Power and Protection!--True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!--Part 7, CLTP 9 [12/93]
(Recommended reading for 9 years & up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at adults' discretion.)
To the Ends of the Earth
--By Stephen Saint (See the thrilling story in "Power and Protection"--Part 1, "Out of the Sky," introducing Stephen Saint.)
For years I'd thought Timbuktu was just a made-up name for "the ends of the Earth." When I found out it was a real place in Africa, I developed an unexplainable fascination for it. It was in 1986 on a fact-finding trip to West Africa for Mission Aviation Fellowship that this fascination became an irresistible urge. Timbuktu wasn't on my itinerary1, but I knew I had to go there. Once I arrived, however, I discovered I was in trouble.
I'd hitched a ride from Bamako, Mali, 500 miles away, on the only seat left on a Navajo six-seater airplane chartered by UNICEF2. Two of their doctors were in Timbuktu & might fly back on the return flight, which meant I'd be bumped, but I decided to take the chance.
Now here I was, standing by the plane on the windswept outskirts of the famous Berber* outpost. There was not a spot of green anywhere in the desolate brown Saharan landscape. Dust blew across the sky, blotting out the sun as I squinted in the 110-degree heat, trying to make out the mud-walled buildings of the village of 20,000. (*Berbers: Members of a group of Moslem tribes living in Northern Africa.)
The pilot approached me as I started for town. He reported that the doctors were on their way & I'd have to find another ride back to Bamako. "Try the marketplace. Someone there might have a truck. But be careful," he said. "Westerners don't last long in the desert if the truck breaks down, which often happens."
The open-air marketplace in the centre of town was crowded. Men & women wore flowing robes & turbans as protection against the sun. Most of the Berbers' robes were dark blue, with 30 feet of material in their turbans alone. The men were well-armed with swords & knives. I felt that eyes were watching me suspiciously.
These people had once been prosperous & self-sufficient. Now even their land had turned against them. Drought had turned rich grasslands to desert. Unrelenting sun & windstorms had killed nearly all animal life. People were dying by the thousands.
I went from person to person trying to find someone who spoke English, until I finally came across a local gendarme3 who understood my broken French.
"I need a truck," I said. "I need to go to Bamako."
Eyes widened in his shaded face. "No truck," he shrugged. Then he added, "No road. Only sand."
By now, my presence was causing a sensation in the marketplace. I was surrounded by at least a dozen small children, jumping & dancing, begging for coins & souvenirs. The situation was extreme, I knew. I tried to think calmly. What am I to do?
Suddenly I had a powerful desire to talk to my father. Certainly he had known what it was like to be a foreigner in a strange land. But my father, Nate Saint, was dead. He was one of the five missionary men killed by Auca Indians in the jungles of Ecuador in 1956. I was a month shy of my fifth birthday at the time, & my memories of him were almost like movie clips: a tall, intense man with a serious goal & a quick wit. He was a dedicated jungle pilot, flying missionaries & medical personnel in his Piper Family Cruiser. Even after his death he was a presence in my life.
I'd felt the need to talk to my father before, especially since I'd married & become a father myself. But in recent weeks this need had become urgent. For one thing, I was new to relief work4. But it was more than that. I needed Dad to help me answer my new questions of faith.
In Mali, for the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people who didn't share my faith, who were, in fact, hostile to the Christian faith--locals & Western relief workers alike. In a way it was a parallel to the situation Dad had faced in Ecuador. How often I'd said the same thing Dad would have said among the Indians who killed him: "My God is real. He's a personal God Who lives inside me, with Whom I have a very special, one-on-one relationship."
And yet the question lingered in my mind: Did my father have to die?
All my life, people had spoken of Dad with respect; he was a man willing to die for his faith. But at the time I couldn't help but think the murders were an accident of bad timing.
Couldn't there have been another way? It made little impact on the Auca Indians that I could see. To them it was just one more killing in a history of killings.
Thirty years later it still had an impact on me. And now, for the first time, I felt threatened because of who I was & what I believed. "God," I found myself praying as I looked around the marketplace, "I'm in trouble here. Please keep me safe & show me a way to get back. Please reveal Yourself & Your Love to me!"
No bolt of lightning came from the blue. But a new thought did come to mind. Surely there was a telecommunications officer here somewhere; I could wire Bamako to send another plane. It would be costly, but I could see no other way of getting out.
"Where's the telecommunications office?" I asked another gendarme. He gave me instructions, then said, "Telegraph transmits only. If station in Bamako has machine on, message goes through. If not..." he shrugged. "No answer ever comes. You only hope message received."
Now what? The sun was crossing toward the horizon. If I didn't have arrangements made by nightfall, what would happen to me? This was truly the last outpost of the World. More than a few Westerners had disappeared in the desert without a trace.
Then I remembered that just before I'd started for Timbuktu, a fellow worker had said, "There's a famous Moslem mosque in Timbuktu. It was built from mud in the 1500s. Many Islamic pilgrims visit it every year. But there's also a tiny Christian church, which virtually no one visits. Look it up if you get the chance."
I asked some children, "Where is L'Eglise Evangelique Chrtienne? (The Christian Evangelical Church)" The youngsters were willing to help, though they were obviously confused about what I was looking for. As they led me through the streets, several times elderly men & women scolded them harshly as we passed, but they persisted. Finally we arrived, not at the church, but at the open doorway of a tiny mud-brick house. No one was home, but on the wall opposite the door was a poster showing a cross covered by wounded hands. The French subscript said, "And by His stripes we are healed."
Within minutes, my army of homeless children pointed out a young man approaching us in the dirt alleyway. Then the children melted back into the maze of walled alleys & compounds of Timbuktu.
The young man was handsome, with dark skin & flowing robes. But there was something unexplainably different about him. His name was Nouh Ag Infa Yatara; that much I understood. Nouh signalled he knew someone who could translate for us. He led me to a compound on the edge of town where an American missionary lived. I was glad to meet the missionary, but from the moment I'd seen Nouh I'd had the feeling that we shared something in common.
"How did you come to have faith?" I asked him.
The missionary translated as Nouh answered. "This compound has always had a beautiful garden. One day when I was a small boy, a friend & I decided to steal some carrots. It was a dangerous task: We'd been told that Toubabs [white men] eat nomadic5 children. Despite our speed & considerable experience, I was caught by the former missionary here. Mr. Marshall didn't eat me; instead he gave me the carrots & some cards that had God's promises from the Bible written on them. He said if I learned them, he'd give me an ink pen!"
"You learned them?" I asked.
"Oh, yes! Only government men & the headmaster of the school had a pen! But when I showed off my pen at school, the teacher knew I must have spoken with a Toubab, which is strictly forbidden. He severely beat me."
When Nouh's parents found out he had portions of such a despised Book defiling their house, they threw him out & forbade anyone to take him in; nor was he allowed in school. But something had happened: Nouh had come to believe what the Bible said was true.
Nouh's mother became desperate. Her own reputation, as well as her family's, was at risk. She obtained poison from a sorcerer6 & poisoned Nouh's food at a family feast. Nouh ate the food & wasn't affected. His brother, who unwittingly stole a morsel of meat from the deadly dish, became violently ill & remains partially paralysed. Seeing God's intervention, the family & the townspeople were afraid to make further attempts on his life, but condemned him as an outcast.
After sitting a moment, I asked Nouh the question that only hours earlier I'd wanted to ask my father: "Why is your faith so important to you that you're willing to give up everything, perhaps even your life?"
"I know God loves me & I'll live with Him forever. I know it! Now I have peace where I used to be full of fear & uncertainty. Who wouldn't give up everything for this peace & security?"
"It can't have been easy for you as a teenager to take a stand that made you despised by the whole community," I said. "Where did your courage come from?"
"Mr. Marshall couldn't take me in without putting my life in jeopardy. So he gave me some books about other Christians who'd suffered for their faith. My favourite was about five young men who willingly risked their lives to take God's good news to primitive Indians in the jungles of South America." His eyes widened. "I've lived all my life in the desert. How frightening the jungle must be! The book said these men let themselves be killed, even though they had guns & could have killed their attackers!"
The missionary said, "I remember the story. As a matter of fact, one of those men had your last name."
"Yes," I said quietly, "the pilot was my father."
"Your father?" Nouh cried. "The story is true!"
"Yes," I said, "it's true."
The missionary & Nouh & I talked through the afternoon. When they accompanied me back to the airfield that night, we found that the doctors weren't able to leave Timbuktu after all, & there was room for me on the UNICEF plane.
As Nouh & I hugged each other, it seemed incredible that God loved us so much that He'd arranged for us to meet "at the ends of the Earth." Nouh & I had gifts for each other that no one else could give. I gave him the assurance that the story that had given him courage was true. He gave me the assurance that God had used Dad's death for good. Dad, by dying, had helped give Nouh a faith worth dying for. And Nouh, in return, had helped give Dad's faith back to me.
Ministering Angels
Duane and his wife had attended a prayer meeting in Redwood City, California, one evening and were driving home, heading toward Mountain View. They had been married about two years at the time. In those days the road was a three-lane highway, with the middle lane used for passing. There was little traffic that night, with only a few cars on the road. They were almost to Dinah's Shack, a restaurant, when Duane pulled into the middle lane, which was clear, to pass another car.
But suddenly a car zipped out from behind an approaching car into the middle lane and headed right for them. The driver did not see them at all. Duane could not possibly move into another lane, because he was now even with a car on both sides. There was literally no place to go--a Red Sea situation. In just seconds the two cars were approaching each other at fifty or sixty miles an hour and were headlight to headlight, possibly fifty feet apart!
Suddenly, Duane and his wife were in Dinah's Shack parking lot. That's where they were--the next thing they knew--just turning around in the lot. There were no skid marks!
How did they get there? Did Angels pick them up--car and all--and move them over the other car? Or cause the other car to disappear? Did Angels make a safe lane through traffic--as at the Red Sea? Or just snatch them up and set them down? They don't know.
The day of miracles is not past. God can even rerun the Jonah or the Daniel Chapters to save lives and strengthen the faith of His dear people.
It happened in a little cabin in Anchorage, Alaska, on a cold February morning. Mrs. Louise Dubay was alone and so badly crippled that she could not walk without applying hot-and-cold treatments to her leg. The cabin was heated by a wood-burning cookstove. She had many friends, but this morning for some reason no one had remembered to visit her and bring in a fresh supply of wood. And she couldn't call anyone, because she had no telephone at that time. In her desperation she began to pray aloud. Never before had she prayed so earnestly. But no one came.
Finally, the last of the wood was gone, and the fire went out. It was thirty degrees below zero. The cabin began to chill rapidly, and she knew that, even protected as she was with blankets, she would soon freeze to death unless someone came and brought in wood for her. She kept praying, but no one came. And then she prayed a different kind of prayer. She told the Lord that if it was His Will that she freeze to death, it was all right. She was willing.
About that time the door opened--the cabin had only one door--and in walked a tall young man carrying an armload of wood. He was not dressed as most people dress in Alaska during the Winter months. He had on a black hat and a black overcoat. He put the wood in the woodbox and proceeded to make a fire in the stove. When the fire was burning well, he put water in the big teakettle and placed it over the fire.
All this time he seemed to keep his face turned so that she could not see his full face. He turned now and went out the door, returning shortly with another armload of firewood. She had not really seen his face. Nor had he said a word.
Naturally Mrs. Dubay was awed by all this--so much so that she could not speak. She just sat there and looked at him, all the while wanting to ask him if he was an Angel, yet afraid to speak up. Finally she asked him that question in her mind, without saying a word aloud. And when she did that, he turned toward her, smiled, and nodded his head. His face was so noble, she says, that she knew he was not from this World. He turned, opened the door, and left without saying a word.
For a time she just sat there, as if petrified. Finally she thought, "If he is an Angel sent from God, there will not be any footprints in the snow outside the door." So she forced herself to hobble to the door, opened it, and looked out on the unruffled snow. There were no footprints. Neither had the snow been disturbed over, or around, her little pile of wood. The snow was perfectly smooth!
Earthquake!
"And behold...the Earth did quake, and the rocks rent." St. Matthew's account of the first Good Friday saw fearful repetition almost 2,000 years later when, on March 27, 1964, the Earth again strained its thin coat and burst its seams, spewing sudden destruction. In the strongest quake to strike North America since an 1899 shock in the Alaskan wilds, buildings and pavements dropped as much as 30 feet in downtown Anchorage, Alaska.
The devastation spread with terrible speed in an arc 500 miles long. Crackling through the earth at thousands of miles an hour, the shock wave sliced, churned and ruptured the land.
The shock wave struck and raced on, but in passing it stirred other sequel forces. Somewhere off the crescent of Alaska's southern coast, the sea bottom had heaved and plunged violently, setting millions of tons of water in motion. It was the motion of a seismic7 sea wave, whose effect onshore can be that of a battering ram. The time was 5:36 p.m.
Mrs. Tay Thomas tells how she and her children miraculously escaped when both house and lot slid from their clifftop perch:
I'll start from the grim beginning. It was a sleepy, snowy day in a Winter that had already been far too long. It was 1964. And it was Good Friday. The snow that had been falling for two days finally did let up, and my husband, Lowell, left for the airport. As an Alaskan state senator, he had business in Fairbanks.
About five o'clock I went upstairs with the children to watch TV. Dave and I sat on Anne's bed for awhile with her--she had a headache. Of course, we all took off our shoes.
David is six, and Anne eight. They both were in cotton shirts and pants, and I wore a red wool dress and nylon stockings.
It was a little after 5:30 that I heard a rumble. I had heard one before, just preceding a mild earthquake last Summer, but we also hear frequent rumbles from the big guns firing at the army base nearby.
Something instantly told me that this was another earthquake. I leaped off the bed, yelling "Earthquake!" I grabbed Anne and called to David. They both moved with lightning speed. We had reached the front hall when the house began to shake.
We rushed out the front door with David protesting, "But, Mommy, I'm in bare feet..." Bozie, our 80-pound German shepherd, must have slipped out with us.
We were about ten feet beyond the front door when it suddenly seemed that the World was coming to an end. We were flung violently to the ground, which was shaking up and down with the sharpest jolting I've ever felt. It seemed an eternity that we lay there in the snow.
Within a few seconds the entire house started to fall apart, splitting first right at the hallway we had just come through. We heard the crashing of glass, then that horrible rending sound of wood being broken apart. The trees were crashing all about us, adding to the terrible din.
I looked toward the car to see if it was shaking as much as during the last quake, and as I watched, the garage collapsed on top of it!
Now the earth began breaking up and buckling all about us. I stared in disbelief as the trench widened, apparently bottomless, separating me from my child. I grabbed the hand Anne reached out to me and was able to pull her across the chasm8.
This was the only moment during the entire quake when I felt any panic. Seeing that fissure9 widen next to me was the exact picture I'd always had in my mind of what happened in a violent earthquake. And the fact that it opened between me and Anne, threatening to separate the three of us, truly frightened me for a moment.
Then our whole lawn broke up into chunks of dirt, snow, rock and ice.
We were left on a wildly bucking slab; suddenly it tilted sharply, and we had to hang on to keep from slipping into a yawning chasm. I held David, but Anne had the strength and presence of mind to hang on by herself. Although crying, she was still able to obey commands--thank God, because poor David was hysterical10, and I could only hold him tightly.
Now the earth seemed to be rising just ahead of us. I had the weird feeling that we were riding backwards on a giant wheel, going down. I also had a brief fearful thought that we were falling down into the sea. Our beautiful home had stood on a high bluff11 about a hundred yards from Cook Inlet.
The worst of the rocking stopped, and as I looked around, I realised that we and our entire property had fallen down to sea level. I could see nothing left of the house, except part of the roof, and it looked terribly close to the water.
I remember noticing the kids' bright-yellow and red swing set perched on a cake of ice of its own, but all I could think of was that the water would probably rise, and we would be trapped. The cliffs above us were sheer, with great sections of sand and clay constantly falling. The jumbles of earth all about us had stopped moving, but large hunks were breaking apart everywhere. The children were both hysterical, crying and saying over and over, "What will we do? We'll die..." I knew we'd have to move now, carefully, but fast. I had to find a way up that cliff, and we would have to climb over the great chunks of earth without falling into holes and crevasses12.
I knew I couldn't carry both children, or even one--Dave weighs a chunky 75 pounds, and Anne is a husky eight-year-old. So my first job was to calm them down and explain what to do. I told them that we would get out all right, but we had to stay calm. (It's still an awesome thought to me that I never felt calmer.)
I suggested that first we say a prayer asking Jesus to take care of us and guide us, and both children stopped crying, closed their eyes, and fervently pleaded with Him to take care of them.
This had an extraordinary effect on them and on me. Anne was ready now to climb on her own, and although David was still worrying about his bare feet, he had stopped crying. I suddenly felt a tremendous peace....I knew that He was with us--not up in the sky somewhere, but right beside us.
At that moment, a man appeared above the cliff. All three of us immediately yelled, "Help, help, come get us!" and he shouted down that he would find some rope, then disappeared.
He was an unbelievably welcome sight, but the kids became hysterical again when he disappeared. I tried to assure them that help was on the way, & we found an extra large mound of snow-free earth to wait on. Our feet were really in bad shape by now; they were so cold that none of us had any feeling left in them at all.
As we stood waiting for what was probably only five to ten minutes, but seemed an hour, I realised that there were many more houses flattened along the cliff in the direction we were heading--not just the four homes on the bluff side of Chilligan Drive.
Suddenly six or eight men appeared at the top of the cliff. One of them, a stranger, climbed down the cliff toward us.
The children both hugged our rescuer, and I could feel their sense of relief as they told him how cold they were. He put his black wool jacket around Anne, boosted David into his arms, and led us all back up along the rope.
At the top of the cliff I turned to thank our rescuer. He had disappeared. We were never able to learn his identity, a great pity because we feel eternally grateful to him. For about a week Anne wore the jacket this stranger gave her almost constantly. It is dirty and worn and much too big, but it will be her most prized possession for a long time to come.
Had God sent an Angel in answer to a trusting prayer? Was eight-year-old Anne wearing a jacket that belonged to an Angel?
Easter Sunday, 1964, two days after the earthquake, will always have a special place in my memories--& it won't be visions of the normal Easter festivities or a leisurely holiday dinner. The church we visited was cold at 8 a.m., without heat, & we & many of our friends who were homeless, too, clumped down the aisles in borrowed boots & weird assortments of misfit clothing. Anne was still wearing her rescuer's coat; David was still holding up his pants, & I was still wearing the neighbour's corduroy pants & wool skirt.
The singing had never sounded so enthusiastic, nor had the spiritual warmth been so noticeable, although it was so cold in the building that people's breath showed as they sang. Prayers of thanksgiving have never had more meaning, & the sermon for Easter Day is indelibly13 etched on my mind: "If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above.... Set your affection on things Above, not on things on the Earth...."
Now, as I sit writing this, just one week later, I look out the window of the new little home we have bought. I feel a sense of gratitude for each material possession we were able to salvage. But the strongest feeling of all, I know I share with my husband, the children, & thousands of other fellow Alaskans: a fervent thankfulness toward God for having spared our lives during one of the World's worst earthquakes. We are thankful for the opportunity to rededicate our lives to His service.
Heroes--Known and Unknown
The plane crash in Washington, D.C., in January, 1981, was a shocking tragedy. But even in the ugliness of disaster there can be moments of splendour.
Three stories from people who were there:
The Paramedic
--By Gene Windsor
It is snowing heavily on this terrible Wednesday, January 13, as I drive to my job as paramedic14 with the U.S. Park Police in Washington, D.C.
The heavy wet blanket is unusual for the capital, and late-afternoon traffic has already slowed to a crawl with the usual angry and impatient motorists.
One car cuts in front of me and I swerve to avoid it. I grit my teeth and mutter about the "me first" attitude so many people seem to have these days. What is the World coming to? I wonder. As I glance toward the frozen white Potomac River, I think of the Summer rescues we have made, our helicopter hovering over overturned sailboats while dropping life floats to the people in the water. I wince as I remember some of them actually battling each other for floats, even though there were enough to go around.
A horn blares beside me as two drivers fight for an opening in the congested15 traffic. I shake my head, glad to turn off this madhouse.
It is quiet inside our hangar16; not much activity in this weather. Even our helicopter, Eagle 1, is inside, out of the snow. My partner Don Usher and I busy ourselves with paperwork as a radio softly crackles in the background.
Shortly after 4:00 p.m., the phone rings. The man answering it calls out: "Washington National Airport thinks it may have lost an aircraft!"
"Where?"
"Nobody knows yet!"
Don and I rush to the helicopter as another paramedic heaves open the hangar door and plows the snow from the ramp. Our light little helicopter is not equipped for heavy rescue work, but we can try to help.
Another call comes through. "They've confirmed it as a 737 airliner," says the man on the phone. "But they're still not sure where it's down!"
"Get some rope!" yells Don as I race to the copter's side door. I grab a coil of tow rope and some life vests, and we move out onto the launch pad. Our engine starts, and the big rotor begins revolving.
With a roar we lift into the blinding whiteness; billions of flakes beat the plexiglass on which rain is freezing.
As Eagle 1's nose dips in acceleration, I pray for the people in the downed aircraft, that God will give us the ability to help as many as possible.
The radio sputters: "It's somewhere in the river...haven't got a fix on it yet."
Peering down at the frozen water rushing past below, we see nothing but unbroken whiteness. Then I call out: "Lights on the bridge!"
Through the grey gloom we see flashing lights of emergency equipment on one of the dual spans of the 14th Street Bridge. "Must be between them," says Don.
We drop down between the two spans, which are about a half-block apart, and are shocked. We expect to see the giant body of a 737 airliner, but there is nothing...just the black river littered with chunks of shattered ice.
"But where...?" Then we see something near the bridge. Jutting up from the icy water is a twisted remnant of a plane's tail section.
Some people cling to it. Don calls the Washington National tower: "We have survivors in sight and are going in."
As we drop closer, the tragic reality of what has happened becomes clear: In taking off from the airport, the plane had stalled in the air. As it fell, its tail struck the bridge, breaking off as the rest of the plane flipped over into the river, sinking immediately.
My heart aches at what I see floating in the river amid the slick of jet fuel, twisted shreds of aluminum and tufts of fiberglass insulation: a shoe, a tennis racket, a red-striped suitcase.
We swoop down to the tail wreckage and hover at 15 feet; three men and three women in the water cling to it, their frightened eyes looking up. Only one, a woman, has a life vest. As Don and I talk on the intercom, I slide open our big side door. I drop the life vests that were grabbed in the rush out of the hangar. I had tied one end of the rope to a seat belt; I put a bowline loop in the other end and lower it to the people in the water.
The rope settles into the arms of an alert-looking man who seems to be in his 50s. He has a mustache and a greying fringe of hair around his bald head. But what he does with the rope surprises us.
Instead of grabbing it, he gallantly passes it to the women next to him. One of them gets her arms into the loop.
"Okay, we got one," I tell Don.
With a roar we lift and carry the woman to the snow-covered shore crowded with fire trucks, ambulances and firemen. Arms eagerly reach for her and bundle her into an ambulance. Someone on shore flings up to me another rope with a life ring, and we zoom through the whirling snow back to the wreckage.
Now I drop both ropes. Again I find it hard to believe what I see. In the water the bald man with the mustache catches the ring and again presses it to a woman next to him. She seems dazed, unable to hold it. A younger man takes the ring and grasps the two women in his arms while another man clutches the rope. It's all we can manage.
"Lift!" The engine strains and the copter shudders as we rise just high enough to pull the foursome through the water toward the shore.
The man in the life vest slips and sinks back into the water, but we rush on knowing he'll float. The woman is dragged off onto an ice floe. We hurry the two others ashore, then wheel for the woman balancing on the chunk of ice. She grabs the ring, but some 20 feet from shore she weakens and plummets into the dark, icy river.
I gasp; she's in open water with no life vest. We drop the life ring, but she appears too dazed to notice. Minds fog quickly in this blood-freezing water. As she rolls onto her back, we struggle to swing the helicopter around and drop down. But then something wonderful happens.
A blue-shirted man on the riverbank pulls off his coat and plunges into the frigid17 slush. With powerful strokes he reaches the sinking woman and swims her back to safety.
With a sigh of relief, we hurry back to the remaining two survivors, first to the floating man. He tries to grasp the ring, but loses his grip. At my request, Don expertly sinks the copter to river level, with one skid18 in the water. I pray that no gust of wind hits us in this position or we'll flip over.
After belting myself to the ship, I stand on the shuddering skid amid whirling snow and reach for the man. But from this angle I can't lift him. I discard the belt, turn and wedge my body between the skid and door. As I touch his arm, he winces in pain. I turn him, grasp the life vest and pull him onto the skid with me. Don lifts off and we head for shore.
Five saved with one to go. Relieved at how well it has gone, we rush back to the wreckage and the bald man with the mustache.
He's gone. Disappeared beneath the water.
We circle low over the crushed aluminum, intently searching for a glimmer or shadow in the depths. If I see anything, I'm determined to leap in and swim down to it, so badly do I want him. But there is nothing but a crumpled silver spire19 and icy black water.
We search.
Ten minutes pass. "Do you see anything?" Don asks. There's a catch in his voice. I can hardly answer. Nothing. No sign of the bald man with the mustache.
Finally, after making sure the survivors have been taken to hospitals, there is nothing left for us to do, and we head to the heliport20.
Back at our hangar, I receive an anxious phone call from my wife Maureen; she had seen us on television. Tears stream down my face as I tell her about the man in the water.
I shall never forget his pale, upturned face watching us moving away with the others, knowing, probably, that he would not be there when we got back.
It was a terrible tragedy in which 78 people lost their lives. Yet out of it something was won. The memory of this selfless man.
When Jesus said, "Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13), I know that He was speaking of the man in the water.
The Bystander
--By Lenny Skutnik
The blizzard began in the middle of the night; and all day, heavy snow and sleet pelted Washington, D.C. I had been able to get in to work at the Congressional Budget Office in the southwest part of the city. But by noon it was still snowing. I would certainly be late getting home to my wife Linda and my two little sons in Lorton, Virginia. Then, in mid-afternoon, word came through the office that the staff could leave early. Maybe I would make dinner after all.
Snowplows had not yet cleared the roads, and traffic was bumper to bumper. That day there were twice as many vehicles on the roads as usual, some of them stalled21 or involved in accidents.
A little after 4:00 p.m., my friend and I were crossing the southbound span of the 14th Street Bridge. About three-quarters of the way across, we noticed people gathering by the rail to our left, looking down and shouting or pointing. What had happened? Had a car skidded off the bridge? I hoped not. Our driver decided to pull over to see what it was. He stopped the car and we walked to the end of the bridge and climbed over the guardrail. Slipping and sliding, we made our way on foot down the embankment and under the express-lanes span of the bridge.
Then I saw it. The wreckage of some kind of aircraft was sticking up out of the water. Luggage and debris were scattered on top of the ice; a distinct odour of fuel filled the air. The airplane must have gone down just moments before we crossed the bridge. We had not heard the crash, and with the snow swirling against the car windows, we had seen nothing. Was the plane coming in for a landing at nearby National Airport, or had it just taken off? I didn't know, but I couldn't believe it was real.
"Look," someone cried, "there are people out there!"
Then I knew it was real. Oh no! I thought. Dear God, how will they get out?
The river was covered with ice, except for the huge hole made by the plane. There were some people clinging desperately to the jagged wreckage. Huge chunks of ice floated like icebergs all around them.
A man ran up to us yelling, "Does anyone have a rope? Please--anything we can use to reach those people!" We had nothing. All we could do was stand there, staring, feeling useless. Several men tied the ropes they'd collected to fashion a long line, and one man tied it around himself and jumped in the river in an attempt to swim out to the victims. Those who held the rope shouted encouragement to him. But it did no good. About 10 feet short of the survivors, he had to give up. The water was too cold. A groan went up from the small crowd on shore as he was hauled back to safety.
God, help these people, I thought. I'd never felt so helpless in my life. They were only about 30 to 40 yards from shore, but it might as well have been miles. It was too far for them to make it on their own, and the rescue attempt had failed. Their only hope now was to hold on to the airplane tail section and wait. I prayed that help would arrive soon. How long could they stand the freezing temperature of that water?
Though it seemed an eternity, the fire department rescue teams got there amazingly fast, considering the weather and traffic conditions. We saw red lights flashing up on the bridge, and someone with a bullhorn shouted down to the plane's passengers: "Hang on, help is on the way!" A cheer went up from the growing crowd on shore. For the first time, a tiny spark of hope surged inside of me.
In a few minutes, the helicopter was on the scene. I watched as the pilot maneuvered the chopper above the floundering victims. Another man in the helicopter lowered a rope. Someone in the water caught it, & then a figure was whisked up in the air and toward the land. The crowd went wild. Cheers and clapping sounded as the person was lowered to the Virginia shore, where paramedics bundled the survivor in blankets and into an ambulance.
Thank God, I thought. They're going to make it!
Not a second was wasted. As soon as the rope was released, the pilot flew back again to the others. In my mind, I congratulated those skilled men in that aircraft. It must have taken years of training to learn to maneuver a machine like that with such precision22. The next time two ropes were lowered and several passengers managed to grab hold at the same time. They were dragged toward shore across the jagged ice, but one of them, a woman, couldn't hold on. She fell back, landing on her stomach on a drift of ice. The pilot could not stop; he had to get the others to safety. But as quickly as possible he went back for the woman.
My eyes were riveted on that poor soul. She must have been seriously hurt or not fully conscious, because she tried to swim on the ice. She's in shock, I thought. If they don't reach her soon...
The helicopter hovered over the woman and the ring was dropped again, right in front of her. Her arms kept flailing23 without success in a swimming motion. People near me shouted, "Grab it, lady!" Again and again the pilot moved the ring to help her, but she didn't seem able to understand. I wasn't even sure that she could see. It's a terrible feeling to watch someone struggle, to want so much to help, and yet be able to do nothing.
Finally, she touched the ring and realised what to do. With great effort, she pushed one arm through the hole and then the other. Lord, help her, I prayed silently, the muscles in my arms straining, as if trying to hold on myself. The helicopter pulled her slowly toward shore, dragging her off the ice and into the water. All of a sudden, one of her arms slipped out of the ring, then the other one started to. At that moment I decided to go in after her. I knew if I didn't she was going to die. It was obvious she was not going to grab another rope, and it didn't look like anyone was going in after her.
I dropped to the ground and pulled off my boots, then my coat, and ran down the embankment. I dove in and swam toward her as fast as I could.
It's strange, remembering it now, but I didn't feel the cold. I didn't even hit any rocks or debris from the wreckage as I swam. I was propelled by an unexplainable strength that sent me in a straight line for the woman. I'd never taken life-saving lessons. I had no plan--none was needed. Instinctively, things just happened. I held on to her and pushed, swimming as fast as possible toward shore. I don't know how long it took. I didn't even feel tired. I don't know how to explain anything--I wasn't thinking. The only thing I remember is the strong urgency to get her to safety. It wasn't until I saw the waiting hands pulling her up on shore that I felt we'd won.
At that moment I wanted to cry and give thanks, and then just go home.
As soon as I climbed onto the bank, the cold hit me. My socks crystallised into ice in a matter of seconds. I tried to get back up to the car, but the rescue team insisted that I must be treated for hypothermia24. I didn't want to go; I knew I was okay. I'd never felt better in my life. But they hustled me into an ambulance.
At the hospital, where I was placed in a tub of hot water to soak for a half-hour, my mind wouldn't quit. Now there was time to think--all the time in the World. What made me do it? I wondered. I've never done anything like that before. In fact, my biggest obstacle had always been a fear of people. I'd never been able to conquer the dread of being singled out in front of people. As a little boy in school, I'd tremble and hide behind my paper when giving a report in front of the class. Often the teacher would ask me to sit down before the report was finished because I was uncomfortable.
I have to call Linda, I thought. She'll be worried. But she'll never believe this! Why hadn't I thought about my wife and children before? What would have happened to them if I had died trying to save...who was she? To me, she was still a stranger. I didn't even know her name.
There were thoughts of Mom, too, and how she taught us to turn to God in times of trouble. I had been calling out to Him all afternoon. Could that be why He chose me?
I don't know. And I'm not at all convinced that the woman is alive today because of me. A Power greater than I took command out there in the icy Potomac.
But I am sure of one thing. Without a doubt, I know that a God Who cares and loves us all, more than we can imagine, took charge of my actions that day. He gave courage to someone who had never known it before, but who suddenly and desperately needed it.
I want Him to keep that control for the rest of my life.
The Passenger
--By Bert Hamilton
On January 13, I was scheduled to take a business trip to Tampa with some of my associates from Fairchild Space and Electronics Company. In my work I'd always done a lot of travelling--and it was a family joke that whenever the weather turned bad, I always managed to get out of town on a trip to Florida or California.
This day I just couldn't shake the strange feeling I had about this trip. Was it because of the worsening weather, or because I had just joined the company and was travelling with these associates for the first time? Whatever the reason, I felt uneasy as I said goodbye to my wife and 16-year-old son.
In the check-in area at Washington National Airport, I noticed that the snow was swirling outside the windows so I could barely see the waiting aircraft.
At about two o'clock we boarded the plane and I buckled into my seat. Then we waited. The airport had been closed because of the storm, and they were still plowing and sanding the runways. Time passed. There was a hum of conversation; people read, joked, dozed. At last, shortly after 3:30, we left the gate. We waited some more. Close to four o'clock the pilot announced we were finally cleared for takeoff.
The engines roared, the plane started down the runway. But instead of picking up speed, the plane seemed to be struggling for momentum, as though it was fighting its way into the air. We lifted off. What was wrong? Instead of climbing steadily upward, the plane seemed to hang in the air. Now it began to pitch and shake violently. Instinctively I tightened my seat belt. Another tremendous shudder shook the plane. Then...impact!
Suddenly I found myself in darkness. Water was gushing in around me. I groped to unbuckle my seat belt. I knew I had to get out quickly--but how?
And then, in the blackness, an opening appeared before me. It was like a window of light. In that very instant I knew, I knew without a doubt, that the Lord was with me. He was in charge. I followed that light and made my way out of the plane.
I slipped through the icy water and scrambled to hold on to a piece of floating debris. My feet came to rest on another piece of wreckage that helped me keep my head above the water.
Where was I? What had happened? Sleet was swirling and stinging around me, but I could see land in the distance, and a bridge looming above. Several other people were floundering in the water about 10 or 15 feet away. This can't be a plane crash, I said to myself. People don't live through plane crashes.
I saw a city bus stop on the bridge above. People were running out to look over the railing, then they returned to the bus, and the bus left. Maybe no one can see us, I thought. But soon more people appeared, shouting encouragement.
I knew I was alive, but I was not feeling much of anything. I was worried that my left shoe was missing. I thought about diving under the water to find it.
Now I began to realise that my arm was badly injured, probably broken. My head was bleeding. The water was frigid, but I was feeling no pain, no cold. No, I felt safe. I felt an incredible sense of peace and trust. God was relieving me of fear--whatever happened would happen, and I would be all right.
Minutes passed. I wanted to swim for shore, but the river was choked with ice, black with fuel. Around me other people were treading water and clinging to bits of wreckage. "We're all going to die," a survivor cried.
"Dear God," I said, "I know You didn't save me just to let me freeze to death."
And then I heard the sound of whirring blades in the air! A helicopter was beating its way through the sky. It dipped close to the water and someone aboard tossed out a rope. But the turbulence caused by the spinning blades whipped up the waves and toppled me deeper into the water.
The copter crew dropped another life ring; I fumbled to reach it. It bobbed away. The helicopter flew lower; its skid was in the water beside me.
The crewman in the rear tried to pull me up. I slipped from his grasp. I tried to wrap my arm and then my leg around the helicopter skid. Again I slipped off and sank beneath the river's surface.
Water closed over my head. I was not afraid; the Lord was with me. I came choking to the surface. A life ring floated next to me, just as the crewman dropped a looped rope. I was able to get the loop around my chest. The helicopter rose--and I came dangling up out of the water and was carried toward the shore.
On the sloping and frozen riverbank, people were reaching out to me, but everyone was slipping. They're going to drop me back in the water! I thought. But other strong hands reached out and pulled me to safer ground.
Hours later, as I lay in a hospital bed, I was being treated for severe hypothermia. My body temperature had dropped below 90 degrees. My wife and son were at my side; they had heard the news on TV.
Only now did I begin to piece together what had happened. Seventy-eight people had lost their lives in the crash. Until then, I thought that the others on the plane had managed to get out, too, and that I had been isolated from them.
Why was my life saved? And why did others lose theirs? No one here on Earth can answer those questions. But why did I feel no pain, no cold? Why did I feel such utter trust in God?
Three years ago I committed my life to the Lord. I love Him deeply, but even so, my faith has highs and lows. Yet, when I needed Him the most, He was there.
And I honestly believe that God was there, protecting, soothing those other passengers when they needed comfort and freedom from pain. God's mercy and Love is there to sustain all of us, even in the greatest of tragedies.
Discussion Questions
Following are a number of questions which can be applied to each of the stories in this magazine. After reading each story, you can choose several of these questions for discussion. You do not necessarily need to ask or discuss every question after reading every story, but you may choose those which apply and are helpful.
1. Is there anything that could have been done to avoid the difficult situation the people in this story found themselves in?
2. The people in the story responded in one way to what happened to them.--What are some other ways that people might react if the same thing happened to them?
3. Does this story show you anything about the benefits of the training, education and instruction you have received? Please discuss.
4. How might you have reacted if this had happened to you? How do you think you should react in similar situations? What would you pray and ask God to do?
5. Did you feel that the people in these stories could have been more of a witness? If so, how?
6. What lessons could you learn from a situation like this?
7. Why do you think God allowed this situation for these people?
8. Is there anything in these stories that you don't understand?
9. Did the Lord do a miracle in this story? If so, how did He use the miracle in the lives of the people in the story? Did it bring a change in their lives?
10. What specific answers to prayer are there in this story?
11. Does this story encourage your faith that God will help you in difficult, dangerous or seemingly impossible situations?
12. Have you ever experienced the Lord doing a miracle to save your life or someone else's? If so, what was it? Did it change your outlook on life or your relationship with the Lord or others?
Definitions:
(The meaning given is for the use of the word in the story & does not cover every meaning of the word.)
1 itinerary: a route or plan of a journey
2 UNICEF: United Nations International Children's Fund. An agency of the United Nations established to provide food & medical supplies to needy children & mothers
3 gendarme: a policeman who has had military training, taken from the French term
4 relief work: Help in the way of giving food, clothing or medical supplies to people in need
5 nomadic: wandering from place to place
6 sorcerer: a witch doctor or person who practices magic with the aid of evil spirits; a wizard
7 seismic: movements of the Earth's crust, having to do with earthquakes
8 chasm: a deep opening or crack in the Earth's surface
9 fissure: a long, narrow opening
10 hysterical: crying uncontrollably
11 bluff: a high, steep bank or cliff
12 crevass: a deep crack or split in the ground after an earthquake
13 indelibly: cannot be erased or removed; permanent
14 paramedic: an emergency medical worker, trained to give emergency care or assist doctors
15 congested: overcrowded, full
16 hangar: a shed or garage for airplanes
17 frigid: very cold
18 skid: one of two flat bars on the bottom of a helicopter which serve as landing gear
19 spire: tapering or pointed tip; the highest point
20 heliport: an airport for helicopters
21 stalled: when a car engine stops unexpectedly
22 precision: with accuracy, being exact
23 flailing: beating, thrashing
24 hypothermia: a condition of reduced body temperature caused by exposure to extreme cold
(Definitions condensed from the World Book, Funk & Wagnalls Standard Dictionary & Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary.)