In the Presence of My Enemies (35 page)

When we arrived at the hospital and the ambulance door opened again, I was suddenly surrounded by people, everyone talking all at once. In the distance I noticed a beautiful American servicewoman. Her dark hair was pulled back and she was dressed in fatigues. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. As medics whisked me into the facility, I saw a whole row of U.S. troops with automatic rifles standing guard. The guys seemed so huge! After 376 days of living with short Filipinos, I was struck by their size. I began to realize that all this security was just for me.

Once in the examining room, the doctors moved in, one after another. All kinds of activity swirled around me. The American servicewoman never left the foot of my bed. When things grew calm for a moment, she introduced herself: “I’m Major Reika Stroh. I’m going to stay with you until you don’t need me anymore.” She began to stroke my arm and play with my fingers. I lay back and thought how nice it felt.

Who had planned ahead to provide this special service? I wondered.

Soon I was ushered into X-ray. Once again, I glanced sideways to see the security detail still standing guard. The attention was almost overwhelming.

The X-rays found that no bones had been chipped or broken and no arteries had been hit by the bullet; it had passed through the flesh from the back of my thigh out the front. I needed surgery to close the two wounds, but it was a simple enough procedure that it could be done right away at this facility.

June 7

3:00 a.m.: The phone rings in Kansas. U.S. Ambassador to the Philippines Francis Ricciardone tells Paul and Oreta that their son is dead and their daughter-in-law is wounded.

June 7

3:30
A.M.
: President Arroyo calls the Burnhams to confirm the news.

They gave me a shot of anesthesia; I closed my eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.

When I awoke, it was dark. Major Stroh told me that although the surgery had gone well, some shrapnel had to be left behind. My leg wasn’t in a cast, but a thick wrapping engulfed it from near my hip down to my knee.

I was well enough to leave and the American authorities wanted to fly me to Manila, she explained. “The whole mission of this plane and its crew has been to sit on the tarmac and wait for you and Martin to come out of the jungle,” she told me. “They’ll finally get to finish their mission.”

Once we got back to the airfield and my stretcher was safely clipped to the wall of the huge C-130, Major Stroh said, “General [Donald] Wurster is here to meet you.” I had seen a picture of this U.S. Air Force brigadier general in a
Newsweek
magazine while we were in the jungle, so I knew that he was the commander of the joint task force in the southern Philippines. I wasn’t alert enough to grasp everything he said, but he told me that he was glad I was finally out, and that I was going to be okay. He said something about my being brave and then added, “Here, I want you to have something.”

He pressed the general’s star from his cap into my hand.

“Oh, thank you very much,” I said, overwhelmed with his thoughtfulness.

As soon as he left, I turned the star over to Major Stroh for safekeeping. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “We saved some of what we had for supper. Would you like some?”

Of course I did! But as soon as I took a bite, I began to feel nauseated. I realized that my stomach was simply not up to this yet.

The trip to Manila took less than an hour. There the U.S. ambassador, Francis Ricciardone, a distinguished-looking man in a suit, came onto the plane to say, “We are so glad you are here. Welcome to Manila. We’re going to take you to the embassy.” Within minutes I was in another ambulance headed through the nighttime streets of the capital.

Later I found out that, in order to protect me from the curious press, two decoy ambulances had already been sent toward Malacañang, the presidential palace. Meanwhile, we went the back way to the embassy and were there within ten or fifteen minutes. They had obviously planned all this in detail, and everything went like clockwork.

As we pulled through the security gates there on Roxas Boulevard, I gazed out at the palm trees and the beautifully manicured lawns and remembered when I had been to these buildings years before for passport matters. But this time, I saw rooms I’d never seen before. They wheeled me into a cozy two-bedroom suite with tasteful furniture and attractive art on the walls. There was food in the refrigerator, and in the closet I found some of my own clothes, items the New Tribes people had brought down from Aritao months before in hopes that someday I’d be here to wear them.

Although it was late on a Friday night, Ted Allegra, the embassy’s chief of American citizen services, was waiting for me. A wonderfully gracious man, he briefed me on everything that was going to happen, including a visit with President Arroyo. Then he asked me, “What are
your
wishes?”

June 7

4:30
A.M.
: Mary Jones, having received a call during the night, passes the word to her parents in Arkansas, who must then tell the children.

“I want to get out of here as soon as possible. Or if I can’t go home soon, I want my family to come and join me here.”

“Your sister Mary is already on her way to escort you home. How about if we get you on your way by Monday morning?”

I was thrilled and told him so.

Ted then told me that he had called both my parents and Martin’s, and that the AFP had managed to retrieve Martin’s body from the hillside. “We’re going to fly him to the big military hospital in Okinawa for an autopsy,” he gently explained. I was relieved to know that he was finally in American hands.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

I wondered if there was any way to contact Ediborah’s children. “I know they don’t live here in Manila, but I’m the only one who can tell them how their mother lived and died,” I told him. “I’d also like the chance to talk with my coworkers from New Tribes Mission.”

Ted looked at me a little oddly and said, “Well, I want you to know you are not a prisoner here at the embassy . . . but you may not leave.”

I looked back and said, “Then I guess that means they’ll all have to be invited here.”

Ted sat there a minute and then said he’d try to make the arrangements.

When he left, I reached for the phone to call Martin’s parents, having calculated that it would still be Friday morning in Kansas.

“Hello . . . this is Gracia, calling from Manila. I just wanted you to know that I’m fine.”

“Hi, Gracia.” I heard the voice of my mother-in-law on the other end of the line. “Doug is here with us, too.” We talked for a minute and then I couldn’t wait any longer.

“Can I talk to the kids?”

“They’re not here—they’ve been with your folks in Arkansas for a few days, now that school has let out. Your brother and his family took everybody to the lake. But we’ve already been in touch with them, and they’re driving back here to Kansas today.”

I would have to wait just a bit longer to hear their voices. I was so disappointed.

But before we hung up, I knew I had to move ahead to the painful subject of Martin’s death.

“I’m so sorry that Martin didn’t make it out,” I said to Oreta.

“We’re sorry, too, but we’re glad you’re okay,” she answered.

I proceeded to give them details of the last encounter, wanting them to hear it from me instead of the press. They were terribly sad, of course.

We talked about a tentative funeral date. Suddenly, I felt very tired. I looked at the clock and realized it was three-thirty in the morning! As we hung up, I promised I’d call again once I got some sleep.

A Filipino nurse arrived and cleaned me up a little bit. The feel of clean, warm water on my skin was such a soothing treat.

She gave me a bit of cranberry juice and helped me change into my pajamas. I looked at this bed, with its spotless sheets and comfortable mattress, and thought,
No hammock tonight! And no one is going to chain Martin ever again.

I finally sank down and turned out the light, but rather than sleeping, I found myself reliving the scene of Martin’s death. I replayed in my mind those awful moments when we were both lying there wounded on the hillside in the rain.
What if I’d spoken to him and tried to wake him up? What if I’d rolled him over so the bleeding wouldn’t have filled up his lungs so fast? Would he still be alive?

I began to berate myself for not doing something, anything. But deep inside, I knew that no matter what I might have tried, the outcome would have been the same. Martin had lost massive amounts of blood and had been struggling to get his breath. Now he had gone directly into the Lord’s presence . . . and I was left here in this nice bed in Manila—alone. This would be the first of an endless string of such nights to come.

Together we had imagined so many times what it would be like to be released and flown to Manila. We had talked about going to Mega Mall together, seeing our friends, going out to dinner, and celebrating. We certainly never wanted to imagine a scenario like this one.

I had just drifted off to sleep when sounds of gunfire erupted through the embassy. I quickly sat up in bed and began to scream. My heart was racing, but with my injured leg, I couldn’t get out of bed to hit the floor.

The nurse came running.

“Who was shooting?” I demanded.

“There was no shooting,” she assured me. “You’re fine. Trust me—there was nothing.”

She sat there with me until I got my bearings enough to realize my mind was playing tricks on me. I lay back down.

The next thing I knew, it was morning. I saw a Gideons Bible on the bed stand and I stretched over to pick it up.

What a privilege to hold this book in my hands once again! I turned on the lamp and opened to the Psalms. I began reading:

Deliver me from my enemies, O God;

     protect me from those who rise up against me.

Deliver me from evildoers

     and save me from bloodthirsty men.

See how they lie in wait for me!

     Fierce men conspire against me

     for no offense or sin of mine, O L
ORD
. . . .

But I will sing of your strength,

     in the morning I will sing of your love;

for you are my fortress,

     my refuge in times of trouble.

O my Strength, I sing praise to you;

     you, O God, are my fortress, my loving God.

(Psalm 59:1-3, 16-17)

Soon the nurse was at the door. “What are you doing? It’s only 6 
A.M.
”

“I found this Bible here, and I’m reading it.”

“Don’t you think you ought to get some more sleep? You went to bed awfully late.”

So to make her happy, I turned the light off and lay back down. After a few minutes of not sleeping, though, I turned the light back on and kept reading, this time from my favorite passage:

Therefore, since through God’s mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart. . . . For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. . . .

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. (2 Corinthians 4:1, 6-9, 16-17)

I then began to pray.
Oh, Lord, thank you so much for my getting out . . . and that my leg is going to be okay. Thank you for the joy of having your Word in my hands once again. Please go with me through these next difficult days, and make my life a blessing.

* * *

After breakfast, I was desperate to get back on the phone and try to reach my kids, but Ted Allegra told me it was too early—that they might not yet have arrived in Rose Hill from Arkansas. Meanwhile, he had a whole list of people who needed to see me that day: the ambassador, the doctor, even President Arroyo, who was scheduled to come around nine in the morning. I could see the staff already cleaning up the place for her arrival.

But as the morning wore on, we learned that President Arroyo’s trip had been delayed and that she wouldn’t arrive until evening.

“Then let’s try to call my kids,” I said. A speakerphone was provided, and I eagerly dialed the number. I knew it would be about nine o’clock Friday evening in Kansas.

“Hi, everybody—it’s Gracia!”

The room was full: Paul and Oreta, my mom and dad, Martin’s brother Doug and his family, his youngest sister, Felicia, and her husband—and Jeff, Mindy, and Zach.

“Mom, you ought to see our front yard!” Jeff said.

“Why?”

“There’s news media all over! Television cameras and everything. I even called the cops on some of them when they got too pushy.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” I replied. “Hey, who else is there with you?” Others chimed in. “How are you feeling?” someone asked.

“Well, I’m here in the American Embassy in Manila, and actually I’m feeling okay. They did surgery on my leg yesterday afternoon down in Zamboanga, and it went pretty smoothly.”

“When are you coming home?”