by Lela Gilbert
“So we’re famous?” Jon laughed. “Perfect. Just in time for our honeymoon. But what about Badr?”
“Badr’s dead. He was killed not long after the letter got to you, or so I gather. I’ve been getting a little information from a guy in Washington D.C. who talks more than he’s supposed to.”
“Badr’s dead?” Jon’s face paled.
“Yes. And his brother too. And at one point the guys working on your case thought you were involved with them in some kind of drug dealing. To make matters worse a man claiming to be your half brother in New Zealand was spreading stories about you in the world press.”
Jon looked foggier than ever. “Betty, I don’t have a half brother in New Zealand. I don’t have any brothers or sisters anywhere.”
“All I know is that a newly released convict with the last name of Dixon said that you were his half brother and that you had been involved with drug dealing in Lebanon. He apparently sold his story to some tabloid in Wellington. The man who told me about all this said Dixon is a known pathological liar. I guess they listened to him anyway.”
Jon sighed and shook his head. “This is unbelievable. I had no idea rats like that would crawl out of the woodwork. I guess saying he was my brother seemed like a fast way to make a buck.”
“There’s more money in the hostage issue than you might imagine, Jon,” Betty remarked, choosing to save her Ricky Simms saga for some future conversation.
“Just for the record, I met the Badr brothers on my first trip to Lebanon, and I’m pretty sure they were small-time criminals. For all I know they may have been involved in hashish—a lot of people are. But they were likable guys and seemed to know everybody in the country. I had befriended them by taking pictures of their family for an anniversary or birthday or something—I don’t remember. Anyway, I figured they might help Vince and me out on our assignment. So you say Abdul got the letter to me?”
“Yeah, for $100.” Betty looked at Jon sheepishly.
Jon laughed in spite of himself. “It was worth it, believe me.” He put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. “That was quite a poem. In any case, my guards were letting me know that the men holding me were getting no ransom offers, and my care was costing them more than they expected. At one point they were going to shoot me, but God took care of that.”
“What did God do?”
“One of the guards brought his son to work with him sometimes, if you can believe it. The little guy was about four or five and he had a pretty bad rash on his arms and legs. I had the strongest feeling I should pray for him—I guess I remembered your skin problem, and I asked the boy’s father if he’d mind. Of course he couldn’t have cared less. I put my hand on the boy’s head, prayed for him and then forgot all about it. At about the same time I heard through one of the guards that my life was at risk.”
“You must have been terrified, Jon. You know they broadcast a death threat.”
“Well, I think that death threat actually happened later, after they decided to let me go. They were just making noise, trying to draw attention to me one last time so someone would offer them money. I’m sure that’s why they made the videotape, too.
“But listen to this—the little boy’s skin cleared up within a week after I prayed for him. And when his father told the kidnappers about it, it terrified them! They were afraid of me, and even more afraid to kill me. Once the boy was healed, they wanted me out of there. They thought I had some sort of power they didn’t understand.”
“You did.”
“Right. I did.”
“You know I prayed that you’d get that letter and poem. In fact several people prayed with me. This old friend of mine from college wrote to me after she saw our story on the news. Her husband’s an Episcopal priest.”
“So she and her husband prayed for me?”
“She and her husband and their church, Jon. I’ve never met people quite like that.”
“By the way, how are Jim Richards and Joyce doing?”
“They did everything they could to help you. I’ll tell you all about Jim’s hard work later. But what about this other story of yours? What about the spiritual release you mentioned?”
Jon yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Betty, I’ve been talking too long, and I’m tired. Can we just go for a walk or something and not talk for awhile?”
“Do you want me to go back to my room?”
“Are you kidding?” Jon gave her a sly look. “I’m not letting you out of my sight this time. If I rest, you rest too. Understood?”
Betty looked sheepishly at him. “Understood.”
“Betty . . . ,” He turned toward her and gently held her upper arms in his hands. “Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you and this Mike person?” Again, sadness shadowed his face.
Betty shook her head in amazement. “Jon, you’re being unreasonable.” She tried to make her voice sound calm and reassuring. “Mike was a good friend during your captivity. In fact if it hadn’t been for him, you’d never have received the letter and poem. But your captivity is over, and as far as I’m concerned, I don’t care if I see him again. Mike’s history.”
“Are you sure?”
“Jon, I’m sure! Now let it go, okay?”
By now Jon was looking sheepish. “Okay, Betty. I love you, that’s all.”
“I love you too, Jon. I’m not interested in anyone else.” She paused briefly. “Don’t you believe me?” Her face was beginning to register annoyance, and Jon saw it.
He paused, narrowed his eyes and scrutinized her playfully. “Okay, okay. I believe you. Subject closed.”
“My spiritual release started with a dream, Betty.”
“What kind of a dream?”
Despite a nap and a walk, Jon was still unclear in his thinking. He struggled to find the right words, but never quite came up with them. His mind drifted from one subject to another, causing him to forget what he’d started to say in the first place. Frustrated and weary, he put his arm around Betty, pulling her close and resting his head on hers.
“I’m going to try and tell you what it was like there, in Beirut, in that hole. Maybe the story will make more sense if you can picture it for yourself.”
Quietly and simply, Jon recreated his ordeal, so recent and vivid in his mind. And for the moment, as she closed her eyes and listened, Betty found herself imprisoned with him. It was dark, the smell in the air was foul, and Jon’s mood was one of incomparable despair.
Jon had been held captive for nearly five months. Of the various men who guarded him, few spoke English. And only two of them actually conversed with him from time to time. Otherwise he had been painfully alone, bored and uncomfortable, visited only by unwelcome intruders such as guilt, fear, self-pity, and disbelief.
It seemed that just as he’d overcome one inner adversary, another would arise with its own set of allegations. Quiet as the fetid cellar was, there was no peace within him. Jon was tortured by his own thoughts, which troubled him nearly as much as his chain and blindfold. Even the Bible his captors had given him seemed more condemning than comforting.
As he slept restlessly one night, he dreamed of distorted images and incomprehensible scenarios. Just as he was waking, however, he clearly saw a book. On the cover was only one word written in red—TRUTH. Once he’d read the word, he awoke, immediately pondering the significance of the dream.
What did truth have to do with his plight? Puzzled and perplexed, he tried to shake off the impression that the dream was significant. But from time to time, he could see the book and its crimson title in his mind, demanding further consideration.
“Truth . . . ,” he muttered under his breath. “What does truth have to do with anything?”
The inner reply came to him immediately. You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
Jon responded strangely to the thought. He found himself blinking back tears. “God knows I want to be free. But what does truth have to do with freedom?”
&n
bsp; He determined that he would seek out every fragment of truth that could possibly pertain to his circumstances.“I am a hostage. I am chained to a wall. I am blindfolded. I am helpless . . .”
No, you are not helpless. That isn’t true.
Jon reconsidered. His mind was functioning, so he could think. His spirit was bruised, but still believed in God, so he could pray. He had been given a Bible, so he could read it. His body was confined but still able to move, so he could choose to exercise.
Jon’s process of mentally listing truths continued for hours. It became almost a game, often interrupted by the voice of reason.
“I am here because someone wants to use me for some purpose. I am here because I took a deadly chance in coming to Beirut. I am here because I deserve to be here . . .”
No, you do not deserve to be here. That isn’t true.
“Okay, so God isn’t punishing me. And I’m not going to die here. I’m not a born loser. And He hasn’t forgotten me.”
To his amazement, Jon found that his quest for truth seemed to be weakening the power of the unpleasant emotions that had haunted him for months. And gradually, almost imperceptibly, a new premise began to spring forth from his faith in a Sovereign God.
“I have to believe I’m here for a purpose. But what?”
Jon reflected on other times in his life when he’d felt helpless, entangled in various webs of circumstance that seemed unyielding in their power over him. Problems with his mother. Difficulties in school. His wretched marriage. Those had been far less traumatic confinements, but they had immobilized him, nevertheless.
And how had he escaped? In every case, once he had stopped denying the bleak reality of his situation, he had been able to identify the steps he needed to take. When he’d unflinchingly confronted his problems, he had always found a way out.
“The common denominator was truth. Once I faced the truth, I was set free. But this time there are no steps I can take.”
That isn’t true. God is going to set you free. So you can get ready to go home.
“I can’t see any reason to believe that God is going to set me free.”
Believe it by faith. Faith is the evidence of the unseen.
“It wasn’t easy, Betty. From time to time I was back to my old pattern of blaming myself, fearing death, wallowing in self-pity, and thinking God had forgotten me.”
Jon scrupulously avoided telling Betty about his mighty bout with guilt over his first marriage. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to know how seriously he had doubted his qualifications for being a good husband.
“But, little by little, I found myself confronting each of those moods with the truth—that God was in charge, that I wasn’t paying for past sins, and that He was going to set me free.”
“So how did you prepare for your freedom?”
“By believing it was coming! By planning my conversations with you. By exercising and trying to stay in some sort of physical shape. And by refusing to give in to all the negative feelings.”
Betty suddenly remembered the woman who had spoken at Erica’s women’s group. Ruth somebody. She had virtually said the same thing. “Jon, do you know what God’s purpose was in letting you be kidnapped?”
“I’m really not sure, at least not yet. But maybe somehow I can help other people who are struggling with something. Do you know what I mean?”
Betty nodded. “Trapped is trapped,” she said, remembering some of her own desperate moments.
“That’s right,” Jon smiled. “And truth is truth.”
“Jim? It’s me, Betty! How are you?”
Jim’s voice was sharp with excitement. “Betty! Is Jon with you?”
“He’s right here and he wants to talk to you. But listen, Jim. You’ve got to tell me what to do. The State Department paid my way here from Nairobi, and they’ll either pay my way back to Kenya or to California. But Jim, I never even got to Uganda. All that airfare has been wasted. Should I just go on to Africa and meet Jon in California later?”
Oh, God. Please make him say no.
“Betty, you can’t leave Jon now.”
“I don’t want to leave him, Jim. And of course he doesn’t want me to go. But what about the money? We’re talking about more than two thousand dollars.”
“You come back here with Jon, and we’ll figure out some way to pay for it. There’s no way you’re going to Africa now, Betty. That would be ridiculous at this point. Maybe you can both go together in a few weeks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Now let me talk to Jon.”
Betty listened with a smile as the two friends joked with each other about Jon’s Beirut interlude. Jon’s face almost glowed as he spoke.
With every passing day, he had become much more his old self. His mental focus had improved, his fear of crowds had diminished, and he was beginning to talk about the future with genuine interest. The only thing he couldn’t seem to grasp was his international “fame.” After the call to California, he and Betty briefly greeted the throng of reporters lining the fence. And as they walked around the hospital grounds, Jon grew thoughtful.
“You know, I’ve worked in the media for years, and I’ve seen these flash-in-the-pan stories happen to other people. I’ve even contributed to them. But this is my first time on the receiving end. You’ve been faced with this for months, haven’t you? How have you handled it?”
Betty had to laugh. “Well at first it was rather fascinating. In fact I’d say the intrigue of being on the news sort of numbed me to the initial pain of your kidnapping. And in the beginning I got a lot of supportive letters from complete strangers who were horrified by your disappearance and the canceled wedding. Most people really do have big hearts. But it doesn’t take long to get tired of the intrusion.”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t understand. Why are they treating me like a hero? I sat out six months of life in my underwear, and then all of a sudden I was released. Some guys have been in there for years, and it sounds like they’re still sane and hopeful. They’re the heroes.”
“I guess it’s the same thing you were talking about before. Lots of people are stuck in their own miserable circumstances, and for the moment, you symbolize freedom to them. You overcame adversity and survived. Maybe it gives people hope just to see that you made it.”
Jon looked at Betty, still marveling at the miracle of her presence beside him. He abruptly changed the subject. “When are we getting married, Betty? Shall we find a chaplain and get it over with here?”
“Get it over with? Is that how you feel about marrying me?”
He shook his head. “That’s how I feel about waiting. What are we waiting for?”
Betty considered his question with ambivalence. She envisioned a romantic, candlelit wedding. She remembered her ice-blue silk dress, still encased in plastic. Then she thought about all the phone calls she would have to make, the invitations that would have to be written, all the arrangements another ceremony would require. Jon was right. It would be easier to get it over with. “There’s just one thing that bothers me about getting married here, Jon.”
Jon felt an unexpected rush of insecurity. “What’s that?”
“The people that prayed for you, for us. There are so many new friends you’ve never even met. The guys that recorded my song. The men and women at Erica’s church. Even some of the reporters in L.A. really seemed to care. A lot of those people made me promise that they’d be invited to the wedding. And I said yes.”
“Well, if that’s a way I can thank people for praying, then let’s do it.”
“I think that’s what it’s really all about. And there’s another thing. Erica’s husband Ken is an Episcopal priest. And I’ve been thinking that I’d like for him to perform the wedding ceremony. You’ll like him a lot. And for some reason, I just know he’ll have some wonderful things to say to us.”
Jon brushed his hand across her hair. “Your life has changed a lot in the past six months, hasn’t
it, Betty? And I have a feeling the changes have been more good than bad.
Betty had yet to describe her own ordeal for him. The bitter tears. The crippling depression. The brutal disappointments. The near-breaking point.
All at once she remembered the inner promise she had received in answer to her most desperate prayer. “Jon is alive . . . he stills loves you . . . he will soon be free.”
In Jon’s ordeal, and in hers, there had been a common ground. They had both been powerless. God had met them in their despair. He had revealed truth to them.
And it was that truth, once they had chosen to believe it, that had set each of them free—first in spirit, then in actual fact.
10
Dense fog had shrouded Laguna Beach all night. By eleven in the morning the sun was beginning to make its presence known, and by the time Betty and Jon arrived at Victoria Beach the sky had taken on a delicate blue opalescence. The sea was almost silent, lapping against damp rocks. Seabirds cried out across the still gray water as the couple made their way over stone and sand to the base of the old tower.
“It’s cold,” Betty shivered, untying a teal green sweater around her shoulders and pulling it over her head. “I thought it was supposed to be in the seventies today.” She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets, trying to keep them warm.
“I’m going to see if my cameras still work,” Jon said as he started to tinker with one of his Nikons. Vince Angelo had shipped Jon’s equipment to Betty after the kidnapping, and he wasn’t quite willing to believe that the sensitive controls had survived the journey.
She watched him as he tiptoed around tide pools, focusing and refocusing on the beach’s picturesque vistas. Soon Jon was actually to become her husband—the wedding had been rescheduled for the Saturday after next. With growing hope, Betty was beginning to imagine that their unusual love story really might have a storybook conclusion after all.
Betty and Jon had returned from Weisbaden just over a month before. By now the media attention had died down, and although their wedding might have been fair game for the press, they had taken every precaution to ensure a meaningful and private ceremony at Ken and Erica’s church. With that in mind, invitations had been re-sent, arrangements had been remade. More importantly, Jon had sworn on a Bible, on his grandparents’ grave, and on all the stars in the heavens that he would not leave California before the wedding no matter what.
