Years ago, I was taken aback when a mother told me she could not read The Rag Coat to her children because “It has death in it.” Mystified, I didn’t even respond, but pondered the remark a great deal afterward. To avoid death in children’s literature would be to neglect such treasures as The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, Little Women and the vast host of children’s classics most beloved by generations of readers. Indeed, the books that are nearest and dearest to us, I am certain, are probably those that have pierced our hearts in the tenderest places as we suffered with the characters and shared in their painful losses.

Last Monday, it fell to my lot to read the closing chapters of Where the Red Fern Grows to my youngest child. My tears were not flowing because I was surprised at the tragic death of Billy’s beloved hunting dogs. Since my children are widespread in age, I have read this book five times before. As my son sniffled  unashamedly, I was weeping again because Billy’s pain was mine again, and was penetrating the heart of my little boy. The loyal dogs got between Billy and a vicious mountain lion, losing their lives protecting his.

As Billy stood at the graveside of the first dog to die, reflecting on all he had gone through to earn those  dogs, to train those dogs, and the adventures they had had together, he said, “You were worth it, old friend, and a thousand times over.” When the second dog died a few days later, Billy’s suffering caused him to  question: “Why did they have to die? Why must I hurt so? What have I done wrong?” These are the very  same questions that have risen from the hearts of men throughout the ages. His misery turned to bitterness, as he expressed to his mother later, “I prayed for my dogs, and now look, both of them are dead,” which causes his mother to shed sympathetic and helpless tears. Seeing her sadness, Billy is quick to respond, “Mama, please don’t cry…I didn’t mean what I said.”

Later on, his father speaks to him at just the right time: “Billy,” he said, “There are times in a boy’s life when he has to stand up like a man. This is one of those times. I know what you’re going through and how it hurts, but there’s always an answer. The good Lord has a reason for everything He does…” These were comfortless words to Billy.

“Papa could see that his talk had very little effect on me. With a sorrowful look on his face, he sat down ‘[to supper]’ and said, “Now let us give thanks for our food and for all the wonderful things God has done for us. I’ll say a special prayer and ask Him to help Billy.””

But death is brutally permanent. As Billy continues to struggle with its irrevocable reality he tells his mother, “No one can help, Mama…no one can bring my dogs back.” True, true, Billy, but time and distance will dull the pain and, in the spring, God sends a special work of nature to gladden his heart and promise hope for his  future in the form of a rare Ozark Mountain phenomenon in the blooming of a red fern (hence the title of the book). In just such ways God, in all our lives, sows little mercies to help us bear the unbearable.