In the Presence of My Enemies (8 page)

“Well, they really need us in the Philippines,” Martin replied, unflustered. “If we get the cash for the tickets, we’re going to go. We’ll figure out the monthly support later.” That was just how Martin thought. He had seen the Lord supply for his family time and again while growing up in the Philippines, so he didn’t feel it was presumption on his part to make such a statement now. In his heart, he just knew. Martin’s confidence and faith in God were so strong, they were contagious. I had no worries or concerns.

We didn’t hear from Jack after that, so we made other contacts. Back in Mississippi, the young-couples Sunday school class that Martin had taught got inspired to help. “We are going to try to take care of your tickets to get to the field,” they said when they called us. (Those tickets cost around two thousand dollars.) “You pray for us—we’ve never done anything like this before. But we’re going to have some spaghetti suppers and garage sales, and see what we can do.”

A week later, they called back with even more exuberance. “We not only have money for your tickets, but we have enough money for you to ship your stuff!”

Whoa—it was clear our pledge was being kicked into gear, ready or not. We thanked them profusely, and as soon as the money arrived, we took a deep breath and purchased our tickets for February.

When Pastor Middleton heard what was happening, he called an emergency meeting of his church’s missions committee about a week before we left. He asked us to make a special appearance to explain our vision.

When we finished, they said, “Hey, we really want to support you. We just thought we had plenty of time to make our decision.” By the end of the evening, they had put themselves on the line for a monthly sum. We thanked them and went back to packing.

We found that, generally, as soon as people knew we had our tickets and were really going, our support picked up. When we got to the field, it picked up even more, and we always had what we needed. I’m not advocating this approach for anyone else. I’m sure there are other valid ways to fund missionary work. But this is the way God chose to work for us.

We were set to leave for the Philippines on the very day that President Ferdinand Marcos had to flee the country. The Filipino people decided they’d had enough of dictatorial rule and came out in droves to overthrow him. Because of the unrest, our travel agent called to say our flight had been canceled but rescheduled for two weeks later. Here we were, “all dressed up and no place to go.”

We passed the two weeks enjoying more time with relatives, and soon enough, the day of departure arrived again. A small group gathered at the Wichita airport—my parents, various relatives, friends from local churches. I must say that I handled good-byes very well that day. In my mind I pretended that I’d see these folks again the following week, so I didn’t need to indulge in tears or drama.

But when we got on the Philippine Airlines flight at Los Angeles International Airport, the greetings to the passengers began in Tagalog instead of English. Suddenly tears began streaming down my face. I was truly leaving home, and I didn’t know when or if I would ever return. But then Martin held my hand, and I didn’t cry long.

When we stepped off the plane in Manila, the humidity nearly took my breath away. Walking into the terminal reminded me of times I had spent in the jungle house at the Wichita zoo—it was humid and very warm. Steve Roberts, New Tribes Mission’s chief mechanic, picked us up, and as we wove through traffic, there seemed to be no rules. The lines painted on the pavement meant nothing. I was thinking how brave this man was when, all of a sudden, a little kid walked out into five lanes of traffic and right in front of our car. I almost sucked my teeth down my throat. The little guy was just trying to sell newspapers!

After that drive, our New Tribes Mission guesthouse was a welcome haven. When we went to bed that night, I was totally wiped out. But about three-thirty in the morning, my eyes popped open—my first experience with jet lag.

As I lay there, I listened to the night noises in Manila. What was that I heard—roosters?
Why are there roosters in a city?
I wondered. Martin woke up soon afterward and explained to me that roosters are everywhere in the Philippines, not just on farms.

The next morning, it was time to get busy. We sat down with the business manager for some orientation. Charlie Breithaupt pulled out the agenda sheet and said something like, “Okay, mailboxes—well, Martin, you’ve been here before so you know how the mail system works. . . . Finances—you’ve been here before; you know how that works.”

I sat there hoping Martin had a good memory, because I was clueless.

Martin said, “Well, actually, I left here when I was just out of high school. You’d better back up and treat us like any other new couple.”

For the next couple of days we went through all the necessary orientation. They took us to get our Philippine driver’s licenses; we also had to stop at Immigration to be fingerprinted. But soon we were on our way north into the interior of Luzon Island, a seven-hour bus ride to a mission compound with an airstrip at Aritao.

The compound was located in a beautiful area. Our home was built up off the ground on stilts. We even had a bathroom inside the house and running cold water. Out on the veranda was a porch swing, my absolute favorite thing about the house. I knew it would be a wonderful place to sit and enjoy the beauty of the mountains and to watch the farmers plowing with their water buffalo in the rice fields down in the valley.

Very few missionaries live in communities like the one at Aritao anymore. It’s rare to find groups of houses all clustered together like that, but it was standard practice back in the 1950s when this one was built. Such a design can certainly be questioned for its “us-them” appearance. However, it does have some practical advantages. The missionary staff certainly communicates better since everyone’s so close. They also avoid sickness better because they’re living in a more controlled environment.

New Tribes Mission had three airplanes in the Philippines: a Super Cub, a Helio Courier, and a Cessna. The plane Martin began flying right away was a red-and-white Helio Courier. He was in the air almost immediately, tending to the needs of missionary families who worked with four different remote tribes on Luzon. He delivered everything from milk powder to eggs, meat, and fuel for refrigerators and stoves.

I had hardly had time to unpack in our little two-bedroom house before I took over the radio responsibilities. Twice a day—once at 7:00
A.M.
and again at 3:30 
P.M.
—I went through roll call and talked with each tribal station. If anyone had “traffic,” as we called it, meaning messages for anyone else, I made a list and then started matching up the parties like an old-time telephone operator. I also took grocery orders, medicine orders, requests for appointments, and flight needs.

I had never done anything like this before, but in a way it reminded me of my old days at Calvary Bible College, when I had had four bosses. I would be up to my ears in producing some document, and the president would walk by and say, “Oh, I have a chapel announcement—take this down . . . ,” and instantly I’d have to stop whatever I was doing and begin typing what he said. The phone would be ringing, and people would be coming in to see the chaplain or the dean—I was used to multitasking, I guess. I could tell already that’s how this flight program was going to be.

The other part of radio work was to “flight-follow” Martin whenever he was in the air. He called me every ten minutes or so with a position report, which I recorded in case of an emergency, so I’d know his last location. I also had to keep track of the weather by checking with the person at the destination. In other words, whenever he was in the air, I sat by the radio and never left.

To be quite honest, I loved it all. I settled right into it. We were instantly busy, and that’s what we wanted.

A friend of ours on the field once wrote a humorous letter to his financial supporters that we found gratifying. He said that if you ask a group of missionary kids, “What’s the grossest thing you’ve ever had to eat?” you will get all kinds of different answers, depending on the country where they’ve grown up. An MK from the Philippines will say one thing, somebody from Bolivia will say something else, somebody from the Congo something else.

But if you follow up with the question, “So how did you get it down the hatch?” the kids will all give you the same answer: ketchup!

And how do missionary kids and their families in remote areas stay well stocked on this vital substance called ketchup? Answer: the missionary pilot! Without his assistance, everyone would be in big trouble.

Martin’s initial fears that his flying ability would not be given full credit in the Philippines proved somewhat true at first, but people quickly were won over by his exceptional abilities as time and time again he put the Cessna down safely on airstrips as short as three hundred meters with trees crowding in on both sides. His skill was little short of amazing. He could stop a fully loaded plane on a dime, and sometimes he needed to do just that. I admit I’m an admiring wife saying this, but it really was true. And after he hopped out of the cockpit, people quickly realized how big a heart he had for tribal people and for the frontline missionaries trying to serve them. He knew that people who hadn’t talked to another English speaker in weeks just needed someone to hold a cup of coffee and listen.

Before long, Martin knew everything about every missionary. He knew who was struggling financially. He knew which husbands and wives weren’t getting along. He knew who was discouraged with language study because they weren’t catching on as fast as they had hoped. He saw the newborn babies. He got to congratulate MKs on their homeschool projects. He met villagers who had recently become believers.

Martin was the perfect person to hear it all. He just had a heart for everyone he came in contact with, and everyone who knew him loved him.

As for our own financial situation, we saw the Lord provide for us in amazing ways. Yes, there were times when we didn’t eat very well; there were times when we walked instead of taking Martin’s motorcycle. But we always had what we truly needed.

* * *

We had been at Aritao about six months when I gave Martin some very happy news one day: We were going to have a baby!

When I approached my due date in February 1987, Martin flew me to Manila, which had the closest hospital with a proper maternity department. We stayed at the mission guesthouse while we waited for the baby to arrive.

Martin was supposed to leave for a safety seminar in New Guinea, and the baby wasn’t here yet. Obviously, he didn’t want to be gone for the big event. My due date came and went.

A couple of days later, the Filipino doctor finally said, “You are starting to dilate. We’ll go ahead and admit you, and we’ll just induce labor and get this over with.” But although they gave me the drugs to induce labor, the baby still didn’t come and didn’t come. It was a long and painful day and we were all starting to get a little nervous.

After many hours, the doctor came in again, looked at me, and said, “We are going to help you.”

I didn’t quite know what he meant, but I soon found out. I was wheeled into the delivery room, and before I realized what was happening, two interns stepped up on either side of me—and basically pushed Jeffrey into the world! I had never had any Lamaze classes, but I’d done some reading about giving birth, and I remember thinking to myself,
I don’t think this is how you’re supposed to do it!

Thankfully, Jeffrey was fine and so was I. In fact, I felt so good we were ready to leave in less than twenty-four hours. Martin signed all the papers, paid our bill (I think it was around seventy-five dollars), and it was time to go.

“Where are my clothes to go home in?” I asked when he came to get me.

“Oops, I forgot them,” Martin replied. “Can’t you just wear what you have on?”

That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, especially in front of all the wealthy people who patronized this prominent hospital. But there wasn’t much choice. I ended up being wheeled out the front door in my bathrobe.

Of course, we didn’t have a vehicle in Manila, so we had to use a taxi. Martin went out to the street and waved down an old rickety taxi. The car had no air conditioner and was about to fall apart, but the driver was so proud on the thirty-minute drive to the guesthouse because he was taking an American home with his firstborn son! Martin gave him a big tip.

Oreta, Martin’s mother, came to Manila for the arrival of her first grandchild. Martin had to leave for New Guinea, but Oreta stayed and continued to take care of me while he was gone. She and I bonded more closely than ever during those days in the guesthouse; she served me wonderfully and taught me what to do with a newborn.

It wasn’t long, however, before we were back home in Aritao, a family of three. We could not have been happier.

5

Toddlers and Traffic

(1987–2000)

Jeff was still a tiny baby when a delegation of New Tribes missionaries from the southern island of Mindanao came to see us one day.

“We really, really need a flight program on our island,” they said. “There are eight families altogether—more than you have here on Luzon. Would you consider coming down and putting something together?”

Martin flew down to check out the prospects. He found, as we had been told, a place of rich natural resources but less development on this, the second largest island of the Philippines. It was a long way from the bustle and advantages of Manila. It was also closer to the Muslim minority population, which for decades had resented living under “Christian” domination, as they viewed it.

But the needs for aviation support were obvious. We began working toward a move, lining up a replacement for our present post, and rebuilding an airplane, a Piper Super Cub, for this new post. I helped out every chance I got, usually when Jeff was sleeping. The Super Cub’s surfaces are fabric rather than metal, and I enjoyed sewing the fabric onto the struts along with the other NTM missionaries. This kind of sewing is a two-person job, one on each side of the wing, so we had plenty of opportunity for talking and joking.