In the Presence of My Enemies (38 page)

Martin did not look like himself. If I had it to do again, I would bury him in blue jeans and his favorite flannel shirt. Here he was all dressed up in a suit—and he never wore a suit. When we were home on furlough, he wore a jacket or suit coat only if he was going to speak in a church. He was just a very simple, plain guy.

I was shocked at how thin he looked—only 125 pounds, they said—and how old. I sat there in my wheelchair feeling so badly that all this had happened to him—a man who wanted the best for others and had given up the “American dream” to make a difference in a poor country. It didn’t seem fair.

There was a bruise on his forehead that they hadn’t been able to fix with makeup.
How did he get that?
I wondered. Had he gotten it falling out of the hammock? I didn’t know.

But what I missed most was the laughter in his eyes. That’s what
made
Martin—the twinkle in his eyes, the upbeat attitude that said,
No problem is ever too tough to overcome, no ordeal too grim to endure.
He had confidence; he was a doer, and he had fun in the process whenever possible.

The kids gathered around me and we cried together. They said, like family members so often do, “It doesn’t look like Dad.”

“You’re right,” I replied. “In fact, he’s in heaven with the Lord Jesus, who he loved. This is just his body that’s not working anymore.”

I laid my hand on his hard chest and thought,
Poor Martin. You went through so much. You were so brave, and you kept me going so I could return home. I’ll always love you.

Soon people began to arrive—cousins of Martin whom I had met only a few times, friends from school, even a group of FBI agents from Kansas City who had been working on our case for months. They seemed so very nice. Many Rose Hill people came—even whole families—and said, “You don’t know us, but we feel like we know you. We’ve been praying for you.”

At one point, I looked around the room and realized our whole New Tribes team from the mid-1980s was there: Brett Nordick, who had flown on Luzon; Perry Johnson from Palawan; and Steve Roberts, our chief mechanic. “This was a good group!” I bragged that night, remembering all the wonderful times we had shared. The only team member missing was Martin.

It was late by the time I got to bed. The kids and I had decided to all sleep in the same room for a while. So Mindy and I took the bed, while the boys slept on the floor. I could lie only on my back because my leg was elevated on pillows.

We lay awake talking. “How are you guys doing?” I asked. We all agreed we were coping as well as could be expected. Soon they were asleep, while I lay there thinking once again about Martin—sad he was gone but oh, so glad that his ordeal was over and he was now in the very presence of Jesus.

* * *

“Are you ready, Gracia?” my father-in-law said in a low voice as he prepared to push my wheelchair into the church Friday morning.

“Yes, I’m ready,” I said.

Everything else was in order, it seemed. The TV trucks outside Central Christian Church were already getting their signal from the pool cameras we had allowed to be set up in the sanctuary. The dignitaries were already seated: former Kansas senator and majority leader Bob Dole, now representing the U.S. State Department; Senator Sam Brownback and his wife; Congressman Tiahrt and his wife; U.S. Ambassador to the Philippines Francis Ricciardone; his counterpart, Philippine Ambassador to the U.S. Albert del Rosario; and others. Behind me stood the line of Burnhams and Joneses who would follow me in and fill up one large section of seats; the rest of the cavernous church seemed full already.

As we entered, the entire audience stood without being asked. I saw friends on all sides—from the mission, from college, from our supporting churches, from places far away whom I never would have expected to fly in to be there. On the end of one row I spotted my friends Joyce and Kay, who had encouraged me to accept that first date with Martin so long ago.

Once my wheelchair was parked at the front, Zach took his place immediately to my left, then Jeff, then Mindy, followed by Oreta and Paul, then Felicia and her husband, Clint. Behind us came Doug and Teresa with their children; they took their places in the second row. The whole family processional took a long time while Kirk continued to play “The Old Rugged Cross.” The familiar words could not have been more fitting for Martin: “I will cling to the old rugged cross / And exchange it some day for a crown.”

One by one, various speakers and singers came to the podium, each one offering an eternal perspective on Martin’s death. Central Christian’s senior pastor, Joe Wright, commented that people often express their condolences at a time such as this by saying they’re sorry for the loss. “We haven’t ‘lost’ Martin,” he observed. “We know where he is. And someday, because of the promise of God and the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross, we can join him and be reunited.”

Oreta’s brother, Rev. Galen Hinshaw, gave Martin’s obituary, which included not only dates and places but personal insights. The crowd couldn’t help but melt when he got to letters written by the two older kids for this occasion.

The first letter was from Jeff:

My dad was a very special person to me. He would take the time to do special things with me. We used to take plane rides together. He flew me to Palawan from our home in Aritao. We were in a Cessna 180, so it took around six hours.

Once we were in Palawan, we visited all the tribes there. He said that one day I could fly for these people. He was going to teach me to fly as soon as I turned 15.

He bought me a motorbike when I was 13. He taught me to drive it and would help me work on it when I would crash it, or when the motor needed work. I’m going to miss our times together.

Mindy had written:

My dad was the most generous person I have ever known. Even though we weren’t a rich family, every time I wanted or needed anything, he would do his best to get it for me. He was a big family man. He never missed a chance to get away from work and take our family on a vacation.

He would sing songs to me and change the words, putting my name into it. He would sing them to me when he came home from work and at bedtime.

Rev. Oli Jacobsen, chairman of New Tribes Mission, compared Martin to the apostle Paul’s associate Epaphroditus, who more than once “came close to death for the work of Christ” (Philippians 2:30,
NASB
).

“He was one of our best pilots, and one of our best test pilots as well,” he said. “As he trained others, his notable characteristics were his patience and his attitude of ‘you can do it.’ One of our missionaries called him ‘Mr. Cool.’ But he was much more than a pilot. To his fellow missionaries, he was a servant of servants.”

When Clay Bowlin stood up to speak, I leaned forward. I didn’t want to miss a word.

“Why did this happen this way?” he asked, hitting on the very question that had been gnawing at all our minds.

“I don’t know. God doesn’t always look at things the way we do. Isaiah 55 teaches us that God’s ways are higher than ours, and his thoughts beyond our comprehension. There’s a phrase in Deuteronomy 29:29 that fits this occasion: ‘The secret things belong to the L
ORD
our God.’ ”

For the next thirty minutes or more, Clay had our rapt attention as he gave an eloquent tribute to Martin’s life and work. He told college stories; he honored Martin’s role as a husband and a dad; and in the end, he presented the gospel of Jesus Christ as clearly as possible. His most memorable line, the one quoted by news outlets afterward, was this: “Gracia was rescued from the jungle by a helicopter; Martin was rescued from the jungle on angels’ wings.”

We didn’t want to end the service on a morbid note. There would be no filing past an open casket. In fact, we set the opposite tone altogether by bringing out a Southern gospel quartet to sing a song fit for a pilot: “I’ll Fly Away.” Toes tapped and people smiled as they prepared to leave the church after nearly two hours. It wasn’t majestic or somber; it was instead upbeat and natural—just like Martin.

My heart was so full as I was wheeled out of the church. I wanted to stop and talk to so many people, but I couldn’t. All that would come later. The family headed directly to a small country cemetery east of Rose Hill for a private burial.

My kids loved watching the Wichita police clear the way for us, blocking intersections and racing from the back of the line to the front repeatedly, light after light. We drove by a big Walmart with employees out front holding signs: “We Support the Burnhams” and “God Bless You Guys” and “Welcome Home, Gracia.” Again, I was amazed.

Pastor Robert Varner of Rose Hill Bible Church conducted the graveside service, and then we soon headed to the middle school gymnasium, where the various civic clubs had prepared a huge spread of food for anyone who wanted to come. Somebody got me something to eat, but I hardly had time to touch it, because for the next several hours I was busy greeting people.

* * *

That night, the Burnham family gathered for a meal at the church. A little later, my side of the family showed up to do one of our favorite things: sit around with guitars and sing. I was amazed at how much Jeff’s playing had improved over the past year. As the evening started to wind down and I got reflective, I thought that maybe I was truly weird in feeling that I had honestly “enjoyed” the funeral. I had seen so many people I loved. And the music had been excellent. Martin would have especially loved that.

When it was time to go to bed, we had trouble getting Jeff to stop playing his electric guitar. “Enough already, Jeff. It’s late!” I finally announced. As we lay in bed, the kids and I talked about various things—nothing deep, just the events of the day. I reminded myself that I wanted to enjoy every day—whether sad or happy—with these kids. From now on we’d be together.

The next morning, Doug and Brian, Martin’s brothers, plus Clint, Felicia’s husband, made a flower bed in the side yard for all the potted plants and flowers we had received at the funeral. We put a stone angel we had received as a gift right in the middle.

Meanwhile, my family started packing up to leave. Several of them, however, stayed around for Zach’s baseball game. Wheelchair or not, I was determined to be there. This was the kind of thing I had dreamed about for a year in the jungle—getting back to normal living and being a mom to my kids once again. The pageantry of the day before was fine, but the joy of watching my son play right field was every bit as meaningful.

My nephew Nathan transported me to the field, along with his mother, Beth. My cousin Sandy and her daughter Erin were there. So was my good friend from the Philippines Val Petro—the one who had taken the kids for “just a week” while Martin and I went to Palawan. Her husband, Bob, had passed away from a heart problem while we were in captivity. That led us to talk about heaven.

“You know, I just kind of imagine that when somebody arrives in heaven,” she said, “they make this announcement: ‘Arriving at gate 42 in five minutes, Martin Burnham. Please proceed to gate 42 if you want to greet him!’ ” she said.

“Yes!” I said. “What a reunion those two had.”

She continued, “I can just see Bob standing there and Martin saying, ‘Bob! What are you doing here?!’ Bob, of course, would already be in the know about Martin’s situation.”

Val and I talked about what we were going to do with ourselves now. She was thinking of moving to Indianapolis to help a new church get started. I told her I was going to stay in Rose Hill to raise my kids.

After the game, Nathan, Beth, and I drove back out the dirt road to the cemetery to see Martin’s grave again. Looking at all the flowers, I felt great sadness at having to say good-bye to him. But I reminded myself that, just like the other good-byes in my lifetime, this was temporary.

I can’t wait to see Martin again—and I will.

* * *

The next day was Sunday—an ordinary Sunday to millions of other people, but not to me. This was my first chance in more than a year to go to church. I absolutely could not wait.

So many Sundays in the jungle I had sat on the ground thinking of the high privilege of gathering with other believers to worship God. To sit in a pew (actually, in my case, they parked my wheelchair in the center aisle), to sing again, to pray, to listen to the Word of God—it was exquisite.

Doug Burnham led the worship that morning. We began to sing:

My hope is built on nothing less

Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness;

I dare not trust the sweetest frame,

But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

On Christ, the solid rock, I stand;

All other ground is sinking sand,

All other ground is sinking sand.

My mind flashed back to the mangrove swamp on Basilan, where with every step we sank down into the ooze, where I longed for solid ground to walk on. I knew we had survived only by depending on Christ, the solid Rock of our faith and hope.

Doug also led us in Martin’s favorite gospel song, “Wonderful Peace.” This again unleashed a flood of memories for me—singing it in the dark as another day ended and we desperately needed God’s calm for our troubled souls. How great to sing this song with a church full of people all worshiping the one true God!

The Scriptures that day were taken from James 1:2-4 (
KJV
):

My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.

We also read from 1 Peter 1:6-7 (
KJV
):