During WWII, as hundreds of men went through the process of being inducted into the military, the physical exam often revealed that they suffered from tuberculosis.

One of those men was a gentle, quiet farmer named Pete. Pete was married, with three small children. When he was diagnosed, he was immediately sent to a facility for TB patients almost three hours from home, where he stayed for nearly two years.

Those weren’t easy years for Pete’s wife, Wanda, and kids. Some nights, all they had to eat was cornbread and milk, or hardboiled eggs and the peaches or apples Wanda had picked from the trees in their yard and canned. But if you ask Wanda’s children, who are now in their eighties, they would tell you they have no memories of being hungry or feeling poor. All they remember is the love and gentle strength of their mother and the time spent with aunts and cousins whose dads were in the war.

Wanda undoubtedly went to bed more than once wondering how she was going to manage. But she never complained. Instead of fretting and stressing and feeling sorry for herself, she quietly prayed, confident that God would show her how to provide for her family until Pete could come back home.