In the Presence of My Enemies (37 page)

We want to thank each and every one of you for every time you remembered us in prayer. We needed every single prayer you prayed for us during our ordeal in the jungle.

We know there are countless of you who don’t even know us who prayed and offered support also, and we thank you, too. We especially want to thank the military men, the Filipinos and the Americans, who risked and even gave their lives in order to rescue us. May God bless these men in their ongoing efforts.

During our ordeal, we were repeatedly lied to by the Abu Sayyaf, and they are not men of honor. They should be treated as common criminals. We support all efforts of the government in bringing these men to justice.

I return to the States this morning to rejoin my children and to put my life back together. Part of my heart will always stay with the Filipino people. Thank you.

And with that, I was wheeled into the Jetway for a Northwest Airlines flight to Tokyo, which would connect in Minneapolis with a flight bound for Kansas City. Looking out the window for my last glimpse of the Philippines, I saw several dozen AFP soldiers enthusiastically waving good-bye to me from the tarmac. I knew I was closing the door on a sixteen-year era of my life. Everything was now about to change.

21

Going Home

(June 10–17, 2002)

The flight from Manila to Tokyo takes four hours. It immediately became apparent that more than a few fellow passengers knew I was aboard. As I was wheeled down the aisle, well-wishers reached out to touch me—some of them smiling, others in tears. The phrase I heard over and over was “I’m so sorry.”

After another twelve hours in the air, we finally began our descent into Kansas City. As I looked out the window, I thought back to something Martin had written months before in the jungle in anticipation of this moment:

Highest priority when getting home is to reconnect w/ the kids. Need to recognize and respect the role that others have had in their lives and not snatch them away. Our parents will also need some time. There are going to be a lot of demands on us, and setting priorities is going to be difficult. Sometimes we’re going to do it wrong. Keep going.

What wisdom he had voiced!

A mixture of joy and apprehension swept over me. It was going to be so fantastic to see Jeff, Mindy, and Zach again! Even in my excitement, however, I was a little nervous. There would no doubt be some awkwardness once we were all together again. I had never worn the title of Single Mom before. I hadn’t even thought about what that would be like. I was bound to “do it wrong” sometimes. I knew that I could only ask God for guidance and not be too hard on myself.

I wasn’t even out of the Jetway when I got my first glimpse of Zach, pacing back and forth. The instant I got out into the open, a burst of glee went up, even though there were strangers everywhere. I stretched my arms up from the wheelchair to squeeze Zach.

“I love you, Mom!” he cried, squeezing me back.

As I reached for Jeff, then Mindy, I exclaimed, “Oh, thank you, God! We’re back together!”

I clung to Mindy and then I looked at her. She suddenly seemed very grown up. “I didn’t know if I would ever hug you again,” I told her.

“Me neither, Mom.”

My mom and dad and Paul and Oreta were also there. It was so good to see them all again. We were quickly ushered into a separate room for just a few minutes. Along the way, I spotted friends from high school and college scattered in the crowd. I waved at them; it was so cool. I couldn’t believe they were there.

After a moment or two of reconnecting with my family, it was time to face the media once again. Zach wheeled me out into the crowd of flashes and microphones. In light of the story I’d heard on the phone about his driving skills, I wasn’t sure he should be the one to push me around with my leg sticking out. But he did fine.

Once again, I pulled out my card to make sure I said the proper things, and no more:

Good afternoon. It’s good to be home. I want everyone to know that I’m fine.

Several minutes ago I was reunited with my children and my family, and I think this must be one of the happiest moments of my whole life.

We want to thank each and every one of you for every time you remembered us in prayer. We needed every single prayer during our ordeal in the jungle. We know there were countless of you who don’t even know us who prayed and offered support also. And we thank you.

I would like to thank Representative Todd Tiahrt and Senator Sam Brownback for helping my family and being such a support during this difficult time.

During our ordeal we were repeatedly lied to by the Abu Sayyaf, and they are not men of honor. They should be treated as common criminals. We support all U.S. government efforts in assisting the Philippines in ridding that country of terrorism.

A very bad thing happened to Martin and me when we were taken hostage. But we want everyone to know that God was good to us every single day of our captivity. Martin was also a source of strength to all the hostages. He was a good man, and he died well.

Again, it’s good to be home. Keep praying for me and my kids as we begin to rebuild our lives. And thank you.

I was glad I’d written this out ahead of time. But even though I’d taken precautions like this, there were still a lot of inaccuracies in the media accounts of our story. The one that really upset me originated with the Associated Press and was picked up by
Time
magazine. They quoted me as saying of Martin’s death: “That is God’s liking. That is probably his destiny.”
6
I would never say such a thing. In fact, this sounds more like an Abu Sayyaf comment than anything else. I wrote
Time
to protest the blatant misquote and got back a letter passing the buck to AP. The magazine refused to run a correction.

* * *

We left the airport that day and were taken in a shuttle bus to a separate office building to meet the rest of our family. The only nonfamily member in the room was Rep. Todd Tiahrt, who had flown in from Washington for the occasion. “Congressman Tiahrt, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. “Did you happen to fly over Basilan on New Year’s Eve?”

He looked a bit surprised and said yes.

“We saw you!” I said, and I briefly told him the story. He was amazed and pleased. It was fun to watch his face. He told me he was glad I was home and sorry he couldn’t have done more to get Martin out safely.

I turned then to the family; we had so much catching up to do! We were all talking fast and furious, of course.

There was laughter but also tears, especially when I told a few stories about Martin’s bravery and the struggles I had with God during my ordeal.

The more the conversation and celebrating continued, the more a slight divergence of mood settled in. Although my side of the family had lost a beloved son-in-law, they were primarily ecstatic at having me back again. The Burnhams, while glad to see their daughter-in-law, were having to face the aching reality that this scene contained no firstborn son and never would.

Oreta eventually came to me and quietly explained what was occurring. I hadn’t picked up on it until then, but I definitely understood what was going on. I wheeled myself over to Felicia, who stood away from everyone else and seemed to be struggling the most. I held her hand as I said, “Felicia, I don’t know how you must be feeling right now. It must be hard to come to terms with Martin not being here. But the honest truth is, I said good-bye to Martin over and over and over, every time the guns started up. He’s gone now—and I can’t stay sad. You didn’t have him for the past year; you didn’t get to say good-bye like I did. He was snatched from you, and I know it will be very different for you.”

She gave me a hug, and we cried a bit together. In that moment I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to please everyone in every circumstance. I had to just do the best I could and, as Martin had written, “keep going.”

In time we moved out into the afternoon sunshine, where a big charter bus was waiting to make the two-hundred-mile drive to Rose Hill. Everybody was talking at once. The kids wanted to tell me stories about everything from football season to the friends they’d made in Rose Hill to the Christmas musical at school.

As we left the Kansas Turnpike and got close to home, the sun was just setting. I began noticing squad cars with flashing lights at every intersection.

“What are these policemen doing here?” I asked my father-in-law.

“They’re for you, to make way for the bus,” he replied.

As soon as we got into town, I saw that the streets were lined with people! They were waving flashlights and holding signs of welcome. Others had candles. Yellow ribbons and balloons were everywhere. I just couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought to myself,
Martin would be so honored to see how this town has turned out for us.

When we got close to Paul and Oreta’s house, streets were clogged with TV-station uplink trucks, and reporters were already talking into their microphones. I was helped off the bus and into a wheelchair. I waved at everybody across the street and called out, “Thank you!” as I blew kisses.
Those young, screaming girls must be Mindy’s friends,
 I thought as I smiled. As we headed inside the house, my heart was overwhelmed with people’s kindness.

To be honest, I don’t really remember much about that first night home—I was too jet-lagged. I can’t even tell you who was there. I just remember being surrounded by people who really cared about me.

My family screened the visitors pretty stringently over the next couple of days, not wanting to wear me out. I heard somebody say, “Getting in to see Gracia is like getting into Fort Knox!” I ended up circumventing the system a time or two, sneaking some people into my room for visits when everyone thought I was sleeping.

My mom and dad stayed right next door at the Hansons’ house. My brother, Paul, was there from Kansas City as well to help me start thinking through various financial matters, among other things. The living room was full of flowers and gifts and potted plants. The phone rang constantly. People brought food. It was amazing.

I looked once and noticed a woman in the kitchen who was not a family member; she was just quietly cleaning up, putting food away, and making coffee. It took me a while to realize it was Marilyn German, wife of one of the New Tribes Mission executives from Florida. She was such a servant. She hadn’t waited to be asked; she just showed up and went to work for at least three or four days.

On the second morning, I asked Felicia to be my fashion adviser and buy me an appropriate dress for the funeral. I also asked her to do my hair and makeup for the next few days because I was obviously out of practice. She got a beautician friend of hers to stop by and put highlights in my hair.

* * *

The next few days were a flurry of activity as we made necessary phone calls and planned the arrangements for Martin’s funeral.

I knew the speaker Martin wanted: his friend from college days, Clay Bowlin, now senior pastor of Northwest Bible Church in Kansas City. We used to pray for Clay every Sunday morning in the jungle, knowing it was Saturday night back in the States and he would be making his final preparations to preach.

Martin’s cousin Kirk Hinshaw would play the piano, and Dan Smith, a soloist Martin had heard at Clay’s church just before returning to the Philippines a year before, would sing.

I had assumed we’d have a small, quiet funeral at Rose Hill Bible Church, which seats maybe 200 or 250. Then somebody said, “Okay, now Central Christian has graciously offered their facility.”

This is one of the biggest churches in Wichita, with a huge sanctuary. “It’s kind of a big place, don’t you think?” I said.

“Well, we’re expecting about four thousand people.”

I couldn’t believe they were serious. Martin had been such an unassuming, normal guy.
He would be shocked at a crowd that size!
I thought to myself. But in fact, when Friday morning came, we found that we did need the space.

While others were making the various preparations, I knew I had a job that only I could do, and that was to get my kids ready for all this. They’d never really been to a wake or a funeral before.

It seemed that the only place we could really be alone to talk was in the car. I couldn’t drive, obviously; I could hardly get into the car with my leg the way it was. But Jeff had his driving permit. So we all went down to Sonic, the local drive-in, for their famous Cherry Limeades. There we were able to sit in the car and talk awhile.

“Tomorrow night will be the viewing at the funeral home,” I explained. “As you know, Dad really lost a lot of weight, so when you see his body, he’s going to look really thin. And he’ll have the beard you saw in the pictures from captivity. This will be the one and only time to see him, okay? At the funeral, the casket will be closed.

“The first hour will be just for us family members. After that, other people will come, and you don’t have to stay for the whole time if you don’t want to. It’s just a time for making contact with lots of friends who have cared for us and prayed for us.”

We negotiated a bit over what to wear to these events, like any mom and her sons would do. My sister Mary bought a really pretty dress for Mindy, and Felicia had helped me pick out a black dress with a black-and-white flowered jacket. Soon we were all set.

When we arrived at the funeral home, I was pleased to see that Smith Mortuary had put together an excellent video tribute to Martin, with pictures all the way from boyhood to college days, our early years in the Philippines, shots with the kids, shots with his airplanes. The video told the story of his life and what it had meant, and it made us cry.