by Lela Gilbert
Or maybe the hymn itself was wrong. Maybe some dewy-eyed poet had warped the One True God into a sentimental Grandpa. Surely He was more the way she thought of Him—stern, detached, generally disapproving.
A bit like Mother, she couldn’t help but think. And even if He loves me in some obligatory, cosmic sense, I sure can’t imagine Him liking me very much. That’s going way too far.
She slept most of the way home, getting up stiffly to stretch and use the restroom before the final approach to LAX imprisoned her in her seat. She emerged from the cramped toilet facility with but one thought in her mind, and a joyous thought it was.
I’m not pregnant! Oh, thank you Lord. I’m not pregnant.
She wanted to stand up in the plane and shout out the news to all the passengers. Fortunately she didn’t. She simply buckled her seat belt, rested her forehead on her right palm, and smiled quietly.
It must have been stress that delayed it. No wonder my back was aching—it always aches two days before I start my period. And naturally my breasts were sore and I’ve been crying. PMS—I’ve had PMS for almost three weeks!
She took a deep breath, and then another.
Oh God, thank you. Thank you. Thank you!
God had rescued her from her guilt again. Did that mean her time of intimacy with Jon was all right with Him? Or did it simply mean He was gracious and forgiving? Perhaps He was being especially kind to her because of Jon’s predicament.
After all, God is just, and Jon is being unjustly held. It’s really unfair—unbelievably unfair. Maybe that kind of thing bothers God more than our everyday behavior. Maybe Jon’s captivity even makes Him sad!
There was that kindhearted, compassionate God again. In spite of her skepticism, some words of verse started drifting around in Betty’s mind, and she jotted them down before she forgot them.
The eyes of God have seen us,
And He’s smiled through His tears.
Jim Richards met her at the gate, and she quickly noticed that he’d brought Joyce Jiminez along. Their familiar faces were a welcome sight, to be sure. Prolonged hugs were lovingly exchanged.
“How are you, Betty? How was your trip?”
“I feel like I’ve been to Mars.”
“Why? Was it that bad in Washington?”
“No, it’s just that good to see you! Look what someone gave me!” She held out her left wrist, displaying the prayer bracelet.
“How wonderful! I’d like one myself,” Joyce responded enthusiastically. “Did you meet with some of the other family members?”
“I met all kinds of people. It was exciting. Exhausting. And I’m ready to be in my own house with my own chair!”
“Have you heard the news?” Jim glanced at her.
“What news?” Betty stiffened.
“There are some rumors about a hostage being released in the next two weeks or so.”
“Who says?” She was electrified.
“Some Arabic-language newspaper in Beirut is reporting an unnamed source close to the kidnappers as saying that a release is imminent. Of course your phone is probably ringing off the hook again.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Betty searched his face for a clue, for an expression of hope or encouragement.
Jim was silent for a few moments. He shook his head and finally responded, “I’ve been thinking about this all day, Betty. I think these rumors cause more heartache than anything else. Let’s just try to ignore it until we hear something more substantial.”
“What do I say to the media?”
“Tell them you plan to keep praying, keep hoping, and keep waiting for Jon to come home.”
Once inside her condo, Betty checked her answering machine. It hadn’t had a single message when she’d accessed it remotely from Washington the night before. Now the light reported eighteen messages.
She listened to them, one by one. This time she didn’t bother to write down the numbers. They’ll call back if they want me badly enough.
Her trip to Washington had educated her about journalists. To most of them she was simply a sound bite. Or a paragraph in an assigned story. They were using her. In exchange for their intrusion, they shared tidbits of inside information with her, information that stirred her emotions but served no practical purpose in her life.
It was possible that certain international news shows were broadcast into Beirut. And the captors might, on the odd occasion, allow the hostages to see or hear reports about their own imprisonment. But as far as most newspapers and local broadcasts were concerned, the assignment editors needed Betty a lot more than she needed them.
Toward the end of the tape, a peculiar message caught her attention. It began with a fuzzy sound, punctuated by high-pitched beeps. Then a Middle Eastern voice said, “This is Abdul Badr calling from Lebanon. I wish to speak to you about your . . .” Click. The fuzzy sound returned, along with the beeps. It was cut off by the next call, another reporter’s request for comment for the San Diego Union.
Betty listened to the Badr message again and again. Who would be calling her from Lebanon? How would he have gotten her number? What did he want? What should she do?
There’s nothing I can do anyway, without a number. Even the name is hard to understand. Sounds like Badr. Isn’t that the name of the brothers Vince Angelo mentioned? Should I call Mike Brody?
She looked for Brody’s number among all the little scraps of paper in her purse. There was the abortion clinic address. There was Derek’s business card. Finally she found it—she remembered the 703 area code. Must be in Virginia, she reasoned as she dialed the number.
“DDI,” a woman’s voice said.
“I . . . I’m trying to locate Mike Brody.”
“Brody’s at lunch. Can I have him call you?”
“I’ll call him later. Thanks.”
“DDI.” I wonder what that means. I guess they wouldn’t answer the phone “CIA.”
She tried to dismiss the strange phone call from her mind, listlessly unpacking her bags and putting her toiletries away. Despite the emotional ups and downs, the crises and the visibility, it was during these times of hollow silence that her separation from Jon felt the most painful.
She suffered the most when the phone never rang, when day-after-day life merely went on without him. She missed far more than Jon’s embrace, although that yearning most enticed her when she was troubled. But she longed to talk to him. To share her days with him. To have fun together.
The world was gray and empty without him. Reason told her that she should get on with her existence, busy herself, and leave Jon’s plight to the experts. Of course she should pray, and pray she did. But it seemed that her best course of action would be to disconnect, somehow, from the whole problem. Unfortunately, such a response was impossible, at least for Betty, who carried Jon Surrey-Dixon around in her heart like a gold ingot—priceless but too heavy to bear.
The phone startled her repeatedly. For the next two hours she listened to the various voices through her answering machine. She’d heard most of them before. They simply wanted to invite her to utter something hostage-wise into a microphone. What could she say that she hadn’t said before? They’re just doing their job, I guess. But thank God for answering machines.
Later on that afternoon she heard Jim Richards’ familiar voice. “Betty, are you there? Can you pick up the phone?”
She did.
“Betty, I realize you’re supposed to be taking a leave of absence, but I’m sure you can’t go on forever without a paycheck. I’ve got a Uganda project here I could use your help with. What do you think?”
“Oh, Jim. My mind is just obsessed with Jon. Do you think I can concentrate?”
“I think it’s worth a try. In fact, I have a feeling it might be good for you. Why don’t you finish out the week at home and then come in on Monday morning. Your desk is still empty, you know.”
Sadder than ever, she hung up. It seemed disloyal to Jon to go back to work. And yet Jim was right. Fina
ncially she had to do something soon. Her phone bills alone were astronomical. What few book royalties she’d earned over the past two years certainly weren’t going to cover her mortgage payments. She could never have made the trip to Washington if it hadn’t been for the generosity of the Walkers.
That reminds me. I have to call them.
Henry answered the phone. “Well I’m glad we were able to help. Derek said you got to spend some time with Peggy Say. How was everything?”
“It was great. Thanks so much, Henry. It was an invaluable trip. I can’t even tell you how much I learned. I only wish I could repay you.”
“Well, let’s put it this way, when Jon gets out, if he is willing to give our news syndicate an exclusive interview, it would be wonderful.”
Betty considered his request. In all fairness, it was a reasonable exchange—her costly trip was every bit as important to her as any future interview might be to Henry Walker. Besides, it was up to Jon anyway.
“Of course, I can’t speak for Jon, Henry. That’s his decision, but I’ll certainly put in a good word for you! Thanks again for your kindness.”
“It was our pleasure. And we’ll be in touch, Betty, not only by phone but in our prayers.”
Betty hung up and sat motionless in the quiet of the room.
Nice people. Nice gesture. Nice to be alone.
She was still enjoying the blessed relief of her in-flight discovery when she remembered the words she’d written on the plane. She pulled them out of her purse and began to work on them.
Sounds more like a song than a poem, she commented to herself as she wrote. When it was finished, she recopied it on a blank sheet of paper. Maybe I’ll send it to Jon. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it miraculously reached him?
First came the smile, then came the laughter—
“Hello! Here’s my heart. Now we must say good-bye.”
Night follows day, fall ends the summer, We love and we wait—wait and we don’t know why.
Lands and oceans come between us,
People, places, months, and years,
But the eyes of God have seen us,
And He’s smiled through His tears.
He knows the way, He has the answer,
Somehow, some day, we’ll never say good-bye.
The phone aroused Betty from a sound sleep early the next morning. “Hello, Elisabeth? Mike Brody here. I just wanted to touch base with you.”
“Did you know I called you yesterday?”
“Nicole told me a woman called. Was it you? How are you, anyway?”
Why did she instinctively like this man whom she so thoroughly mistrusted?
“Oh, Mike, I’m fine. I called, but the reason was probably silly. I had a message on my answering machine from someone in Lebanon. The man got cut off, so I can’t call him back because he didn’t have a chance to leave a number.” She paused. “By the way, you can call me Betty if you want.”
“Thank you, Betty. Look, as far as returning that call is concerned, you’ll have a hard time getting through to Lebanon anyway. There are hardly any lines. It’s easier for them to call out. Did you get his name?”
“Yeah, it was something like Badr. Abdul Badr, I think.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, I . . .” How much should I tell this guy?
“What else did he say?”
At least he’s trying to do something, or he wouldn’t be asking questions.
“Well, he didn’t say anything else. But I think Vince Angelo told me that Jon knew some brothers in Lebanon with that last name, Badr. Or something like that. I’m really not sure.”
“Did he say where these brothers live?”
“Is there someplace called Bawcaw?”
“You mean the Bekaa Valley?”
“Yes, I think that’s it. That sounds right.”
There was a brief pause. Mike was apparently writing down the information, perhaps even weighing it.
“Do you think it might be important, Mike?”
Mike laughed, again disarming her. “Everything’s important, Betty. Anything we can learn about the situation can be helpful. Thanks for being so cooperative. Everyone I talk to isn’t as pleasant as you. Call me any time!”
She hung up and the phone rang again almost immediately. This time she answered it without screening it. Again she heard the fuzzy sound, the high-pitched beeps.
“Hello? Hello?”
There was a bothersome echo on the line. Betty’s voice replayed in her ears every time she spoke.
“Is this Elisabeth Casey?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“This is Abdul Badr in Lebanon. Can you hear me?”
“I can. Go ahead.”
“Your friend is my friend too. I want to help you. Do you understand?”
“I . . . Yes. How can you help?”
“I have some information that may interest you. Let us say that your friend is visiting acquaintances of mine.”
The man seemed to be choosing his words with great care. She had heard something in Washington about the phones being tapped in Lebanon. She decided to be careful too.
“Do you know where these people live?”
“Yes, they live nearby.”
“What kind of information do you have?”
“I cannot discuss it on the telephone with you. I need to meet with you.”
“Meet with me? I’m not coming there!”
“Perhaps we could meet in Europe. There may be some, how you say, expenses for me. But I will try.”
“Then you will call me back?”
“I call, yes.”
“Is Jon . . . is my friend all right?” Betty’s eyes filled with tears.
“He is good, very good. I call you, yes?”
“Thank you.”
Hope surged within Betty, quickly followed by ripples of suspicion. She immediately called Brody and related the conversation to him. She concluded her report with a question: “What do you think, Mike?”
Mike chuckled. “Well, from what I’ve learned, there are a lot of people in Lebanon who have some kind of information about the hostages. They may be related to someone who guards them. Or they may have gone to school with some of the kidnappers. These are the people who leak stories to newspapers—for a fee, of course. And they are the ones who help fill in the gaps for our intelligence people.”
“But they really can’t help that much?”
“Well I’m sure you’d agree that there isn’t a whole lot anyone can do apart from quiet diplomacy, enormous ransom payments, or an all-out rescue mission.”
“How would these people get my phone number?”
“It’s not that difficult. Most of the news agencies have it, don’t they?”
“Yes, they sure do. Every newspaper and television station in the country must have it.”
“Well, there you go. Look, let me check this name out and I’ll be in touch. Thanks again, Betty. You’re a gem, you know that?”
She had a sudden afterthought. “Mike, do you know anything about an imminent hostage release?”
“It’s from an unreliable source, Betty. Don’t get your hopes up. Take care now and have a good day.”
Betty smiled as she hung up the phone. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she enjoyed talking to Mike Brody. For one thing, he was the first person she’d met, apart from the hostage families and her friends, who appeared to be even mildly concerned about the captives. Besides, he was an attractive man who thought she was nice. Whatever the case, Betty felt better after conversing with him.
She automatically turned on the television. After a few other stories, the one she was waiting for replayed.
“An imminent hostage release is being predicted by some sources in Lebanon,” the anchorman said. “An unconfirmed report in a Beirut newspaper states that at least one hostage will be released by sundown Sunday.”
Betty tried not to get too excited, but it was impossible not to dream. She called her fa
ther. “Daddy, have you heard the news?”
“Yeah, I heard. And I’ve been hearing the same thing for years.” Harold hadn’t missed a newscast in two decades. Even without CNN he managed to stay painfully well-informed.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean these rumors get started every few months and nothing ever comes of ‘em. You better turn off the TV and go look up that Psalm I read you at Christmas. You’ll learn a lot more from that than from some cockeyed raghead newspaper.”
Betty’s return to Overseas Ministries International felt like a mixed blessing, more good than bad. She had to tear herself away from her telephone every morning, from the oft-fantasized call that never really came. Naturally, she’d included OMI’s phone number on her outgoing message just in case “the call” actually materialized. Meanwhile, she had to get out of bed, get dressed, and be at the office on time. This required more self-discipline than she cared to exercise some mornings.
But all in all it was good to be back among caring people, most of whom she dearly loved. She was soon busy on Jim’s new project—an orphanage report about Uganda. As she worked on it, her memories often carried her back to Kampala, to the hot, humid days and the charcoal-scented nights of that equatorial city. She hadn’t fully recognized it while it was happening, but she and Jon had first fallen in love in Kampala two years before, while working on a book together. The memory of those days was bittersweet indeed.
Maybe some day we’ll go back there together, she tried to tell herself. And next time, we’ll be married. I’d love to see those precious children again. How they must have grown! It seemed like an eternity since she first traveled there to meet Jon.
Her trusty OMI typewriter had been replaced by a brand spanking new computer. Friday morning she was trying to simultaneously compose her report, remember word processing commands, and not lose any important thoughts in the bowels of the machine. A frown of intense concentration was etched across her forehead. Mercifully the phone rang.
“Elisabeth, this is Claire Evans at ABC television. Sorry to track you down at work, but I’d like to schedule a guest appearance for Sunday afternoon if possible. Can you appear on our ‘Pacesetters’ broadcast? We’re going to be featuring two or three individuals who are working their way through a crisis.”
