by Lela Gilbert
Jim looked at her a little confused. “Your poem? What poem?”
“He got the letter and the poem!”
“Betty, what are you talking about?”
“Oh Jim, I never told you, because I was embarrassed and I never thought anything would come of it anyway. But a few months ago a man named Badr called me from Lebanon—some guy who used to know Jon. The guy said he knew the people Jon was ‘visiting,’ meaning his captors. I mentioned it to Mike, and he figured Badr was probably looking for money.”
“I’m sure he was. Why else would he call?”
“Right. Well, I didn’t tell Mike, but I figured ‘Fine, so give him money.’ I took a chance and paid him to deliver a letter and a poem to Jon. I can’t believe it, but it sure sounds like it got through to him. The last line of the poem was, ‘Still burn, Love. Never die!’”
Jim and Joyce stared at her. “Do you mean to tell me that you sent a check to some stranger in Lebanon and he actually did what you paid him to do?”
Betty gave Jim a sheepish grin. “I sent him $100.”
“Are you crazy?” Jim was stunned by her extravagant gamble. Joyce quickly interrupted. “Betty, it had to be God, didn’t it?”
“The whole thing was God—letter, videotape, everything. Last night I prayed that I’d know Jon is alive and that he still loves me. I got a direct answer less than twenty-four hours later. Now that’s a miracle, no matter how you try to explain it.”
Jim motioned toward the door. “That reminds me. What are you going to tell those patient souls waiting out there in your front yard?”
Betty calmed herself. There was no way she could even hint at the meaning of Jon’s personal message when she talked to the media. “Good question. I don’t want anyone to know about the letter, because it might get somebody in trouble—maybe even Jon. I guess I’ll just say I’m glad he’s alive, and that I can’t wait to see him face to face.”
Mike Brody called the following day, and it didn’t take Betty long to deduce that he was probing for some details about her contact with Badr. “Interesting comment Jon made about your writing, Betty. Do you think he was referring to anything specific?”
“Yes, of course he was. He was talking about a poem I wrote for him.”
“Was it a poem you’d given to him before he was picked up?”
Betty took a deep breath. She was going to have to tell Mike the truth or blatantly lie to him. Oh, God. What should I say?
“Mike, you remember when Badr called me the last time?”
“That was several months ago, wasn’t it?”
“Right. Well, after you told me he might be looking for money, I decided to risk it. Since he said he knew the people who were holding Jon, I sent him $100 along with a letter and poem and asked him to get them to Jon. Judging by what Jon said, I’m sure he did it.”
“Interesting . . .” Mike was quiet for a moment or two, as if he were digesting this new data. Finally he said, “Betty, that delivery may well have cost a lot more than $100. Both Badr and his brother were shot dead last month.”
Nausea tightened Betty’s throat. No wonder he hasn’t called back. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. It may be that the kidnappers suspected that the brothers were trying to sell information. Or it could be that the Badrs had involved themselves in some other unrelated dispute. They were criminals, that much we can confirm. We’ll probably never know exactly what happened.”
“Oh, Mike. Do you think it was my fault? I’m so sorry. I never imagined . . .”
“Hey, it was Badr’s choice. He took the job. And like I said, he may have been shot for some altogether different reason. Don’t worry about it. Just be glad the letter reached Jon. The odds against his ever getting it were outrageous.”
Betty felt somewhat relieved. “I really do think it was a miracle, Mike. But it makes me sick that Badr is dead.” Mike’s voice was gentle. “Don’t worry about it, Betty.”
“I’ll try not to. By the way, is there any more word on releases?”
“Nothing much.”
“You know I’m supposed to go overseas myself in a few weeks?”
“Where to?”
“East Africa.”
“Nairobi?”
“I’ll be passing through there, but I’m actually going to Kampala. I sure hope Jon’s free before I leave.”
“Well, whether he is or isn’t, register yourself with the U.S. Embassy there, and let them know where you’re staying. That way you can be located quickly if there’s a release.”
In the following days Betty was more at peace than she’d been since the kidnapping. Apart from the videotape, nothing else had changed, and yet it seemed that everything had been transformed by the touch of divine grace.
As usual, after the excitement died down, time began to drag again. The phone was silent. The hostage issue vanished from the newspapers and the television screen.
Betty touched the silvery bracelet on her wrist. Were other people remembering to pray for Jon? It awed her to think that prayers for the hostages were being offered by complete strangers. Praying for the captives in Lebanon had never occurred to her until Jon joined their miserable ranks.
One Saturday afternoon Erica called Betty at home. “How would you feel about speaking to a woman’s group at our church?”
“About what, Erica? What do I have to say?”
“Well, our guest speaker has chosen the subject ‘God, Our Deliverer’ as her topic. She’ll be applying it to all kinds of difficult circumstances, but we thought you might like to share a few stories of the way the Lord has helped you during Jon’s captivity.”
“God, our Deliverer? Is it about demons or something?”
Erica laughed heartily. “I guess the word ‘deliverance’ has been a little overused in some circles. No, Betty, we’re not going to be talking about that at all. All through the Bible God has delivered His people from all sorts of bondage. And Ruth Masters, our speaker, has an excellent presentation about how He’s still doing it.”
“Is this some sort of brunch or something?” Betty had never felt particularly at home with women’s groups.
“It’s an afternoon tea.”
Oh, yuck. I suppose they’ll all be wearing hats.
“Erica, I’m not sure I have anything to say.” She wanted to tell Erica that Jon had received the letter, but thought better of it.
“Just think about some of the answered prayers you’ve had, Betty. I think you’ve got some wonderful stories to tell, and you really should share them.”
Once again Betty agreed to do something simply because she didn’t know how to say no. There was only one good reason for going, and that was to thank Erica for her faithful concern. So with that in mind, Betty agreed to be at Orange Hills Episcopal Church on the following Saturday afternoon.
In the meantime, Uganda beckoned. She had pictures taken for her Ugandan and Kenyan visas, refilled a prescription for a malaria preventive and endured a cholera injection. The report itself was coming along nicely. Apart from some finishing touches it lacked only the stories of several children that Betty intended to compile during her visit to Kampala.
She wasn’t the least bit excited about the long journey that lay ahead of her but had finally overcome her resistance to it. For weeks she had insistently prayed, “Let Jon get out before I get to Uganda.” Now she was beginning to think it would be better if he didn’t. Once he was home, she wasn’t going to want to leave his side. She certainly wouldn’t be inclined to travel to the ends of the earth without him.
Saturday arrived and Betty nervously shoved a handful of scribbled notecards in her purse as she left the house for Erica’s tea. “How do I get myself into these things, anyway?” she grumbled as she backed the car out of the driveway.
But when she met Ruth Masters, it occurred to Betty this little outing might not have been such a bad idea after all. Ruth wasn’t the typical well-coiffed, expensively dressed women’s speaker Betty
had expected. She was short, a little overweight, and thoroughly nondescript. But a deep sincerity shone from her eyes. Ruth carried a quiet authority that made Betty want to listen and learn from her.
“Elisabeth, I’ve seen you on television several times. How are you holding up under all this adversity?” Ruth had penetrating gray eyes, and it was immediately evident that her question wasn’t just small talk.
“Oh, I’m doing a lot better than I was, thanks in part to Erica, here.” Betty gave her friend a hug.
As their conversation continued, Ruth led Betty to a quiet corner, away from the others, and they sat down together. “What has been the most difficult aspect of your experience?”
“Ruth, I suppose at the beginning it was guilt. There were some things I had to work through. I had to realize God wasn’t punishing me by taking Jon away. Lately, it’s been fear, I guess. And questions—so many questions. Will our love last? Will we be so changed by the experience that we won’t feel the same way about each other? Will he ever get out? Will he survive? Right at the moment, I feel pretty confident about all that. But sometimes, especially at night, everything kind of distorts into a mass of confusion.”
Ruth took her hand. “Have you felt the Lord’s presence? I know He’s grieved with your pain, and I sense that you are very dear to His heart.”
Betty was a little embarrassed by Ruth’s words, but she nodded. “He’s been with me every step of the way. He’s answered my prayers for encouragement, sometimes within minutes. He’s led me through the guilt, through a lot of the fear, and now it’s just come down to a matter of patience.” Betty studied her hands for a moment. “There’s just one prayer He doesn’t seem to answer, and of course that’s the one that matters the most. It’s become very hard for me to believe the waiting will really be over someday.” Ruth smiled warmly at Betty. “I’m glad you’re able to be honest with yourself. And I’m really glad you’re going to be sharing your story with these women. There are many kinds of captivity, you know.”
Betty was a little puzzled. “What other kinds of captivity are you talking about, Ruth?”
“Well, of course there are the obvious things like alcohol, drugs, and other addictive habits. But people are also held hostage by irreconcilable marriages. By overbearing parents and wayward children. By financial misfortunes. By chronic depression. By loneliness and sickness and guilt and grief.”
“So you see Jon’s captivity as a sort of real-life parable?” “Exactly. And as you go through the process of praying and waiting for God to deliver Jon, you can help teach the rest of us how to pray for ourselves and our loved ones.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“The world is full of hostages, Betty. Their chains and blindfolds may be invisible, but there are people everywhere who are immobilized and unable to find their way. Their lives are shattered and their hearts are broken. The Lord wants to set them free. And He wants to use our love and prayers to get the job done.”
When Ruth got up to speak, she began by reading from Isaiah 61. “These are some of the first words Jesus spoke in His public ministry,” she explained to her audience. “And since we are supposed to be doing His work in this world, they apply to every one of us.”
The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
because the Lord has anointed me
to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners . . .
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
Instead of their shame, my people will receive a double portion,
and instead of disgrace, they will rejoice in their inheritance;
and so they will inherit a double portion in their land, and everlasting joy will be theirs.
“Betty, Ricky Simms is on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”
Betty made a face and mouthed, “About what?” then she reached across Joyce’s desk for the receiver.
Joyce shrugged and smiled.
The Texas twang was unmistakable. “Hello there, Elisabeth. We were just talking about you and wondering if you’d like to appear on our broadcast again. We have access to your boyfriend’s videotape, and I think we could put together a dynamite interview. Maybe we can raise some more money for your little ministry there. We’ve got millions of viewers, you know.”
Betty rolled her eyes. I don’t believe I’m hearing this.
“Thank you, Mr. Simms, but I’m afraid I can’t possibly leave here at the moment. I’ve got to make a trip overseas in a couple of weeks, and it just wouldn’t work,”
“But you’re such a pretty girl, and it’s a chance for you to be on television again.” Simms apparently thought an appeal to her vanity would prevail.
“I’m sorry, it’s just impossible.”
“Well, what if we sent a crew out your way? We could do a remote interview.”
He’s starting to sound desperate. I wonder what he’s up to. “Mr. Simms, how did you get the videotape, anyway?” You paid big bucks for it, didn’t you?
She could almost see the sparkling smile on the other end of the phone. “We have our ways. You know we’re very well connected with the news agencies, Elisabeth. Would you be willing to do a remote interview?”
“No, sorry. I’m not doing interviews for anybody now.”
“How much do you want?”
Good grief. “Look, I don’t want anything. I’m just not available for interviews.” Especially with you.
“It could be a very powerful broadcast, Ms. Casey.” Irritation registered in his usually well-controlled voice.
“Well, I’m sure you can find another way to use the videotape. I’m just not available. Sorry. Thanks for thinking of me anyway.” She all but slammed the handset down.
“Joyce, what an operator that man is! Last time, he promised me half a million dollars, made me look like a blubbering idiot on television, and now he has the gall to ask me to come back! I don’t believe it!”
Joyce smiled at Betty and shook her head. “Do you really think he was dishonest?”
Betty bristled. “What else would you call it?”
“I don’t know, Betty. The Lord said we aren’t supposed to judge, so I guess I want to think the best of him.”
“The Lord also said we’re not supposed to cast our pearls before swine!”
“Betty!” Joyce was appalled.
“Sorry, Joyce. You’re a much nicer person than I am, that’s all.”
Not a week later, Joyce called Betty at home in the evening. “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got to turn to Channel 40.”
Betty flipped the dial. There was Elisabeth Casey again, sniffling and sobbing on camera. Was Ricky Simms replaying the same broadcast as before? No, worse. This time Jon’s pitiful videotape was intercut with Betty’s earlier interview footage. It looked for all the world as if Betty were viewing Jon for the very first time while seated in an English sitting room with Ricky Simms.
Before long, the torturous new “interview” was over, and the fund raising began in earnest. “You can help resolve the problems in the Middle East,” she heard Simms promise. “Just get out that checkbook of yours right now, while it’s on your mind. That’s right, find your pen and write ‘Ricky Simms Ministries . . .’”
Betty clicked off the television, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. She called Joyce back. “Can you believe this guy?”
“He certainly has a clever editor, doesn’t he?”
Betty was flabbergasted. “Joyce, you drive me nuts. You could find something nice to say about Hitler. I swear you could!”
For lack of anything further to say, they both began laughing dementedly. “Did you write out your check yet, Joyce?”
“No, but I’m think
ing about it.”
“That’s it. I’m hanging up!”
Joyce was still giggling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Betty. Try not to be too angry with me. It’s just that Ricky Simms seems like such a nice man.”
“Don’t they all!”
The time was drawing close for Betty’s trip. Two days before her departure, she called Mike Brody at his office. He sounded busy and rather distant.
“Anything new, Mike?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well, I just wanted to let you know I’m leaving for Uganda on Wednesday.”
“Have a good trip.”
“Do you expect anything to happen in the next ten days?”
“Anything can happen, but no, I don’t have anything to tell you.”
What’s his problem? Maybe someone’s in the office with him.
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Take care.”
She hung up thoughtfully. He sounded like a different person and his attitude made her feel a little insecure. One of the reasons she’d resigned herself to the Uganda trip was that she’d been clinging to the idea that Mike would somehow get word to her if anything happened in Lebanon. Now she wasn’t so sure. Had she offended him? Or was he just having a bad day?
Men, she sighed. I’ll never understand men.
Betty continued her preparations with an ear to the news. For once she almost hoped there wouldn’t be any. That’s pretty sad, she told herself, to hope Jon’s release fits into my travel plans.
On Wednesday, her departure day, the phone started ringing early in the morning. The first call came from a Boston Globe reporter. “How do you feel about the latest news of an imminent hostage release?”
“I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“There are at least two sources for the story this time, and they are saying a hostage will be released in Beirut within seventy-two hours. Any comment?”
“I pray that it’s true. That’s all I can say.”
“Any idea what might be behind this release?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Any comment about the Bush administration’s policy with regard to kidnappers and hostages?”
“No comment.”
