Mission Under Fire (4 page)

~•••~

T
he physical exchange, the screaming, the pushing back and forth was a battle of wills between our “front men”, and the Haitians. Jason and the other two guys were having a hard time keeping the door closed because of the objects between the door and the jam. They couldn’t shut it if they wanted to. As much as we desired to keep them out, they wanted in.

The Haitians sounded angry, but we couldn’t see their faces—it was too dark. We could hear them talking to each other and yelling in Creole, but we couldn’t understand them and that made the ordeal even more frightening. Were they talking about robbing us? Were they threatening to kill us? Did they want the women? We didn’t know. We were screaming as well, but for us it was more about trying to make sense of everything.

“What should we do?”

“What if they come in?”

“Oh, God, please help us!”

“Jesus, please protect us!”

These were the types of words pouring out of our mouths.

~•••~

F
or the next 8 to 10 minutes Jason, Brad, and CB fought for our survival—saving our lives actually, by pushing on that door. They pushed and the Haitians pushed back. They shoved again, and it seemed like those three men pushed for hours, using every ounce of strength they had. Meanwhile, Bruce kept insisting that we’d have to use our weapons in the worst-case scenario. I stood at the rear of the kitchen waiting, imagining what that worst-case scenario would mean for us, for me, and for my family. Would this be my last day, the final moments of my life?

~•••~

E
lectric power is scarce in Haiti, so there were no lights. Double Harvest uses generators during the day, but at 9:00 pm the power is cut off—no exceptions. As the battle ensued in the darkness, adrenaline raced through our bodies. Most of us had our flashlights, and those who didn’t were scrambling for one. It was so dark that we’d run into the walls without them. The only lights that could be seen at first were the beams that penetrated our living area and the moonlight.

I’ve been in car accidents, a motorcycle accident, hit by a car, almost cut off my thumb, buried my best friend, and married off two daughters, but I’ve never been filled with so much adrenaline. You can never prepare yourself for a situation when you’re face-to-face with a potentially violent death. Yet there I was, thinking,
I’m not supposed to die like this... I’m confused... I’m supposed to grow old with my wife, children and grandchildren around me
. Although I didn’t dwell on dying, I was scared that I might not make it. As dark as my thoughts were, I was still confident that I would live rather than die.

I kept wondering
, what am I supposed to do? And where are the guards
? Double Harvest had hired local men to guard the entrance to our compound, so our safety wasn’t an issue until that night
.
While my mind raced with questions, I kept thinking
they should’ve stopped these guys. They should be here to help us.
Then I wondered if the guards were dead, or if they were co-conspirators. There were no good answers. Nothing made sense.

These thoughts banged around in my brain as I struggled to make a decision. I’d like to say I came up with the winning strategy. I’d like to report that I was able to talk down the attackers, but the truth is I was incapacitated with confusion and fear. Time stood still. Help wasn’t coming fast enough. The guys couldn’t keep them out much longer, and I didn’t have any idea how we’d stop this from escalating.

Why couldn’t I figure out what to do?  Why the fuzz in my mind?

Soon, the remaining team members began waking up. And as they peeked out of their rooms, they were met with the same fear and confusion I had experienced. The situation at the door was turning grim. Bruce caught the next bullet; “I’m hit” he yelled, and immediately blood streamed out of his arm. Jason and Brad screamed for Morgan Young, our drummer and executive pastor.

“Morgan, come and hold the door!” 

They surmised that without additional help, it would only be a matter of time before all of us were shot.

Morgan is a little younger than me, and has a thick build. After rushing to help, he pushed against the door with everything he had, adding fresh strength to our situation. Jason had realized that what they were doing wasn’t enough. He needed to get help, and get it fast. The guards still hadn’t arrived, and we couldn’t keep these guys out much longer.

~•••~

M
onte Sanders and Joel Larison, who were sleeping in the bedroom nearby, began to stir along with the remaining men and women in the back. Monte is our music director and Joel leads worship and works with the youth. These men were immediately concerned about Cole, Jason’s thirteen-year old son. Monte separated from Joel and went to the back bedroom where Cole stayed with Jason, CB, and Brad Downing. He crawled under the bed, put his arm around Cole to keep him calm, while his dad tried to figure out what to do. 

Once Morgan was in place, Jason and Brad ran to the back room to discuss a solution. But there wasn’t much time to think. Things were about to take a turn for the worse.

The next thing I heard was a sound I’ll never forget—the shocking noise of breaking glass. As a young teen, I loved the cracking din. My friend Hugh Dixon and I used to throw rocks through the windows of an old factory his dad owned. But the clamoring I used to enjoy turned into a sound I immediately abhorred. The eeriness shattered our hopes. The attackers punched out the men’s kitchen windows with a crow bar, sending shards of glass across the floor, a warning of their impending invasion. They were taking matters to the next level. You could feel the tension in the air growing thicker by the second.

My fears continued to escalate when I heard another crash. They broke out the window on the other side of the door. With every smack of the crowbar, I could feel my heart jump. In that small twenty-by-twenty room, it sounded like a wrecking ball blasting through the walls. It was a terrible sound, one that will stick with me forever. But they weren’t there to vandalize. They weren’t there to drop off cookies from the welcome wagon. They were just getting warmed up. We were about to become targets in a shooting gallery.

A
drenaline wasn’t new to me. I’ve heard of people lifting cars off of loved ones and other acts of super-human strength in times of panic. I, however, grew up under different circumstances, the kind where life and the backside of your father’s hand smacked you in the face out of nowhere.

I remember a time when my dad, who co-owned a gravel company with my grandfather, nearly backed a dump truck over the side of the gravel pit. My dad, filled with adrenaline, ordered me (I was 6-years old at the time) to jump out of the truck and run for help. The sound of his voice alone was enough to freak me out, never mind the fact that we were on the ragged edge of death. The truck teetered on a single front wheel and a tandem axel, fully loaded with wet gravel. I’m sure a gentle breeze would’ve been enough to tip the vehicle over the cliff and into the murky water below.

Upon arrival, my grandpa chained the truck to a bulldozer and jerked the heck out of it, pulling it to safety. I watched from a distance hoping they’d both survive. They did, and I received one of my first lessons about difficult circumstances—real men fix problems.

I remember hearing the story my mom told concerning the condition of our first home. It was a rundown, one bedroom farmhouse. She spoke of the weeds that were so tall you couldn’t get close to the front door. Despite the dilapidated structure, all my dad saw was a four-car out building where he could work on cars and trucks. The house sat on eleven acres of woods and field. It took a lot of sweat to whip the place into shape, but Dad knew how to fix things. It was never a house you’d desire to move to and has since been torn down, but at the time it was home. My dad partially finished the attic, converting it into two bedrooms equipped with plywood floors, plywood walls, and slanted plywood ceilings. My two older brothers and I slept in one bedroom and my sister had the other room to herself. We weren’t the only inhabitants though. We had to deal with the rats. It was normal to run upstairs and see something scurrying out of the way. One night in particular I awakened to a gunshot. Apparently there were two rats in the kitchen and they were bothering Dad. He grabbed his rifle and lay on the couch. He took careful aim and waited for the two rodents to cross paths, and then bull’s eye! He killed both rats with one shot. Of course he had to patch the bullet hole in the wall. But that was the way my dad fixed things.

My dad was a hard worker, a trait he picked up from his father. As a young boy, I was very thankful for this. I was thankful because his work ethic kept him away from our home. He was a decent provider, as far as I could tell, but he seemed plagued by unhappiness. He appeared trapped in his marriage and inconvenienced by his six kids. And on occasion, he’d take his anger out on us.

With six children (five boys and a girl) you can imagine the insanity a casual dinner would stimulate. Naturally, my dad sat at the head of our large, oblong table. And although dinner could be fun at times, it was also unpredictable. When we laughed, we’d fall off our chairs busting our guts. You never knew what was going to happen. An example of how crazy our family could be is when my brother Doug asked for the milk one day while we were sitting around the dinner table. Being the jokester that I was, I figured it’d be really funny to throw the empty carton (Doug didn’t know it was empty) across the table. Naturally, Doug was shocked that I threw it, and surprised that it was empty. We all busted out laughing, which wasn’t uncommon. Anything could happen around our dinner table and it usually did.

My dad was equally unpredictable. He’d laugh with the rest of us, telling stories about the day, or he’d have a painful surprise waiting. I never knew what kind of mood I’d find him in. I don’t remember drawing straws, but somehow I landed in the chair to his left—the most dangerous seat in the house. The seat to his right was reserved for the newest addition to the family, usually a high chair. If dad was in a bad mood, I was the first to feel it. I have memories of going to school with bruises and a fat lip.

“What’ja do today?” He’d bark at me, as though I was an indentured servant, and I owed him a daily report of my productivity. This wasn’t an unusual question because Dad seemed to base our value on what we accomplished. That’s just how he thought and I suppose that was probably pretty common for the men of his generation. He’d often say things like: 

“Did you get the mowing done?” 

“Did you sweep out the garage?” 

“Why are you making noises while you eat?” 

“Is it killing you to eat?”

“Eat, sleep, and shit. That’s all you do.”

Well, yeah, I did a lot of that, but that wasn’t all I accomplished. Like most kids, I’d always find myself wrapped up in some crazy adventure, or indulging in music. Eating, sleeping and going to the bathroom were the last things on my mind. I wasn’t much of a troublemaker back then, and I didn’t deserve what he served me.

I sat there like always, wondering if I’d give the right answer, afraid of his left backhand. One evening I hadn’t performed to Dad’s expectations; or he came home a little too drunk, or both. For whatever reason, I was going to get it no matter what. I watched Dad’s hand like a cowboy waiting for the bull to jump out of the gate—but I was always surprised when it sprung at me.

One time in particular, half way through the grading period, our school had a “smoke up”, the equivalent of a mid-term report card. I was either in third or fourth grade; I don’t remember which. In general, I thought it had been a good day. Had I opened the mail that afternoon, I would’ve thought differently.

As I sat peacefully at the dinner table, my dad started the adrenaline building with an annoying tick that almost always preceded a rant. He tapped his fork or knife on his plate with a steady beat like a metronome. I knew the routine, but rarely caught on fast enough. Before I knew it, he knocked me off of my chair and hurled me into the living room. He proceeded to kick me until my mom jumped out of her seat and calmed him down.

Maybe it was the time in which we lived, but his behavior seemed normal to me, to all of us. I never discussed our family life outside of our home with my siblings. We just accepted it. Family Services would most likely have removed me from our home if that happened today, but we thought it was the way everyone did life. Although we didn’t live in a constant state of panic, we were ready for whatever Dad gave us. And I don’t even want to go into the time he beat our dog to death with a baseball bat in the smoke house!

He wasn’t always drunk, but his behavior made a lasting impression upon me. When I was first learning to ride a bike, my friend and neighbor Jeff Mosbaugh, talked me into racing him down our neighbor’s driveway—a long lane opposite our house. He convinced me that this would help me to learn faster. The race started at the top of our neighbor’s lane, continued across our gravel road and ended in our side yard. The first one to get to the clothesline post would be declared the fastest
Stingray Cyclist
in the world. It seemed like a great plan: two five-year olds having a glorious time on the neighborhood raceway. What could possibly go wrong? 

We lived in the country with only two other families residing on our gravel road: the Brubakers, our Amish neighbors with the long lane we were about to race down, and the Wrights, who lived a half mile away. Our home was the third on the dusty gravel road. To say the road was lightly traveled would be an understatement, so the thought of dangerous traffic never occurred to me. We figured we were safe if we looked once a day before crossing the street. 

Anyway, having learned how to ride a couple weeks before me, Jeff took an early lead. I was determined to catch him but he was too fast. Then I noticed something unusual: The Blaizers’, who lived a half mile beyond Jeff’s house, were driving down the road in their big station wagon. They saw Jeff, swerved, and were headed straight for me. Had they arrived a split second earlier, Jeff would’ve been killed, or seriously injured. If they’d buzzed by a second later, I would’ve hit the front grille and found myself walking through Heaven’s pearly gates.