I knew I would never be back to
Cusco. That altitude thing hit me hard this time, and I know I would
be pushing my luck going again. One of our OBU kids, who went on up
to 14,000 feet or so, got extremely sick, and had to be quickly
brought back down. There's only a couple of places in the world where
people actually live at those altitudes, and there's a reason for
that. My very last morning in Peru, our group decided to take the
names of all those we worked with this week to the top of a mountain
and pray for them. I carried the names, and we headed up. About
halfway up, I handed the names off and told the group I would wait
for them there. You young'uns go on. Nice to be young.
I sat down on a rock, and just
looked. Far below, I saw a person working out in a field. The more I
watched, the more I began to realize, I was watching a world class
athlete of some description. He/she could raise one leg straight up,
with the other standing on the ground, and put that body in all sorts
of amazing positions.
I watched a plane take off in the
valley far below. The runway was at least twice as long as an
ordinary runway, even one designed for the large jets. It took every
bit of it for that plane to get airborne. Thin air.
Goodbye Peru. I love you. Goodbye,
Aqua Amigo. I'll hold your hand again in Heaven.
For some reason, the other leaders
had to fly back half a day early. I was given the job of making sure
all the kids got home. At the airport, I was sorta nervous. Being a
world traveler, I shouldn't be, But Barbara always got me through the
airports, and this was an awful lot of kids to get home. When my
carry-on was X-rayed, they found something. They told me there was a
Leatherman tool in there, and why was that? Well, I did carry several
of them down in my checked luggage, as gifts, but they were all gone.
I emptied the bag, it was not there. They X-rayed it empty, and there
it was. Showed me the x-ray. I dug around in the bottom, and found it
under the first layer of the bottom. They were very concerned about
me now, I could tell. I gave up the weapon, then repacked the bag,
and hurried down to rejoin the kids. A few minutes later, the same
man came down to see me. Said someone left a hat up there, did we
leave it? My hat was on my head, so I asked the kids. No response. I
said, “Last chance! Did anyone leave a hat?” no response, so he
left. In about 3 minutes, I remembered I had bought a hat for Frank
Teed, and that was it. I rushed back up to him, told him that was my
hat. He was about tired of messing with me now, and said, “But you
said, last chance! Last chance!” A couple of my kids had to come up
and rescue me. And the hat.
A strange, safe feeling has always
enveloped me on mission trips. What better way or place to die, than
out, doing God's work. Fulfilling the Great Commission. I guess I
figured if I die here, St. Peter will just give me a pass straight
through to Heaven. I won't even have to account for all my sins.
We flew into DFW, and I rode
toward Arkadelphia with the “Wild child.” He had been on the
other trip, too, and he was trouble. Once, in Lima, he followed some
stranger off down a dark alley who told him he had a special deal for
him, he said, and he got lost. Almost missed the plane. On the first
trip, he wanted to carry only camo clothing. I told him that camo
attracted unwanted attention in third world countries, told him how
my camo hat had gotten a truck load of soldiers to point their guns
at me once in southern Mexico. We argued awhile. He would always do
the unexpected, kept a person nervous about what he would do next.
Little did I know he was about to totally outdo himself.
Anyway, I wound up riding in
“Wild child's” car. I went to sleep in the back seat, and woke up
to the sound of our windshield breaking, "Wild child"
screaming, and screeching tires. When I opened my eyes, we were
lodged under a 16 wheeler, crossways, right in front of the back
tires, and being dragged down the road at 70 MPH. The side of our car
had cut a “V” shaped, two inch gash in the bottom of the truck
siding, and the car being lodged in that was all that was keeping us
from being rolled up like a tin can. The driver of the truck handled
it perfectly, slowing down very slowly, and when he got down to about
40 MPH, our tires were gone and the metal was grinding away.
When we stopped, I looked up at
the two boys in front. Other than shaking with convulsions and
probably in shock, they seemed to be OK, and lots of people were
already on the scene getting them out. I was worried that traffic
would hit the car before the boys got out. It was sticking out in the
fast lane. I got out and started directing traffic. Strangely, I
never got excited. Not one bit. Others in our group started arriving,
found the two boys lying in the grass shaking with convulsions. They
knew I was in that car, so they started walking the road ditches
trying to find me. Finally, someone yelled, “There he is! He's the
one directing traffic!”
I really just have no explanation
for my reaction, or lack of one. I called Barbara two minutes after I
got out, and she said later I was perfectly calm. Maybe, I've just
ran out of adrenalin. Maybe being asleep when it happened caused it.
Or, maybe, just maybe, that strange safe feeling was still
surrounding me. The mission trip wasn't over yet.
As we rode on to Arkadelphia, in
someone else's car, I asked "Wild child" for an explanation
about how he could POSSIBLY have gotten that car in the position it
was in when I woke up. “Well,” he said, I've had six other
wrecks, and they were just barely my fault too, and -” That
explained it all.
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