Every time we sing “Precious Memories” at church or at a funeral, I 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 in 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 the boys were being sent — prayed over each of them, including Daddy. Her prayer was simple:
“Dear Lord, keep them safe and ‘brang’ each of ’em back to these here mountains.”
Six months into the war, the telegraph company finally managed to find the Cannon farm in its Appalachian isolation.
Her hands trembling slightly and her heart beating faster, Aunt Fairy opened the telegram.
Turning 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 hard and fought back 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 settled into a daily routine. After finishing her chores, she and her sister, who lived across the road, walked the mile to their little church.
There, they knelt at the altar and prayed that J.C. would be found.
Six months later, another telegram arrived.
Aunt Fairy read it slowly, absorbing every painful word. Then she sank into a chair as tears slipped down her cheeks.
J.C. Cannon had been officially declared dead by the United States government.
“It is in order to have his funeral,” the telegram stated.
Three days later, the farmers laid down their tools, and their wives removed their aprons and put on their Sunday hats. Together, they gathered in the same church where Aunt Fairy had knelt and pleaded with the Lord to send her boy home.
The congregation sang a hymn and then began “Precious Memories.”
On the front row, Aunt Fairy cried quietly while Uncle Oscar turned his hat in his hands.
When the song ended, the minister stepped to the pulpit and opened his Bible.
Those who were there would later say that something came over Aunt Fairy.
Suddenly, she straightened her shoulders and wiped away her tears.
Before the preacher could speak, she stood, stretched out her hand 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.”
Then she turned, walked up the aisle and out the door.
Without a word, Uncle Oscar rose and followed her.
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 censored letters arrived from time to time, but not a single one came from J.C.
Still, Aunt Fairy never wavered.
The war ended in victory, and word began to spread about when Daddy and the others would return home.
Yet Aunt Fairy remained steadfast.
One morning, as she milked a cow in a streak of sunlight shining through the barn, a shadow crossed the light.
She glanced up and saw a tall, gaunt young man standing before her.
It was the boy God had promised would come home.
She sprang to her feet, tossed the milk bucket into the air, and ran into his arms.
“I knowed God would bring you home!”
After his plane was shot down, J.C. was captured by the Italians. He escaped, only to be captured again by the Germans.
But he survived.
J.C. Cannon, who later became a beloved science teacher, lived well into his nineties.
That is why I always tear up when I hear “Precious Memories.”
It reminds me that what seems impossible is always possible.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell series.
Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter.