CHRISTIAN LEADERSHIP TRAINING PROGRAM CLTP 1--POWER & PROTECTION!--TRUE LIFE STORIES OF GOD'S HELP IN CRISIS!--PART 1 DFO
(Recommended reading for 11 years & up.)
Stories courtesy of "The Best of Guideposts"(Christian Leadership Training publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)
Table of Contents:
Introduction
1
Out of the Sky
2
I Saw the Hand of God Move
5
Adrift
7
The Dream that Wouldn't Go Away
10
Jump!
11
The Prayer that Brought Us Home
13
* DEFINITIONS: (Note: These definitions describe the words listed as they're used in these stories, & do not cover every meaning of the words.)
INTRODUCTION--BY MARIA FONTAINE
Day after day in our lives for the Lord, we witness miracle after miracle: Miracles of healing, of protection, of supply, of new souls won into His Kingdom. In fact, our whole LIFE is a miracle!--The wonderful inner changes the Lord performs in each one who receives Him, the way He gives us the desire to leave behind our old lives of selfishness & self-centeredness to dedicate ourselves completely to His service, & then the amazing things He does to KEEP us serving Him!--He continually does miracles to help, strengthen, guide & protect us!
We are not even aware of all the "behind-the-scenes" ways He mightily & supernaturally intervenes in our lives. When things go smoothly & well, & we're happy & healthy, protected & provided for, often we tend to take it for granted.--And when the Lord does a miracle that we can SEE, sometimes we hardly even take much notice or get excited about it as we should. We just say, "Praise the Lord! He did it!" & continue happily serving Him!
We have shared in our publications many testimonies of the wonderful miracles God has done for US. Testifying of these things builds our faith & gives wonderful proof of the Lord's miraculous care & protection. In this series on "Power & Protection", we are sharing MORE miracles.--This time, miracles that happened to people who were not serving & living for the Lord as we do, yet are still His children who belong to Him.
In performing miracles, God is not limited by people or circumstances. He hears the cries of His children everywhere & when the help they need is impossible any other way, He will provide it SUPERNATURALLY.
As far as WHY God does miracles, I believe all miracles, of course, affirm the Lord's Love & care for His children, but there are some that are for various other special purposes. Some He does for the UNBELIEVER, to show him that He is real, as a witness to help him believe in Him.
Other miracles, such as some of those in the following pages, He does for the BELIEVER who may even be doubting the Lord's Love & following afar off, to bring him back close to the Lord again. Miracles are often the Lord's way of trying to WOO someone BACK to Him, to RENEW their faith in Him & His Love. One way or another, such miracles are to give people more faith in the Lord, more trust in Him, & knowledge that He really does LOVE & CARE for them.
For us who are already LIVING for the Lord & SERVING Him, He also does mighty miracles for the same reasons of showing us His Love & care. However, in our case He has an even MORE important reason--to PRESERVE us for His WORK! Many of the miracles He does for us are because we're engaged in combat with the Enemy on his territory! So the Lord has to frequently intervene to help us DEFEAT the Enemy's attacks on us & to win a VICTORY over the Devil, so that we can continue our work of winning others to Jesus!
While you marvel at God's wonderful power manifested in these stories, & while your faith is thereby strengthened to believe God for whatever miracle YOU need in YOUR life, also be sure to LEARN from the MISTAKES that some of these people made that caused the desperate situations that REQUIRED a miracle. In His mercy, God certainly will do miracles to get us out of scrapes that we have gotten into by our own foolishness, but He PREFERS to do miracles to get us out of trouble that we did NOT bring upon ourselves through our own mistakes or foolishness.
So let's try to make it EASY for the Lord to care for us & HARD for the Enemy to hinder us by constantly staying CLOSE to the Lord & in the CENTRE of His Will! Even then we'll still need lots of miracles in our warfare against the Enemy, but we will be working WITH the Lord instead of AGAINST Him! We will be making it as easy as possible for Him to PROTECT us & CARE for us, instead of hindering His Work through our foolishness, carelessness & disobedience, to the point that He has to do a MIRACLE to get us out of the MESS that we've gotten ourselves into & created for those around us.
In some of the following stories, you will see how the people involved made it easy for accidents to happen. They did things like going off by themselves without letting others know where they were going, leaving children alone in an apartment, or engaging in activities that can be dangerous, such as sailing or flying in a small airplane. Yet the Lord STILL miraculously helped them, even though it caused a lot of trouble & concern for all those involved.
Whatever the purpose, ALL miracles show God's Love & care for His children! They give people more trust & faith that the Lord will take care of them.
God bless you! We pray the following stories will be a strength & inspiration to you! We love you!
OUT OF THE SKY--BY STEVE DAVIS
Visibility was less than marginal the afternoon of November 17, 1976. Not one of us sitting around the flight business office at Hunt's Airport in Portland, Texas, would have bet more than a dollar that a plane could get through to land. No one counted on the little Cessna 172 that came barreling out of a sky as dark and choppy as lentil soup. And I couldn't have imagined how it would change my life forever.
I had awakened that morning feeling pretty pleased with myself. One year before, when I had arrived from North Carolina, my life savings easily fit into my pocket. But now, at twenty-three, I had it made--or so I thought, I was a flight instructor with my own thriving flight school and three airplanes of my own. One of my first Texas students had been a beautiful young woman named Linda Peters, who was now my girlfriend. I had more money than I needed. That day I was so self-satisfied that I didn't even mind that it was too cold and rainy to do any flight instructing. "Northerners" often hit southern Texas, but they blow on through within a couple of days.
Bad weather for flight instructing is perfect weather for indulging in a little "hangar flying," some talking with the boys. So I pulled on my bomberjacket and drove over to the Chicken Shack to pick up lunch for the boys: Jess, the retiree who did our books; Ray; and A.A., who in his sixties, was finally learning to fly. By the time I got back it was drizzling and so foggy I couldn't even make out Corpus Christi across the bay. Only instrument-rated pilots could fly in this weather, and they would have to fly into the bigger, tower-controlled Corpus Christi International.
But inside, the atmosphere was jovial*. I put out the chicken, and we all sat round on the fraying vinyl furniture and jawed* a bit, telling tall tales and patching the World's woes. Jess and Ray went on ribbing* A.A. for taking up flying so late in life.
"Well, better late than never," A.A. said. "Not like Steve. To hear him tell it, he could fly before he could walk."
"That's right," I agreed. "My mom and dad said the only time I would sit still was in an airplane with them." And I told them how I had spent most of my childhood in Mexico, where my dad had been a missionary pilot. As I talked I could see myself as a ten-year-old in shirt sleeves, riding along dusty roads with my dad to the airstrip outside of Guadalajara. How often I had pictured turning the corner and rumbling up to the most beautiful sight in the World--our Fairchild 24. A hunk of junk, really, an old tail-dragger my dad bought for $300. He had hung a radial engine in it--an old round one with lots of horsepower. Nice and noisy.
"Let's load 'er up, Steve!" Dad would call, and we would put in as many crates of supplies as the plane could carry. Then we would strap in. There wasn't a takeoff that didn't scare--and thrill me--to the bottom of my sandals. Then we would be up in the open skies, flying over villages and rain forests and mountain ranges.
"I think I'll take a few winks, Steve. Hold 'er steady," Dad would say, and he would doze off--or pretend to--while I had held course and altitude. Then he would set her down in some mountaintop village that had been waiting for the supplies we were bringing.
The guys grunted their appreciation of the scene and I quit talking. But there was something there, in my past, that was gnawing at me, and had been for the past few months. As the others went on talking, I mentally stayed behind in that mountaintop village.
After we unloaded the supplies, Dad would gather the natives around, and tell them about Jesucristo, El Salvador (Jesus, the Saviour). I soaked up every word. Jesus Christ had been intensely real to me then. I even thought of myself as a missionary, and all I wanted to do was to grow up and be a man like Nate Saint, a pilot I had read about in a book my parents had given me. The book was "Through Gates of Splendor" by Elisabeth Elliot. It was the story of five missionaries, including Mrs. Elliot's husband, who were martyred by Indians in Ecuador in 1956. It was a moving story of faith and adventure, but the part I almost committed to memory was about my hero, Nate Saint, the young pilot who flew them on their missions. I admired him so much that when I held course for my dad, I'd imagine I was Nate Saint, flying much needed supplies to remote corners of the jungle. Soon, it would be me!
Just the memory of that time brought a catch to my throat. I'd been so joyful, so confident of God. I had had a faith like Nate Saint's, worth risking everything for. But somewhere along the line...what had happened to it? I lived in the "adult World" now--a World of doubts and conflicts and temptations. Since there was no one around to help me deal with these nagging* doubts, I found it much easier to ignore them. So I had quit worrying about Christianity and devoted all my attention to flying. But where my faith once had been, there was now a profound sense of loss. I felt empty inside.
Recently I had come across my old copy of "Through Gates of Splendor". I had tried to put the book away, but I couldn't shake the sadness that gripped me--because of Nate's death, because of my own loss of faith. Finally I stopped and said the first prayer I had said in years: "Now, wait a minute, God. Something tells me You're not real. I'd really like to know You the way I thought I did. I want to have the faith I used to have. But I just can't blindly accept that stuff I grew up with. If You'll let me know that You're real, I will serve You, but I've got to know. I can't pretend."
I didn't feel any answer to my prayer. In fact, I didn't feel anything at all. And that made me angry.
No, I'd thought. It's all a farce*. My boyhood hero, Nate Saint, wasted his life. He died for nothing.
The book had fallen open to the photo section, and I had looked at the picture of Nate's son, Steve, then five years old. That kid would probably be about my age now, I figured. Who knows? He is probably in worse shape spiritually today than I am.
In disgust and anger I had put the book away. Now, sitting in the flight business office on this stormy day, I was still angry.
I tried to shake those thoughts and get back into the conversation. Wouldn't the guys laugh if they knew I had been asking for proof from a non-existent God--and that I was all torn up inside because no answer was forthcoming?
"Wa-a-ll, we might as well close up," said Jess. "The rain's only getting worse."
As we all stood to start closing, Julio, one of Mr. Hunt's workers, stopped in. He liked to talk with me because I was one of the few folks around who was fluent in Spanish, his native tongue.
"Hola, Steve," he said. "Aqu viene un avin loco. (Here comes a crazy plane.)"
We looked out through the rain, and sure enough, a little Cessna 172 was dropping out of the sky toward the airstrip.
"Nice day for a little scud-running*," laughed A.A. But we all breathed a sigh of relief when the plane touched down safely and taxied in.
"Probably drug runners," decided Ray. "What other business would have you out flying on a day like this?"
A few minutes later the pilot and the passenger swung the door open and came in, dripping. They were both young and clean-cut.
"Hello," the pilot started. "We barely made it in. I'm not instrument rated--I didn't think I was going to find an uncontrolled airport. Can we tie down? Is there a motel in town where we can stay and wait for better weather?"
"We're just closing," said Jess. "But yeah, you can tie down." A.A. and Ray were already heading out.
"There's a motel in Portland," I said. "If you hurry up, I'll wait and drive you over." I turned back to Julio to continue our conversation about the weather. "Este tiempo est malo. (This is bad weather.)"
"Y peligroso tambin. (And dangerous, too.)," agreed the pilot. "Yo no deba haber volado el avin con un da como este. (I had no business flying on a day like this.)"
The three of us had talked for a few minutes before I realised how odd it was that the pilot, a blond, blue-eyed American, was speaking fluent Spanish.
"Where'd you learn the language?" I asked.
"My parents were missionaries in Ecuador," he said. "I grew up there."
"Really?" I asked. "Did you ever hear of any of those missionaries who were martyred down there twenty years ago?"
"One of them was his dad," the passenger said.
"Really?" I pursued. "What's your name?"
"Steve Saint," he said.
The boy from the book!
All the air went out of me, like I had been punched in the chest. It was as if God had used that book to kindle my faith as a child, and now, when I had deeper questions, the boy in the book flew out of its pages and stood here before me!
But did he have any faith? Or was this a cruel coincidence?
It was minutes before I found my voice, but when I did, I tried to act nonchalant*. "If you guys want to save your motel bill, I live a mile from here. There's a couch you could stay on tonight."
"That would be great," said Steve.
Far into the night I talked with Steve and his friend, Jim. I wanted to find out what had happened to Steve.--Did he still believe in God?
When I discovered he had a strong relationship with God and that his father's death had strengthened his faith, I grilled* him mercilessly. Not once did I mention the book or my childhood. Instead, all of my questioning and anger spewed out toward Nate Saint's son. And he quietly answered each accusation with faith. The relief I felt at letting all of this out was enormous. After all these years I could finally express my doubts, because Steve Saint had a God big enough and real enough to handle them.
The next day the weather cleared. I stood alone on the runway after Steve and Jim took off. Everything at Hunt's Airport was the same, except me. Twenty-four hours after that physical--and spiritual--storm, I knew that God had answered my prayer in the most personal, loving way possible. Again I had a joy inside that even an airplane had never been able to produce.
There has been a change in Linda's life too. She also has a close relationship with Christ. We have been married for almost ten years now and have flown many missions to remote, impoverished* villages in Mexico and Central America. But as long as I live, I'll never forget that November day after Steve Saint took off, when I gazed again into the sky--the sky my prayer had sailed through, the sky my dad and Nate Saint and I had flown through, the sky out of which that little Cessna had come barreling. And I knew that through that sky over the horizon in Mexico and Central America, hungry villages waited for someone like Nate Saint--or me--to fly in with food, and a faith worth risking everything for. And, thanks to God, the faith again was mine.
I SAW THE HAND OF GOD MOVE--BY JOE STEVENSON
I have always believed in God. But over the years my beliefs about Who God is--and what He can do--have changed. It wasn't until my son was gravely ill that I learned you can believe in God and yet not know Him at all.
Know. Knowledge. Logic. When I was younger, those were the words I wanted to live by. As a child, I contracted scarlet fever, and this illness ruled out my ever playing sports or roughhousing around. The only real adventures I could go on were adventures of the mind. I read hundreds of books--and out of my reading I formed my strongest beliefs. I believed in logic*, in the mind's ability to put all Creation into neat, rational* categories.
At the same time, I was growing up in a strongly Christian family, and so I believed in God. But I insisted--and my insistence caused a lot of argument--that God Himself was also a Being bound by logic and His Own natural laws. I guess I pictured God as a great scientist. Miracles? No, God couldn't and wouldn't break laws in that way. When my family told me that Christianity means faith in a loving, miraculous God, I turned away and went looking for other religions--ones that respected the rational mind above all.
As I became a man, my belief in rationality helped me in my career. I became a salesman for the Bell System, and when I needed to formulate sales strategies and targets, logic unlocked a lot of doors on the way to success.
But other doors seemed to be closed. I felt dry, spiritually empty, and anxious. I tried meditation, E.S.P., and so on, but the emptiness increased to despair.
In utter defeat, I turned to God in prayer. His Spirit answered with, "I don't simply want belief that I exist. I want you--your will, your life, your dreams, your goals, your very being. And I want your faith, faith that I am sufficient for all your needs." My despair overcame my logic and I yielded all to Him. But just SAYING you have faith is not the same as HAVING it. In my mind, I still had God in a box.
Maybe that was why I never thought to pray when my oldest son, Frank, came home from first grade one day and said he didn't feel well. What would God care about stomach flu?
A doctor whom my wife, Janice, and I had consulted wasn't very alarmed about Frank's illness at first. "It's really not too serious," the doctor assured us, "just a bad case of the flu complicated by a little acidosis*. Give him this medicine and in a few days he will be fine."
But Frank wasn't fine--not at all. The medicine worked for a day or so, but then his symptoms--the gagging, choking, and vomiting came back more violently. His small, six-year-old frame was bathed in sweat and racked with convulsions. We checked him into the local hospital for further testing, but later in the evening, our doctor said the original diagnosis was correct. "He's just got a real bad case of it," we were told.
I went to work the next day fully expecting to take Frank and Janice home that night, but when I stopped at the hospital to pick them up, our doctor was there to meet me.
"I'd like to have a word with you two," he said, showing Janice and me into a private room.
"A problem, Doctor?" I asked.
"Further testing has shown our previous diagnosis was incorrect. We think your son has acute nephritis. It's a terminal* kidney disease..." He paused, and I could feel the blood running from my face. "But we've found that in children there's a good chance of recovery. Your son has a 90 percent chance of being as good as new."
But by ten o'clock the next morning, the news was worse. Sometime during the night, Frank's kidneys had failed. Janice and I rushed to the hospital again.
"X-rays show Frank's kidneys are so badly infected that no fluid will pass through them," we were told. "The odds aren't in his favour any more. If those kidneys don't start working within forty-eight hours, I'm afraid your son will die."
I looked at Janice, watching the tears well in her eyes as a huge lump formed in my throat. I took her hand in mine and slowly we walked back to Frank's room. We were too shocked, too upset to even talk. All afternoon we sat at Frank's bedside, watching, stroking his matted blond hair, wiping his damp forehead. The stillness of the room was broken only by the beeps and blips of the machines monitoring little Frank's condition. Specialists would occasionally come, adjust a few tubes, make some marks on Frank's chart, and then silently go. I searched their eyes for an answer, for some glimmer of hope, and got nothing. When our minister came to pray for our son, I could only cry in desperation.
Late that evening, after Frank was asleep, we went home. Friends were waiting with a hot meal, words of encouragement, and news of a vast prayer chain they had begun. And for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw in Janice's eyes the spark of hope that I had been looking for from the doctors all afternoon.
By the following morning, that spark of hope had ignited a flame of confidence in Janice. "I turned Frank's life over to God last night," she told me excitedly, before we were even out of bed. "I feel a real peace about what's going to happen, that God's Will is going to be done."
"God's Will?" I said angrily. "What kind of God makes little boys get sick? He doesn't care!" And I rolled over. Peace? God's Will? No, little Frank would need more than that to get well!
But my anger didn't stop me from trying to reason with God. All that morning, while Janice kept a hospital vigil, I begged and pleaded and screamed at God, daring Him to disprove my scepticism, trying to goad Him into action.
"Who do You think You are?" I shouted once. "Why are You doing this to my son? He's only six! Everybody says You're such a loving God--why don't You SHOW it?" I yelled until I was exhausted. Finally, convinced my arguments were falling on deaf ears, I took our other children to a neighbour and headed to the hospital, thinking this might be the last time I would see my son alive.
On the way, though, something happened. In the car, this Higher Being, this remote Power, this "unjust" God, spoke to me through His Spirit. I felt His presence, soothing my still-hot anger. And I heard His voice--gentle & reassuring. He reminded me that I had made a commitment to Him, that I had promised to trust Him with my life, my all. And He had promised to take care of me, in all circumstances. Take Me out of the box you've put Me in, He said, and let Me work.
By the time I parked the car, my heart was beating wildly. I sat for a few moments longer, and uttered but two words in reply to all that had happened: "Forgive me."
By the time I reached Frank's room, I knew what I needed to do as clearly as if someone had given me written instructions. There had been no change in Frank's condition, so I sent Janice home to get some rest. Then I walked over to Frank's bed. Placing shaking hands on where I thought his kidneys should be, I prayed as I never believed I would ever pray. "Jesus, forgive me for my ego, for trying to make You what I want You to be. If You will, heal my son, and if You won't, that's all right, too. I'll trust You. But, please, do either right now, I pray in Jesus' name. Amen."
That was all. There were no lightning flashes, no glows, no surges of emotion like the rushing wind, only the blip-blip-blip of monitors. I calmly sat down in a chair, and began to wait for God's answer. There was only one difference. For the first time in my life, I knew I was going to get one.
Within moments my eyes were drawn from the magazine to a catheter* tube leading from Frank's frail-looking body. That tube was supposed to drain fluid from his kidneys, but for nearly two days it had been perfectly dry, meaning Frank's kidneys weren't working at all. But when I looked closely at the top of the tube, I saw a small drop of clear fluid forming. Ever so slowly it expanded, like a drop of water forming on the head of a leaky faucet, until it became heavy enough to run down the tube and into the collecting jar.
This was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen--the hand of God, working. I watched the tube, transfixed, fully expecting to see another drop of fluid form. In about two minutes, I did. Soon, the drops were coming regularly, about a minute apart. With every drip, I could hear the Lord saying to me, I am and I care.
When the nurse came in on her regular half-hour rounds, she could barely contain her excitement. "Do you see this, do you see this?" she shouted, pointing to the collecting jar. "Do you know that this is more fluid than your son has secreted* in the past forty-eight hours combined?" She grabbed the catheter and raised it, saying she wanted to get every drop, then rushed off.
Within minutes she was back. Grabbing a chair, she sat down next to me and, excitedly, we watched drops of fluid run down the tube. We were both awed at what was happening. For half an hour we mumbled only short sentences. "Isn't God good?" she asked me once, and I nodded. When she finally got up to call the doctor, I went to call Janice.
An hour and a half later, one of the specialists assigned to Frank's case arrived. Taking one look at the collector, he told us that it was a false alarm, that the fluid was too clear. Anything coming from a kidney as infected as Frank's would be rust-coloured and filled with pus. No, he said, the fluid had to be coming from somewhere else. But I knew--Frank was well again.
By the next morning, more than 500 centimeters of the clear fluid had passed into the collector, and it continued as the doctors ran tests and X-rays to try to determine its origin. Finally, two days later, our doctor called us into his office.
"Joe, Janice, I think we've been privileged to witness an act of God. All the X-rays taken in the last two days not only show no kidney infection, they show no sign that there was even an infection. Frank's blood pressure and blood poison levels have also dropped suddenly. This is a definite miracle."
And this time I wasn't about to argue. At last I fully believed in a God Whose Love knows no bounds--not the bounds of logic, not the hold of natural laws.
Faith. That's what I now had...that and the knowledge that one's belief in God is essentially hollow if the belief isn't founded on faith.
ADRIFT--BY SANDY FEATHER-BARKER
Nothing, it seemed, could spoil that hot, windy day in June. At 10:00 a.m. my husband Joe and I pulled out of the driveway of our apartment in Gainesville, Florida, where Joe was studying for his master's degree in architecture. Trailing behind our camper-truck was our sixteen-foot sailboat. We were headed for Cedar Key on Florida's Gulf coast.
"Just think, a whole afternoon of sailing," I said. Gringo, our big cinnamon-brown dog, wagged his tail. Joe whistled. The day was starting so perfectly!
If anything at all threatened to mar* this outing it was the problem we had wrestled with for weeks. Joe would finish graduate school in a couple of months, and after that, life curled up into big question marks: Where should we settle? Which job should we take? I had worried till I was in knots. But now, as we bounced along the highway, I shoved aside my anxieties about the future. They could wait till we returned.
We arrived at the marina with the sun burning at high noon. As I stepped from the truck, a strong gust of wind squalled* through the parking lot. I gazed out at the choppy blue water. A few emerald islands dotted the bay, and beyond that, the Gulf stretched to the horizon, immense and awesome. A peculiar feeling swept through me. Not really foreboding, just uneasiness.
We threw a twelve-ounce bottle of water in the boat, strapped on bright orange life jackets, and slid our sailboat into the water. "Hop on, Gringo," I called. Within minutes the three of us were careening* out into the bay. I leaned over the side of our little turquoise boat to steady it against a fresh wind howling from the northeast.
Suddenly we slammed aground on a sandbar. I listened as the sand grated against the boat, hoping the centerboard* wouldn't be damaged. Without that slim, three-foot stabiliser that extends below the boat, we would lose practically all control.
"I'll shove us off," Joe yelled, pushing with an oar. Suddenly we broke free, Joe struggled to tack* to the deeper channel waters, but something was wrong. The boat sideslipped through the blue-green swells like a car without a driver. The centerboard was obviously damaged. I wondered how badly. We were sliding sideways out of the bay! There was only one last island between us and open sea. The shoreline was shrinking to a green strip in the distance.
"Joe! We're passing the last island!"
"Don't worry. We'll make it," he said. Joe...always the optimist.
But around the island, the wind was even wilder. With windswept water sloshing over the sides of our boat, we were being pitched from wave to wave. I grabbed for terrified Gringo. "Lord," I whispered, "I think we're going to need Your help!" But the wind seemed to tear the words away from my mouth.
Joe seized the anchor and threw it over. "Oh, no!" I screamed as the anchor line tore from its cleat*. The rope snaked overboard and disappeared forever.
"Got to get the sails down," Joe shouted over the wind, "or we'll be blown out to sea!" In our haste we did lower them, but we knocked a fitting* loose and lost the halyard* that we would need to raise the sail later.
We looked at each other in horrified silence. The only way we could hoist the sail again would be to lower the hinged mast to the deck and re-rig the line from its top. And that required a calm sea and no wind at all.
In desperation, Joe fitted oars into the oarlocks* and tried to row. It was hopeless. We reeled on like a toothpick in a torrent. Hours had passed & the sun was now sinking into a fading orange haze. Night was coming...darkness on the ocean. I looked back toward land. It was gone. We were lost, blown into the open sea.
Soon darkness surrounded us. Black waves crashed against the boat, showering us with cold water. I shivered in the night wind. Joe helped me wrap myself in the sails and we huddled in the cramped, decked-over cockpit area beneath the mast. The boat pitched so violently that we lashed ourselves & Gringo down with ropes to keep from going overboard. My body pounded the hard hull* of the boat till I ached.
Then seasickness struck. All night as we slid through the dark, twisted labyrinth* of water, I lay in agonising nausea. I wondered...was anyone, anywhere, looking for us?
As dawn filtered into a Sunday sky and the relentless* wind still blew, I looked out at the most terrifying sight of my life. Water. Everywhere. Like a jagged gray blanket, it stretched on forever. "Joe, where are we?" I asked.
"We're a long way out," he said grimly. "We were blown southwest."
The sun became a white-hot laser. I licked my parched lips.
"We'll have to save our water," Joe said, as he measured out a few sips. I drank, watching Gringo lick the salt water on the boat. How long could we last on twelve ounces of water in this heat?
Hours went by. I craned my neck, searching for an airplane. Not even a sea gull flew this far out. Our boat became a tiny, floating island of hopelessness. I remembered the anxieties of yesterday. What to do after Joe finished graduate school suddenly seemed such a small, petty* uncertainty.
The waves rolled by like the years of my life. Unconsciously, I laid my hand on Gringo's head. He turned his huge brown eyes up to mine. As I stared down into Gringo's eyes, something profound, yet simple, took place. I saw the look of trust. Trust that, despite everything, I was taking care of him, as always. And like an arrow, a thought came to mind: Why shouldn't I trust GOD just as Gringo was trusting me?
Across the board Joe was saying, "We're helpless. If only we could raise the sails again, but it's impossible with the wind and waves this rough."
The thought returned: Trust.
I spoke slowly, hesitantly. "Do you remember in the Bible when the Disciples were caught in a storm on the Sea of Galilee?"
Joe looked at me strangely. "Go on."
"Jesus calmed the wind and waves for them," I said. "If He did it for the Disciples, wouldn't He do it for us?"
So while the sun glowed low and golden on the ocean, we joined hands and prayed. "Please, Lord, we're trusting You to still the wind and water. Amen."
Three minutes passed. Four. Five. And then, in a moment so awesome I can still scarcely believe it, the six-foot swells melted into a sheet of still water. The wind stopped abruptly. There wasn't a ripple or a sound. Frantically we lowered the hinged mast to the deck and retrieved the line for hoisting the mainsail.
"It'll work now," Joe said, raising the mast.
Our sails fluttered in the still air. "Lord," I said, "we're ready. Please give us wind to blow us back east to shore."
As if the Creator's hand were moving across the sea, a steady wind began to blow. The sun hovered on the water. We were sailing away from it, east toward land! "Praise God," I rasped.
The moon rose in front of us. Since the wind was from the west, it was pushing us in the right direction & we had no need for our useless centerboard. For twelve hours, Joe clutched the rudder* and the line controlling the mainsail. We guessed we had been blown over a hundred miles out to sea. Yet, if this wind held, we could make land again.
As daylight approached, Joe neared complete exhaustion. We both collapsed in the tiny cockpit to sleep. When we awoke, the sea was a mirror of glass, the World an eerie vacuum of silence. The sails hung limp. What had happened to our east wind?
"What does it mean?" I asked. Joe shook his head. Gringo paced nervously. Fear mounted in me like a tidal wave. Was this the calm before the storm I had always heard about?
Oh, Jesus, You've brought us this far. Why have You left us here? I thought.
Trust Me, came the silent assurance.
Trust? Stranded, without land in sight, our water gone, our bodies near collapse, and maybe a storm coming. Suddenly, it seemed too much to ask.
Joe crawled into the cockpit in despair. Even Joe, the eternal optimist, knew. We had reached the end.
I stared at the sea, too desolate to cry.
"God," I whispered, "I was counting on You." I stopped, my breath suspended. For in the distance, coming over the horizon was a cross. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was still there. A breathtaking white cross! It seemed to be rising straight out of the water. Was I hallucinating? Seconds later a boat rose beneath the cross. It was a cross-shaped mast. Dear God! It was real! My breath came back in muffled little gasps. A dazzling white boat was plowing right at us.
"Joe," I called, hardly able to find my voice. "A boat!" Joe leaped up, his eyes incredulous. As it churned closer, Joe raised his life jacket to the top of the mast. I waved my arms wildly.
Soon, a fifty-one-foot yacht was before us. Up on deck, an astonished boy peered down at us. "What in the world are you doing way out here?" he called.
I burst into tears as a vacationing doctor and his family appeared on deck and helped us aboard. We gathered around their table below, while the doctor checked his charts.
He returned, shaking his head. "The course I set this morning on automatic pilot was eighteen miles off. An eighteen-mile deviation!--I can't explain it."
But I could. There in the safe, solid cabin of the doctor's boat, it all ran together. The calming of the ocean, the sudden east wind, then its abrupt ceasing, an eighteen-mile alteration on sophisticated* electronic navigation equipment--all this had made their big yacht and our little sailboat intersect exactly in the midst of endless time and water. God---powerful, ingenious, caring God--had been there through every uncertain hour. And now I knew I could trust Him with every uncertainty, including those small, worrisome anxieties about the future still waiting for us at home.
A few hours later a storm smashed into the Gulf, twisting the sea into savage ten-foot waves. Still in the doctor's boat, we were enveloped in the thundering sound of the storm. But in spite of the raging torrent, I was at peace. My future, like the sea, rested in very good hands.
THE DREAM THAT WOULDN'T GO AWAY--By George Hunt
Back when I was a young livestock rancher north of Roosevelt, Utah, the news, one cold November morning, reported that a California doctor and his wife were missing on a flight from Custer, South Dakota, to Salt Lake City. As a student pilot, I had just completed my first cross-country flight with an instructor, though I had only twenty solo hours.
Paying close attention to all radio reports on the search, I was very disturbed two days later by a newscast saying that Dr. Robert Dykes and his wife Margery, both in their late twenties and parents of two young children, were not likely to be found until Spring--and maybe not even then. They had been missing four days, and the temperature had been below zero every night. There seemed little chance for their survival without food and proper clothing.
That night before I retired I said a simple prayer for these two people I didn't know. "Dear God, if they're still alive, send someone to them so they will be able to get back to their family."
After a while I drifted off to sleep. In a dream I saw a red plane on a snow-swept ridge and two people waving for help. I awoke with a start. Was it the Dykeses? What colour is their plane? I didn't remember any of the news reports ever mentioning it.
I couldn't get back to sleep for some time. I kept reasoning that because I had been thinking of the couple before falling asleep, it was natural for me to dream of them. When I finally did go to sleep, the dream came again! A red plane on a ridge--but now farther away. I could still see two people waving, and could now see some snow-covered mountain peaks in the background.
I got out of bed and spread out the only air chart I owned. It covered a remote area in Utah--the High Uintas region, along the Wyoming-Utah border. The Dykeses' flight plan presumably had to pass over this range. I was familiar with the rugged terrain, for I had fished and hunted it as a boy. My eyes scanned* the names on the chart--Burro Peak, Painter's Basin, King's Peak, Gilbert Peak.
Again I went to bed. And again, incredibly, the dream returned! Now the plane was barely in sight. I could see a valley below. Then it came to me in a flash--Painter's Basin and Gilbert Peak! I rose in a cold sweat. It was daylight.
Turning on the news, I found there had been no sign of the plane and the search had been called off. All that day, doing chores around the ranch, I could think of nothing but the Dykeses and my dream. I felt God had shown me where those people were and that they were alive. But who would believe me and what could I do about it? I knew I wasn't really qualified to search for them myself. I knew, too, that even trying to explain my dream to my flight instructor, a stern taskmaster named Joe Mower, would have me laughed out of the hangar.
I decided to go to our small rural airport anyway. When I arrived, a teenaged boy who was watching the place told me Joe had gone to town for the mail.
The Presence that had been nudging me all morning seemed to say, "Go!" I had the boy help me push an Aeronca plane out. When he asked me where I was going, I said, "To look for the Dykeses." I gave the plane the throttle and was on my way.
Trimming out, I began a steady climb and headed for Uinta Canyon. I knew what I was doing was unwise, even dangerous, but the danger seemed a small thing compared to what I felt in my heart.
As I turned east near Painter's Basin, I was beginning to lose faith in my dream; there was no sign of the missing plane. The high winds, downdrafts, and rough air were giving me trouble in the small sixty-five-horsepower plane. Terribly disappointed as well as frightened, I was about to turn back when suddenly there it was! A red plane on Gilbert Peak, just as I had seen in my dream.
Coming closer, I could see two people waving. I was so happy I began to cry. "Thank You, God," I said over and over.
Opening the plane's window, I waved at the Dykeses and wigwagged my wings to let them know I saw them. Then I said a prayer to God to help me get back to the airport safely.
Thirty minutes later I was on the ground. When I taxied up and cut the motor, I gulped, for Joe Mower was there to greet me.
"You're grounded!" he hollered. "You had no permission to take that plane up!"
"Joe," I said quickly, "I know I did wrong, but listen. I found the Dykeses and they need help."
"You're crazy!" Joe said, and he continued to yell at me. My finding that plane in an hour and a half when hundreds of planes had searched in vain for nearly a week was more than Joe could believe.
Finally I turned away from Joe, went straight for a telephone, and did what I should have done in the first place. I called the CAP (Civil Air Patrol) in Salt Lake City. When they answered, I asked if there had been any word on the Dykeses' plane. They said there was no chance of their being alive now and that the search was ended.
"Well, I've found them," I said. "And they're both alive."
Behind me, Joe stopped chewing me out, his eyes wide, and his mouth open.
"I'll round up food and supplies," I continued to the CAP, "and the people here will get it to them as soon as possible." The CAP gave me the go-ahead.
Everyone at the airport went into action. Within one hour we were on our way. A local expert pilot, Hal Crumbo, would fly in the supplies. I would lead the way in another plane. I wasn't grounded for long.
Back in the air, we headed for the high peaks. Hal's plane was bigger and faster than the Aeronca I was in. He was flying out ahead and above me. When I got to Painter's Basin, at 11,000 feet, I met the severe downdrafts again. I could see Hal circling above me and knew he was in sight of the downed plane and ready to drop supplies. Since I couldn't go any higher, I turned around.
Back at the airport I joined a three-man ground rescue party, which would attempt to reach the couple by horseback.
Another rescue party had already left from the Wyoming side of the mountains. For the next twenty-four hours our party hiked through fierce winds and six-foot snowdrifts. At 12,000 feet, on a ridge near Gilbert Peak, we stopped. In the distance, someone was yelling. Urging our frozen feet forward, we pressed on, tremendously excited. Suddenly, about a hundred yards in front of us, we saw the fuselage of a small red plane rammed into a snowbank. Nearby, two people flapped their arms wildly.
Charging ahead, we shouted with joy. At about the same time we reached the Dykeses, the other rescue party was coming over the opposite ridge.
After much hugging and thanking, I learned what a miracle the Dykeses' survival was. They had had nothing to eat but a candy bar, and their clothing was scant*--Mrs. Dykes had a fur coat, but her husband had only a topcoat. The altitude made starting a fire impossible, and at night they huddled together in their downed plane, too afraid to fall asleep.
"We had all but given up, had even written notes as to who should look after the children," Mrs. Dykes said. Then, turning to me, she said, "But when we saw your plane, it was the most wonderful thing...our prayers answered, a dream come true."
"Yes," I said, smiling, suddenly feeling as Solomon in the Bible must have felt after he received a visit from the Lord one night in a dream (1 Kings 3:5-14).
My dream, like Solomon's, had occurred for a reason. In His Own special way, God gave me that dream in order to help give life to two others. Even in the most mysterious of ways, He had shown me He is always there, always listening. He had heard my prayers and the Dykeses' prayers and had answered all of us in His Own infallible* way.
JUMP!--By George Rivera
I was leaning under the hood of my car, starting to take out the carburetor, when a guy I knew came into the garage, laughing and joking around.
"Hey, man," he said, "you ought to go outside and check out the fire down the street. A guy jumped out a window and cracked his head on the sidewalk."
I pulled my head out from under the hood and looked at him. "I'm glad you're enjoying it," I said sarcastically, and frowned.
"Hey, don't get uptight. I was just kidding--no one really jumped." He shrugged his shoulders and sauntered* out.
He shouldn't talk like that, I thought. It's not right.
But then, not much was right, it seemed. I was a mechanic for the New York City Department of Sanitation, but I didn't go in that day--I thought I would work on my own car. My stomach was cramped and achy and I couldn't face the prospect of crawling under one of those filthy trucks, breathing in gas fumes and the stench of years of garbage hauling. A couple of times I had been sick and almost fainted. I had missed a lot of work because of my stomach, but all the doctors could recommend was that I get another job. Money problems, health problems ...nobody cared. And not far away a building was burning down.
I shut the hood of the car and put my tools away, thinking I had better go and see what was happening.
As I walked outside, I passed little groups of people standing around on the corners, drinking and high on drugs, though it was only 10:30 on a cold December morning. I had lived here in Brooklyn for ten years and had seen the neighbourhood change as people moved in and out so fast you couldn't learn their names. People remained strangers, not wanting to get involved in anybody else's problems.
My own brother had been stabbed to death in a senseless brawl on a street very much like this one. Jos had been my best friend. We went everywhere together. He made sure I went to church and took communion.
"The good die young," he used to say bitterly, trying to understand the cold World we live in.
Yet with God's help I had slowly come to accept his death. Still, a feeling of deep regret stayed with me. If only someone had cared enough to stop that fight...
Now, as I rounded the corner, I saw the smoking tenement building and a crowd of frenzied*, excited people in the street. Some were staring up at the top floor, shouting and waving their arms, and some were just standing there, crying helplessly. As I ran nearer I could see the reason for their terror. Two little girls were stuck on the fourth floor--the top floor. We could see their heads amid the choking black clouds that surged out of the window and I could hear their terrified screams--"Help! Help! Get us out!"
I felt as if they were my own kids--they just had to get out. "Has anyone called the fire department?" I asked a bystander. "Yeah. They should be here in five minutes."
That'll be too late, I thought, and ran into the entrance of the building. The heat was so intense I thought I would suffocate.
I ran outside again to see that a couple of teenaged boys had gotten a ladder. But it leaned pitifully inadequate against the building, not even reaching the second floor. Something had to be done fast.
Surprised at the hoarse, urgent sound of my own voice, I began screaming to the girls, "Jump! Jump! I'll catch you!"
"You're crazy, man," someone shouted at me. "They'll kill you if they land on you--that's a forty-foot drop! Wait for the fire truck!"
He must have thought that my five-foot-four, one-hundred-pound frame couldn't take the impact of catching the girls from such a height.
Then someone else said, "You could kill them, too, if you drop them or miss them--don't be a fool!"
But I ignored them both. There was no time to waste. I had felt how hot it was in that building and I could see the smoke getting thicker and thicker every second. "Jump! Jump!" I yelled.
The smoke was now so thick I could hardly see the girls--I doubted that they could see me either. "God," I prayed, "help them! Give those girls the courage to jump! Help me catch them, God! Send them straight into my arms! Give me the strength to catch them!"
Suddenly I spotted one of the girls hurtling down toward me feet first. With a tremendous thud the forty-five pound child crashed into my outstretched arms and chest. I buckled, but held on to her with all my might as we fell onto the sidewalk. Scrambling to my feet, I gave the girl into the hands of her neighbours. She seemed to be unhurt.
"Are you all right?" I asked her. Tearfully, she nodded yes.
I looked up at the window for the other girl. By now the smoke was so thick I could see no sign of her. "God guide her fall. Don't let me miss her," I prayed again. Something told me to move backward a few feet. "Now, you--jump!" I screamed. "I caught your sister! Don't be afraid!"
Up on the ledge, the girl stood still for a moment, crying, gazing blindly into the smoke. Then she jumped.
The impact of her sixty pounds, plummeting from forty feet, sent me reeling* once again back onto the sidewalk. But I held her firmly in my arms--I had caught her and she was all right.
We were helped to our feet by the crowd, everyone talking at once, asking, "Are you all right? Are you all right?" The two girls were in each other's arms, crying with relief. Flashbulbs went off in our faces. The reporters had already arrived, and a few minutes later the ambulances, fire trucks, and police came.
In the midst of all the excitement I felt sure and calm. I knew for certain, maybe for the first time in my life, that God was with me.
We were taken to the hospital and checked for injuries. The two little girls and myself were completely unhurt. I learned that their names were Pamela Polsunas, eight years old, and her sister, April, seven. They had been spending the weekend at the apartment of their mother's friend, who had left them alone for a few minutes while she went to a nearby laundry.
Except for a slight scratch on April's cheek, they had no cuts or bruises at all. It was miraculous. Sometime later I came across the verse, "The eternal God is thy refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms." (Deuteronomy 33:27) It answered my questions of how I could have caught those girls as they dropped from such a height, and where I got the strength and courage. Somehow I knew that underneath my own arms were the arms of the everlasting God, holding me, keeping Pamela and April safe.
Since that day things have changed for me. A lot of my bitterness has been taken away. Not because of all the attention I received--the story was on the radio and TV news and in all the papers--but because God showed me how much He cares for all of us. My health problems have cleared up and I have been able to work steadily. What I see on the streets and the hard times in my life that I remember--these things don't haunt me any more. I just try to do my best because I know that God will uphold me. He cares.
THE PRAYER THAT BROUGHT US HOME--By Faye King
Soft September rain was soaking into our good farm soil that Wednesday evening. I was sitting in my favourite recliner in the living room of our small frame home, my Bible in my lap. But the words were blurred. Across from me my husband, John, sat quietly in his green recliner, looking at one of our unexpected visitors. We had relaxed in our chairs many evenings since my husband had retired. Now I wondered if we would die in them.
Our nightmare had begun several minutes--an eternity--earlier, when my husband answered a knock on the door. A man of medium height stood there, raindrops glistening on his dark hair. His damp white T-shirt clung to his muscular body; his tight jeans were splashed with mud. His voice and his smile were warm and pleasant.
"Our truck is in the ditch; could I come in and call a wrecker?"
"Sure, come on in," my husband replied. The man entered, and my husband led him to the hall telephone. As he was thumbing through the yellow pages, another man in a black T-shirt had come to the door. Wet brown hair framed a fragile* face.
"Could I use the bathroom while he uses your phone?"
Another "sure," another entry. And then, three more men were at the door. But this time, instead of smiles and polite inquiries, there were pistols and a sawed-off shotgun pushing their way into our home. A tall, blond man, his thick mustache hovering over a thin-lipped smile, pushed the barrel of the shotgun into my stomach. I backed into the far wall of the living room, my head tilted back, staring into glacier blue eyes.
"Hello, there, lady, glad to make your acquaintance." He turned his head, but the shotgun never moved an inch. "Well, Larry, big man, you say you're in charge, what's next?"
Afraid to breathe, I inched my head around to look at the slight man in the black T-shirt, now sitting on the edge of the couch. I couldn't see my husband. "Dear God, had they taken him into another room to kill him?"
"Bring them both over here," Larry said wearily. Relief washed over me as I heard the word both.
My captor removed the shotgun. "Get over there to the big man, honey." I turned and walked over to the couch. Before I got there, I felt the gun barrel nestle between my shoulder blades. A fourth man, thick-bodied and dark-skinned, pushed my husband to my side.
Larry spoke, "We've escaped from a prison in Tennessee, and we've already shot one man while escaping. We won't hesitate to shoot anyone who gets in our way. Now," he continued, "we're taking over your house for the night. If you do as we say, you won't be hurt. If you don't..." He didn't finish his sentence. He knew it wasn't necessary.
"Now, I want all three of you to sit down somewhere." Larry's voice never lost its softness. "And don't get any funny ideas about escaping. We have some things we have to do."
He had said, "all three of you." Where was the third person? Then, I realised the truth. My eyes focused on a young man, standing rigidly in front of the man who had first come to our door. When he walked to a chair I saw the reason for his stiffness--a pistol had been shoved into his back. I wondered where he had been kidnapped from and what fate he would share with us.
"You heard the big man," my blond-haired guard barked, "now sit down!" He nudged me with the shotgun. I walked to my recliner and fell into its familiar softness. My husband walked slowly to his own chair. I was heart-ened by my husband's calmness.
From my seat in the living room, I could see a man in each of our three bedrooms, opening drawers, throwing clothing and personal items out into heaps. My mind screamed at them to stop. How dare they come into our home and throw our things about as casually as rags! Their presence had turned a love-filled home into a house loaded with their violence and hatred.
"Big man, we've checked out everything." It was the blond giant's now familiar voice.
"Listen, Dude, I've had about enough of this `big man' talk, see?" Larry stood up. Lamplight glinted on his gun barrel.
"Yeah, well, why don't we decide who the real man of this outfit is?" "Dude" walked over to Larry and towered above him, his pistol pointed at Larry's stomach.
"OK, why don't we?" Larry stood there, staring up at the bigger man.
I'm going to see a man die on my living room floor! I felt as though I was going to suffocate as I watched the two men staring at each other. I could see Larry's eyes, and I knew I was looking at death. He would kill the big man as casually as I would swat a fly.
The big man must have realised the same thing, because he put his gun down at his side and gave a small laugh. "Hey, man, don't get all uptight--the strain is getting to us."
One of the men turned on the television set to check on news bulletins. Another turned out all the lights except for the lamp that was now shedding a soft light on my worn Bible.
But the light was doing no good--fear and anger had blinded me. Desperately, I tried to remember the Twenty-third Psalm. The Lord is my Shepherd...but fear was paralysing my mind--I couldn't remember the Psalm! "Dear Lord," I prayed, "I can't read or remember Your Word, and maybe I'm going to die. Show me what to do!"
"OK, you'd better go to bed now." Larry's words interrupted my frantic thoughts. "And, remember, there's a guard at your bedroom door and it won't bother him a bit to pull the trigger if you try anything."
My husband and I were sent to the guest bedroom, the young hostage to another bedroom. One of the convicts pulled a chair to our doorway and sat with a shotgun.
In the dark bedroom, clinging to my husband, I listened to the grandfather clock chime away the hours--one o'clock, two o'clock...Suddenly, I felt a compelling urge to pray--aloud--as though God were instructing me to voice my fear and concern.
But I just couldn't. Praying aloud in church was one thing, but praying aloud in front of four desperate criminals was quite another! I had heard the newscaster's warning when they turned the TV on earlier: "Remember, these men are armed and considered very dangerous!"
I had looked at their taut faces. I didn't want to upset them any further. But the urging became stronger--it was as though God's gentle hands were giving me a nudge. I sat up on the bed, and the convict guarding the door straightened in his chair. My own voice startled me. "Do you mind if I pray?"
"What did she say?" I recognised Larry's voice.
"She wants to know if she can pray," our bedroom guard replied.
A long silence--then, "I guess it will be all right."
I knelt down by the bed and began pouring out my heart, and the sobs I had been holding inside began tearing out of me. I prayed for my husband and myself and the young hostage. Then I prayed for my children, asking God to give them strength, no matter what happened to us. I paused a moment, but still felt a sense of urgency. "Pray for the four men"--more gentle nudging.
Pray for kidnappers and thieves? My mind balked*. "I died for kidnappers and thieves, and you."
"And Father," my sobbing voice sounded harsh and unreal, "bless these men, bless their folks, and help them to see that You love them and will forgive them."
I don't remember what else I said, but I remember how I felt. A warm blanket of divine Love began covering my fear and hatred. After I finished, I got back on the bed with my husband, and a Scripture verse softly slipped into my mind--"And, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the World." (Matthew 28:20) I clung to that verse until morning finally came.
"Mrs. King, we're splitting up this morning; two men are going to take your truck, and Lyons and myself are going to take your car. We're taking you and Mr. King along as hostages." Larry's voice was gruff, but not unkind.
The tall blond man got the truck keys from my husband, and he and the shorter dark-skinned man hurried out the kitchen door. As I heard the truck motor start, I looked at Larry. But this time I did not see an escaped convict. I saw a human being. This is some mother's son, I thought.
"Don't you want me to fix all of us some breakfast?" My voice was calm.
"No, I don't want to take the time to eat." Larry looked at me and smiled. "You know, you remind me of my grandmother." His smile faded and the hard, set look came back on his face. "Come on, let's go--and remember, Mr. King, we're watching every move you make. You do the driving and I'll ride in the front seat. Mrs. King can get in the back with Lyons." We walked out to the car.
"My arthritis bothers me when I ride in the backseat. I should ride in the front seat with my husband." (Was that my voice that had said that?)
"Well, all right, Mrs. King, get in front. But just remember, there are guns pointed at both of you."
"Where's the young boy?" I held my breath, waiting for his answer.
"He's tied and gagged--now get in this car!" Larry and Lyons got in the back, my husband and I got in the front, and the nightmare continued.
We drove through the day, carefully, avoiding all the main highways, stopping only once to get gas and use the bathroom, listening to the news bulletins all the way.
The young hostage had managed to untie himself back at our house and alert the police. Now the news bulletins were changed: "An elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. John King, have been kidnapped. Roadblocks are being set up through the area." Later, another news flash: "Two of the kidnappers have been captured. The search continues for the Kings."
About four o'clock that afternoon, Larry instructed my husband to pull over into a wooded area so that they could plan the best route. The rain had ended and the afternoon sun was filtering through the trees. I opened my purse, took out a small book of devotions and started reading. The gentle urging began once more...."Talk to them."
"What will I say, Father?"
"Talk to them from your heart."
"Why don't you boys give yourselves up?" I said. "Your mothers would rather see you in prison than dead."
"We'll die before we go back to prison," Larry said.
Lyons nodded.
I asked Larry why he was in prison, and he explained that he had started using dope while in Vietnam. After going back to a few schools he was "into dope really heavy" and started selling it, which led to his arrest. Again I urged them to turn themselves in, but suddenly our talk was interrupted by the sound of a truck motor. Larry jumped from the car and watched the truck as it pulled into the wooded area. Lyons covered him as he sauntered over to the truck, a smile on his face. He started talking to the driver, then pulled his pistol out of his pocket.
"We're taking this truck. Get out and leave the keys." His voice, so soft minutes earlier, had turned to flint*.
But the driver rammed his foot on the accelerator and backed the truck out, slinging mud and gravel. With a curse, Larry ran to get our car and told my husband to move over.
"I'm going to catch up with those guys and take that truck!" He gunned the motor and pulled out like a madman, pursuing the truck down the narrow road. Another prayer bounced in my head: "Lord, You said You'd be with us. Please don't leave us now!"
We soon caught up with the truck and forced it over to the side of the highway. Larry jumped out, made the driver move over, and spun out onto the highway. Lyons instructed my husband to pull out also. Suddenly I heard a siren, and when I looked back, I saw beautiful flashing blue lights. We were going to be rescued!
But we weren't. The police car sped by us, pursuing the truck!
On and on we drove, avoiding freeways and main highways, until we came to Covington, Kentucky. Lyons instructed my husband to drive to a certain street, then leaned toward me from the backseat. "Mrs. King, do you have two dollars?"
The news bulletins had said that Lyons was wanted for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He knew we had a lot of cash with us--we had paid for everything during the trip yet he watched me thumb through the larger bills until I found the two dollars. I handed them to him.
He looked at me a moment. "Thank you," he said softly, then opened the car door and melted into the night.
My husband and I looked at each other for a moment before reality finally dawned. The nightmare was over and we were safe. I did what I had done in my darkened bedroom earlier--cried and prayed--but this time all I said was, "Thank You, God."
After we arrived home, we learned that Larry had been captured. I copied down some of my favourite Scripture verses and mailed them to him in prison.
A few days later, a letter came from him: "Mrs. King, you'll never know how much your prayer meant to me that night we forced our way into your home. I was reared in a Christlike home, and you and Mr. King reminded me of my own parents. I went in the wrong direction when I started putting myself before God. Thank you for seeing some good in me--so many people see only the bad in others. You'll never know how much your prayer meant."
Larry was wrong about that. I do know what the prayer meant--to my own life, too. When I was totally helpless--unable to read or even remember God's Word--I still had access to Him, through prayer. When I prayed for those men, I felt the compassion of Christ reaching out toward them through me. That was why, the next morning, I was able to look at them as Christ looks at all of us--past human sin to human need.
*Definitions:
jovial = cheerful, good-humoured
jawed = talked
long & boringly
ribbing = teasing
nagging = disturbing or distressing
farce = mockery
scud-running = flying in a storm
nonchalant = indifferent,unconcerned
grill = to question severely & persistently
impoverished = poor
logic = the science of reasoning or proof
rational = based on reasoning
acidosis = the body being off-balance in its acidity
terminal = fatal, resulting in death
catheter = a slender, hollow tube for draining the bladder
secreted = fluid passed out of the body
mar = ruin or spoil
squall = violent gusts of wind
careen = to lean over to one side, especially while moving rapidly
centerboard = a movable board that is lowered through a slot in the floor of a boat to increase stability
tack = change course
cleat = fastenings
fitting = small part used to join other parts
halyard = line for hoisting a sail
oarlocks = grooves in which the oars rest
hull = the frame of the boat
labyrinth = confusing maze
relentless = unyielding, harsh
petty = insignificant
rudder = the flat piece of wood or metal fixed by a hinge to the stern of a boat for steering
sophisticated = complex & advanced
scan = to look over hastily
scant = barely enough
infallible = without error or mistake
saunter = to walk leisurely
frenzied = frantic, wild
reeling = rocked back from a blow
fragile = delicate
balked = to stop stubbornly
flint = hard quartz; anything hard or unyielding