Love Poems for Dodie. Joe Callihan
this! To EVERYONE is given a measure of faith, that they may wisely choose using it in helping them discover the One True God while living here on earth. Many choose discarding the faith they were given by God; choosing instead to accept faith in the lies and deceptions of satan. Others, seeking to create their own god in their image, choose one of the many confused and empty headed religions of man’s flesh and imagination.
Only those who diligently seek to use the faith they were given, come to know the truth about the True God; and receive reward for their proper use of the gift of faith. They come to know the reality that all have sinned, are unworthy to share the Loving relationship God created us to know, and cannot redeem their self, no matter how “good” they try to be on their own. They learn of repentance and the restoration made available by the suffering (in our place), and the blood of the Lamb of God, Jesus (God’s Son and plan of salvation). They use the faith God has given, to choose Jesus as their Lord and Savior. In doing so, their sins are washed away, and relationship is restored to purity in God’s sight, they receive the Kingdom of God within as they become born again, by God’s Spirit – the Spirit of Truth.
I thank God both Dodie and I made this choice, by using wisely the gift of faith we had been given, even if it was late in our life. How Blessed we were in giving up religion for the Relationship our Savior came to restore between Father God and us. How wonderful it is to be led by the Spirit of Truth, instead of the spirit of man and his erroneous, blind, bigoted, powerless, and stupid “religious” beliefs. Constant brain washing attempts put many in bondage to their “religious beliefs” and the label of their religion.
Dodie revealed to me that in her younger years she had wanted to do the work of a missionary in foreign lands. I am happy to report that during her retirement years Dodie began going on mission trips with the well know and highly respected Tel-Evangelist, Marilyn Hickey. She went on trips to Russia, China, Israel, and Asia, including Indonesia and Miramar. Through those years her heart began to soften. On one of these mission trips she asked of her roommate to please pray for her Boaz to appear. I am so personally thankful to Mrs. Hickey and her daughter Sara, for making those trips available for Dodie and others.
I also recently learned from one of the ladies who attends the church were Dodie had once attended, that she had asked her to pray God would provide for her a good a Christian husband. At this point I was but a few years away. Hold on Dodie! I’m out there! I need and will cherish you for the rest of my life and if God permits, beyond. I’ll stop here, and next will give you my story. Then we will continue with the meat of this book, Our Love Story, interspaced with a few of the many Love Poems written for Dodie in the course of our romance.
Chapter Two
Joe’s Story
I was in the fourth grade when a traumatic event changed the course of my life. I had survived two earlier kidnap attempts when I was younger. But I was not prepared for the day when a nun came into my classroom during class. She took me by the hand and told the teacher I was to be excused for the rest of the day. She then proceeded to take me directly to the principal’s office.
Although I was a bit mischievous, I could not quite figure out why exactly I was being taken to see the principal, as I had been pretty good so far on this day. Soon the answer was revealed to me. We entered the office and I noticed there was a man sitting directly across from the principal. Then the principal announced saying, “Joe, this is your father. He has come to visit with you. We are turning you over to him and giving you the rest of the day to spend with your dad.”
The look of fright came over my face. I could not believe this nun was so stupid! Didn’t she know, as I did, that my father was a war hero, a pilot who had been shot down over the Pacific? This man was obviously an imposter, trying to kidnap me and hold me for a ransom. As he reached for my hand, which the first nun was offering to him, he said, “Come on son. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
I LOUDLY shouted out as my fist was striking the hand of the nun holding me and that of the man who was reaching for my hand. I proclaimed as clearly as I could, in panic, saying, “No! This is not my father! My father was killed in the war. This is a man who wants to kidnap me!” “You’re wrong Joseph, said the principal. I personally know this man to be your true father.” How could she be so dumb? I protested all the louder, “Please! Don’t hand me over to this man! My father is dead! He was killed in WWII!”
It soon became obvious that nothing the principal nun could say would calm me down or make me stop fighting as I desperately struggled to get my freedom and run away as fast as I could. So she phoned my wonderful grandmother, seeking her help in explaining the situation to me. As I listened, my grandmother, in tears, explained that in an effort to protect me from the stigma Catholics place upon divorce and to keep me from feeling I was missing out on all of the father/son nights; a bad decision had been made by all, to lie to me about what had really happened to my father. Crying profusely, my grandmother told me she realized now how wrong that decision had been. She said I had the right to know my father, and he had the right to get to know me.
As I continued listening, she explained how as a baby, my father had divorced my mother and moved to Oklahoma to begin a new life with his new wife. Hearing me crying as I asked why did this happen, my grandmother’s answer was that satan had interfered in their marriage. She said she, along with my mother, and my grandfather had chosen to lie to me, thinking it was in my best interest. But now she was very ashamed she had gone along with the lie. She ended by telling me to not be angry with my father, as he had traveled a long way to see me. She suggested I use this time to get to know him and have a fun day with him.
Having finished talking, all I could do was stand there in shock, looking at my real father, a ghost who had just risen from the grave. Smiling gently, he again took my hand and said, “You and I have a lot of things to talk about. Come on son, lets’ go.” With that, we left the office, got into his car, and he began to drive away, leaving Ironton, Ohio, heading for Ashland, Kentucky.
As we drove, in tears I said, “All of this time I’ve been lied to about your being alive. Believing you had died a war hero, I never felt I was missing anything not having you attending father/son nights with me. It was O. K., since you were dead.” As I was saying this to him, my father began to ball his eyes out “Please son, I wish you wouldn’t say that to me. It makes me feel awful!” He was crying so hard I could see he too was sincerely sad over the circumstances I had been enduring. But still, I had no idea of the story behind what had happened between my father and mother.
We had quite a day that day. He bought me the latest three speed bike, a walkie-talkie, and a fabulous and very expensive leather first baseman’s mitt (Costing $25.00, which was high for the time). We were gone for most of the day. When we returned to my grandmother’s house in time for dinner, I found he was well received by her. They laughed and kidded around, he even was invited to stay for dinner. But he declined, saying he had to get back to his wife and kids, whom he had left with friends.
I thought to myself well, at least I know part of the truth. My father did not die as a shot down pilot. He had however served as a Lieutenant in the Army Air Corps. He had been stationed in Guatemala and later in Panama during the war. It was not until the morning of the following day that I learned the rest of the truth. I learned in a way which traumatized me and effectively directed my attitude about what true love is and is not. Most likely, it was a good part of the reason why I never married until age 63.
That particular morning after having awakened, as I was coming down the stairs for breakfast, I could hear coming from the kitchen, the loud shouts of my mother. She was cursing her mother (my grandmother), demanding to know why she ever had allowed that damn SOB to see me, let alone spend any time with me. The words she lavished on my grandmother (who had raised me from the age of one) were coming straight from the pits of hell!
I was getting increasingly angry with the way she was addressing my REAL mother – my grandmother. (I should point out here that upon their divorce, both of my parents being young, neither wanted to be slowed down by a kid. My wonderful, loving grandparents on my mother’s side took it on themselves to raise me from a baby). Angry, yet I was getting an education into the whole truth of what