Ira Eugene Cowen

The enemy had bound and gagged the faithful soldier. His hands were tightly strapped so that he had no chance to fight his way free. The torture ravaged on him would be unbearable to even the strongest among us, yet he fought to maintain an awareness of his surroundings, boldly struggling not to succumb to the will of his unseen assassin.

In his despair to escape the pain he allowed his eyes to roll to the back of his head. When his vision cleared he plainly saw that he was sitting at the knees of the most beautifully leather-skinned full blood Cherokee he had ever seen. This massive giant gingerly picked up his young great-grandson and reminded him, and his cousins, of the families’ removal from their home in Tennessee; the seemingly endless days and nights spent traveling to their farm in Oklahoma. Great-grandpa Stone reminded him to honor and respect the mother earth and all of creation – that they were made for each other, while at the same time encouraging him to grow closer to the Jesus that their family clan had been introduced to so many generations before.

As his grandpa took his hand to walk out into the surrounding woods to fish a tributary of the North Canadian, he fell against a fallen stump and the pain jolted him back into reality.

The searing cut of his captor’s torture was causing his back to spasm uncontrollably. He wanted so badly to setup, to ease his pain, but his bonds would not allow him to do so. In agony he laid back down, breathed deeply, and his eyes rolled even more deeply into the back of his head.

When he came to he was gasping for breath. The entire county of Seminole, Oklahoma was swept up in a whirlwind of choking dust. Many of his friends and family had headed west to California. But his parent had decided to stay in Oklahoma. With his father’s ability to run a farm and the ingenuity of his mother to cook a meal from almost nothing, they were surviving the dust bowl while many had not been able to.

At fifteen he felt himself a burden to be a child and was willing to take on some responsibility to help rear his younger siblings. But to do so he would have to leave behind his two favorite past times: fishing and hunting. While the money he earned running his traps each morning was certainly helpful, he knew he could do more.

All to frequently young Ira was finding skunks and other rodents in his traps instead of the more valuable raccoon, possum, and mink. And skunks were such a pain to remove. All too frequently he would find himself gasping for air as he tried to out maneuver a spraying varmint.

Frequently he and the classmates of the run down one room schoolhouse he attended would choke back tears all morning while the stench of a fresh spray dissipated.

As he gasped for each breath he would struggle to remove the gag that was forced upon him. While he could breath, and each breath brought life, the gag still scared him. It impeded his ability to communicate, not that the enemy wanted him to speak, but would allow it if he could. As he struggled to speak, to scream, all he could emit was a whisper – I love you.

I love you … I love you ... I - LOVE – YOU! - I – LOVE – YOU! echoed back. The young 16-year-old loved the rugged wilderness of Wyoming. He could shout into the valley once in the morning and hear his echoing voice all day long. The Civilian Conservation Corps allowed him, and many other Okies, a chance to work on government projects for 6 months at a time and send money back home to their families who were in need. Being treated like, and working as hard as a man, made the barley 16 year-old Ira grow up very quickly. He knew the work he was doing was important, and the money he was able to send home made a difference, but the virgin ruggedness of the Wyoming wilderness was calling to the very depths his heart, “come home. Come run through my valleys and play in my stream”. His heart ached to do just that, to fish and hunt all day long, but back in Oklahoma – back in his hills and his valleys.

His heart, his body, did ache so. The forced electric charges being applied to his body not only cruelly tortured him, but also sustained him. He wanted to leave his body so badly, to escape his evil jailer, but he did not have the strength yet.

When his eyed rolled back into place the Island of Guam was in sight. With the uncertainty of the draft looming, he had volunteered for the Navy. He left his new wife and child behind so that he could get his service to his country out of the way. Opposed to the possibility of actually having to kill anyone, Japanese or not, he choose assignments to support those who had no such objections. While he enjoyed working as a radio dispatcher, it was planes, specifically the B-24, which captured his heart. He longed to be a pilot. To soar with the eagles. To zoom across the open expanses. To fly above the earth and into the heavens.

And then he was. When everyone was quite, when there were no more stories to listen to. There he was. Flying above the earth and into the heavens, in The Heaven. He had escaped his tormentor. The body that had betrayed him could no longer hold him back.

And he was not alone. Clans of tribesman greeted him: Cherokee, Scots, and Irishmen. A wife who had made the journey decades earlier. Mothers, Fathers, and friends: all now his siblings sitting at the knee of their collective Father who told them about his creation and thanked them for honoring his Son in the way they lived their lives.
And then he turned to walk through the valley of this new wilderness, and if you listen well you can hear him voice still echoing in your own heart.. I Love you!

My Grandfather had lived a rich and full life. He strived to live a life that was as Christ like as possible. He fancied himself a preacher. In fact, he was a good ole circuit preacher for a majority of his life, during the time frame that my mother was a child and early adult.

While he worked at many different jobs, it was preaching the Gospel that he felt was his calling. The only regret he ever expressed to me was that he could not do that full time. Grandpa worked at a glass factory, was a mortician, an ambulance driver, a security guard, a worked for many, many years as a police dispatcher, He helped usher in the 911 system in Tulsa.

His first wife gave birth to his only two children, both daughters. They were raised by a father that enforced very traditional, and strict, Church of Christ standards. After her death I remember Grandpa being very depressed and sad for a long time.

Then one day he announces that he had just eloped - and he turned into a different man. A kinder Christian who was more tolerant of the world, and people, around him. This marriage gave him a new perspective on life and forced him to rethink everything he had ever believed. He was happy.
So happy. And everyone was happy for him. To find a kindred spirit in the second half of life is a rare thing, but God had blessed him with just that.

I held tightly to my grandmother as we watched my grandfather take his last breath. It was peaceful and very calm. One last deep breath, and then he left.
The day before, while he still was able to recognize and comprehend those he loved the most gathered to say goodbye. While I had resigned to the fact that he was supposed to die years earlier, I had accepted the past 6 years of his life truly as a gift. I was fully prepared for his passing. We all were. Or so I thought.

What I was not prepared for was witnessing the tearful and passionate goodbye giving by my grandmother. While my poor gramps lay tied down to his hospital bed and strapped by tubes and an oxygen mask my grandmother, like the rest of us, came to bid him our final good-byes. Fully aware of what we were doing he also said his good-byes to us.

To the grandchildren around him he asked, “Baptized?” to which we reminded him we were. I guess this was his way of letting us know that we would indeed be seeing him again, or maybe it was an affirmation that he would be seeing us very soon.

But when it came time for him and my grandmother to say their final farewells, I found it to be too overwhelming. I never doubted their love for each other, but in recent years I thought that maybe they just tolerated each other more than they were in love. But as she gently kissed his face a hundred times and bathed him in her tears, you could see in his eyes that he loved her more deeply and purely than any he had loved before. Behind his mask his weak lips reached out to return her kisses and his dehydrating body leaked out a tear.

I was losing a grandfather. A strong Christian man whose influence on my life will affect me forever. I was prepared for that loss, because I know he’s not really gone. But my grandmother was losing a lover: a spiritual soul mate that cared more deeply for his “Baby” than he did for himself. He was loved by her more than he deserved – to which he readily admits. To watch them say their good-byes was more than I could bear. To feel that love was more than I could witness.

It brought me to tears – and has changed me forever.