Mission Under Fire (6 page)

Her shyness drew me in. She was different. So I finally spoke to her directly.

“Talk much?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said.

I was hooked.

She was a hard nut to crack, but I would eventually rise to the challenge. Later that week, I called her at home and asked her on a date. To my surprise, she said yes. I continued to spend time with her and finally broke into her heart. She has since told me that while we were hanging out at our friend’s house, she looked over at me and realized she had feelings for me. I think she fell in love with my green and yellow striped pants, but she disagrees. 

We began spending more time together and shared everything about ourselves. By September, we were “in trouble” as the old saying goes. Sharon was pregnant. Honestly, I had planned it that way, or at least made no attempt to keep it from happening. My home was chaotic and dysfunctional. Hers wasn’t much better. I told her we could get out on our own if we were having a baby. It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time.

We married on December 5, 1971 and our first child, Amber, was born about five months later. To support us, I played guitar in a circuit of nightclubs. Sharon and I found an affordable apartment where my dad was the head of maintenance. She was sixteen and I was seventeen. Our parents signed a parental consent form, allowing us to become husband and wife. 

I had won the girl.

Unfortunately, my flirtatious ways didn’t end when I married Sharon. She noticed early on and struggled with my personality from that time forward. I was on the radar and I knew it. The first three weeks of our marriage I was finishing up high school and had a few of those “flirty little friendships” that had an amazing way of boosting my ego. One example is when I met a girl in a nightclub in Marion, Indiana who wanted to “hang out”. She wanted to be more than friends but nothing ever became of it other than the emotional bond that shouldn’t have taken place to begin with. A few weeks after Sharon and I married, Sharon found the girl’s name and phone number in my wallet. As you can imagine, that didn’t go over very well.

Our troubles didn’t stop there. I played in a band called
The Paper Bag
. The group was comprised of my high school chums, and two older guys: Tom Cook, who had an amazing voice, and George Meadows, the guy with the contacts. We had a great sound, played top-forty hits, did acid, hash, and smoked a lot of pot. 

One night, while playing at a local bar in Peru, Indiana, I smoked hash after taking cold medicine. The bar is now a flower shop, but back in the day, it was the happening place. I don’t remember what song we were playing, but I remember feeling like I was being squeezed like a tube of toothpaste. The sensation started at my ankles, slow and constant. I didn’t know what to do so I kept playing. Once the feeling reached my neck, I passed out. I remember waking up under a chandelier, elevated, with people standing around me, staring. I had an eerie feeling, like I had died or something. Tom, our lead singer attempted to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

I shouted, “Get the F— off me! What the F— are you doing?”

Tom was a large guy. He’d broken his ankle and was on crutches, but was still able to scoop me off the stage, carry me to the loft, and plop me on the pool table.

George yelled, “That does it. No more drugs while we’re playing!”

What a concept.

Sharon knew our future together was risky, but she covered her feelings with her sweet, shy smile and persevered. She had built a protective shell around her heart because of her upbringing. We would later discover that the traits that attracted us to each other became the very tools we’d use to protect ourselves from pain. For example, I used girls’ laughter and smiles to help build my self-esteem. Sharon’s quiet spirit would withdraw, silently building years of resentment, burying the pain she felt when I’d behave the way I did. Years later, after reading
Inside Out
by Dr. Larry Crabb, we would learn that these are called “relational strategies”. Back then, however, we had no concept of our issues.

~•••~

W
e purchased a “National Home” in 1973 in an idyllic location where pretty little box houses lined the streets. We felt as if we’d arrived. I had left the band I was previously involved with and began working as a grocery clerk at a Kroger Super Market. I still played a few gigs here and there with some musicians I knew, but eventually faded out of the nightclub scene.

Life was changing. I’d grown up. I was a daddy.

At that stage of my life, my mom had made a habit of inviting us to church. A year after moving into our new house, we agreed to her pleadings, and began attending a small Baptist Church. The Pastor paid us a visit one evening, while I was away at a band practice. He talked to Sharon about God and the Bible, and that evening Sharon gave her life to Jesus. She didn’t fully understand the implications of her decision, but she knew her choice would change her life. She wasn’t sure how it would affect mine, so she asked if I was upset, unsure how I’d react. I told her that I was okay with it, and life went on as usual.

A few weeks later, we were in a church service when I felt something tugging on my heart and I knew God was calling me. I answered that still, small voice, and surrendered to the Lord. My life changed from that day forward—the drugs and booze, smoking and rock-n-roll came to an abrupt end.

We learned to love Jesus, and yet continued our dysfunctional ways. I continued flirting as a means of building confidence and Sharon withdrew into herself, refusing to share her feelings whenever I’d hurt her. With all the changes in our life, some things stayed the same. It’s amazing how you can feel so close to the God of the universe and at the same time not apply the grace that He gives. I guess that’s human nature, but it shouldn’t be an excuse.

I remember hearing Tony Evans, a prominent speaker and evangelist, once say, “You have all the power from God not to sin, but you step over that grace to get to your sin”. This was especially true for me. I loved God and my wife with my whole heart. I never wanted to hurt either of them.

As the years passed, I built a business and devoted many years to its success. I ran the service department, sold equipment, and spent long hours installing plumbing, heating, and electrical systems. I missed ball games, recitals, and some of the best years of our life and our children’s lives. At the same time, Sharon maintained the home front and ran the financial side of the business. We worked together everyday, while living with our relational strategies, until they no longer worked.

~•••~

A
few years before the Haiti mission trip, our strategies came to a head. Sharon and I had grown close to a group of friends from our church. During this time, I found myself in an inappropriate friendship with one of the women in the group. This wasn’t a physical relationship, but I grew emotionally closer than I would ever want to admit. Looking back, I wasted words of kindness and sweetness that should only be reserved for my wife. Sharon could see what was going on, and like many times before, quietly accepted my personality.

Thanksgiving was approaching and Sharon had become keenly aware of the amount of time I spent texting and talking to this woman. This time, something changed in her and she finally confronted me on the issue before the holiday.

“We’re just good friends,” I said, denying the obvious.

By Friday of that week, Sharon handed me a letter. The letter was more direct than any of our conversations over the years. She itemized the texts, the phone calls, and even quoted words that I had said to this woman. I felt surprised that Sharon was standing up to me. It wasn’t like her.

She said, “I feel like God is smacking me in the head and telling me to wake up.” 

She explained how she felt a sense of responsibility because she enabled the situation by looking the other way. She informed me this would change.

It did.

I assured her I would calm down communication. Sharon and I spent more time together than we ever had. I still struggled with cutting off the friendship, and that’s what needed to happen.

A couple of months passed and Sharon expressed her frustration. I realized how serious she was when she gave me another letter. This one was different. It didn’t itemize. It gave a very clear definition of an “emotional affair.” She held nothing back, accusing me of committing this form of adultery in our marriage. She didn’t give me a direct ultimatum, but I knew I needed to end the friendship completely, or our marriage would be permanently damaged. I felt sick to my stomach to think I had brought us to such a dark place. At that moment, I made the decision that I should’ve made months earlier and ended the relationship.

Sharon was no longer operating behind a quiet smile. She had to break out of the shell she had built around herself and share her heart. 

Over the next years leading up to the Haiti trip, we spent every waking hour together. We worked hard at rebuilding our marriage. I failed many times and each time I did, Sharon threatened to withdraw, nearly closing herself off as she did before. It was a trying and beautiful time, learning how to handle pain in a healthy way, and I had never felt closer to her. Sharon’s part was the hardest. She showed me more love than ever, while not liking me in the least bit.  It’s not that we were ever in a place of our marriage failing. In fact, many people would have said we had a good marriage. But Sharon was determined; WE
WILL
HAVE A GREAT MARRIAGE!

~•••~

I
n 2011, I planned to leave the country for a short mission trip. I knew Sharon wouldn’t want me to leave her, but for whatever reason, I was compelled to go. During this time, our security came from being together. Our relationship was strong, but still fragile. I told her I was going on a trip to Haiti with a church group. I hadn’t been on a trip like this in a few years, and felt like it was time for me to get connected with our new church, and the folks in the praise band.

We didn’t argue about it. I knew her concerns, understood her frustrations, and anticipated her questions.

How could she trust that I wouldn’t charm the ladies attending? 

How could I do this to her? 

How could I leave when our marriage had just begun to blossom again? 

I knew I was hurting her, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. Mad doesn’t really describe how she felt. She was, mad, hurt, scared, and felt a host of other feelings. She had so much love for me, and at the same time so much anger. I didn’t know how to deal with it, and I’m not sure she did either. We had no clue what was in store for our future.

On the last night before I left, we lay in bed, and I held her in my arms comforting her as much as I could, while she cried.

“I’m so afraid for you to go,” she said. “We haven’t been apart in so long.”

“I know, but it’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know that it will,” she told me.

“Listen... I don’t ever have to do this again.”

She said, “Okay,” and I left the house the next morning at 2:00 am for an early flight from Indianapolis to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, our last stop before we flew to Port-au-Prince.

F
or a moment, the shooting stopped. The voices were silent. And in the quiet of the night, with smoke still lingering, I thought the nightmare had ended.

Maybe they’re giving up
, I wondered
. Maybe it’s over.

We were hopeful anytime there was silence.

I later learned that Morgan had heard clicking and tapping outside. But the harmless noises were soon drowned out by the sound of metal sliding, sending a shiver up his spine. It was a noise that is now burned into the minds of those who were near the gunmen.

The respite was brief, followed by another boom that shook my chest. That’s when Morgan realized what had happened
.
They were reloading!

That was a very dark moment for many of us, taking the wind out of our sails, deflating the hope that had ballooned in the silence. I wondered,
How long would this continue? Couldn’t anyone hear what’s going on? Where are the guards?
Our residence sat on the front edge of the property, so they should’ve heard the shooting.
Where were the authorities? Where was Arthur?

Arthur was the full-time missionary on the Double Harvest campus, and lived only a quarter mile up the lane. Didn’t he hear what was going on? Did anyone hear the shooting or our screaming?

When they resumed firing, I decided I had to take action. The Coke bottles didn’t work, so I figured I’d at least block their visibility from the kitchen, restricting their means to fire freely. As long as the window was open, they could see directly into our facility. Although I couldn’t see past the darkness, I knew they were there, standing on the other side.

The freezer had rollers that helped me move it away from the wall, but the ceramic tile made it difficult to slide sideways toward the window. The plastic castors dipped into the grout lines as I pushed, breaking loose only to catch again at the next tile. I rocked the freezer back and forth, inching closer and closer to the window. I couldn’t let them see me or I’d be in the direct line of fire. Without looking it was difficult to shove the freezer into place.

For some reason, I couldn’t get the wheels to break loose over the last row of ceramic tile. I needed to push the freezer against the cabinet, but it wouldn’t budge. I was wearing down and growing excessively thirsty, so I left the freezer, hoping that I’d done enough. I’d worked in attics over 100 degrees but I can’t remember when I’ve ever been so thirsty. I couldn’t believe that during that hell, I was thinking about water. As it turns out, in moments of severe danger, our adrenal glands cause our body to respond by pumping more blood than usual, and breathing heavier to take in more oxygen. Hence, the extreme thirst. 

After I had given up on the freezer, I returned to the hallway. I hated quitting. I felt like I had barely slowed the gunmen down, but I decided to jump back into the hallway where I was at least a little safer. I had hoped to come up with a better idea once I left the kitchen so I turned to make my move when another shot rang out.