I turned the telegram over and through my worn hands one more time. The cursive handwriting on the thin white paper whispered softly but the written words cut deep into my bones. “Saved alone. What shall I do…(?)” I clung to the recent memory of my wife’s sweet face wishing me goodbye as she huddled our girls close in the November chill of Chicago. The thin suitcases packed with promise of relaxation with dear friends in Europe. In our rush we shared a simple kiss farewell after I promised to join them in just a few days. She nodded in agreement, anxious for a much needed vacation. I bent down and nestled Annie’s curls in my hair and brushed her cheek gently, urging her to obey her mother in all things and help with the younger ones. She obliged politely as always and I believed her. I turned to my middle two girls, Maggie and Bessie. They still had cracker crumbs on their soft cheeks so I button tapped their noses and kissed their foreheads. Baby Tanetta sucked innocently on two fingers and welcomed my tickle in the secret crevices of her neck. Her giggles were the last peep I heard from my daughters as they were whisked away. My beautiful wife Anna boarded the Ville de Havre, three girls trotting behind her and one in her crowded arms. I turned on my heels, stuffed my hands in my jacket and headed to my office. As soon as my business matters were resolved I could board a ship just steps behind them.
But several days later I sat lonely on a thin cotton bed in the underbelly of a ship that indeed carried me toward Europe, but on terms I never agreed to. The telegram was the only piece of my family that I could hold onto. In the midst of the journey, the Ville de Havre had collided with another ship, sinking in 12 minutes. My wife was discovered unconscious on a piece of wood. She was one of the few survivors.
I thought of Anna and my intentions to bring peace and healing to our family with our long overdue trip to Europe. She so deserved time away from the busy life she led at home in Chicago, and the painful memories that surrounded her at every turn. When we buried our young son just a few years before, a beautiful glimmer disappeared from my wife’s eyes. I watched her raise our girls with composure during the day and then breath-taking sadness overcame her as night fell. We held each other close and grieved together. I poured myself into my work as a lawyer, determined to provide for my family. I was heavily invested in properties along the coast of Lake Michigan until the Great Chicago Fire burned my dreams and plans in mere hours. The flames licked our city and left thousands homeless. The fire seared me financially, but in the wake of our personal tragedy, I felt stripped of hope to give my wife. Through it all, she clung to me. I begged God to give me strength when I had none, and I held my advisors’ and friends’ words close to my heart as we struggled along. Traveling to Europe would bring us great encouragement and much needed rest. I couldn’t wait to show my girls all that I loved in Great Britain. But the truth punched me in the gut and I struggled to believe its awful message. The girls weren’t with my wife. They weren’t with me. Anna was saved alone and the girls were gone. I clutched the note to my chest, afraid my heart would stop beating out of sheer shock. My tears were stubborn, as if they needed more proof before they would fall down my face.
I heard a sharp rap on the cabin door and a familiar face spoke softly. “The captain would like to see you.” He led me down the hall toward the biting cold of the deck and a misty rain stung into my skin. The captain laid his hand on my back, leading me to the edge of the ship. He patted my jacket in sympathy and glanced over while I peered into the deep waters. “I don’t know how to make this any easier, but you deserve to know.” I was numb to his words so they bounced off me like a ping on a glass, but I heard them anyway. “According to the coordinates, we are now passing over the sunken ship Ville de Havre. May your daughters rest in peace, Mr. Spafford. My deepest condolences.” I turned my head to nod politely but no words released. My eyes turned back to the waves. The pale sun was reaching down below the dark clouds to kiss the Atlantic Ocean and drip under the surface for the night. The roar of the engine dulled behind me and I looked into the mirror image of the water. This water. The vast ocean seemed too big to hold my precious little girls, and the ocean didn’t care for them and nurture their innocent hearts like I did. The ocean allowed them to slip beneath and drift to the bottom unnoticed. My heart tore and I thought of my daughters all alone, losing the strength to stay above water. I imagined their flailing and gasps for breath. The helplessness they felt. Their dresses quietly enveloped them and the deep waters received their precious tiny bodies into its grip. I stretched my hand out to the ocean in attempt to touch them and the tears finally came. My Maggie, my Bessie, my Annie, my baby Tanetta. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to endure that…” I choked on my whispered thoughts and hurt more in that moment than I ever had in my whole life. My baby girls suffered only for a moment, but I felt as their father; it was a moment too long.
I leaned on the rail of the ship for so long that the rain iced itself to my jacket and I had to pry myself away. It was dark. Everyone was tucked below, safe and warm but I couldn’t bear to leave the sea just yet. My eyes were reddened and sore from my grief-filled sobs and the heaviness remained strong on my chest like an immense weight. The shock of the news over the last few days tortured me but I didn’t have a chance to confront the truth yet. Here on this deck, my grief stood up to fight me and I fought back hard. The wind in my sails had deflated and I stood an empty man. I shuffled my feet and looked toward the lower deck, struggling with the thought to stay or go. My fingers were numbing and I knew it would be best to try and rest in my bunk for a few hours. I glanced back at the still waters and held my cold fingers to my lips, setting a kiss free into the darkness. “Goodbye my little cherubs. Papa loves you.”
The next morning came upon me as light streamed into my bunk area and I heard men’s feet scurrying about. I was cocooned in a dry jacket and multiple blankets. I rubbed my eyes and recalled the night before. My fingers pumped with blood and I felt warm as I tucked the blanket underneath my arms and sat up against the wall. Someone popped their head into the tiny room and asked if I would care for some tea. As I held the tin cup, I stared at the ugliness of the walls and wondered why I had woken up with an enormously different feeling than what I had the night before as I collapsed into sleep. My chest was light and my mind clear and sharp. It was if the dense burden I lugged around was taken from my arms and thrown into the sea. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to pray. “Father, you give peace. I am your servant and a servant mustn’t question the master. The clay must submit to the potter.” I paused, knowing what I was saying and aware of whom I was submitting my will to. A calm relief washed over me as I let go of myself and melted into the arms of the Almighty God whose strength I gathered and held onto tightly. I grabbed a loose paper from my belongings and began to scrawl words that flowed from my thoughts. I thought of Anna and our years before the bottom fell from under our safe and comfortable life together. I thought of our little boy’s limp body cradled in our arms collecting our fallen tears on his clothes. I thought of the paperwork I compiled after losing my investment and the times I had to walk through the door of our home with nothing to bring to my family. I thought of my smiling girls and their infectious giggles. I thought of our simple meal times together and our evenings by the fireplace. I thought of the telegram that crushed me into a thousand little pieces. I reached into my pocket and unfolded it to peer at the words once again. I thought of my dear Anna and how our relationship tested with fire will prove to be gold. I thought of my evening on the deck and how I pained but welcomed the chance to kiss my sweet girls goodbye.
Through it all, my Lord has been faithful. And through it all I say, it is well with my soul.
Author's Note: This story is Historical Fiction. I wrote it from the perspective of Horatio Spafford, and it is strictly my interpretation of what it might have felt like to be in his position.
For further information on this historical event:
http://staugustine.com/living/religion/2014-10-16/story-behind-song-it-well-my-soul#.V65HUigrLIU
https://www.loc.gov/exhibits/americancolony/amcolony-family.html
https://www.loc.gov/exhibits/americancolony/amcolony-family.html
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