men and women being recruited by these terrorist organizations who are teaching them to hate and to kill? What about the families of the suicide bombers? They were often unwilling participants to this tragedy as they lost loved ones also. Was this terrorist positioned in the crosshairs of my sniper’s scope the personification of evil hidden under the costume of human skin? Were all these questions and thoughts bombarding my mind merely my self-justification for taking a human life?

I was only seconds away from firing the shot that would take the life of a living breathing creature. Once the trigger was pulled the bullet could not be called back. The decision would be final but if I hesitated I might be spotted and the opportunity for a clean shot would vanish. I exhaled slowly to expel all the air from my lungs. With my body rock still and steady, I squeezed the trigger. My Remington 270 bolt-action rifle kicked and the bullet left the barrel and traveled toward its mark. By the time I heard the crack of the rifle he toppled over from the impact of the bullet. Instantly all heads turned toward the direction of my rifle fire. There was an explosion of noise from the sound of their automatic weapons and my world went dark.

Epilogue:

The beauty of a dream is that your mind doesn’t require the insertion of a lot of background information. A dream starts and a dream ends and you take it for what it is. Sometimes it is worth nothing more than a passing thought. And other times it lingers with you and won’t let go. In a dream and in awaking life, a personal sacrifice is sometimes required for a greater good. In this dream my personal sacrifice seemed small compared to the sacrifice I brought upon my loved ones . . . never knowing what happened to me. I just went hunting one day and never came home. I just vanished. But I was not the first member of my family to vanish. I wonder what story my great great grandfather will tell us some future day when the past collides with the present. I’m interested to know what happened that day more than a hundred years ago when he went to plow the field and never came home. He just vanished.

Hopefully Forgiven, Never Forgotten

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

On December 3rd it was warm and sunny in Longview, Texas. I had returned to my home town to celebrate my mother's birthday. That afternoon I slipped away to visit some of the old familiar places of my youth. The next few hours were spent in a whirlwind of emotion and memories of days gone by. My stops included 614 Idlewood Drive where I spent three years of my grade-school life. The front yard looked smaller than I remembered. The tree I fell out of and broke my arm was no longer there. But that didn't stop the memories from rushing forward and engulfing me as though it were yesterday. I only wish I could take you by the hand and carry you back in time with me and let you see what I saw, feel what I felt. But you have your own memories, the things that molded you into who you are today. I have many happy memories of when I lived on Idlewood Drive but it was also the birthplace of one of my most painful learning experiences. And so the story goes . . . .

"I will run away if you make me do that," I said. It was my last ditch effort to control my mother's behavior. She had become more and more resistive to my tactics. During the eight short years of my life, mom had come to know and anticipate my moves almost before I played them. If she played chess, I would have never won a game. When I said I would run away, she just looked at me and without so much as a hesitation; asked if I wanted to eat dinner first. Well, if she didn't believe me I would show her. We'll see how calm she is when I never come back. Mom would regret that she forced me to run away from home.

I didn't wait for dinner. With my luck it would probably be my night to do dishes. I never could keep the schedule straight. I thought of all the things I would miss: my family, visits to Granny's, TV. But there were also things I wouldn't miss: doing dishes and other chores around the house, not to mention always being told what to do. For certain there would be no TV out in the woods or in a hobo camp where I would have to live the rest of my life. No matter what I would miss, I was determined to do whatever was necessary to keep from being labeled a thief, humiliated in front of my classmates and probably spending the rest of my life in jail.

Mother didn't seem bothered in the least that I could be sent to jail. I have no recollection of her exact words but it was probably something like "You knew what you did was wrong when you did it and now you have to make it right." Where was the mercy and charity she would later teach me about? Was there nothing but the cold hard steel of justice in my future? I saw no option except to run away and start a new life far away where no one knew about me and my crime. As I passed through the kitchen I grabbed two slices of Wonder Bread, stuck them inside my shirt and headed out the front door. I made sure that the door slammed so that mom would know that I had left for good. Normally I would hear her say, "Don't slam the door." But I heard no response from her as I passed through that door for the last time in my life.

I was out the door and walking down the road with only my thoughts for company. I began to reflect on the events that brought me to this point in my short life. School had been in session for two weeks. As third graders we were still getting acquainted with our classmates. The boy sitting in front of me (name-long-forgotten) brought a collection of foreign money to school from several different countries. Name-Long-Forgotten sounds like an Indian name but he wasn't Indian, I just can't remember his name. His father served in World War II and collected the money as he marched from place to place.

I wanted that folder of money more that anything I could think of. A scheme started to develop in my mind how I could become the new owner of that treasure. The final bell rang signaling the end of the school day. I waited around until the school was almost empty before I slipped back into the classroom. I moved quickly to Name-Long-Forgotten's desk and to my delight, the folder containing the foreign money was right where it had been when we left the room. My plan was working perfectly. I slipped the folder inside my notebook and made my way out of the school as quickly as possible. As I crossed Mobberly Avenue in front of the school I knew that I had gotten away clean.

As I walked home I was surprised at how easy getting the folder had been. Now the second part of my plan began to take shape. I would dig a hole under the house and bury the folder for a few days. On the weekend I would play as usual under the house and pretend that I discovered the buried money. It was damp under the house so I had to be careful to keep the money collection from getting damaged. This stealing business was so easy. No wonder people stole what they wanted. No one saw anything and no one questioned me. I would now wait and let things cool down.

A great stir swept over the classroom the next morning when Name-Long-Forgotten discovered that his money collection was missing. Someone was a thief. The teacher said that she knew it was someone from the class and the money better be returned by the next day or the police would be called. Police! Thief! I knew I was a thief but being labeled a thief was almost worse than being one, I thought. Police? It never occurred to me that the police would be called. I panicked. I didn't panic and confess; I just panicked on the inside. There was no reason to panic on the outside and do something stupid because no one knew that I was the thief who had taken the money. Well, no one knew except me and God. Others couldn't possibly know because I hadn't made my great discovery from under the house where the money was hidden. I could just leave it there and no one would ever know. Well, no one but me and God. I considered digging up the money and quietly returning it early the next morning but I decided that would be too risky. What if I were to get caught returning the folder? It wasn't worth the chance. Besides, there had to be some way of working out these unforeseen problems and still be able to keep the money collection.

My conscience was doing battle with my brain. I knew what I had done was wrong. I also knew that I would not want Name-Long-Forgotten or anyone else to steal something from me. Mother had been trying to teach me that golden rule stuff as long as I could remember but I guess her words hadn't stuck in my heart. Your brain can talk to your heart all day long but if your heart doesn't want to listen it doesn't do any good. When no one's looking, you'll follow your heart. I knew that there must be some way to save the day and get the money back without being caught. But the biggest problem I faced wasn't the police or getting caught returning the money. The problem was that I still wanted to keep the money collection. A wrestling match between my heart and my brain was still going on. In the end my heart won. I wanted the money more than I wanted to do the right thing. The right thing was to have never become a thief in the first place but it was too late for that. This stealing business was getting in my blood and my blood had to pass right through my heart. With stealing in my heart I wasn't just a thief on the outside; I was a thief on the inside. I had never stolen anything before with the exception of Halloween candy from my cousins and I wasn't sure that was really stealing. But that was all part of the past. I was a thief for sure now. I knew it and Heavenly Father knew it but He didn't seem to mind one way or the other. He didn't shock my fingers or give me some other sign to try and stop me when I first touched the money folder. I knew that one day I would face Heavenly Father but I didn't think too much about my future visit with Him. I wasn't going to see Him anytime soon because I was only eight years old. Besides, I could repent someday and then I wouldn't have to worry one way or the other, all would be forgiven.  

The decision was made; I would keep the money and proceed with my original plan. I would just wait a little longer and let things cool down before digging up the money from under the house and becoming a modern day pirate discovering buried treasure. There would be a little excitement, my brother would be insanely jealous of my good luck and most important, I would have my very on foreign money collection. My very own collection of foreign money . . . man those words sounded nice. How lucky can a guy be? In this world you can make your own luck.

I couldn't wait to dig up my money and show it to mother. The waiting was driving me nuts. Each afternoon as I came home from school I would slip under the house and dig up the corner of my treasure just to make sure it was still there and hadn't been stolen. See, once you become a thief you naturally begin to think that everyone is a thief just waiting for an opportunity to take what is yours. I don't remember ever worrying about someone stealing my stuff before I stole the money collection but now I was obsessed with protecting what was mine. I carried an image in my mind of the money collection just sitting under that desk waiting for someone to steal it. If I hadn't gotten to it first surely someone else would have taken it. But now it was mine, all mine.

I guess the teacher decided that whoever took the money collection wasn't going to bring it back because she stopped threatening us and to my relief the police never came. I was sure glad I hadn't caved in to her pressure and confessed. If I had panicked and confessed, all the other thieves in school would be laughing at me, my classmates would never speak to me again and I might even have to go to jail. But for now life couldn't be better. I had gotten away with stealing the money and no one would ever know. It's the dumb ones who get caught or the weak ones who loose their nerve and spill their guts. I didn't have to worry about any of that because so far my plan had been perfect. In fact, things were going so well I decided I didn't need to wait any longer before making my great discovery of the buried treasure. I asked mother if I could go out and play under the house. I had never asked mother if I could play under the house before but this time I wanted to make sure there would be no question in mother's mind where the money came from.

Crawling under the house next to the back stairs, I quickly dug up the money collection and set it aside. I needed to wait a few minutes before declaring my new discovery. I'm sure it was only minutes but it seemed like hours and soon I could wait no longer. Climbing out from under the house, I painted a look of surprised delight on my face and went running into the house to show mother what I found. That was my last happy moment. Mother took one look at the folder of money and said, "You didn't find that under the house." How could she know? Fear stuck to me like molasses but I quickly caught myself and said, "How do you know?" "Because if it had been under the house like you said, it would be wet from the damp ground." I had sprinkled a little dirt through the pages so it would appear older than it was. Rats, I hadn't thought of that. I continued to proclaim my innocence all that afternoon. Mother bombarded me with questions and accusations and refused to believe my story. My own mother had turned on me and was making my life miserable.

Over and over mother said, "I don't believe you Mack. Where did the money come from?" I stuck to my story but she was melting me down like a hot sun glaring on an ice cream cone. It couldn't have been worse if she had tied me to a chair and turned a spotlight on me. Mother had not laid a hand on me but anyone will break under severe pressure. I broke. I confessed. Oh, at that moment, how I wished I had never seen that money collection. How I wished I had never taken it or at least taken the gamble to return it even if it meant getting caught. This was the darkest day of my life. I thought it couldn't get any worse but then it did. Mother told me that I would have to return the collection, tell the teacher I stole it and apologize to Name-Long-Forgotten. I begged for her to let me just sneak the money back into the classroom but she said, "No." "Mom, I can't do it; I won't do I," I said. "Oh yes you will Mack and you are going to do it tomorrow," mother said.

I didn't want tomorrow to ever come. That's why I ran away. If mom couldn't find me she couldn't make me take the money back and face all that humiliation. The street in front of our house was unique to the neighborhood. There was an island of grass and shrubs running the full length of the street dividing the east and west traffic. Months earlier I discovered that the center of one of those shrubs had died out and I could crawl right up inside and be totally concealed from view. Twice I had hidden there to keep from having to take my piano lesson from Mrs. Schaffer who lived at the end of the street. I disliked Mrs. Schaffer and her mouse-infested piano almost as much as I hated piano lessons but I wasn't worried about a piano lesson today. I crawled into the shrub and prepared to wait until I could come up with my next plan of action. I didn't eat my slices of Wonder Bread.  I was feeling too miserable to be hungry.

I was hoping that mother would collapse in hysterical sobs over the loss of her son, come find me and tell me that she would not make me return the money and be humiliated in front of the whole class. I wanted mom to step in and sweep my pain away like she was sweeping dirt off the front porch. But she did not come. It began to get dark and she still didn't come. It wasn't the darkness of night that bothered me. I learned when we lived in the country to overcome my fear of the dark. Gradually it became clear that my plan wasn't going to work . . . I had played my last card and lost. Mother wasn't going to give in to the wishes of a misguided little boy whose heart had been wrong from the moment he thought about stealing that money collection. Looking back on it now, to give in to my demands would have been the worst thing she could have done. I would have to return the money collection and face whatever punishment I had coming to me. I crawled out from the safety of the hollowed out hedge and slowly headed for home. My heart was heavy and my brain was numb. I felt like both my heart and my brain had let me down. But I knew the truth.

I had left home by defiantly slamming the front door and now I was sneaking in the back door like a skinny mouse with its tail between its legs. My brother and I slept on the screened-in porch at the back of our house. The room was dark and there was no one home when I came in the back door. Bill and I had bunk beds and each year we traded off who got to be on the top bunk. This was my year to be on the bottom. I slipped into bed and covered my head. I wanted to just disappear but I was all out of magic tricks. After a while I heard the screen door open and mother quietly came through the door. I reached out in the darkness and touched her leg as she went past me. I wanted her to know that I was home. Neither one of us spoke. There would be plenty of time for us to talk tomorrow. Oh how I wanted tomorrow to never come.

But tomorrow did come and I was soon on my way to school with the folder of foreign money to return to Name-Long-Forgotten. I hated this mess I was in. If I had paid closer attention to the Bible story about David and Bathsheba that my Sunday school teacher taught me I wouldn't be in this mess. My teacher was Sister Nimtz. It didn't make sense that Mrs. Nimtz could be my sister but when you are eight there are a lot of things that don't make sense. One thing in particular that didn't make sense was why I couldn't just quietly slip the money collection back into the classroom. Anyway, what happened next might have never taken place if I had learned from Sister Nimtz's bible story that things can go from bad to worse when you try to cover up the stink of being a thief. Remember, David knew Bathsheba and she was found with child (that's the way they say it in the Bible) . . . sort of like she stumbled, fell down and when she got up, discovered she was going to have a baby. But David had another problem. Bathsheba was already married to someone else. David didn't want Bathsheba's husband to find out what he had done to Bathsheba so he had her husband killed. That's what I mean when I say things can go from bad to worse when you try to cover up what you did wrong.

Just like David, this morning I was filled with dread for having gotten myself in such a pickle. At least I wasn't as bad as David. I hadn't resorted to having anyone killed over this little money problem. That's how the mind of a thief operates; they compare themselves to someone who did something worse, then they don't feel so bad about their own mistakes. Last night I had been defeated, worn down, smeared with the agony of worldly sorrow. But my sorrow was not for what I had done. It was for having been caught. With this fresh new day, my brain began to scheme my way out of this unfortunate situation. See how a thief begins to think when he gets in a jam . . . he starts distancing himself from the foul act by referring to it as an unfortunate situation.

The problem in this unfortunate situation was the evidence. I needed to get rid of the evidence. David in the bible couldn't get rid of his evidence; he loved Bathsheba too much to let her go. I no longer loved or wanted this money collection, I hated it. Four days ago I thought I couldn't live without the money and now I couldn't stand the sight of it. When you think about something night and day your mind goes crazy wanting it. That foreign money was worthless because I couldn't even spend it. You couldn't buy a hamburger with the whole lot of it. Mother would have said something like, "There isn't enough money there to buy a pot to pee in." I would never spend my money on a pot; a boy can always find a bush to go behind. If I could get rid of this evidence no one could ever prove I was the one who took the money. I made my decision. I wasn't going to confess and I wasn't going to ask Name-Long-Forgotten to forgive me for stealing his money collection and no one could make me.

To get rid of the evidence by just burying it wouldn't be good enough. With the way my luck was going, someone would find the money collection and I would be dead meat. I had to destroy the evidence. After school I ran home as fast as I could. I already had a box of matches hidden under the house for lighting small forbidden fires. I lit the folder of foreign money on fire but just the edges of the pages burned. I soon realized that I would have to burn one page at a time. I watched as the fire first blackened each page with the money taped to it and then it turned to ashes. I felt like I was watching something take place that I would regret all my life but that feeling did not stop me. Once all the pages were burned I stirred the ashes into the dirt to destroy the evidence of the fire. The money was gone. I couldn't give back what didn't exist. I was free! But it was just another lie I told myself. I didn't believe the lie but I wanted to. When you begin to believe your on lies you are really in trouble.

I was in trouble but I wasn't a goner. I hadn't started to believe my own lies yet. I knew what I was doing was wrong. It was wrong to steal the money collection. I could say the devil made me do it but that would just be another lie. He may have tempted me but he didn't put my hand on the money. I stole the money because I wanted it more than I wanted to be honest. Destroying the evidence by burning the money was worse than the original theft. I burned the money to cover my wrongdoing.

I was acting just like David in the bible. When David discovered that Bathsheba was found with child, his solution to the problem was to have her husband killed. It didn't matter to him that he had taken another man's wife.  David, the king sent the husband of Bathsheba into the heat of a terrible battle and commanded his men to withdraw from him leaving him alone to be surrounded and killed. I imagine that when David first received the news that Bathsheba's husband Uriah had been slain in battle, he exclaimed, "I'm free." His happiness probably lasted about as long as mine did.

Like David, I had slain my Uriah so to speak by eliminating the money collection but I wasn't free. Mother would be in the house waiting for a report on how my day of confession and restitution had gone. I crawled out from under the house where the evidence had been burned and buried. I painted on my sad face and went inside. To my surprise mother did not immediately descend upon me with a bunch of questions. Eventually she did ask how my day went and I told her it was the worst day of my life. I had become a liar as well as a thief. I now understood the saying, "Show me a thief and I'll show you a liar. Show me a liar and I'll show you a thief." Once again I lied to myself when I thought, "I'm home free." I felt free because mother never checked with the school to see if I had followed through with her demands that I confess, make restitution by returning the stolen money collection and asking Name-Long-Forgotten to forgive me.

But I was not free. Through the years there have been many times that if I could, I would have pushed the rewind button and made different choices those days long ago in the third grade. But you can't change the past, you can only learn from it. The decisions I made back then were wrong but there was a rainbow at the end of that third grader's sad story. Throughout my life each time I have been tempted to take something that did not belong to me, I have immediately thought of the feelings I experienced in that damp crawl space under our house on 614 Idlewood Drive. There, I experienced worldly sorrow for having been caught and chose to burn the evidence of my wrong choices.

I have learned the difference between worldly sorrow and Godly sorrow. Worldly sorrow causes you to try to hide your mistakes. Godly sorrow prompts you to do everything you can to undo the damage you have caused and wish with all your heart it had never happened. This experience I have shared with you became a benchmark in my life. As I gradually became truly sorry for my actions or in other words experienced Godly sorrow, I knew that I would have to find Name-Long-Forgotten and express my heart felt regret for having taken something that did not belong to me.

The Untouchables

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The acceptable kill rate was four to one. I could fulfill my obligation to my country if I killed four of the enemy before I got killed. After that, my body could be shipped back to the states draped publicly in an American flag and delivered home for my family to mourn privately. My government would provide three hundred dollars for my burial expenses and my name would appear on the wall of the Vietnam Memorial. But there would be no future, no wife, and no children to bounce on my knee.

It would be years before I realized how discriminating the war was. Poor blacks and whites not in college were hit the hardest. The poor were targeted as though they were the most dispensable. I guess that is the way it has always been. The poor filled the ranks of the bulging surge of humanity being shipped to South East Asia. Fifty-eight thousand would not return alive. Many more would come home with serious wounds both physical and emotional. This was the destiny of many men during the Vietnam years.  For those who lived, what they saw and what they endured changed them forever.

But war would not be my destiny, my future. The knowledge of my destiny was not derived from the ability to see into the future. It came from a priesthood blessing I received in which I was promised that I would be sealed up against the war. I have never understood why I should be sealed up against that war while so many others were not. But I have an outpouring of gratitude that I was spared the experiences that transpired in that foreign land.

For us here at home the message was clear. You want to stay out of Vietnam? Go to college. That wasn't a problem for me because I always planned to go to college. Upon high school graduation I registered for the draft as required by law. I also turned in all the necessary papers showing my college acceptance and received a 2-S deferment. I became one of the untouchables. I could not be drafted so long as I held a 2-S deferment. I didn't go to college to dodge the draft although I didn't want to go to war.  However, regardless of my circumstances I would not have fled to Canada or Mexico to evade the hungry war machine gobbling up young me by the thousands. Although I was temporarily protected from war with my deferment, I was not in sympathy with the demonstrations taking place on campuses across the nation. I felt it would have been a betrayal of the servicemen already caught in a crushing vice between the Viet Cong and politics.

Our country was being torn apart. The irony of it all was that in Vietnam the military leaders were hovering above the firefight high enough to stay clear of enemy fire while others suffered and died on both sides. On college campuses and in the city streets the principal instigators of the demonstrations would stir up the populace and when the threat of police interaction was present, they would conveniently slink away, leaving the stirred-up students to take the brunt of the fight. No matter where you were, here at home or in South East Asia, the rhetoric was the same: propaganda, propaganda, and more propaganda. I struggled to understand the truth and where it was hiding.

After my freshman year of college I planned to serve a mission for the LDS Church. A problem arose almost immediately. My local draft board refused to issue me a 4-F deferment for missionary service. Without that deferment I could not serve a mission. The draft board accused me of requesting to serve a mission to avoid the draft. I reminded the draft board that I already had a college deferment and could retain that 2-S status for four years by staying in school. I desired to serve a mission because I wanted to make a difference in people's lives. On appeal, the draft board agreed to grant me a 4-F deferment on the condition that I would voluntarily extend my draft eligibility by ten years.

The draft board expected me to choke on that stipulation and withdraw my appeal. But I knew something they did not know.  I had a blessing that sealed me up against the war. I signed the draft extension papers and within three months I was saying goodbye to my family and heading to the language training center to learn Spanish. I had been called to serve in the West Spanish American Mission. After three months of language training, I boarded a night train with seven other missionaries headed for the mission headquarters in East Los Angeles. Los Angeles had the second largest Spanish speaking population on this continent next to Mexico City. When I filled out my missionary papers there was a place to list my requested area of service. I requested an English speaking mission outside of the United States. I received a mission call to serve Spanish speaking people in California, Arizona and Nevada. Someone had more faith in me than I had in myself by sending me to a Spanish speaking mission. I had two years of high school Spanish and I wasn't a star pupil.

On that night train to Los Angeles as I sorted through my papers it occurred to me that my 4-F deferment would expire three months before the completion of my mission. I had been granted a two year deferment and not one day more. When requesting the missionary deferment I did not know that I would be called to serve a foreign speaking mission. The three months spent in the language training center did not count toward my two years of missionary service. I gulped and my throat went dry as cotton. I would be reclassified 1-A for the draft three months before I completed my mission. What this meant was that there was a high probability that I would be drafted before I was able to get reenrolled in college. Then I remembered the blessing I received and my heart was quieted. I shrugged my shoulders and said to myself that it would all work out.

True to their word the draft board reclassified me 1-A September 7th, 1967, three months before returning home from my mission. Within a week after my arrival I was ordered to report to the Gregg County Draft Board. As I opened the letter and read the instructions, I momentarily wavered in my faith of the blessing I received several years earlier. Had I misinterpreted the meaning of "sealed up against the war"? Maybe sealed up meant sealed up in a coffin, or maybe it meant sealed up against death but I would still be required to go to South East Asia. Then I remembered an old familiar saying about life, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Although I didn't fully understand why at the time, that little saying calmed me. My blessing was not from a shallow source and the noise of fear I was hearing in my mind wasn't from still waters. I remember telling myself, "Be still, be calm, I can do this, whatever comes."

It was difficult to be still and calm. My life was a tangle of emotions. My old girlfriend was engaged to marry Pat Cunningham. My mind knew that this was the right thing for her but my heart wasn't playing a different tune. I also had to report to the draft board in just a few days. I was shuffling around the house, just home from my mission with nothing to keep me busy. Mark, an old high school friend who heard that I was home called and asked if I wanted to go to a rally. "What kind of rally?" I asked. "An anti-war demonstration," Mark said.  I thought it was strange that Mark would be interested in an anti-war demonstration since he just returned from Vietnam. But we were bored and decided we would go check it out. The crowd was peaceful but disorganized. They were milling around on the steps of the courthouse. I wondered what good a demonstration would do at eight o'clock in the evening in front the courthouse. The only people who would be in there at this time of evening would be the janitors.

I approached a shaggy haired young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was wear bell-bottom knit pants with an orange tie-dyed tee shirt a couple of sizes too small. I no longer remember what was printed on the back of his shirt. I asked him why they were demonstrating after the courthouse was closed. He looked at me as if he was staring right through me and said, "Peace, brother and free love." I didn't know very much about love but I was smart enough to know that love wasn't free. Mark and I stood around on the outer fringe of the crowd for a few minutes but most of what I was hearing were trite sayings like "make love, not war," and all manner of degrading names for the president and the government. I turned to Mark and said, "I've seen enough and heard enough, let's go get a shake at the Golden Point drive-in." With a shrug of his shoulders Mark and I headed across the courthouse lawn toward his dad's pickup. He was quiet. We glanced back one more time to look at the small crowd that had gathered. I said, "They sounded like a bunch of broken records just saying the same thing over and over, repeating each other." Mark said, "Those kids are loaded on pot and their brains are in neutral. That's why they call it spaced out. I've seen a lot of it in the military."

As Mark and I enjoyed our ice cream shakes he spoke of his experiences in Vietnam and said that he hoped I'd never have to see what he had seen. Much of what he described was unimaginable to me. Our mood turned somber and after a while he took me home. As we said our goodbyes Mark looked at me and said, "Jerry, I'm not a hero and I didn't volunteer for duty in Vietnam. I hated every minute of every day I spent there. I was scared the entire year but what I see here at home scares me in a different way. I witnessed an anti-war demonstration outside the military gates of Fort Benning, Georgia before being sent home on leave. I'm not an expert on the Peace and Free Love Movement, but I haven't seen one person at those demonstrations I'd want to share a foxhole with. There was sadness in his countenance as he turned, got in the pickup and drove away.       

Two days later as I prepared to report to the draft board I was still thinking about the demonstrators on the courthouse steps a few nights earlier. In the Old Testament when Cain slew Abel it wasn't difficult to determine who was the good guy and who was the bad guy. The demonstrators referred to the president as a baby killer and all sorts of other degrading names. They didn't have one good thing to say about this country; the greatest country on earth. I wanted to be on the right side and I didn't want to give my life for an unjust cause but what was the right side? Then that same little saying came back to my mind, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Once again I told myself, "Be still, be calm, you can do this, whatever comes."

Looking back it seems odd that I was surprised to discover that I wasn't the only young man reporting to the draft board that day. We stood in a line and waited for our names to be called. As each person's name was called he stepped up to the front of the enlistment desk. When I heard my name called I moved forward to the desk as directed. An older woman with kind eyes and streaks of grey in her hair was seated at the desk. I waited for the list of questions that I had been hearing directed at each young man who had gone before me. Studying my papers for a moment she looked up at me and said, "Are you the Jerry Grubbs that dated Karen Young?" Surprised by her comment and while still trying to remember how I knew this lady, I said, "I am."   "Well young man, Karen's mother thinks very highly of you. Do you want to go to Vietnam?" she asked. "No, I want to go back to college but I got called up before I could get back into school." I explained. Without taking her eyes off me she took my draft papers, slid them into the top drawer of her desk and instructed me to turn around, walk out of the office without saying a word to anyone and send her verification of my readmission to college when it was official.

I did exactly as she instructed. I didn't even know her name until I was outside the courthouse and looked down at the small card she handed me that read, "Edie Brown, Secretary, Gregg County Draft Board." After learning her name, I still didn't know who she was. At that time all I knew was that she was a friend of Karen's mother and because of that association I had become one of the untouchables once more.

The country was still deeply divided concerning the war as I returned to college in the spring of 1968. Edie Brown had been true to her word. My 2-S deferment declaring me untouchable arrived in the mail as promised. That demonstration I went to was the only one I ever attended. Ironically, I never witnessed more words of hate than I heard at that peace demonstration on those courthouse steps in December 1967. I wasn't envious of the soldiers in harm's way nor was I willing to join forces with the demonstrators. Both soldiers and demonstrators seemed to be caught up in the propaganda of the moment . . . while some were following orders to kill, others were being incited to riot. I would have been wounded by the actions of the demonstrators if I had been a draftee crawling my way through a dangerous jungle trying to stay alive, fighting a war I did not understand but choosing to fight rather than slither across the border and hide.

After Karen's mother passed away, I found Edie Brown and we spent an afternoon together. She was confined to a wheelchair and living alone. Edie was experiencing the challenges and debilitating effects of sugar diabetes. It was the first time I had seen her or talked to her since that day long ago when I stood in front of her desk at the county draft board. She shared her life story with me and how she became acquainted with Karen's mother. The two of them attended high school together in Ohio. With another mutual friend they moved to Longview, Texas in 1940 and remained close friends all their lives, meeting regularly to play bridge. It was at those bridge games that Edie Brown came to know who Jerry Grubbs was and what he meant to her lifelong friend. Karen's mother shared with Edie the feelings she had for this boy whom she referred to as the son she always wanted.   

Karen's mother had touched my life in a way that I never imagined. When I began dating her daughter in 1960, I could not have guessed that she would be the influence that brought about the fulfilled my blessing of being sealed up against the war. By my promise, I never discussed with Karen's mother Edie Brown's involvement in my draft deferment. But I had experienced a miracle in my life and I have discovered that not all miracles are performed by unseen hands. Karen's mother's influence had spared me from the draft. What did I do to deserve that? I do not know. There were many men far better than I who suffered and died in that foreign land.

I had the opportunity to thank Edie Brown in person. One day, beyond this earth, I will thank Karen's mother; not just for her influence in keeping me untouchable from the draft but for all she taught me and her unconditional acceptance of me. I continue to be grateful for a blessing that sealed me up against the war that divided our nation forty years ago and as I look back, what a treat it was to have Karen's mom a part of the fulfillment of that blessing. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong in that war, the lesson I learned was to be still, be calm, there are forces at work that I may not understand at the moment.