Maeburl Tincher
Through prayer, every type of war has been won – whether across the globe or right here at home.
In 1944, World War II was raging. It was prayer that sustained the courage of the troops abroad and that of families across America.
My brother Dillard turned 18 in March 1942 and by June, he was in the sands of North Africa – headed to the war front in Eastern Europe, to serve as a tail gunner on a bomber in the U.S. Air Force.
It would be four years before we would see him again. When we did, Momma shouted and I cried. Tears of joy and shouts of praise filled the day that Dillard Moody returned home – and rightfully so.
Many families would never see their sons and daughters again, except at graveside to bury them.
No matter what, freedom always comes at a high price: whether at Calvary and on the battlefield.
At home, blood bought freedom for us all.
My father William Shafter Moody was named after U.S. Army Maj. Gen. William Rufus Shafter, who served in both the Civil and Spanish American wars.
My dad was also a hero, but destined to fight a different kind of battle. One of raising nine children in remote Appalachia building rock walls for the department
of transportation and at times, share cropping for his rent as a diligent young father. A life of sending one child to war and walking the other through the valley of the shadow of death.
His weapon of choice? Prayer. Plain and simple. Fervent prayer to the true and living God. To the one who turns the tides and directs the paths of his children.
In that day, prayer was everywhere: in the churches, our government, the school rooms, the court rooms and the board rooms.
It wasn’t unusual to hear people praying on the hillsides near their homes and on a certain day in March, if you had passed by one such ridge, you might have heard my Daddy praying for me to live.
Two months prior, on a warm January day, in the early afternoon, a sudden wind blew the flames of a nearby fire and set my clothes ablaze.
I was struggling to survive a skin graft. Infection like an evil dictator ravaged my body and the fever refused to break. They didn’t expect me to live but, Shaft Moody – like Churchill – refused to surrender.
He approached the medical experts in all their wisdom, and simply said, “I have prayed and I believe if I turn her over, she’ll live.”
They had given up hope and had nothing to lose, so they stepped aside. Within an hour, my fever began to lessen and within two weeks, I was home.
The journey to healing would take over a year.
My mother’s faithful hands cared for the wounds that now scar my back.
Whether the winds of war blew abroad or threatened tragedy at home, we knew our fate depended on God above.
Maeburl Tincher writes a monthly column for The Graham Star. She is a lifelong resident of the Jack Branch community.