Power and Protection! CLTP 19
True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!--Part 13
(Recommended reading for 9 years old and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at adults' discretion.)
DFO. Excerpts of "The Guideposts Treasury of Faith," "Guideposts," "His Mysterious Ways," "The Guideposts Treasury of Hope" & "When Angels Appear," by Hope MacDonald. (Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)
Table of Contents:
The Secret of Our Survival
1
In Need of Prayer
4
One Red Rose
4
The Name on the Mailbox
4
The Voice on the Phone
5
We're Still Alive!
6
Angels Watching over Me
7
It's More than a Dream
9
The Search for Little Wessie
9
Discussion Questions
12
Glossary for Young Readers
12
The Secret of Our Survival
--A Former Vietnam POW's [1] Story of Faith--By Captain James E. Ray
"Psst."
I struggled upright on the damp pallet [2] in my solitary cell to hear better. It had sounded like a whisper.
No, I must have been hallucinating [3]. I slumped back, wondering how long it had been since my plane had been shot down as we bombed a railroad bridge on the Hanoi-China supply line.
That was May 8, 1966. I tried to forget the weeks since, the endless interrogations [4]. Now I wish I had gone down with the plane. Anything would be better than the desolation, the awful sense of aloneness.
There! I heard it again. Now an unmistakable, "Hey, buddy?"
I scrambled flat on the floor and peered through the crack under the door. I could see I was in one of many cells facing a narrow, walled courtyard. The whisper had come from the next cell. I whispered back. He introduced himself as Bob Purcell, another Air Force man. We waited as the guard passed and then began to converse [5].
Soon all the prisoners on that yard were secretly whispering. We started by learning about each other, where we were from, our families. One day I asked Bob what church he went to.
"Catholic," he said. "And you?"
"Baptist."
Bob was quiet for a moment, as if my mention of church evoked [6] deep memories. Then he asked, "Do you know any Bible verses?"
"Well, the Lord's Prayer," I answered.
"Everyone knows that. How about the twenty-third Psalm?"
"Only a little."
I began whispering it. He'd repeat each line after me. A little later he whispered the entire Psalm back to me.
Other prisoners joined in, sharing verses they knew. Through these contacts a fellowship grew among us. I didn't feel so alone any more.
As the number of prisoners grew, two of us shared a cell. My first roommate was Larry Chesley, a Mormon from Idaho. Though we had a few differences in belief, our common denominators were the Bible and Jesus Christ, and we were able to share and write down a great deal of Scripture.
For by now it had become vital to our daily existence. Often racked with dysentery [7], weakened by the diet of rice and thin cabbage and pumpkin soup, our physical bodies had shrunk within the prison walls. We spent 20 hours a day locked in our cells. And those Bible verses became rays of light, constant assurances of His Love and care.
We made ink from brick dust and water or drops of medicine. We'd write verses on bits of toilet paper and pass them on to others, dropping them behind a loose brick at the toilets.
It was dangerous to pass these on. Communication between cells was forbidden and a man unfortunate enough to be caught passing a note would be forced to stand with his arms up against a wall for several days, without sleep.
But the urge to share these verses with others developed inventiveness [8]. One night I lay with my ear pressed against the rough wooden wall of my cell to hear Thump...thumpety thump as somewhere on the wall, cells away, a fellow POW tapped out in Morse code: "I will lift up my eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help" (Psalm 121:1).
He tapped out his name--Russ Temperly--and passed on the seven other verses in that Psalm, which I scratched on the concrete floor with a piece of broken tile. "My help cometh from the Lord," the Psalm assured us, and with that assurance came His Presence, soothing us, telling us to fear not.
After two years, in 1968, more of us were squeezed together, and for two years four of us lived in an eight-by-eight-foot cell. In this close proximity [9], even minor personality rubs could flare into violent explosions. For instance, one guy liked to whistle, which would get on everyone's nerves. Some of the verses that helped us bear with one another were from Romans: "Every man among you is not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think..." (Romans 12:3).
Only by following Jesus' teachings in constant forgiveness, patience and understanding were we able to get along together. The whistler? We recommended a schedule for when he should whistle.
Two and a half years went by before I could write my father and mother. A year later I was allowed to receive my first letter. In the meantime we subsisted on letters written 2,000 years ago.
By late 1970, almost all of the American POWs had been moved to Ha Lo, the main prison in downtown Hanoi. Newspapers later called this the Hanoi Hilton; we called it Heartbreak Hotel.
Some 50 of us lived, ate and slept together in one large room. We were all surprised to find how many of the men knew Scripture, learned from those verses passed along in whispers, bits of paper and wall thumpings. We immediately made plans for a Christmas service. A committee was formed and started to work.
Bits of green and red thread decorated the walls, a piece of green cloth was draped like a tree. Our creche was made of figures carved from soap rations or moulded from papier-mach of moistened toilet paper.
We pooled [10] the verses we knew and we now had a "consensus [11] Bible", written covertly [12] on bits of paper. It was the only Bible we had. As we sat in silence, the reader began: "In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed ..." As he completed the verse, a six-man choir sang Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.
He went on: "And she gave birth to her firstborn Son and wrapped Him in swaddling clothes..." "Away in the manger, no crib for His bed, our little Lord Jesus lay down His sweet head...", sang the choir.
Once again I was a youngster in Sunday school at the First Baptist church. Time had rolled back for us grizzled [13] men in prison pyjamas as, with eyes shining and tears trickling through beards, we joined in the singing. Glinting in the light from the kerosene lamp was a cross made of silver foil.
Occasionally the guards would knock at the door, ordering us not to sing, but they finally gave up. Our program continued into a communion service led by Air Force Lieutenant Tom Moe. A Lutheran, he sang his church's communion as Episcopalians, Methodists and men of other denominations bowed their heads together.
Later that night, after many months of our asking, the warden brought us a real Bible, the first any of us had seen in prison. He said we could keep it for one hour. We made the best of it. One of us read aloud the favourite passages called out by the others. We also checked some of our handwritten Scripture. Amazingly, we weren't very far off.
We didn't see that little clothbound King James version again for several months. Finally, after continued requests, one of us was allowed to go out and copy from it for "one hour" each week.
But when we'd start to copy, the interrogator would plant his elbow on the Bible for the first 15 minutes. Then, after he'd let us start, he'd ask mundane [14] questions to distract us. I'd just ignore him and write as fast as I could. The next week we'd have to return the previous week's copy work. They seemed to be afraid for us to keep the Scriptures, as if they sensed the spiritual help kept us from breaking.
From that we learned a most important lesson. Bible verses on paper aren't one iota as useful as Scripture burned into your mind and heart where you can draw on them for guidance and comfort.
After five weeks we didn't see the Bible again. But that had been enough time for us to memorize collectively the Sermon on the Mount, Romans 12, First Corinthians 13, and many of the Psalms. Now we had our own "living Bible," walking around the room. By this time, too, we held Sunday services and Sunday school classes.
We learned to rise above our surroundings, to overcome the material with the spiritual. In constantly exercising our minds, we developed teaching seminars in which we studied special subjects led by men experienced in various fields. These included learning Spanish, French, German, Russian. I particularly enjoy music and will never forget the music course.
Bill Butler, the leader of this program, drew a giant-sized piano keyboard on the floor with brick dust. Then, standing on a "key," one assistant would hum its note. Other assistants, up the keyboard, hummed each note of the chord which was being demonstrated, while Bill explained how chord progression works.
Two years passed this way at Heartbreak Hotel, years of continuing degradation [15], sickness, endless hunger and never knowing whether we'd see home again. But instead of going mad or becoming animals, we continued to grow as a community of men, sustaining one another in compassion and understanding.
For as one of the verses I heard thumped out on the wall one night said: "Man does not live by bread alone, but by every Word that proceeds out of the mouth of the Lord" (Deuteronomy 8:3).
His Word became our rock, sustaining us through the duration of our imprisonment to the day of our release, when we joyfully received the fulfilment of His promise, "The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer..." (Psalm 18:2).
* * *
In Need of Prayer
--By Pamela Longwood
As I left my job at Columbia College and walked to my car, I sensed that something was happening down the street. People were running toward the Methodist church.
I got in my car and drove over. As I pulled in front of the church, I heard a young man yell, "Call an ambulance! Somebody's hurt!"
Immediately I got out and went to the victim lying on the steps. He had been stabbed in a robbery attempt. No one knew who he was. I stooped down and cupped the man's head in my hands. "Do you know Jesus?" I asked him. He appeared to be losing consciousness, yet he managed a groan. I prayed beside him until the ambulance arrived.
That evening in my bedtime prayers I referred to him as "the man on the steps." The next morning I learned his identity: Joseph Bethea, a bishop of the Methodist church.
After his recovery, Bishop Bethea wrote a local newspaper article in which he thanked everyone who had prayed for him. He mentioned me and told how I had come to his aid. He said I'd "ministered to him, both physically and spiritually."
You can never know when or where God will use you to help one of His children in need--even a bishop on the steps of his church.
* * *
One Red Rose
--By Eva Mae Ramsey
In the mid-1960s my husband's sister Muriel became very ill. My husband and six-year-old daughter, Linda, and I travelled to Tulsa to be present while Muriel underwent surgery for a diseased kidney. As we neared Tulsa, a thought flashed into my mind out of nowhere. One red rose, a voice said. Take one red rose to Muriel. My husband agreed to stop at a florist's shop. However, it was late and everything was closed.
The next morning my husband went to the hospital to wait during the operation. I stayed with Linda and my husband's elderly mother at her home. All I could think of was that red rose. I felt compelled to search out that rose. So Linda and I walked uptown, and I bought one red rose.
When my husband returned, he said that Muriel had come through the surgery, and it was now touch-and-go [16] as to whether she'd recover. He also told me he'd ordered a big bouquet of gladiolas for Muriel's room.
"That's lovely, honey," I said. "But she's got to have this red rose, too." When we went to the hospital later, Muriel was still groggy and wasn't able to talk to us, but I put the rose, by itself, in a vase where she could see it. Because of work commitments we had to return home without ever talking to Muriel, but we did learn that she would recover.
Soon we got a letter, "Before I went to the hospital," Muriel wrote, "I prayed that if I was supposed to live, God would send me a sign I specifically asked for, something that meant God was with me and would give me the heart to go on. When I opened my eyes after the operation, there it was, the very thing I'd prayed for--a red rose."
The Name on the Mailbox
--By Virginia Cottrell
"Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid." That's an adage [17] I've long believed in. But there was a moment in my life that has led me to believe that if you're bold, sometimes even mysterious forces will come to your aid.
At that time, when my family was struggling, I sought a job with Oklahoma's Department of Human Services. This was a bold move, for I had no diploma, having dropped out of school to marry, but eventually I passed a test and got the job.
My assignment was locating and assisting needy families, and locating them was often difficult. This particular day in 1977, I'd heard of a needy family (no father present, little money or food, frightened mother and children) living near Lake Texoma. This was dangerous country, but I felt it my duty to find them. I drove all morning with little to guide me, and in this gun-crazy county you didn't just knock on any shack and ask for directions.
Finally, in the early afternoon I parked in the shade of a cottonwood tree and began to pray, asking God to direct me. I then looked down the lane I'd already driven over twice, and there was a lone mailbox plainly emblazoned [18] with the family's name.
My visit went well; we'd be able to help this family with food and clothing. As I was leaving, the grateful mother marvelled that I'd found her house. "It wasn't hard," I said, "once I saw your name on the mailbox."
"My name?" the woman said to me, obviously mystified.
And going back to the road, I examined the mailbox again. There was no name. No name at all.
* * *
The Voice on the Phone
--By Lynne Coates
When a tornado struck Louisville, Kentucky, in April 1974, our family was at home--all but our youngest son, Collyn. He was in kindergarten at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary [19] a few miles away.
Huddled together in our basement, we heard the rain pounding and the storm's violent roar. When the noise abated, we went upstairs, relieved to find our neighbourhood untouched. But the radio said the storm had headed toward the seminary.
My husband went to get Collyn and I stayed at home with our two older boys. I tried to call the kindergarten. The number did not ring. Instead I heard clicks and then the phone went dead.
"Mama," my son Chris reported, "the radio just said the tornado went through the Baptist seminary and took the roof off."
Both children began to cry. With my own fear, how could I comfort them? I thought: Only God can help me now. He's in charge. "Boys," I said, "we're in God's hands."
Again I tried to phone. Dead. I was about to hang up when the number rang.
"Don't worry," said the woman who answered. "The children were taken to another building before the storm. They're fine." We hugged and shouted for joy.
The area around the seminary had been devastated [20]. Huge trees lay twisted on the ground; live electrical wires sparked on the wet sidewalks; homeless people wandered in a daze. But my husband found Collyn safe, just as the woman had said.
Later, when I went to thank the woman who'd comforted me on the phone, Collyn's teacher said, "But Mrs. Coates, you couldn't have spoken with anyone. Our phone lines were destroyed. Besides, there was no one in the building when you called."
* * *
We're Still Alive!
--By Dayle Gruetzmacher
It happened only 15 minutes away from home. I was sitting on the front seat between my husband, Amber, who was driving, and our daughter, Sue, whom we were taking back to college in Chicago.
From our home in Hobart, Indiana, it is only a 50-mile trip. But the road was slick from rain that morning, and there was a lot of traffic on the Kingery Expressway. When Amber pulled to a halt behind a line of vehicles, he looked in the rear-view mirror to see the most terrifying sight in all his years of driving--a huge trailer-truck hurtling toward our car sideways and out of control.
A second later the skidding giant hit our fully loaded station wagon, spun it in a half-circle and then fell with crushing force right on top of us. Crunching metal. Shattering glass. Silence.
With amazement I realized that I was alive and not noticeably in pain. The back of the seat had collapsed, and I was lying flat with the crushed roof of the car a few inches above my face. My knees were wedged against my chest so tightly that I could only manage small gasps for air. With difficulty I could turn my head and I could move my hands, but nothing else.
What about the others? Amber spoke to me. He was lying on his side, and his trapped legs were oddly twisted. Wedged into a tiny space, he was finding it hard to breathe.
Sue, on the other side of me, was flat on her back, but she could move a little and was apparently unhurt.
None of us were in severe pain, nothing seemed broken, no one was apparently bleeding. But we could do nothing to help ourselves. Worse still, none of us knew how long our battered car could hold off the crushing weight of the truck which covered and surrounded us. At that moment, we simply acknowledged the fact that we were still alive; and we praised God.
I decided to keep my eyes shut. I knew that I had done so consciously to keep calm, and that if I let my imagination dwell on what could happen to me, it could kill me.
I could imagine Sue, with three years of nurse's training, thinking the same thoughts: remembering that what kills a lot of people in accidents is simply shock. Yet as we started to discuss our frightening situation, we realized that we weren't panicky. We all had a tremendous sense that God was with us there in the wrecked car which might yet become our coffin, and that He was keeping us calm.
Of course, we were afraid. Closing my eyes couldn't shut out the heavy odour of diesel fuel from the capsized [21] truck. The smell of gasoline from our own gas tank mingled with it. A single spark could ignite it all.
Suddenly, amazingly, a friendly face appeared at the shattered window beside Sue. A motorist who had been passing when the crash occurred had squeezed beneath the precariously balanced trailer, risking his life to see if there could be anyone alive whom somehow he could help.
He stayed with us, promising us that help was coming, assuring us that we were in good shape, until the police arrived to relieve him. He was the first of God's shock absorbers.
The ones who followed had names--Mike, Red, Bob, Chuck and John. They were policemen and state troopers [22] and they took turns at the car window, talking, reassuring, holding the hand of Sue, who was nearest the door. We learned that outside on the highway firemen and rescue workers had summoned a crane which would try to lift the truck to release us.
I opened my eyes for a moment and got the impression that the car roof was nearer my face than it had been only minutes before. Surely I was imagining things! I must not panic. I wondered if the others had noticed anything.
"I'm all right," Sue assured me, "but I can't move as much as I could. The space seems to be getting smaller."
Amber was beginning to gasp for breath. The roof above him had advanced several inches, and very little air was getting through to him. We knew then, for sure, that the truck was still moving down on us. Inch by inch, it was pressuring the final resistance out of the crumpled metal of our car. Into how small a space could three people be squeezed and still live?
I had a new surge of reassurance. God knows how much we can take, I thought, and He will hold the space to that.
A fireman appeared with a tube connected to an oxygen supply, and we managed to manoeuver it to a place near Amber's mouth. He began to breathe more easily, and after a while he and Sue started to sing Gospel choruses.
The young state trooper named Mike was with us when the moment came which all of us knew was our moment of greatest peril. He was ordered out from under the trailer--and no one took his place. Alone for the first time in two and a half hours, we knew that outside a crane must be trying to lift the trailer. If the crane could not hold the giant load, it would fall back again, probably to crush us finally.
Inside the car the three of us held hands. I remember saying, "Don't be afraid. God hasn't brought us through this awful experience to let us die now. It's going to be all right." We began to pray again.
Suddenly the pressure on us seemed to ease. Within a few seconds men were around the car, wedging timbers under the trailer so that it could not fall back on us. Minutes later the car door was being cut open, and we were eased out of our three-hour prison. Sue was lifted out first, and I followed her into the same ambulance. God had given us so much assurance that we were able to joke with the ambulance men as they put their arms around us. When Amber was brought out, he sat up on the stretcher and waved his hat to the crowd!
Police told us that everyone who saw the accident was sure that we had all died in the wreckage. St. Margaret's Hospital, which had been told to prepare for three casualties "dead on arrival", was amazed to find three happy people without a broken bone or any sign of shock.
It was God Who took the shock.
Very often I have heard the Words from Isaiah 26:3: "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee." God was very real to us even before that terrible morning--if He hadn't been, I don't believe we could have lasted through such an ordeal. What I know clearly now is what it means to have His peace.
Angels Watching over Me...
--From the book When Angels Appear, by Hope MacDonald
The week had been full and busy for the doctor. As he drove into his driveway that Saturday afternoon, he looked forward to putting on his old clothes and relaxing the rest of the day. However, it wasn't long before the phone rang. There was an emergency at the hospital and he was needed immediately. He grabbed his bag and dashed out the door to his car in the driveway. He climbed in, turned the key, and was ready to go.
Suddenly he felt a strong Presence standing by his open window. It was so real that he felt he could reach out and touch it. He even paused long enough to turn his head and look. Although he didn't see anything, he heard a voice of warning, "Don't back out of the driveway. Get out and look behind you."
Even though the doctor was in a tremendous hurry, he felt he must obey the message. He got out of his car, walked around to the back, and there he saw the little two-year-old boy from next door. He was sitting in his new rocking chair, leaning up against the back bumper of the doctor's car, watching the lazy autumn clouds float by.
John was a young boy who lived in a big old farmhouse in South Dakota with his mother and father and five younger brothers and sisters.
One day John's parents went to another town on business and had to stay overnight. They left John in charge of the family. After the children had eaten dinner, they went upstairs to get ready for bed. All the brothers and sisters were gathered together in one bedroom.
Suddenly John looked over at his two-year-old brother and saw, to his horror, that he was playing with a lighted candle! He was sticking unlit matches into it and watching with glee as they burst into flames. Before John could rush to his brother's side, the candle tipped over and fire began to spread. No one can explain why, but in the middle of all this something caused the children to look over at the door. There they saw a tall, beautiful Angel standing in the doorway. The Angel simply blew out the fire and turned around and left. All the children ran down the hall after him, but the Angel was gone.
Now the brothers and sisters are married and have children of their own. But when they get together, they often talk about the time they saw the Angel blow out the fire that cold winter night.
* * *
As Janet passed the baby's room on her way to bed, she stopped, as she did every night, to say a prayer for her sleeping child. When she walked into the bedroom, she clearly saw two beautiful Angels clothed in pearly radiance, standing by the baby's crib. They seemed to exude an air of infectious joy and delightful serenity. The sight was so totally unexpected that she paused to take in this moment of wonder. When she walked toward the crib the Angels vanished, but their intense presence of love and joy remained in the room.
* * *
Erik was three years old and was staying with his grandparents for a few days while his mother and father went on a vacation.
One morning he woke up complaining that his ears hurt. He had a fever and ached all over. The grandmother phoned the doctor but couldn't get an appointment until seven o'clock that evening. Erik was crying and wanted his grandmother to hold him. It looked like it was going to be a long day for both of them.
Later in the morning, grandmother put Erik down on the living room rug with some of his toys, hoping they would occupy him for a little while. Then she went into her bedroom to pray. She asked God to be with Erik and to send His Angels to entertain him.
Later, when his grandmother was in the kitchen, Erik came running in from the living room shouting, "Grandma! Grandma! Come and see the Angels!" He told her there were five Angels and they were dancing and that they were wearing green dresses!
No one had ever told Erik about Angels before, and whenever anyone questioned him about them after that, they could not get him to change his story. He knew what he had seen.
Later that evening when the doctor checked Erik over, he said that both of Erik's ears were infected, but the pain was gone and there was no fever.
It's More than a Dream
--By Mary LaMagna Rocco
I was working the three-to-eleven shift at Miners Hospital in Spangler, Pennsylvania, when a patient I was feeding asked, "Why don't you have a little pin on like the other nurses?"
"I do," I said, reaching to show him the golden, wreath-shaped pin on my collar. It had been given to me when I graduated from nursing school in Altoona, and it meant a lot to me--it stood for years of hard work and study. But now, when I looked down, the pin was gone.
I knew I had pinned it to my uniform just before I left the house. I looked everywhere for it. A colleague and I searched through all the linens and dusted under the beds. At home I turned the place upside down. No pin. Of course, I could replace it, but a substitute would never mean as much. That night as I lay in bed, I prayed that the Lord would help me find it.
Soon I was asleep. In the deep of night I had a dream. I dreamed that I got out of bed, put on my house coat and slippers, and ran downstairs and out the door to a puddle of water in front of the house. And in the puddle was my pin.
The next morning I awoke disappointed. "It was only a dream," I muttered to myself. "A worthless dream." But as my head cleared, I seemed to hear a voice saying, No it's more than a dream. Go. See.
I put on my house coat and slippers and walked out to the road in front of our house, and there found a puddle of water. I placed my hand into the brown water. In a moment I held in my hand an answered prayer.
The Search for Little Wessie
--By Ernest M. Snyder
The news came over the car radio that April Sunday afternoon, as my wife, Martha, our three-year-old daughter Robin and I were driving to my mother's house. A three-year-old boy was lost somewhere in Cunningham Falls State Park in western Maryland. He had wandered away from his family during a picnic.
"Just Robin's age!" I said to Martha. I thought of that rugged mountain terrain. "Hope they find him quick."
But hours later, driving home after dinner at Mother's, there was another bulletin. That little boy was still missing.
I looked at our three-year-old sitting between us on the front seat. Then I wondered how many men of my National Guard unit [23] I could locate on a Sunday evening. "Let's drive by the park," I said to Martha.
It was 6:15 when we reached the parking lot from which the search was being directed. The mountain slope seemed alive with searchers. I stopped a state trooper and asked if they could use some National Guardsmen.
"What can you give us?" he said.
"Mostly men and communications," I said, "and probably a jeep or two."
From a radio car he phoned police headquarters and in a moment had the necessary official request. I drove Martha and Robin home, called three radio stations and asked them to broadcast an appeal for Guard volunteers. I also contacted Staff Sergeant Charles Lockard, the unit's full-time employee, and asked him to open the armoury [24].
By the time I had changed into my uniform and driven the ten miles to the armoury in Frederick, men were already gathering. I went through a mental list of items needed--radios, compasses, flashlights, a radio vehicle, batteries, maps. Twenty minutes later I was en route to the park in the radio jeep with the first contingent [25].
As we reached the park, our eyes fell on the sight everyone dreads in a search operation. Firemen with grappling hooks [26] were searching a small pond just south of the picnic area where the young boy had been playing. After setting up a command post of the Guard activity, I questioned the police about the details of the disappearance.
The boy, Wesley Eans, three-year-old son of Mr. and Mrs. Claude Eans of Laurel, Maryland, had been playing with his six-year-old brother and four older children a short distance from where his mother was setting out their picnic lunch. At 2 P.M. when she called them to eat, little Wesley--or "Wessie," as he was called--failed to appear. His parents starting hunting at once, joined by other picnicking families, and then, as anxiety mounted, by park rangers and the state police.
I went to talk to Wessie's parents, where they waited in their white station wagon, assuring them that the Guard would stay until Wessie was found. Night was closing in fast; I could see in the couple's eyes that hope would be harder to maintain in the dark. The only consolation was that the searching operation in the pond so far had turned up nothing.
Returning to the jeep, I reviewed the patrols that would go out as soon as enough men arrived. We planned a fan operation, continuing until all of the park within one and a half miles in all directions from the base point had been covered. Soon the first patrol of six men started up the mountain. Throughout the night and into the early morning, as more of my company arrived, they were dispatched [27] into the surrounding areas.
It grew cold. The temperature fell to near freezing, and as I shivered in the open jeep I thought of a small child in a thin cotton jacket somewhere on that mountain. At approximately 2:15 A.M. our last group went out in a three-quarter-ton truck with a generator and floodlights. They were to travel the small trails west of the park, an area dotted with open cisterns [28].
And meanwhile the earlier patrols were returning. We began sending men home as they came in, because there seemed no place left to search. A pack of bloodhound dogs had just come back with no results either. The dogs had picked up a trail that led up into the rugged, rocky area to the northwest. After struggling after the hounds for more than a mile over terrain difficult even for adults, the search party decided the dogs had crossed scents--picked up another scent--and were following that. Doubtless the men were right: One of our Guardsmen, Staff Sergeant John Wilcox, had injured an ankle trying to get into that same area earlier. It was generally agreed that a three-year-old could not make such a climb.
About 2:30 A.M. I walked through the floodlights illuminating [29] the parking lot to the white station wagon. I leaned down to the window and was whispering reassurances to Mr. and Mrs. Eans when all at once my eyes burned with tears. Astonished at myself, I whirled away and walked back toward my command post.
I kept walking, into the cover of the woods, and there they began, great racking sobs that I thought would tear me apart. And along with them, a sense of helplessness that I had never known before. Then, perhaps because the whole experience was so strange, I did something else completely out of character for me. I looked up through the branches to the stars shining cold and brilliant, and I said a prayer.
"Dear God," I said, "please help these people! Don't let this suffering continue. You know where Wessie is. You see him right now. Show us, dear God. Show us." It must have been ten minutes before I went back to the jeep.
About 3:30 A.M. our last group of men came in, and with them the bad news: no sign of Wessie. Nevertheless, it was announced that the search would resume as soon as it was light.
I went home to catch a little sleep. Before turning in, I stepped into Robin's room and stood there for a minute looking down at this three-year-old snug in her own bed. Martha was awake. "I've looked at her a dozen times tonight myself," she said.
By 6:30 A.M. Martha was up and fixing eggs and coffee. I looked out the kitchen windows to the west of the park and realized what I had somehow known ever since that prayer was wrenched from me under the stars--that I was committed to this search until the child was found.
When I reached the park, between 600 and 700 people were gathering in the pale dawn light. Sergeant Wilcox was there, hurt ankle and all. He said he could still work the radio in the jeep. With me at the wheel and two state troopers in the back seat, we started the jeep up a trail northwest into the mountains.
The going was rough, and soon I had to shift into the lowest gear in four-wheel drive. Occasionally the two troopers would call out the boy's name. Then I'd have to stop and shut off the engine so we could listen. We passed the place where Wilcox had twisted his ankle in the dark. Now we were approaching the ruggedest part of the park, an area known as Cat Rock. Two miles from the base, the four of us reached the same conclusion earlier search parties had--a three-year-old could not have made it up here.
We had made about half a mile on the return leg and were descending a downgrade with the engine roaring and the squelch on the radio going, when somewhere off to my left I heard the sound I can still hear today. It was a voice, a deep male voice, saying the word, "Here."
I slammed on the brakes. The others turned to stare at me. Not a sound came from the woods around us.
"What's the matter?" Trooper Mills said.
"Nothing," I said.
And yet there had been something. I was so sure of it that I climbed out of the jeep and walked 150 feet back up the trail. The three others were getting restless. "What are we waiting for?" one of them called.
I knew it sounded ridiculous, but I said it anyway: "I heard something."
At that Trooper Mills stood up and shouted Wessie's name. Immediately I heard another voice, but this time it was a child's voice. The others still had heard nothing. When it came the second time, I determined the direction and plunged into the woods toward it, the two troopers right behind me. Over rocks and fallen logs we scrambled, branches lashing our faces.
I reached him first, sitting behind a log, not at all surprised at seeing us. I scooped him up and hugged him tightly. "Where's Mommy and Daddy?" he asked me. "I couldn't find them. I bet they went home."
We assured him that they had not. And then we looked around for the direction we'd come in. We were 250 to 300 yards from the jeep. I remember that we yelled for Wilcox back in the jeep several times before he heard us, and when he shouted back, we could barely hear him.
As he caught sight of us, Wilcox radioed back that we were bringing Wessie in safe and sound. We found a cheese sandwich which the little fellow finished in no time. As we started the return trip down the mountain, Trooper Mills looked at me. "You could not possibly have heard that boy," he said.
"I know," I said.
Before the jeep had completely stopped, Wessie was in the arms of his parents. Then all three were whisked away in a police car to the hospital in Frederick. The doctors' examination there confirmed what our eyes had shown us: Wessie was fine.
Wessie now is probably well on the way to forgetting what many will remember for years to come. I know that I for one have returned to that spot in the mountains where we found him. I have sought an examination from all points of view, and I know that the only answer is the one that came to me on that day.--Divine intervention had led me to Wessie.
Wessie was miles from anyone on a cold, lonely, dark mountain. Yet he was not alone. And for that matter, from the moment I cried out to God for help, neither was I.
Discussion Questions
Following are a number of questions, some of 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 every story, but you may choose those which apply and are helpful.
1. 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?
2. Does this story show you anything about the benefits of the training, education and instruction you have received? Please discuss.
3. 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 and ask God to do?
4. Did you feel that the people in these stories could have been more of a witness? If so, how?
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. What specific answers to prayer are there 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?
Glossary for Young Readers:
(The meaning given is for the use of the word in the story and does not cover every meaning of the word.)
[1] POW: Prisoner of War
[2] pallet: a bed of straw, or any other small or poor bed
[3] hallucinating: seeing, hearing, feeling, tasting or smelling things which only exist in a person's imagination
[4] interrogation: the act or process of questioning, usually in a hostile, threatening or fearful manner
[5] converse: talk together in an informal way; engage in conversation
[6] evoked: called forth; brought out
[7] dysentery: a disease of the intestines, causing severe diarrhoea
[8] inventiveness: the ability to think up new ways of doing things; creativity
[9] proximity: nearness; closeness
[10] pooled: put together by different people for common advantage; shared
[11] consensus: the opinion of all or most of the people consulted
[12] covertly: kept from sight; secret; hidden
[13] grizzled: worn; showing signs of age
[14] mundane: routine; trivial
[15] degradation: reduction to a state that causes shame, disgrace and contempt
[16] touch-and-go: an uncertain, risky or precarious situation
[17] adage: a wise saying that has been much used; a well-known proverb
[18] emblazoned: displayed clearly and brightly
[19] seminary: a school or college for training students to be priests or ministers
[20] devastated: destroyed, ravaged, made unfit to live in
[21] capsized: turned bottom side up; overturned
[22] state troopers: members of the state police force
[23] National Guard unit: the reserve militia (an army of citizens who are not full-time soldiers) of each state of the United States. Units of the National Guard are subject to call in times of emergency or war, by a state or the Federal Government
[24] armoury: a place where military weapons and supplies are kept
[25] contingent: a group of soldiers
[26] grappling hooks: iron bars with hooks at one end for grabbing and holding
[27] dispatched: sent off to some place or for a specific purpose
[28] cisterns: artificial reservoirs for storing water, especially a tank below ground
[29] illuminating: lighting up
(Definitions condensed from the World Book, Funk and Wagnalls Standard Dictionary and Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary.)
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