King's Corner: The Boy Who Came Back

Mark King had crossed the Pacific once by ship. He was going home by air.

At 13, Mark had never been in an airplane. Now he wore a borrowed shirt, carried a military bag and tried to behave as though being the seventh member of an American military flight crew in Australia was perfectly ordinary. When the engines came alive at Perth’s Maylands Aerodrome and the ground dropped away, six men around him knew exactly what they were doing.

Mark watched, listened and learned.

There were several refueling stops during the 10,600-mile journey home. Each crewman had responsibilities, and Mark was given his. At every stop parts of the aircraft needed checking. He learned the routine, worked alongside the others and discovered immediately that he loved flying. Somewhere over the Pacific, another thought crossed his mind.

At least there was no bucket to hang out the window.

For weeks Mark had searched Perth for a ship home and found none. Now God had provided a way he could never have imagined: a place aboard a military aircraft crossing the Pacific. Mark had gone farther west than his dreams had ever reached—and God was bringing him safely back.

Eventually they descended toward Fort Snelling in Minneapolis-St. Paul. Mark had left an Australian autumn and arrived in a Minnesota spring. The formalities were handled, the captain knew Mark was familiar with St. Paul, and the crew went its way.

Mark went his.

Suddenly, he was alone.

Home was familiar, but didn't feel quite welcoming. For five months Mark had learned to keep left—on Australian roads and even on the “footpath.” Now traffic came from the other direction and the footpath was a sidewalk again. In Australia, opening his mouth made him “the Yank.”

In St. Paul, nobody noticed.

He checked into the YMCA and got room 316. Yesterday he had been one of seven. Tonight he had room 316 to himself.

The next morning Mark went to Northwestern Bank. His mother had helped him open an account when they lived there, and he remembered having about $15 in it. But after months of inactivity, the bank had closed the account and kept the money. Mark had made it home from Australia. His $15 hadn't.

He still had Australian wages, and the bank could exchange them. It wasn't what he'd expected, but it was enough.

Sometimes God provides more than we imagined. Sometimes He provides enough and asks us to trust Him for the rest.

Wapiti Valley was nearly 1,000 miles away. Before Australia, that might have sounded like quite a journey.

After 10,600 miles, Wyoming seemed close.

Spring was waking the valley near Yellowstone's east entrance. Snow remained in the high country, but the valley was greening, horses were being readied and another dude-ranch season was beginning. The ranch had received a letter from the Australian cattle owner praising Mark's work. They also knew ships weren't sailing for America.

What they didn't know was how Mark could possibly get back.

Ken was sure he would.

Then Mark walked into Wapiti.

They remembered the inexperienced boy who had left seven months earlier. The one before them was tanned from an Australian summer while Wyoming emerged from winter. He wore a military shirt, carried a military bag and stood straight and tall.

Australia had come home with him.

And then came the welcome.

St. Paul had received Mark. Wapiti welcomed him home. There was his bunk. There was work. Mark had left hoping to become useful enough that they would want him back.

They did.

Australia had brought back more than a tan and a military bag.

Mark knew sheep.

That mattered. Sheep were becoming profitable again in Wyoming, and the ranch owner was considering adding them. Mark had left Wapiti to learn cattle and returned knowing both.

Ken noticed the horses.

Seven months earlier, Mark had been the kid clinging to Ken on the back of one. Now Ken saw what Australia had taught him.

Maybe, Ken suggested, they should try rodeo together.

Mark had wanted to return useful. God had brought him home to people who valued what he had become.

The Wyoming rancher soon wrote to Australia. Mark was safely back, and if there were another opportunity to sell cattle, he was interested. The war would prevent it, but both ranchers had been pleased.

About that time, another letter from Australia was crossing the world.

This one was headed for Morristown, New Jersey.

The last time Julia King had seen her son, she had helped him pack a small, beat-up suitcase on his 13th birthday. In her mind, Mark was still that boy. She hadn't seen the boy who now carried a military bag instead.

Then an official-looking envelope arrived, battered by its long journey.

American Consulate. Perth, Western Australia.

Julia sat on her bed and opened it.

Her young son had visited the Consulate for updated identity papers. At the time, the letter assured her, he appeared to be in good health.

It wasn't much.

But someone had seen her boy.

After months of silence, God had given Julia enough and asked her to trust Him with the rest.

What Julia couldn't know was that the news was already wonderfully out of date. Mark was back in America. Back at Wapiti. Back among people glad to have him home.

Julia had heard nothing.

God had missed nothing.

She read the letter again.

Years later, Julia remembered being relieved.

But somehow, she wasn't surprised.

Jeff Headley is pastor of the Dayton Valley Community Church, and a storyteller who blends humor, honesty, and hope. His weekly column reflects on resilience, grace, and the surprising ways faith shows up in ordinary life. Mark King, whose adventures are recounted in this series, was his father.