Jon took the steps slowly, carefully, and not only because of his wounds. His leg was healing well, but more worrying to him was that he was home.

It was where he had wanted to be here every day for the past almost-two years. Today was December 20th, and as fine a day to be home as any. He paused, though, and wondered if he should knock.

"Behold," he muttered to himself. He raised his hand, and placed it on the doorknob. He turned it, and the door swung in. He heard the voices, and could place Helen's but his children, he assumed they were, sounded so...different from his memories.

"Father?" He looked into the incredulous eyes of his baby girl.

"Lucy," he rasped out, and gasped. She was there—and more. There was, to his tired eyes, an aura about her. And he held her tight as she hugged him. She laughed, and called to the others, who came into the room one by one. Susan. More beautiful than he remembered. Peter. Tall and majestic looking, showing his emotions unashamedly, and yet in such a ...manly way. Edmund, dear Ed who had thrown tantrums when Jon had left, hugged his father, and smiled, and looked on his family with such affection...

What had happened here? What had changed them so?

But all thought flew from Jon when Helen walked into the room. His breath stopped.

He walked to her, and held her for long moments while she sobbed, and then he kissed her, not caring that his children laughed and quietly left the room.

"Helen," he whispered. "So long I've been gone. I—"

"Oh, be quiet," she scolded, and pulled him in for another kiss. "I've missed you too."

Author's note: A lot of me goes into my stories. Some of my personality, some of my emotions, some of my personal experiences. When I wrote this, my family and I were going through an incredibly difficult time, and I used reading and writing as an escape. Unfortunately, most books that I usually enjoyed sort of lost their charm, and most stories I was busy with, I couldn't work on, because I simply didn't 'feel it'. So I began writing my feelings, and then creating a character, and then I decided, 'you know what, I'm not the only one who experiences pain, it's not new to humans...' and I thought of people being separated—not by want, but by circumstances, and 'for the best'. I considered—and even started—an original work, but then it got a touch too personal for me, and it hurt too much to go on. So I went to work with a pre-existing character. With one of those, you can put yourself into their shoes, but the shoe is always a little too big, or too small, so it's easier to write about and feel attached, yet aloof.

And Jon and the rest came into being. The chapters are so short because I wrote them as flashes—instead of my usual drawn out rubbish. I just wanted drabbles and shorts. Not too much detail, but just enough angst.

Most of what came out came as frustrations I've had and thought about—many of Jon's opinions mirror my own. Thoughts about war and politicians and crazy old colonels...don't worry, I write about the colonel with love—my grandfather was one. All I know about him I know from my grandmother. I never met the man, but I feel as if I knew him well.

Of course, the underlying current of the story is Christianity. I have a lot of frustrations with Christians, but none with Christ. Through my hard times, Jesus has always been there for me—even as I cursed and questioned and screamed at him. Unconditional love. People ask me how I can believe in God when such terrible things happen—even to me, a Christian. How can I still wake up in the morning, pray, smile, and go on with life after everything?

Because God is with me. And because of him and him alone, I survive.

...Um. This Author's Note is almost longer than the chapters in this story. Eish.