It happened when civilians from English shores motored out to swoop up escaping, drowning, hopeless Allied soldiers from the French seaport of Dunkirk.
It happened when Mission Control engineers in Houston devised a procedure for powering up the command module of Apollo 13 after it had completely failed, and the astronauts aboard were doomed.
It happened when God parted the Red Sea so the Israelites, under the pursuit of an evil Egyptian Pharaoh, could escape his treachery.
And it happened when I landed, from my steep fall of grief, into my Kbear’s arms.
Rescue.
Arms so big, so wide, so surrounding, I hardly felt the land. Arms that wrapped me at unexpected, needed times. Arms of strength and tenderness. They held, kept, listened, assured, distracted, and loved like no other arms could do. The arms of Jesus. His arms. His rescue.
During Bill’s hospice days, he would often say to me, “Kath, Kaela will help you. She loves you. She will stay with you.” He meant through those directive words, she is your rescue. Bill saw the waiting arms; he and God knew where my help would come from.
Kbear, you are my rescue. Please don’t let go. I can never ever ever thank you enough. I love you.
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