Young Whit and Jenny are off to spend the day together. But memories from Whit’s time in the U.S. Navy spark a conversation neither will soon forget.
“This park, John,” she said. “I feel like I could dance!”
Jenny Morrow spun around on the pavement walk, her dress twirling with her, strands of red hair flying in all directions. One curl brushed her cheek gently, and then settled down again. She looked back at her partner with her sharp, hazel eyes, warm and full of life. Pure joy lit those eyes.
It was that look which John Whittaker could not resist. Strolling with Jenny through the rose garden at Exposition Park, just across the street from the University of Southern California, the morning sun streaming down on them both . . . it felt like a new world.
He caught a whiff of spring roses as she reached for his hands. Jenny took John’s right hand and then placed it on her waist. She took his other hand in hers. She wanted to dance, right then and there. But there was a problem. John Whittaker did not dance.
John looked at the fountain nearby, shooting water high into the air. Passersby were stopping to admire it, some daring to catch the cool spray on their hands. If he had still been a child, John would have done the same.
“Is there something wrong, John?” she asked. “You’re smiling, but I can tell you’re thinking about something. What is it?”
John looked into those eyes. He couldn’t hide anything from her. “I’m sorry, Jenny. It’s just, I don’t really . . . it’s nothing.”
“You don’t dance?” Jenny asked, her smile growing.
“Well, I haven’t in years. Not since before the war.”
“So, you didn’t dance for joy when the war finally ended?”
A shadow crossed John’s face, briefly, then disappeared. “No,” he said. “No, I think I had a very long nap.”
Jenny came a half-step closer, their hands still locked together. “I’m sorry, John. We don’t have to dance, if you’d rather not.”
She blinked at him, those hazel eyes shining with kindness. John felt his own face soften. Of course he would dance with her, if it would make her happy. The war was over, after all.
John glanced to the left and then the right, as if to check that no one was looking.
“Well, we don’t have any music . . .” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t care,” she said.
All right, then. John dipped his head. “My lady.” Jenny bobbed her head in a half-curtsy.
And then John eased them into a waltz. Slowly at first, but then faster. They spun on the pavement walkway, their eyes on each other, oblivious to the other park visitors. As they picked up speed, John let go of Jenny’s waist and twirled her around, Jenny’s red hair flying with her.
“You’re not half-bad, Mr. Whittaker,” laughed Jenny.
John laughed too. “You haven’t seen anything yet, Miss Morrow.”
They danced faster. People had stopped to watch them now, and some were cheering them on. John felt alive, moving so effortlessly through the air. His dancing days came back to him. He could do it all just fine.
And then, pain. Slicing pain cut through John’s leg like a knife. He gasped audibly. He let go of Jenny’s hand and they spun to an abrupt halt.
“John, are you all right?”
He was clutching his leg, bent over slightly. His breath was heavy and labored. “It’s nothing,” he finally said. “A war wound.” The shrapnel that had struck him during the Battle of Guadalcanal had left its mark. His leg had healed very well, but it was never the same. He was never the same.
But Jenny wasn’t looking at his leg.
“John,” she said, reaching up to touch the side of his face, but then drew her hand away. The dancing had tousled his hair in all directions. And the hair that normally hid his ears was out of the way.
Immediately, John realized what Jenny was looking at. The shrapnel had done more than injure his leg. It had taken off the top of his right ear.
John quickly ran his hand through his hair, brushing it down to cover the ear. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry you saw that.”
“Oh, John,” she said, compassion written on her face. “I’m sorry. Is that why you keep it covered?”
“People don’t need to know,” said John. “It could have been a lot worse. A lot of good men did get worse.”
Jenny reached up and pushed back the hair again. She held the injured ear in her hand for a moment. “I’m glad you’re still here, John. I’m so glad.”
John sighed. “So many died out there, in the Pacific. Or worse . . . captured by the Japanese. They’re the heroes of this war. All I got was a scratch, really. The man who dragged me to safety, who saved my life, Lieutenant Reginald Duffield is his name, I never even got to thank him. He shipped out before I could.”
He hung his head. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear all this . . .”
But Jenny drew closer to him. “You’re wrong. I do. I want to hear everything. But only if you want to talk about it.”
And so, they sat by the fountain in Exposition Park, and they talked. Well, John talked. Jenny listened as he shared about his time serving in the Navy as a signalman. He told her all about Lieutenant Duffield and how he had one of the most dangerous jobs of the war: a coast watcher spying on the Japanese. He was one of the bravest men John had known.
He told her about the Battle of Guadalcanal, the battle in which so many thousands were lost, but a battle which helped to turn the tide of the war. He didn’t tell her how he saved Duffield from an exploding shell. Didn’t tell her about the groans and screams of the dying men hit by shrapnel. But he told her enough. And he told her how Duffield had rescued him, risking everything to drag him through the water to safety. So many died that night, but somehow John himself happened to survive.
“Do you believe in coincidences, John?” asked Jenny, after they had been sitting in silence for some minutes.
John was surprised by the question. “Coincidences? Why do you ask?”
“Because,” she said, her eyes shining, “I don’t think I do.”
“And how’s that?”
“Because God is too big for that,” said Jenny. “He knows every sparrow, every hair on your head, John. Every injury you have. Every close call. He uses anything and everything to accomplish his will.”
“So, you’re saying,” said John, raising an eyebrow, “that God meant for me to lose half an ear. And he meant for others to lose their lives.”
Jenny’s eyes snapped at him. “I’m saying it’s no coincidence that you’re still here, John Whittaker. God’s still planning to use you, I know that for sure.”
John looked off into the park. The rose beds continued off into the distance, with every bright color you could think of. He shook his head. “You know, I was going to talk more with Duffield about Jesus. After the war, I was going to talk to him about becoming a Christian. But God never gave me the opportunity. Duffield was gone before I woke up in the hospital. I suppose that’s not a coincidence either.”
“Even if we can’t see the reason, that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“Well, someday I’d like to know,” said John, crossing his arms, still looking into the distance.
“Maybe you will,” she said. And then added softly, “When you least expect it.”
John turned to face her. “You know, Jenny, you’re an interesting person. I never know what you’re going to say next.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Please do. But how can you be so sure about all this, that nothing is a coincidence?”
This time Jenny looked off into the distance, admiring the park. “Ever read a story, John?”
John laughed. “I don’t just read stories, I write them. You know all about that.”
“Exactly. So, you of all people should know that an author leaves nothing to chance in his story.”
Their conversation continued on their walk back to the University of Southern California campus. The noon sun was beating down on them, but they took no notice. They talked, absorbed in what the other person had to say.
John had never met someone like Jenny. She had a way of making him think, taking his mind and his heart to places he had never been before. It could be disconcerting, but always intriguing. John’s leg pain was either gone, or he never noticed it.
When they reached John’s residence hall, they kept walking. There was too much to discuss, and they barely noticed they had walked past it. They walked along McClintock Ave and were soon beyond the campus, out on the streets of Los Angeles. It was turning into a lovely spring day.
“Would you like some ice cream, Jenny? I could use a snack.”
“I’d love some!” she said, looking to where John was pointing. “A soda shoppe! I love soda shoppes. They’re my favorite.”
John took her by the hand as they crossed the street. “You love soda shoppes?” he said. “I never knew that about you.”
“I’m full of surprises,” she said.
They ducked into the soda shoppe and were hit with a blast of music coming from the jukebox. It was that new rock and roll hit, “Do You Wanna Dance”, by Bobby Freeman. Two couples were already dancing away.
“Another coincidence, John?” she said, smiling bigger than ever before.
John offered Jenny his hand and placed his other on her waist. “I believe not.”
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