Grandpa Johnson - Veteran's Day 2007

My grandmother came over to see Rachel's first speaking role in a church musical. She was Angel #5. She was amazing. Okay, the girl who played the whale (it was called "Oh Jonah!") was the show stopper - but, you know, Rachel's my little girl - and she was fantastic!

But that's not the point. Gram handed me a small package. Inside were these two small new testaments and this grungy little folder.

She said that she's pretty sure the tan NT was her father's and that he took it when he shipped out for World War One (you know, that war 5 or 6 wars ago that was the "war to end all wars"...sigh...). It's a very worn book - especially the Gospels. Half a page is torn out, but other than the very end of 2 Corinthians, it looks intact - just really, really used. I don't know much about my great-grandfather's service - I'll have to ask Gram. Truth be told, I didn't know he served during the "Great War."

The black NT was a Christmas gift to my grandfather in 1928. He took it with him when he left for duty in WW 2. Inside I found a shoulder patch from his uniform and a clipping about a guy from James City who must have been wounded and sent home because he spent two months in hospital in England before heading home. The Bible is in somewhat better shape than the other - the cover is off, and the Gospels seem pretty worn - but it's relatively intact.

So, it's veteran's day, I just realized - how appropriate.

I can picture my grandfather sitting in a foxhole with his M-1 on his lap reading the Gospel of Mark and trying to find some comfort from God in the chaos around him. Three times Gunnar Arnie Johnson was wounded in WW2 - I messed up the timeline Memorial Day weekend when I mentioned him in my sermon. He was wounded in North Africa and at Anzio, in Italy. Neither of those was, apparently, that severe (of course I think getting shot at all would be pretty severe...). When he landed in France, he was shot in the head and his friends left him for dead. As I was told the story, it was hours later (or possibly the next morning) that he was heard groaning under the brush his friends has put over his body. Apparently, it had been an unbelievably placed shot - through his mouth and out at his ear. I remember him having a much smaller ear on one side - and not being able to hear out of it.

So, I wonder. Who did he call out to lying in his own blood that day? Did he think of that battered little New Testament and the God who promised life and salvation in it? I never knew him as a religious man - in fact, I'm ashamed to say I didn't know him as well as I wish I did, now that he's gone. But he took that Bible with him - he carried it through Africa, Italy and into France. When a lot of his stuff was stolen from him in the army hospital, that New Testament wasn't with it. Was it too valuable to him that he wouldn't let it leave his side? I pray that it was.

Grandpa never really talked about the war. We couldn't understand, I'm sure. I can only imagine what it must have been like - but I'll never really know. Oh, and not that it matters, but that grubby little folder was his service pay record. When he joined up as a PFC in January 2, 1943 he earned $10 a month (and the insurance premium was $3.35 a month). When he was discharged November 1944 (or at least that's the last date posted), he earned as Staff Sergeant $18.75 per month. Can you imagine?

But this isn't a post about war.

This is about Staff Sergeant Gunnar A. Johnson. I believe the world is a better place for your sacrifice. Thank you, grandpa.