CHRISTIAN LEADERSHIP TRAINING PROGRAM CLTP 2     DFO

True Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!--Part 2

(Recommended reading for 11 years & up.)

(*Definitions of selected words are listed on page 12. The meaning given is for the use of the word in the story & does not cover every meaning of the word.)

Table of Contents:
         Prisoner of the Jungle   1
         Little Boy Lost  5
         God, Send Someone!       7
         Snowbound!       9
         Discussion Questions     12

Stories courtesy of "The Best of Guideposts"

(Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)

(For interesting comments on these stories, see the Introduction to Power & Protection!--Part 1," by Maria Fontaine.

(Please refer to discussion questions on page 12 after reading each story.)

Prisoner of the Jungle
By William Niehous

         In February 1976, American businessman William Niehous was seized by Venezuelan terrorists. For three and a half years, masked men held him prisoner. Here he tells the story of his captivity and reveals the secret that sustained him.

         Somewhere above that canopy of leaves was blue sky, and I longed to see it. I desperately wanted to see so many things--the dear faces of my wife and three sons; my aging mother at home in Toledo, Ohio; my dad, who later died grieving over my mysterious disappearance.

         I yearned to see another human face. For three years and four months the terrorists who guarded me had worn masks. The only face I had seen was my own gaunt one that stared hollow-eyed at me in a cracked mirror.

         Time had lost its meaning. Countless days had blended into each other like the mass of leaves and vines that closed in around me. By now I believed that the outside World had forgotten me. My family must think me dead. What would my wife Donna do, I wondered, when in a few more years I would be declared legally deceased? I stared at the soggy calendar I maintained and noted that today was June 29, 1979. In two weeks we would mark our silver (25th) wedding anniversary.

         I thought of the February night in 1976 when I last saw Donna. It was about 8:30 in the evening and we had been in our bedroom, dressing for a Mardi Gras* party. It was carnival time in Caracas and our three teenaged sons had already left the house for a high-school festival.

         I had put on my shirt and slacks when I heard strange voices in our entrance foyer. I went downstairs in my stocking feet, where I found our maid trying to find out what the two uniformed men wanted. One carried an automatic rifle.

         As I approached, the taller man turned and said, Mr. Niehous? We're investigating an auto accident in which your car was involved."

         My heart sank. The boys? Yet, there was something about this man that...

         Which car was it?" I asked.

         The white one."

         I became suspicious then, because the boys had taken their mother's grey Dodge. Evidently my eyes reflected this, for the armed man levelled his gun at me and ordered me to lie face down on the floor. Two other men dashed into the foyer and on into the house.

         My face was jammed into a pillow while my wrists were tied behind me. A hypodermic* needle stung my shoulder. I was jerked to my feet and my eyes and mouth were taped shut. The other men returned shortly. From their conversation I gathered that my wife and the maid had been bound, gagged, and left in their rooms. Hands gripped my arms, and I was hurried out into the cool night air. A car door creaked open, and I was shoved to the rear floor. The car surged forward.

         My mind spun in fear and disbelief as I tried to fight an overpowering drowsiness from the hypodermic drug. When I regained consciousness, we seemed to be racing along a rural road. I could hear the car splash through rain puddles and feel it skid in mud. Cold dampness penetrated my body, and my bound arms ached. I seemed to be lying on rifles; their cold metal barrels jammed my ribs.

         My captors said nothing as we sped along. As general manager of the Owens-Illinois glass company in Venezuela, I had heard of other businessmen being kidnapped in South America. I knew that there were extremes in wealth and poverty in Venezuela along with labour unrest*. But in the past year we had come to feel at home in this pleasant tropical country. I kept busy with our three factories, which manufactured glass containers and other glass products. Our three sons were happy in their schools. And Donna and I enjoyed a full social life. But now everything had become a terrifying nightmare. I felt sure I would be held for ransom. Local families had paid fortunes to get loved ones back.

         Finally the car stopped. Get out," a voice ordered. Stiff and sore, I climbed out, feeling cold mud through my socks. The tape was pulled from my face. It was pitch dark, but a flashlight winked and I could see that my captors were hooded. They led me through headhigh grass to a hammock, where I lay down, dazed. At last I fell into a troubled sleep.

         Shrieking parrots awakened me. Dawn filtered through towering trees, and rain dripped off giant vines and leathery leaves. Blinking, I tried to make sense out of where I was.

         A form materialised out of the mist and pushed a plate of beans and a tin cup of coffee at me. Then I was given an old pair of boots, and my hands were chained together.

         We walk," a man muttered. Surrounded by a half-dozen masked men carrying rifles, I stumbled into the forest, the leaders slashing at underbrush with machetes*. As we penetrated deeper into the jungle, the trees loomed higher until the sun was blotted out. Hours passed and sweat soaked the shirt and slacks I had planned to wear to the Mardi Gras party the night before. At age forty-five, I wasn't used to this pace. Once, one man shouted and quickly swung his machete, severing the head of a deadly snake. My mind reeled as we pushed on into the deep gloom. At dusk, we stopped. A man pointed to a hammock in a small tent, and I collapsed into it. I dozed fitfully*, worrying about Donna and the boys.

         In the morning, as I picked at a serving of rice, one of the men squatted before me. We are political revolutionaries," he said in Spanish through his mask. We have taken you to create a problem for the government." He added that they were protesting the exploitation* of workers by big business" and that I would be released when we have completed our objective."

         We won't kill you," he said, patting his rifle. But all I could think of was the kidnapped American businessman in another South American country whose bullet-riddled corpse was tossed onto his own driveway.

         My captor took a heavy, six-foot (two metre) chain, fastened one end to my ankle and the other to a tree and walked away to the other two guards who stayed nearby. I slumped to the ground in despair. How long would they keep me?

         An excited chattering filled the air. I looked up to see a horde of monkeys swing through the branches. Some had babies clinging to their backs. I thought of Donna and the boys alone in a foreign country. Who would take care of them? Would I ever get to see them again?

         The green gloom deepened, and suddenly it was pitch dark. Night falls quickly in the jungle. In my hammock, I lay listening to eerie wails from the forest. From a nearby water hole came the deep growling of jaguars.

         Our residential neighbourhood in Caracas had seemed so safe. Was any place safe in the World any more?

         Donna, Mark, David, Craig...are you all right?

         Tears burned my face, and in the darkness I found myself praying to the only One I now felt could help. I asked Him to protect my family and me. I had not prayed like this in years. Back in the United States we had attended church fairly regularly. I had served on the Board of Sessions (Elders) of a Presbyterian church in New Jersey. But after transferring overseas nine years ago, we had somehow slipped away from such things.

         After busy working days in the exotic cities of Madrid, Mexico City, and then Caracas, life had become a whirl of social and civic affairs.

         The boys...if I had only spent more time with them. I gripped the edges of the hammock despairingly.

         Thunder rumbled and a violent rainstorm broke overhead. I waited for it to patter against the tent, but the jungle foliage was so thick that it took a long time for the drops to work their way down to my tent.

         Twilight-green days blended into one another. The masked guards addressed each other by numbers. Number four" brought my meals and spoke little. I was grateful that I had been given mosquito netting, for huge swarms of whining, voracious* insects filled the muggy air; the ground teemed with fire ants and giant spiders.

         Every few weeks we would move to another area of the jungle to avoid detection. My shelter varied from a small tent to a metal shack and sometimes simply a plastic sheet suspended between trees.

         The days continued, droning into a maddening sameness. Each morning was a dull awakening to a tin plate of beans, noon meant lunch, and evening, dinner. By six o'clock night would fall, and I would be back in my hammock, staring into the dark.

         How long would they hold me? How much longer could I stay sane?

         Easter? Could I hold on until then? The men had taken my watch, but I had been kidnapped just before Ash Wednesday*. And about thirty days must have passed since then. I placed Easter before me as a goal--concentrating on surviving until then.

         But the weeks went on. And when Easter Sunday came, I was still chained to a tree in the jungle. My God!" I cried silently into the green tangle above. Why have You left me here?"

         More time crept by. April. May. June. July. In a moment of compassion, a guard said he would try to mail a letter for me. I wrote Donna, urging her to move our family back to Toledo. But as I sealed the envelope, I wondered if it would ever be delivered, and a terrible desolation filled me.

         It seemed that with every rise of hope, despair would crash back in. A guard brought me newspaper clippings reporting that the terrorists had demanded $3.5 million in ransom. But the Venezuelan government prohibited negotiations, feeling it would encourage future kidnappings.

         Then my world fell in on me in October 1976, eight months after I was captured. While being held temporarily in a small house, I happened to watch television. When the news came on, I found myself staring at the face of my father. The announcer was reporting his death! Had my kidnapping hastened his death? Once again I was filled with despair. I turned to God for comfort, praying for His assurance that my father was safe with Him.

         By Easter of 1977, a year after my abduction, my hair had grown to my shoulders and my beard looked like Rip Van Winkle's*. That day my endurance seemed to crumble. I wanted to die. I pleaded with my guards to kill me, but the hooded men only shook their heads.

         They continued to move me from one place to another. Since I was no longer chained, I thought of walking out into the jungle, which would be suicide. But I decided that this would be an offence against God. Slowly I was learning that He was the only One I could trust.

         More and more--for what reason I did not know--I was beginning to feel that, despite everything, God did have a plan for me and would reveal it in His Own time.

         As time crept on, my guards brought me books and operated a shortwave radio on which I could listen to the Voice of America and the BBC.

         There was little mention of me any more on news programs. I was resigned to the fact that the World had forgotten me.

         But I continued to cling to my memories; they kept hope alive, and hope kept me alive. As December 25, 1978, came--my third Christmas in captivity--I thought of how Donna and I used to shop for the boys' presents. I wondered how they looked now; boys grow fast in their teens. Tears flowed as I regretted the many opportunities to spend time with them that I had passed up because of business obligations. For the thousandth time I realised how sadly misplaced my priorities had been.

         And so the months continued until now, in the fourth year of my captivity, I was in this crude mud hut, listening to the plaintive* cry of a jungle bird. In two weeks it would be our wedding anniversary, and I wondered what Donna would think if she saw me. I had lost more than forty pounds (about 20 kilos), and my hair and beard were long and scraggly. I glanced down at my tattered boots, and noticed an ant on the floor. It had found a crumb from my lunch and was trying to carry it away. Long ago I had learned to keep alert by watching for any change in my environment, from the growth of cracks in the mud walls of the hut to new rust streaks on the tin roof. And now this ant. As it struggled with the crumb, I marvelled at the enormous weight this insect could carry compared to its size.

         Seeing that ant made me think of the tremendous resources God built into all His creatures. I thought of the strength He had given me to endure these years of loneliness, the opportunity to know Him on a deeper, personal level, and the deeper appreciation I now felt for my loved ones. I discovered a kind of serenity--a kind of acceptance. I felt closer to God in my solitude than I had ever felt in my life.

         As I meditated in the green jungle twilight, it occurred to me that I had just finished my fortieth month in captivity. Later, as I looked back on those forty months, someone pointed out to me the interesting parallel of my experience to the forty days and nights of rain that fell on Noah, the forty years the Children of Israel wandered in the wilderness, and the forty days our Lord Jesus spent alone in the desert preparing for His ministry.

         All I could think of was that somehow God must have a purpose in all this, no matter what happened in the future. I trust You, Lord," I whispered. I place my life in Your hands." The little ant I had been studying struggled out the door, and I realised that it was time for the afternoon news on the BBC.

         What happened next is still difficult for me to believe. I heard a rustle at the hut door and glanced up. A uniformed man was standing there without a mask. I was stunned; it was the first human face I had seen in more than three years.

         The man stepped in warily, pistol in hand. He said that he was a police officer. Over his shoulder I could see another stranger questioning my two guards, who were protesting that they were innocent farmers. Suddenly my guards started to run; the two policemen opened fire and they dropped.

         I stood gaping in astonishment, confused by the unbelievable turn of events and feeling a deep sorrow for the men who were shot. The officers returned and explained that they had been in the area helping some local farmers hunt for cattle rustlers. While riding their horses deep into the jungle, they had stumbled onto the terrorists' hiding place.

         Thirty-two hours later I was on a plane heading for Toledo, Ohio. Waiting there were Donna, my sons, and my mother. My hair hung to my shoulders and my stained shirt and frayed slacks smelled of the jungle. I was certainly not the neat-looking businessman my family once knew.

         Since then I have thought many times about what I learned in those endless months about accepting God's Will and trusting Him. I know now what the Apostle Paul meant when he wrote: Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." (Philippians 4:11-13.)

         Sometimes I reflect upon how I have changed. The worldly man who was kidnapped never came back. The man who came back had been given a glimpse of another world--a world within us that God wants to inhabit, if we will just let Him.

Little Boy Lost
By Donald G. Shaffer

         The blaring ring of the telephone jarred me awake. I looked at the clock--3:15 a.m. On the other end of the phone, I heard the voice of Bill Barnhart, Somerset's fire chief.

         Don," he said, there's a report of a drowning down at Swallow Falls State Park, in Maryland...a little boy. They need some people down there to help. Can you get your scuba boys together?"

         As a volunteer scuba diver* for the fire department, I knew the commitment I had made.

         I'll see what I can do," I answered. Surprisingly, especially since it was the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, I was able to round up eight other divers, and an hour later, still rubbing sleep from our eyes, we met at the firehouse.

         We were briefed on the facts. The boy, ten, had been wading with his father early Saturday evening in the river, just above Swallow Falls, in the Backbone Mountain area of western Maryland. Suddenly the boy had been scooped up by the raging current and swept over the falls into a whirlpool* forty feet (over 13 metres) deep. His father dove into the raging pool below the falls in an attempt to find the boy, but was unsuccessful and barely escaped the torrents of water himself. Then he organised a search party along the shore, but again to no avail.

         I shook my head sadly at the thought of the little fellow's fate. It sounded hopeless. Then I heard the chief say something that made me realise why we were all there in the middle of the night.

         Since no body has been found, there's a chance the boy may still be alive somewhere," Bill said. Until we find him we can't be sure he's gone."

         Riding in our rescue truck on the hour-and-a-half trip over the border to that isolated area in Maryland, I thought about how there had been several drownings near Swallow Falls in recent years. While I had never visited the falls, I had heard tales of their ferocity, especially at this time of year, the high-water season.

         Then I thought about the boy. Was it possible he was still alive? In the darkness of the truck, I shivered. I teach Sunday school and try to believe what I teach. Yet, at the same time, prayer doesn't come easy for me. Yet travelling down the back roads of Pennsylvania that morning, I felt a great need to pray. Closing my eyes, I whispered, God, if that boy is still alive, all I ask is that we be given the chance to rescue him."

         We reached Swallow Falls just as the sun was coming up. One look at the place confirmed my worst fears. About ten feet (over three metres) high and a hundred feet (over 30 metres) across, the falls tumbled down with a deafening roar into a lake-sized stream--the rain-swollen river. Near the middle of the stream was an ugly whirlpool, sucking and swishing around like a giant funnel--an awesome sight.

         It seemed foolhardy to enter water like that. Standing on a rock, I watched in silence until my back-up diver, Rick Ross, appeared alongside me.

         Don, I'm really scared," Rick said. He didn't have that much experience as a diver. None of us really did. I had taken up scuba diving only seven years before after a vacation in the Bahamas. Once I got involved in the sport, I was hooked. I had taken lessons at the YMCA* and then joined the scuba rescue team the summer before.

         But I had never had to save anybody and I certainly had never ventured into water like that.

         Rick," I said, I'm scared, too. But we can't let our fear beat us."

         Our first plan was to have me swim under the falls. With my diving gear on, I attacked the pounding water four times. Each time I was beaten down and thrown back into the stream.

         Next, we strung a rope, shoreline to shoreline, across the top of the falls. Attaching another rope to that line in a T fashion, I stayed in the water and tried to guide my way through the falls. This, too, proved fruitless. The charging water bounced me around like a piece of sponge.

         We were discouraged now, and running out of ideas. Working quickly, we next tied a rope to a rock upstream, above the falls. Hanging on to the rope and still in my scuba gear, I pulled myself through the falls to the rock face in back. I felt my feet land on a thin ledge of rock. Just then the rope locked in the rock face above me, so I had to let go of the rope, leaving myself with no means of getting out. Completely out of sight now, I had no trouble imagining what the other men must have thought when they saw that lonely rope float by without me.

         Inching my way along the ledge in back of the falls in water up to my chest, I found myself in an eerie corridor, walled in by an earshattering cascade. All my shouts, I knew, would be in vain.

         Suddenly I looked up and gasped. The boy! There, on a small ledge about one foot (about 30 cms.) above the water level, was the boy. At the startling sight of him, I gave a noiseless cheer and felt goose bumps crisscross my arms and legs.

         Wearing only a bathing suit, the boy was lying on his side on a stone notch carved out by the force of the water. Apparently, after going over the falls, he had been swept up in there by the whirlpool. It was an incredible landing spot, only big enough for one small person to recline on. Surely, I thought, God's hand must have placed him there.

         My heart was pounding as I neared the boy. His eyes were closed. If he opens them, I thought, he's going to see me and panic. Here I was in this spooky place, all decked out like a creature from outer space. It would be enough to scare anybody, let alone a little boy who hadn't seen another soul for twelve hours.

         Trying to keep cool, I approached the boy. Quickly he rose up, frightened. I worked my way over on the ledge and put my arm around him.

         Are you all right?" I asked.

         Yes," he said, his blue eyes glowing brightly. He was cold, but seemed calm.

         OK," I said, knowing that we seemed to be trapped. We're going to ask God to get us out."

         The boy needed no coaxing. Turning over, he put his palms together and bowed his head. I did the same.

         Dear God," I said, please help us to get out of this alive."

         It remained to be seen how the Lord was going to answer our prayer. My first thought was that perhaps we could buddy breathe" our way out--that is, pass my air regulator* back and forth. I had to reject that idea, though. It just didn't seem like we would have the time or be able to coordinate the action. Our only answer was for me to use the regulator and hold the boy at the same time. He might swallow some water, but I hoped not too much.

         Holding the boy in my right arm, I eased myself along the ledge the way I came in. I was hoping to find a place in the falls where the water pressure was weakest. As we went, occasionally being blasted by a sheet of water, I had to admire the boy for acting so calmly.

         A few moments later, the ledge I was standing on dropped and my air tank* caught on the upper part of the rock behind me. We couldn't go forward or backward. I knew what that meant. We would have to go straight through the full force of Swallow Falls.

         I looked at the boy. He was quiet. I pointed to the roaring tumult. We're going to have to swim through that," I said. Take a deep breath. "

         OK," he said. Again I was amazed by his courage. He swung his body around to face me, locked his hands around my neck, his legs around my waist. With all my power I pushed off with my legs into the thundering water and in direct line of the whirlpool.

         As we struck the main thrust of the falls, we were driven down, down, down into a swirling, bubbling blackness. After about fifteen seconds of being pitched about, I began kicking my flippers desperately. It was a race against time. I had to get the boy's head above surface.

         Fighting my way up, I took the boy by the waist and with every ounce of my strength I thrust him upward in a catapult motion. I was suddenly glad for all those years I had worked in the concrete business. Hauling heavy blocks and stone by hand had given me power in my arms, but even so, I was amazed at all that instant strength.

         As the boy shot up past me, my regulator was knocked loose and water began pouring down my throat. It didn't matter, for suddenly, I too, was rising to the surface.

         When my head broke the water I heard wild yelling and screaming. I looked around and saw a diver jump from a rock and grab the boy. We had made it! We had missed the whirlpool by inches!

         In a few seconds a rowboat was by my side. Still gagging water, I grabbed onto it. I felt a strange mixture of weariness and joy.

         Later, when the boy's father reached me by telephone to express his gratitude, I learned that the family lived outside Washington, D.C., and had been visiting Swallow Falls when the near-tragedy occurred.

         The boy's name, I learned, was Richard Bouchard. It wasn't too long before I got a chance to visit Richard. He's a swell little guy.

         The rescue is an experience both of us will always cherish, something that comes along once in a lifetime. God, in bringing two strangers together in an improbable and dangerous place, heard our plea and gave each of us the courage to find the way out. Richard and I will always be bound by that struggle, but even more, we will be tied by a knot of faith that can't be broken.

God, Send Someone!
By Dick Sullivan

         At 4:00 p.m., June 14, my brother Jack was just crawling down into a ten-foot-deep-trench (over three metres) that ran down the center of Washington Street, a main thoroughfare in West Roxbury, Massachusetts.

         It was near quitting time. Jack is a welder, and he wanted to finish one particular part of his job before he left. He said good-bye to the other men as they quit, took his welding lead in his right hand, and lowered himself and his electric power cable into the trench. His head was well below the surface of the street.

         Traffic above him was heavy. Though Jack could not see the cars and trucks, he could feel their vibrations. Occasionally a pebble would break loose from the side of the trench and fall into it. Jack paid no attention to them.

         It was Jack's job to weld the joints of a new water main both inside and out. First he crawled into the thirty-six-inch (one-metre) diameter pipe, lowered his shielding mask to protect his eyes against the flash of the bright welding arc*, then went to work. After completing the inside of the joint, he crawled out of the pipe. It was 4:30 p.m. He began to weld the outside. Halfway through the job he stood up to get the kinks out of his legs. Jack stretched, turned toward the pipe, and pulled down the masking shield over his face again.

         Suddenly the bank on the trench caved in. Tons of dirt came crushing down on him from above and behind.

         Jack was rammed against the pipe with the force of a sledge hammer. He went down, buried in a kneeling position, his face (covered by the shield) pressed hard up against the pipe. He was sore, and his nose was bleeding, and he couldn't move his head.

         Jack tried calling. Three times he shouted. The sound of his voice died in his shield. He tried to breathe slowly to preserve the supply of oxygen.

         It crossed Jack's mind that he might die.

         Slowly he began to pray. Going to Mass* at St. Patrick's* once a week suddenly seemed quite inadequate. My brother continued to pray. He had his eyes open, but everything was black.

         Something cool crossed his right hand. He wiggled his fingers and found they moved freely. His right hand had not been buried. He moved the hand again. He tried to scratch around with his hand to open up an air passage down his arm but the weight of the earth was too great. It didn't do any good.

         Then it occurred to him that he had been holding the welding lead* in that hand. So he fished around with his fingers. He found the rod, still in the holder. He grasped it tightly and moved it, hoping it would strike the pipe. Suddenly his wrist jerked and he knew he had struck an arc--the electric current would be making its bright orange flash. So he kept on tapping the pipe, making an arc, hoping it would draw attention.

         That must look like something! Jack thought. A hand reaching out of the ground striking an arc against the pipe. That must really look like something!

         He began to figure out how long he had been buried since there was no way of telling time. He wondered how much gasoline was left in the engine-driven welder on top of the trench--whether it would last until dark when the orange arc might draw attention. Then he remembered that it was almost the longest day in the year. Darkness wouldn't fall until nearly nine o'clock. Still, if he had enough oxygen in his little tomb and if the gasoline held out, maybe...

         He thought of all the hundreds of people passing within a few feet (about a metre) of him up above. He thought of his family and wondered if he would ever see his little grandson again. He thought of Tommy Whittaker, his assistant, out on another job on Route 128.

         He figured there wasn't anything to do but lie there and wait and keep tapping flashes, and hope that enough air would filter into the mask to keep him alive. There wasn't anything to do but lie there and pray, God, send someone!"

         In another part of Boston, out on Route 128, Jack's assistant, Tommy Whittaker, had quit his work for the day. Whittaker was forty-seven years old, Jack, forty-one. They had known each other for more than fifteen years and were close friends. They were soon to be even closer, as within the next few minutes Tommy was to become the answer to Jack's desperate prayer.

         Tommy Whittaker did not know that Jack was on the Washington Street job. Whittaker got in his truck and started off down Route 128 with the full intention of driving directly home. Route 128 is a main artery, a superhighway that could take him home within minutes.

         But as Whittaker drove, he began to have the feeling something wasn't right.

         He tried to shake the feeling off. He kept driving. The strange and unexplainable sensation grew. He thought that he ought to drive up to the Washington Street job and check it, then dismissed the idea. It meant driving six miles (about 10 kms.) out of his way at the peak of the rush hour. Whittaker approached the intersection of Washington and Route 128.

         Suddenly he turned. He did not try to explain it to himself. He just turned.

         Meanwhile Jack continued to pray. It was the same simple prayer, God, send someone. God, send someone." His situation was getting more difficult. All the while he listened to the muffled sound of his welding motor outside. He wondered if it was dark yet. It seemed an eternity. Things were getting hazy.

         Tommy Whittaker drove along Washington Street. The job was divided into two sections. He stopped his truck at a spot several blocks away from the cave-in and got out. He chatted with an engineer for the Metropolitan District Commission for fifteen minutes. Whittaker did not mention the gnawing sensation that still would not leave him alone. The time was 5:45. It was still broad daylight.

         Back in the trench, Jack struck some more arcs. He thought it might be dark now. He listened to the welder popping. He hoped someone would come--soon. He was a little surprised that he wasn't in a state of panic. Jack just kept praying, God send..."

         Up above, a little way down Washington Street, Tommy Whittaker got into his truck, said good-bye to his friend, and started up again. The gnawing sensation grew stronger. He reached a stoplight. It was his turnoff to get back to Route 128 by a shortcut. If he stayed on Washington Street, he would have to go still farther out of his way. Tommy Whittaker braked his truck for a brief instant, then continued on up Washington.

         Underground, Jack finally gave up striking the arc. It was making him breathe too hard. He didn't think he could last much longer. He couldn't breathe...

         At that moment, up above on Washington Street, Tommy Whittaker arrived at the spot where his friend was lying. Nothing seemed unusual. He noticed the welding shop's truck. But it was a truck that Jack never used. Whittaker thought another man from the shop was down in the trench. Whittaker pulled up, got out of his truck, and noticed the welder was running. He thought someone was inside the pipe, welding. Still nothing struck him as unusual.

         Then Tommy Whittaker saw the hand--and saw it move!

         Oh, God!" he whispered.

         Whittaker jumped down into the trench and dug like a chipmunk with his hands. The earth was too packed. He scrambled out of the trench, looked back at the hand, and shuddered. He shut off the welder and raced through the traffic across the street to a garage.

         Underground, Jack heard the pop-pop of the welder stop. It was then that he began to prepare to die. He knew it was over. He was gagging and trying to throw off the mist that had come over him.

         Tommy Whittaker, just feet away, shouted to the men in the garage. There's a man buried alive over there! Get a shovel."

         Back across the street Whittaker raced, carrying a snow shovel. He ran to the place where the hand stuck up, still not knowing it was his friend.

         Jack, below, felt an extra pressure on top of his head. He knew someone was above him. He fought to keep from fainting.

         The garage men hurried over.

         Send for the police. There's a firebox* down the street," Whittaker called.

         Tommy Whittaker began to dig. He uncovered a wrist watch. He thought he recognised the watchband. He kept digging, until he uncovered the man's side. He saw the man was still breathing, but his respiration was very weak.

         Then Tommy Whittaker recognised my brother, but by then Jack had fainted. Whittaker dug more frantically.

         The rescue squad arrived. They applied an oxygen mask to Jack while they were still digging him out. From busy Washington Street, a crowd gathered.

         Jack revived slightly when they put him on a stretcher. It was 6:30 p.m. He spied Tommy Whittaker.

         Who found me?" he asked.

         I did," said Whittaker.

         With his lips, Jack formed the words, Thank God He sent you."

Snowbound!
By Steven Hult

         Dark clouds threatened and the snow on the ground was being swirled around by the wind, but in Minnesota in March, what else is new?

         The five of us weren't worried too much about the trip as we prepared to drive home to warm, sunny California that Easter vacation. Terrell Day, Julie Carlson, Fredda Baker, Carolyn Miller, and I, all students at Bethel College in St. Paul, piled into my car and started the twenty-six-hour journey to San Jos. A blizzard was forecast, but the auto club told us conditions were good if we left immediately. Somewhere in Iowa rain suddenly pelted the car and didn't let up.

         It's a good thing this isn't snow," I said as I turned over the driving to Terrell. Exhausted from the strain of driving through the rain, I fell right to sleep.

         When I awoke around 3:00 a.m., I couldn't believe my eyes. Somewhere in the middle of Nebraska the rain had turned to snow and the wind was whipping the white stuff around so hard that the road was barely visible. Terrell, still driving, was creeping along at five miles an hour (about 10 kph.).

         I can only see the sides of the road when the wind lets up for a second," he said, running his hand through his hair.

         Suddenly the car ground to a stop in a snowbank. We had run clear off Interstate 80 without even seeing the edge.

         Oh, great," exclaimed Carolyn. Then, What do we do now?" she asked, trying hard to sound matter-of-fact about it.

         Help has got to come," Julie said calmly. We've got plenty of food, and surely a snowplow or police car will be along soon," Just then, in fact, a diesel truck passed us, then three cars. After that, nothing....

         It was 4:00 a.m. when we got stuck. We decided to wait for morning and get some sleep in the meantime. We had three-quarters of a tank of gas, but didn't want to waste it, so we bundled up in coats and a sleeping bag, turned off the engine, and dozed till dawn.

         When we awoke the next morning, we couldn't see past the windows. A one-half-inch (1 cm.) layer of ice coated the car and another one-quarter inch (1/2 cm.) of ice covered the insides of the windows from the condensation of our breath. The storm was raging as hard as ever and every once in a while our car would rock from a gust of wind, really giving us a fright.

         Time dragged. Every five minutes someone would ask, What time is it?"

         We were Christian college students & Fredda said, Let's all try and quote as many Bible verses as we can."

         So we did. But about eleven o'clock that morning we all started really feeling the cold. Knowing better than to start a car in a snowbank, I decided to first clear the exhaust pipe of the snow.

         I shoved with all my weight to force the right door open against the wind. When I got out and let go of the handle, the wind knocked me to my knees. I was only a few feet (about a metre) from the car, but I couldn't even see it! Desperately I waited for the wind to die down before I dared to move. Finally, during a momentary lull, I made sure the exhaust pipe was clear and struggled back into the car.

         Welcome, abominable snowman," cracked Julie. My blond hair and beard were matted with ice, as were my coat and pants. I started the engine.

         While the defroster strained to clear the windshield, we listened to the radio weather report: Temperature is now minus fifty degrees F. with the wind-chill factor...wind out of the north-northwest at seventy miles an hour...storm shows no sign of letting up. Snowplows and police cars cannot get out."

         For the first time we realised we were in serious trouble.

         We've got to try and make it to the next town," I said. The map showed Chappell, Nebraska, as the closest place, but, since we were unsure of our location, we didn't know how far away it was.

         After rocking the car several minutes, I managed to drive out of the ditch. But up on the road it wasn't much better. Five minutes and a hundred yards later, we were in another ditch--on the other side of the road.

         This time, nothing we tried--rocking, spinning, pushing--could free us. We were trapped--and the cold was really getting to us in a wicked way. The wind forced snow through the weather stripping around the windows and through the rubber cover on the floor-mounted stick shift. We had accidentally closed a door on a seat belt that had fallen out the door, so it had frozen slightly ajar. Snow drifted through the crack and soon covered the floor of the front seat. Our car had turned into a refrigerator.

         Four p.m. We had been stuck twelve hours. Since I'd been outside trying to free the car more than the others, I was feeling the effects of the cold a bit more. I felt sleepy and numb all over. I wanted to stay awake but couldn't, and I kept falling into a delirious sleep, dreaming someone was banging on the roof of the car. I would wake up hungry and disoriented, but I couldn't manage the energy to ask for even a lemon drop to eat. Suddenly, from out of my sleep, I heard the others praying.

         It took me about five minutes to force myself to tell Julie. I can't feel anything, and I can't even move."

         Quick," she said to Carolyn, help me pull him into the back seat." With body heat, brisk rubbing, and a peanut-butter sandwich, I was soon feeling better, but we were all beginning to realise we might not make it through this ordeal.

         Huddled together in the back seat, the five of us began our second shivery night. Four of us sat up and the fifth lay across our laps. Without anyone in the front seat, the steering wheel and dashboard instruments soon were coated with ice.

         Except for chattering teeth, we were silent through most of the night. Once through, Terrell and Julie both said, Maybe we should write letters to our folks." The idea cast a gloom over the already darkened car.

         Frankly I was surprised at my reaction to the situation. I wasn't afraid to die. I had learned to trust God and knew He was in control. The problem for me that night was that I kept wondering, What had my life been worth? I kept on coming up with the same answer, Not much, up to now.

         In the front seat I saw my tape deck and all my stereo tapes, a collection worth a lot. The tapes had been important to me, but as I sat there freezing I thought how strange it was they had become so unimportant so fast.

         Then I looked at my friends in the car with me--Terrell, Julie, and Carolyn, freshmen at school for the first time, and Fredda, the short, dark-haired girl who wanted to be a teacher. What meaningful things had I ever done for them? What had I ever done to make a difference in their lives? Very little, I knew, for I had always been so wrapped up in myself and my possessions.

         While those thoughts kept running through my mind, the wind shrieked outside. I hardly slept at all and I know no one else got much sleep either.

         When dawn finally came, its light revealed a beautiful, peaceful scene when we opened the back window to see what it looked like outside. The car had been like a cave for us, it was so covered with ice and snow. The snow and wind had stopped, and the sun glistened on a still, white world.

         Our hopes soared again. We put a yellow knapsack on the radio antenna. Julie thought we should get out a suitcase and write Help" on it with lipstick and set it in the road. But the trunk of the car was frozen shut.

         Terrell and I decided to go outside and hammer on the trunk to open it, and as I opened the car door, I saw a car coming down the highway, the first car we had seen in more than thirty hours. Frantically I waved my arms over my head. The driver slowed and stopped. I was so happy I could hardly talk. Praise the Lord!" I shouted.

         The rescuers turned out to be two young men from St. Paul on their way to Utah to ski. All five of us jubilantly squeezed into their car. They told us they had passed many stranded cars, but all of them had been empty. A short way down the road we passed an accident involving the diesel and the three cars that had passed us the first night. The ten people involved had spent the two nights huddled together in the cab of the truck.

         We saw how really fortunate we were when we arrived at the emergency center set up at the Chappell fire station. We were in the only vehicle that had no one hurt or wasn't ruined. Twenty people were still unaccounted for. The people of Chappell were fantastic. They took us into their homes, fed us, and helped us go back and dig out our cars.

         I never did make it home to California for Easter. Another storm moved in, stopping me from making a second attempt. But no vacation could ever replace what I learned from being snowbound.

         Sitting in that freezing car, I saw how my life had to change. Before that ordeal I based most of what I did on the material possessions I could get through my actions. But being so close to death, I realised that life is a gift from God, too short to be squandered* on meaningless things. There are just too many people in this World who are desperate for someone to show them God's Love in a really personal way.

         When my time does come, I want my life to have counted for something--more for the acts I have done for others than for myself. I want to have a lot more to offer God than I had that stormy night in Nebraska.

Discussion Questions:

         Following are a number of questions which can be applied to each of the stories in this magazine. After reading each story, you can choose several of these questions for discussion. You do not necessarily need to ask or discuss every question after reading each story, but please choose those which apply & are helpful.

         1. Is there anything that could have been done to avoid the difficult situation the people in this story found themselves in?

         2. The people in the story responded in one way to what happened to them.--What are some other ways that people might react if the same thing happened to them?

         3. Does this story show you anything about the benefits of the training, education & instruction you have received? Please discuss.

         4. How might you have reacted if this had happened to you? How do you think you should react in similar situations? What would you pray & ask God to do?

         5. What lessons could you learn from a situation like this?

         6. Why do you think God allowed this situation for these people?

         7. Is there anything in these stories that you don't understand?

         8. Did the Lord do a miracle in this story? If so, how did He use the miracle in the lives of the people in the story? Did it bring a change in their lives?

         9. Are there answers to prayer in this story?

         10. Does this story encourage your faith that God will help you in difficult, dangerous or seemingly impossible situations?

         11. Have you ever experienced the Lord doing a miracle to save your life or someone else's? If so, what was it? Did it change your outlook on life or your relationship with the Lord or others?

Definitions:

         acute: noticeable, sharp
         air tank: the tank which a scuba diver wears on his back, containing his supply of oxygen.
         air regulator: the mouthpiece on a scuba diving outfit, which the swimmer breathes through.
         Ash Wednesday: the first day of Lent (see Mardi Gras), 40 days before Easter.
         dozed fitfully: sleeping a little off & on
         exploitation of workers" by big business...our objective: These men were saying that by kidnapping William, they were protesting the unfair & cruel treatment (exploitation) of workers in their country. They would release him only when their objective or goal had been reached.
         firebox: a box with a device for quickly contacting the fire department or police.
         game meat: wild animals which can be used for food
         hypodermic: a hollow needle for injecting medicine or drugs.
         labour unrest: workers generally unhappy with their wages & conditions, sometimes resulting in demonstrations, riots, or terrorist activity.
         machetes: large, heavy knives
         Mardi Gras: (pronounced mardy grah") In many countries, there are festivals & parades to celebrate Mardi Gras," also called Carnival." It occurs the last day before Lent, a time period covering the 40 weekdays before Easter which Catholics set aside for fasting & repenting of sins. What was once the last day before a religious observance begins, has turned into a time for wild partying.
         Mass: worship service in a Catholic church
         plaintive: sorrowful, sad
         Rip Van Winkle: a fictitious figure in American literature who fell asleep for 20 years, & awoke in another time, with a long long beard.
         scuba diver: a person who swims underwater with a portable breathing device, which allows him to stay under for longer periods.
         squandered: wasted or spent foolishly
         St. Patrick's: a Catholic church
         struck an arc: As welding works, the welding rod has a current, which, when placed on a piece of metal, will cause the bright flash or welding arc. So Jack is moving the welding rod with his free hand, & each time it touches a piece of metal, it makes the bright arc, which he is hoping someone will notice, & realise that he is buried underneath.
         voracious: greedy in eating; ravenous
         welding arc: bright light which the welding rod makes as it is melted onto the metal
         welding lead: cable that goes to the welder (machine)
         whirlpool: current of water whirling round & round rapidly & violently.
         YMCA: Young Men's Christian Association. Founded in 1844 in London by George Williams, who wanted to provide young clothing store clerks from the countryside with a place in London where they could read the Bible, relax, & find out about decent lodging, the movement has since developed into an international non-profit volunteer organisation working to promote the values of Christianity & Judaism, providing facilities for excercise & physical fitness, schooling, & even low-cost rooming. It now includes women in its membership (YWCA) & also has assisted with the formation of other major voluntary groups, such as the Boy Scouts, Camp Fire, and the United Service Organisations (USO).