Interlude (16 page)

“So I guess Shapiro's the hatchet man.”

“Either that or somebody changed Nichols' mind.”

“Like who?”

Betty had never mentioned Mike Brody to Jim. She hadn't wanted to discuss his role in her life for several reasons—most notably because she enjoyed the secretive aspect of their conversations. “Jim, would the CIA have any reason to stop us from shipping milk to children?”

Jim looked at her completely bewildered. “The CIA? What are you talking about?”

“Jim, there's a guy who calls me from Washington every now and then. He's never really said who he is, except that he works for the government. He's asked me all kind of questions about Jon.”

“What kind of things is he asking you?”

“Well, the latest question is whether Jon has ever been involved in drug trafficking.”

“What?” Jim lunged forward in his chair. “Jon? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! I've known Jon for years, and he's as straight as an arrow. Who is this guy?”

“His name is Mike Brody.”

“So did you tell him about the milk and Nichols?”

Betty was troubled by the truth on two counts. For one thing, she had told the Nichols story for the sole reason of impressing Mike. But the other reason disturbed her even more. She had clearly heard a warning in her mind—three times—and she had ignored it.

“Jim, I shouldn't have told him. I knew better. But I did it anyway. Do you think he aborted the Nichols deal for some reason?”

Jim turned slowly around in his chair and looked out the window. “Betty, I'm going to tell you something. I think that a lot of people involved in international travel for business are approached by the ‘Company' at some time or another. Chances are, we don't even know who we're talking to when it happens. But they're pros—they have a way of finding out what they want to know, whether we mean to tell them or not.”

“But why would the CIA want to stymie a humanitarian effort?”

“Maybe it conflicts with some sort of sanctions that the government is quietly enforcing. Maybe there's some other deal in the works that might get compromised. Or maybe they just don't want amateurs getting in the way.”

“Yeah, I can still hear O'Ryan saying, ‘Leave it to the professionals.' But, on the other hand, maybe Mike didn't say anything to Nichols and it's just a coincidence.”

Jim nodded. “My guess is we'll never know. But shake it off, Betty, and be thankful for the $5,000. That's a pretty respectable donation when you think about it.”

“It's not much milk, Jim.”

“No, it isn't, and you'd better get on the phone and cancel some of the shipment. At least until we hear from Ricky Simms. He's still in the picture isn't he?”

Betty brightened a little. “You're right. I forgot about him. I was so upset with Shapiro's call. I'm sure those guys will come up with something. Ricky Simms said they would himself.”

Jim smiled kindly at Betty. “So did Arthur Nichols . . . ”

“Oh, don't say that!”

“Betty, you've worked hard on this project. But remember, when it's all said and done, the Lord will take care of it. We've got to leave it in his hands. The way I see it, every $3,000 we raise will send one cargo container of dry milk into Beirut, including shipping. That's a lot of milk they wouldn't have had otherwise.”

“But a couple of containers of milk isn't going to impress Fadlallah much, is it?”

“We'll do all we can, and we won't worry about the rest, Betty.”

Betty's pride in her fund-raising expertise was badly bruised. “I sure don't want to do anything to hurt OMI, Jim. This could be embarrassing for you. You've done so much for me.”

“Betty, OMI doesn't win or lose in this proposition. Nobody knows anything about it, and there's nothing in it for us, anyway. We're just doing it to try and help Jon.” Jim stopped a moment and studied Betty's weary face. “And frankly, Betty, I just want you to know how much we love you too.”

Betty's eyes misted.
Just when you thought you couldn't trust anybody . . .

“Jim, tell me the truth. How much money do you think we'll get from the Simms ministry?”

Jim smiled shrewdly, rubbed his palms together and looked out the window. “What'd he say he'd raise . . . $500,000?”

“Half a million, he said.”

“I say we‘ll be lucky to see $5,000.”

“What? $5,000? How can you say that?”

Jim laughed at her horrified expression. “Well, you asked me, didn't you? Maybe I'm wrong. But do me a favor and don't write any $500,000 checks just yet. Okay?”

7

T
he African sky was boiling with clouds. Distant thunder rumbled. Rain splattered here and there in coin-size drops. And there was Betty with Jon—walking arm-in-arm with him, laughing with him, looking into his eyes.

They had found their way from the city streets of Kampala to the outlying villages, where red mud clung to their shoes and chickens scurried out of the way as they passed.

Jon was whispering to Betty, lightheartedly quoting the first line of a favorite sonnet: “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments . . .”

They both knew Shakespeare's words and were planning to recite them at their wedding. Jon had just taken Betty into his arms, smiling into her eyes, when she awoke.

Where was she? Where was Jon? No, she reasoned dimly; it was thundering in Pasadena and Jon was nowhere to be found. Wishing she'd never awakened, Betty glanced at the clock. It was 2:36 in the morning. She closed her eyes, hoping somehow to recapture the wonderful dream where she'd left it.

No such luck,
she grumbled silently, cocooning herself in blankets.
But at least I can remember his face a little better now.
Every time she dozed off, another clap of thunder awakened her.

After several minutes of unsuccessfully trying to be comfortable, Betty got up, turned on a light, and planted herself in her chair to wait out the storm. She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the exact contours of Jon's face.

His looks had always delighted her. He wasn't the kind of man that women turned to admire, but his features were pleasing and he had a fine web of laugh lines around his eyes that made him appear warm-hearted and approachable. Impulsively, she jumped up and grabbed his picture off the bureau. She studied it, trying to retain the dream image a little longer.

“Jon,” she whispered to the picture, “I'm so sorry, but I can hardly remember you.”

What was it that had made her love him in the first place? It wasn't really his looks—that had come later. It was something else, something indefinable that had linked them almost instantly. Her mind drifted back to their first meeting in Jim's office. Nothing especially prophetic had been said right then. It was . . .

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.

Betty sighed. Was theirs a “marriage of true minds?” It had always seemed so. The more she'd gotten to know Jon, the more she'd loved him. And he had responded to her with great warmth and delight. But now, with him unreachable and untouchable, such age-old questions as “What is love?” and “Why do we love each other?” found their way into her thoughts, followed by deeper concerns.

Did he leave me because deep down inside he didn't want to go through with the wedding? Was he secretly hoping he wouldn't make it back? Why didn't I insist that he stay here?
Why didn't I stop him? What a fool I was!

Lightning and thunder punctuated her reverie and scores of troublesome issues remained unanswered. She tried to remember bygone conversations in which Jon had assured her of his commitment, but past words seemed meaningless. She needed to know how he felt right now. Had his imprisonment changed him? Had he thought through the relationship and decided it was too risky to try marriage again? Was he relieved that they were still unwed?

Maybe it wouldn't have worked anyway.
The storm seemed to have abated. She got up, pushed open the curtains and surveyed the moon, as it broke through the clouds.
Maybe there's someone else for me, someone better, and God didn't want me to make a mistake.
She glanced at Jon's picture again, trying to remember.

But God seemed to be in it from the beginning.

In their first encounter they had been introduced to each other as writer and photographer, and Jon had asked to see her work. She had been faking her way through her first writing job and had nothing available whatsoever to demonstrate her talent to Jon. Nothing, that is, except for her poetry. Naturally she had assumed he would find it foolish. Fortunately he didn't. Not many weeks later, they had traveled to Uganda and Kenya together on a book assignment, and they were soon bound together inextricably.

Why did they love each other? As she had concluded a thousand times before, the bond was, quite simply, just there. They liked a great deal about each other's personality, physical appeal, intelligence, and spirituality. Betty felt Jon was her better, despite his protests. His accomplishments amazed her. But there was no explanation for their emotional connection. And because Betty could not understand it, nothing assured her that it would survive.

“God, is he the man you want me to marry?” She murmured the prayer and then wished she hadn't. What if God said no? But, on the other hand, what if she married the wrong man and got into another unhappy union?

Her limbs ached with weariness as the never-ending puzzle swirled around inside her. She reached for a devotional book and looked up the day's date. “More than conquerors!” the text began. “Right,” she mumbled.

She closed the book, picked up her Bible, and began to thumb through it.
Love. Song of Solomon is about love.
The pages rustled as she turned them. Her eyes were bleary, but part of the ancient poem provided a conclusive end to her ponderings.

Place me like a seal over your heart,
Like a seal on your arm;
For love is as strong as death,
Its jealousy unyielding as the grave.
It burns like a blazing fire, like a mighty flame.
Many waters cannot quench love;
Rivers cannot wash it away.
If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love,
It would be utterly scorned.

Betty closed the book. So, according to old King Solomon, love could outlast anything. She couldn't help but smile.
He ought to know. He had about two thousand wives.

She shook her head, wondering again why Jon had left her. Regretting that she had let him go. Lamenting that their dream had come to this. Doubting whether all things really did work together for good. Questioning God's compassion. Picking up a pen, she sighed in resignation, wrote four lines of verse on the back page of her Bible, and returned to bed.

To sad-eyed Regret
Faith cannot be wed.
When one is alive,
The other is dead.

When she walked into Overseas Ministries, International the next morning Jim was waiting for her, a sly smile on his face. “Come on into my office, Betty. I want to show you something.”

She sat down across the desk from him, and Jim handed her a check. It was from Ricky Simms Ministries, in the amount of $3,956.20.

“What's this?”

“Well, the way I read it, I think this is Ricky Simms' $500,000 check.”

Betty stared at Jim. “But he said he'd give us everything, after expenses Jim. How many expenses could there have been? I flew to Texas—that's maybe $600, including hotel. They had to produce the program. That's . . .”

“Betty, stop. You can't figure it out mathematically!

Ministries do this to each other all the time.”

“But it's dishonest!”

“Not to them. Not by the time they've rationalized it and explained it to each other in half a dozen different ways.”

“But Jim, there's no way to justify this. You and I both know that Simms has millions of viewers, who always empty their pockets for him! You should see his offices and studios. Believe me—they spare no expense when it comes to their own operation.”

Betty's eyes began to burn with angry tears. “He used me,” she said quietly.

“Of course he did. But we used him too.”

“But he wanted to help.”

“He did help. He just didn't come up with quite as much money as he said he would.”

“I guess not!” Disappointment and anger gripped Betty. “I've completely failed, Jim. And I feel like I've been betrayed, at least in part by people in Christian work who should know better!”

By now Jim wasn't smiling. “Betty, in a way I've let you down in this. I didn't want to throw cold water on what you were doing, but I really didn't expect much more than we got out of Nichols or Simms.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Like I said, I didn't want to throw cold water on your project. I've been around this kind of work for twenty-odd years. And when people promise me things, I just smile, say thank you, and wait to see what happens.”

“Well that's fine with guys like Arthur Nichols or the CIA or whatever. But Christians are supposed to keep their word. And what about faith, anyway? I thought God was going to help us.”

Betty started to cry and got up to leave.

Jim spoke softly to her. “Betty, sit down. Don't blame God for the weaknesses of people. We aren't supposed to trust people. We're supposed to trust Him.”

Harold Fuller's Christmas Psalm echoed in Betty's mind. “It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man . . .”

Betty looked up at Jim, her eyes red and wet. “So what about the milk for Lebanon?”

“Well, we've got more than $8,000. That's almost three containers, isn't it?”

“That's nothing, Jim.”

“It's not ‘nothing.' It's the best we could do under the circumstances. And, like I told you before, that's all God requires of anybody. Send a fax overseas and tell them to ship three containers.”