In the Presence of My Enemies (40 page)

But no amount of pining is going to bring him back. I choose instead to rejoice in his memory and to keep it alive in my kids. One Friday night in August 2002, they were all at church for vacation Bible school and I wanted to go to the closing program. By now my leg wound had healed enough that I decided to walk the one block to our church rather than drive.

On the way I looked up into the wide Kansas sky, and for some reason, a deep happiness swept over me. I heard myself saying out loud, “Oh, Martin—you were the best! You were the best!” I don’t know whether or not people in heaven can hear our comments here on earth. They probably have better things to do with their time. But if Martin was listening, I just wanted him to know how I felt. He was simply wonderful.

The special people God gives us along the way make us stronger to face the trials of an ugly world. Obviously, I never expected to face something of this magnitude. But I thank the Lord for helping me to endure it. I honor the legacy of a wise and godly man who kept me going, trail after trail, gun battle after gun battle. I value the efforts of all who worked so hard to get me out alive. And I resolve to keep living in the embrace of God’s gladness and love for as long as he gives me breath.

23

But God Meant It for Good

(Fall 2009)

So much has happened in the years I’ve been home.

I’m glad to report that my leg wounds healed very quickly. Within a few weeks I was off the crutches and back to normal walking. As far as health goes, I had the most trouble getting the tropical amoebas out of my digestive tract. One medicine made me severely nauseous, so I stopped taking it. Eventually someone gave me a dietary supplement that helped solve the problem.

In the jungle, I used to console myself with every woman’s fantasy:
I’m sure I must be losing an impressive amount of weight
. Well, would you believe that by the time my leg was strong enough for me to stand on a scale, I weighed the very same as the day I was captured? I was so bummed.

It turns out that all the exertion carrying mortars up and down the hills had burned fat but also developed muscle, which weighs more. I had certainly lost some inches, but no pounds.

The joy of my newfound mobility was immediately put to use. One summer morning about nine-thirty or ten, I got a sudden craving for a sweet potato. So I walked the three blocks over to the IGA and bought one. I brought it home, boiled it, slathered it with butter and brown sugar, and then sat down to have my feast! My kids thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care.

A far more serious need at the beginning was finding a place in Rose Hill to live. Of course, Paul and Oreta Burnham, Martin’s parents, would have let us live with them forever. But I knew we needed to be on our own eventually. In the back of my mind, I thought maybe we could buy a modest trailer house.

Then came a letter from a local man named Steve McRae. He said he wanted to do something in Martin’s honor. Plant a tree? That didn’t seem big enough. What about the whole community coming together to build us a house? Would I be interested?

Oh, my. This was far beyond my wildest dreams. But the project began to take shape, and before I knew it, plans were drawn for a brand-new, nine-room home to be erected on a corner lot in the middle of town. People began donating supplies, cash, and time for what was dubbed “Gracia’s house.” It was overwhelming. We moved in the following February.

Meanwhile, a similar bolt out of the blue happened regarding a vehicle. Parks Motors in the nearby town of Augusta called to say, “Guess what—the Dodge dealers association of Kansas has decided to give you a van. In fact, it’s sitting right here now on our showroom floor. Come on over and have a look at it. If you don’t like the color, we’ll reorder.”

I was speechless. With no effort on my part, I was suddenly the owner of a brand-new Grand Caravan with all the bells and whistles.

When I had first arrived home from the Philippines, I had occasionally pictured Martin up in heaven, pulling on God’s sleeve and saying, “Don’t forget to look after Gracia and the kids. See what they need. Do you think you could provide that for them?”

Now I realized that the God of the universe didn’t need reminders of what to do. He knew me and what I needed. He loved me. He bought my salvation. I began instead to think of God pulling on Martin’s sleeve and saying, “Watch this! Look what I’m going to do for Gracia now. . . .”

The Lord has continued to supply our needs to this day, allowing me to concentrate on my mothering without financial worries. The three kids began receiving Social Security checks, of course, due to their father’s death. A number of our longtime donors have continued to support us, since I’m still on the roster of official New Tribes Mission representatives. The occasional speaking honoraria and book sales pay to keep an office going. God has blessed me with a wonderful assistant, Lynette, to manage phone calls and mail, which can be very heavy. God also brought along a retired pastor and his wife, Jack and Joyce Middleton, to handle booking matters. These three people have been a tremendous help, and I don’t know what I would do without them.

The Kids

Probably the most common question I get these days is, “How are the kids?”

Well, they’ve grown up on me! Jeff graduated from Rose Hill High School in 2005 and already knew he wanted to become a pilot like his dad. Martin had promised to teach him to fly when he turned fifteen—but of course, that didn’t happen. He ended up learning through other instructors, and the mission gave us the old Piper Super Cub that Martin used to fly on the field, which was due for retirement. Some missionary colleagues refurbished it beautifully.

So when Jeff left that fall for Liberty University in Virginia, I ended up driving across the country with all his stuff, while he flew the plane to college. Soon the university gave him a part-time job teaching in the aviation program, which paid his tuition bills. By the time he graduated four years later, he had climbed all the way up to a Multi-Engine Commercial certificate and Flight Instructor Instrument rating—the same achievements that took Martin many years. I’m so proud of my firstborn son.

He didn’t spend all his time in the hangar or cockpit, however. Along the way during college, he told me of his intentions to marry another MK (missionary kid) named Sarah Neu. I knew her family and felt great about her character and commitment to the Lord—but, my goodness, these kids were still awfully young. Jeff would be walking down the aisle at nineteen, while Sarah would be even younger.

“You know, Son,” I said, putting on my wise-mother persona, “the culture here in America is that you get your schooling out of the way, you save some money for a down payment on a home or whatever—and then you get married. That’s the way things are done here.”

He stared me down with a serious expression. “Is that in the Bible anywhere?” he asked.

“Well, Jesus did talk about counting the cost before starting to build a house. You’ve got to be able to support a wife.”

“Oh, I can do that,” he affirmed with utmost confidence. “My teaching job is enough for us to live on. But here’s the deal:
If I don’t marry Sarah, someone else will
.”

I sat there thinking about the American divorce rate. Did our culture really have this all figured out? How could I truly object if Jeff believed God wanted him to marry Sarah? Her parents married young and have had a full life serving as missionaries.

The wedding—on May 27, 2006 (the fifth anniversary of our capture)—turned out to be wonderful. Ever since, this young couple has done so well. They’re saving money and following God’s direction the best they can. Will they end up working overseas in mission aviation? Time will tell. For the moment, Jeff continues to train young pilots at Liberty. He and Sarah are expecting my first grandchild in early 2010!

Meanwhile, Mindy finished high school early in December 2006 and headed off to a two-year program at New Tribes Bible Institute near Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She wanted a place that would provide good Bible instruction without putting her into major debt. The school has been a great fit for her.

She, too, discovered the love of her life while studying—another MK named Andy Hedvall, who grew up with his parents in Paraguay. Again, I was pleased with the selection. I did give him a hard time when he first called me to ask permission to date Mindy, however. I said, “Well, you know, Martin used to tell the Abu Sayyaf in the jungle, ‘I have to get home, because I have a daughter [who was twelve back then]. Someday boys are going to come around looking for her, and I need to be there to check them out.’ And the Abu Sayyaf would always say, ‘Yes, yes, that’s very important. Don’t worry—this will be over soon.’

“So, Andy, you have to make sure that Martin would approve of how you treat his daughter!”

In a somber and respectful voice, he answered, “Yes, ma’am. You have nothing to worry about.”

Mindy and Andy will do well together. I am not worried about them. Andy is extremely relational, and I trust him with my daughter.

Zachary, my youngest, is the most like Martin. Sometimes I hear him in the other room laughing about something, and it’s as if I’m listening to his father. He loves the Lord and isn’t afraid to talk about him.

Zach finished high school in May 2009 and chose to take classes at a nearby community college. After hearing his great bass voice, the school gave him an impressive scholarship. And he gets to keep living at home for now.

Someone asked me not long ago, “As you look at your three kids, can you see any residual damage from being snatched away from their parents for thirteen months and then losing their dad in a violent, unnecessary death?”

I honestly cannot. All three of them continue to embrace life with a positive attitude. They love me, they love God, and they love each other. Both Jeff and Mindy are now starting to take speaking invitations from youth groups, women’s luncheons, and the like. They excitedly call me afterward to tell me how it went.

At the Podium

Public speaking has become a steady part of my life, too, even though I never considered it to be one of my gifts. I expected some invitations at the beginning, of course. The odd thing is, I’m as busy now as I was when I first got home. I counted up my engagements in the most recent complete year and found I had spoken (or given media interviews) well over a hundred times.

It seems like I keep getting invited to places I don’t belong! Beyond churches and seminaries, I’ve spoken at veterans’ organizations, cancer support groups, music concerts, jails, universities, philanthropist conferences, political rallies—even a yacht factory in Florida. One Rotary Club asked me to address “Terrorism in Asia: What’s Being Done about It and What Is Its Future?” I took one look at that forbidding title and murmured,
Like I know that?

So I massaged the assignment and gave it a new title, “The Future of the Abu Sayyaf,” which I felt a little more competent to address. I set some background at the beginning and then told some jungle stories to establish my credibility. Eventually I said, “You know, there’s a statement in Scripture that relates to this group of terrorists. It says, ‘At the name of Jesus every knee [will] bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord’ (Philippians 2:10-11,
TNIV
). I believe that someday that prediction will come true.

“Interestingly enough,” I continued, “the future of the Abu Sayyaf is also your future.
Your
knee will bow,
your
tongue will acknowledge who Jesus is as well. The question is whether you and I will do so voluntarily or not.”

I have found myself more than once at the podium of a conference on victims of crime. The planners seem to think I’m a poster child for that kind of event. In such settings, I do not rail against law enforcement, demand better access to justice, or call for harsher sentencing. Instead, I talk about forgiveness. “It’s not something we do for the benefit of the other person,” I say. “It’s for you and me. None of us was meant to carry a weight of resentment and anger. We have to give it up to God, or it will crush us over time.”

In front of these audiences, I also compliment the victims’ advocates for the good work they do. I’ve seen it firsthand. These are caring people who try to help a victim get through a horrible situation. After speaking I’ve even had government employees come up to me to say they’re Christian believers—and they’re going to be more bold to integrate their faith in what they do. “That’s what will help a victim most,” they say.

When I’m speaking to an openly Christian audience, I sometimes quote Ted Turner, the founder of CNN and one of the globe’s biggest landowners. He was raised in a Christian environment but has openly turned against it. His line is this: “Christianity is for losers.”

My response: And your point is? I’m not offended by the crack at all. We all have needs; we all need crutches. When a high school football player gets hurt during Friday night’s game, he shows up at school Monday morning on crutches. Nobody laughs at him. Everybody knows he needs the help.

For some of us today, our careers are our crutches. Or our nice families. Or our good looks. Or our money.

In fact, Christianity is more than a crutch; it’s a stretcher. It carries us where we can never hope to go on our own power. On that last rainy afternoon in the jungle, when the gunfire finally stopped, I didn’t try to drag myself up the hill to the helicopter. I was more than willing to receive the help of someone’s
malong
to wrap me up and support me. I thanked God for sending me assistance.

If I’m speaking to young people, I challenge them to consider going to the hard places of the world. “The easy places already have missionaries,” I tell them. “It’s the hard-to-reach, isolated places that are left. Some three thousand language groups have never had an outsider come tell them
anything
—they don’t know the value of clean drinking water, let alone the gospel of Jesus.”