Found at Sea Sample Chapter

CHAPTER 26

Tap! Bang! Bang!

Three swings—and the nail head seated flush against the frame. Sam drove another nail—then another. Rhythmically, like a machine, he picked and planted nails into the wooden structure.

“How on earth,” Bob complained, “do you drive a nail in three swings?”

“Practice.” 

Sam plucked another framing nail from between his lips and drove it into the soft palm wood.

“Practice?”

“Grew up on a farm. Summer job in construction.”

Bob took a monstrous swing, expecting the mighty blow to send the nail to the carpenter’s netherworld. Instead, the nail merely bent.

“You’d think, Ol’ Buddy, that a big guy like me otta be able to drive this sucker in two swings—or one.”

“You can.” Sam explained. “Just gotta hit it right. It’s all in your wrist—not in your thigh-sized bicepts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Driving a nail isn’t about how much strength you have. It’s about how much force transfers to the nail. Let the hammer do the work. Like this.”

Sam demonstrated in slow motion how to swing the hammer. Bob mimmicked his motion a couple times, swung—and nailed his thumb. He dropped the hammer, yelled and gripped his bruised digit with his monstrous free hand. Several native men that helped them laughed heartily at the moment, joking in their tongue about the great white mountain and how he danced when mad.

“Practice, Brother. Practice,” Sam counselled, shaking his head and chuckling softly.

“Don’t like this sort of practice.” 

“Part of the job.”

Another couple of swings—another nail down. Burt came around the corner, bearing another load of lumber. He stacked it neatly to the side of their workspace.

“How’s everything coming along?” Burt asked.

“The maestro, here,” Bob noted, “is firing right along. Me, on the other hand—not so much.”

Burt chuckled. “Construction’s not your thing, I take it.” 

“Not particularly.”

“It’s looking good so far. Yall’re making good time.”

Burton McCarthy was an old-school missionary. Called into service as a young man, he and his wife, Mildred, had come into the island interior arround the turn of the century—a time when the life expectancy of a missionary was barely six months. Now silvered and wiry, this saint had decades of experience in the thread-bare life and hardships of jungle ministry—surviving disease, wars, weather and threats from the cannibal people he and his wife had grown to love. These two were warm and kind, yet tough as nails. They loved their enemies, yet courageously faced incredibly tense moments that could easily have been their last. Many times, tensions were so high and the risks so great that the mission board had asked if they wanted to evacuate.

Each time they had prayed—and each time, they stayed.

Now, the tribes they served had become family to them. The fourth generation of children were bouncing on their knees, and the once hard and heartless native peoples had been transformed into thriving, warm communities. Instead of constant warfare, the people had become peaceable, and their communities grew. And as each community was transformed by Christ, they gained a burning desire to help their neighbors find hope.

This new work, springing up on the opposite side of the expansive valley, was an outreach to a tribe who had never heard of Jesus. Burt, Milly and a handful of their courageous disciples had prayed and worked for months to gain an open door to this community—once an enemy. Finally, these elders had become so impressed with the changes in their neighbors that they gladly invited these ivory strangers to share about their great God.

Now, a schoolhouse for the children was needed, and as a way to introduce the missionaries that would be joining the work, Burt had invited Sam and Bob to help.

The “construction crew” had gotten into a pretty steady rhythm and the building’s frame rose quickly against the dense jungle backdrop. The day passed quickly and, as the shadows grew long, the tantalizing scents of fire-roasted boar beckoned the workers to their evening meal. Sam’s stomach growled. The native helpers were chattering happily about the impending dinner.

Burt looked with satisfaction at the progress. He was a bit surprised by how much they had accomplished in so short a time. Usually, the mountain natives took a fairly casual view of work, so a project like this would often take weeks. But Bob and Sam had inspired the young warriors, making a friendly competition of the job—and they’d made as much headway in the day as Burt had expected over an entire week.

“Impressive,” Burt noted as he combed his gaze accross the structure. “Really made tracks here. Looks good.”

Sam punched Bob playfully on theshoulder.

“Now that you’ve had a day of training, maybe you can build like a Marine.”

“Build!?! I thought Marines just blew stuff up!”

Burt chucked again, shaking his head. “Why don’t we knock off for the night. The folks want to welcome you, so they’ve a big soirée planned.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam agreed, “but don’t you think Bob should stick around and catch up?”

“I’m calling for medical leave, Ol’ Buddy. Wounded in action,” Bob countered, showing his blackening thumb.

“You call that a wound?” Sam kidded. “You didn’t need that thumb anyway.”

“You boys are too much,” Burt laughed. “Anyone ever tell ya that the war is over?”

“Yea,” Bob quipped, “but we were on the same side.” 

“Hard to tell,” Burt observed. “Let’s gather stuff up so it doesn’t get ‘borrowed’ in the night, then let’s clean up for dinner. It’s going to be a big shindig.”

---

The molten lard oozed down Sam’s arms like a tasty lava flow. The tender, smoky pork practically melted as he chewed. Lacking the spices or salt that Sam would have recognized to season the meat, the islanders had used woods and leaves to flavor their kill. This wild boar had a strong, gamey flavor that reminded Sam of an elk bull he’d killed in his youth, but the ladies’ cooking skill had transformed the animal into a remarkable dish.

Wild boar was an acquired taste, but Sam definitely liked it.

A steaming sweet potato lay on a broad leaf beside him. The tubber was burried in a homemade sort of goat cheese that gave of a pungent earthy smell. Sam dripped a sizeable amount of lard on the yam and took a big bite.

As he chewed, visions of sandy beaches , fresh breezes and golden rays swept through his mind. Since returning to “civilization,” his simple island life had become something like a bitter-sweet dream. Tailored clothes, smokey motorcars, dishes and dinners—the complexities of modern life had stepped the memories back into the recesses of his thoughts—the busyness—and the piercing pain of loss, that is. But this simple fare and rustic life brought it all storming back—the recollections of the sweet simplicity of living, and the searingly painful visions of Sara.

The moments. The smiles. The fiery temper. The graceful gait. Her elegant features. He could picture her wispy strand of hair wafting in the breeze as mango juice dripped from her face and from sun-bronzed arms. It almost felt as if she had just been sitting beside him.

A lump rose in his throat and he fought back the tears that surprised him at the gates. The memories very nearly stole his appetite, but declining his dinner would have been quite impolite—a slight to the people he was here to build friendships with.

He breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to clear the lump so he could swallow. A village elder noticed his pause, smiled and signed for him to eat more, lifting his raisin-hide hands to his mouth a few times in pantomime. Sam smiled back, nodded and took another bite.

The evening sun had no more than slipped behind a peak when a deep darkness and frigid chill swept across the valley. The warm glow of the bonfire flickered around the circkle of chocolate onlookers and kicked broad sparks into the sapphire sky. Villagers began to sing and dance joyfully around the roaring embers. Elders beat rhythmically on bongo drums and called out an ecstatic chant that was answered by the dancers. Bob and Sam knew nothing of what they sang, but they felt the excitement. It was a celebration. The villagers soon invited their guests to dance with them and laughter filled the camp.

Sam was thankful he had kept up his PT efforts. The dancing was a workout unlike anything he had ever known. Just as he thought he could take no more, the elders called for dancing to stop and ordered all to sit. More fuel was added to the fire and the flames flared.

A new novelty emereged. Several natives stepped into the ring of fire and began an elaborate play. Dressed in wild masks and intricate costumes, they performed to the narration of the chief elder. He spoke in a clear, poetic—almost singing—tone, recounting the ancient history of their coming to the valley.

Burt translated for the men, and Sam was sure that some liberties had been taken with the truth at some point. Still, the play was intreguing, the comedy uplifting and the hopefulness telling.

It was the first time since the island that Sam had really felt alive.

Millie, Burt’s wife, sat beside him. Her silvered locks were braided up in a tight crown that the little native girls delightedly filled with flowers. Millie chatted and laughed with the women. Clearly senior in age, she held great respect from the villagers and was much doted upon. Her joy-filled dark eyes sparkled in the firelight, and though a woman of few words, she saw much.

The play ended and the games began. The village warriors challenged each other to wrestling matches that were strangely reminiscent of Sumo wrestling, or they would battle with a sport weapon that resembled a staff with something like small paddles carved on each end. A great deal of cheering and shouting offered encouragement to one or the other of the combatants—and to the victor, the honors were grand. Typically, the loser gifted the winner with his choice of property which usually was a prized weapon, ammulet or medicine pouch.

After several challenges and combats, one dark young mountain tromped his way over to Bob and pointed.

“He is challenging you to a wrestling match,” Burt explained. 

“Me?” Bob wondered, incredulously.

“Yep. Do you accept?”

“Betch’er life I do! Uh—whaddo I gotta do?” 

“You must wrestle him out of the ring.”

Bob scanned the field of battle, sized up his opponent and commented, “Child’s play.”

Bob stood, smiling, and signed his acceptance of the challenge the way he had seen the others accept their challenges. The mauntain again smiled broadly. They took their positions. The elder signalled­—and the match was on. The grunts and groans emmanating from the ring sounded like a herd of wild boars. Each dug in—the native in bare feet and Bob in boots—grappling, pushing, turning. One would seem to make progress, then the other. Round and round they went. The crowd grew ever more excited, cheering them on.

At first, they all cheered for their hero, but as Bob demostrated equal prowess, some of the villagers began to cheer for him instead.

The match had become the longest of the evening—and still there was no resolution. Despite the chill evening air, both­ sweat like horses, prespiration drenching their hair and clothes. Finally, Bob tried a combat move he’d learned at boot camp. It was designed to off-balance an opponent. The young warrior lost his footing—just for a moment—then twisted deftly, using Bob’s momentum against him—and Bob found himself on his face outside the ring.

The whole village errupted in cheers, lept to their feet and began dancing excitedly amid the combatants. The victor lifted Bob to his feet and clapped the GI on the back respectfully.

Burt stepped over and clapped the young missionary on the back as well.

“Good job, young man. You’ve really impressed them. Now, according to the game, the winner gets to pick his prize.”

“Fair enough,” Bob replied goodnaturedly. “What does he want?”

Burt conversed with the mountain a moment and the man pointed to the massive Bowie knife strapped to Bob’s side. Bob slid the steel from its sheath and offered it, two-handed, to his opponent. The man looked carefully at the weapon, then smiled broadly and lifted it as a trophe. The whole village cheered and danced.

Sam smiled, watching his friend amid the excitement, flush with the thrill of combat—even though he had lost the match. Bob and the villager were becoming fast friends. This was an exciting beginning to the calling that tugged on Sam’s soul. He longed to be able to share it—to colorfully recount the sights, the sounds, the smells—with the one who had promised to be there with him, but the emptiness pinched his side like a very real stab wound.

Sam drew a deep breath, blew a stress-filled blast, and quietly slipped to the outskirts of the village. A large silver disk peeked over the ridge, playfully tossing rays across the shadows. Sam glanced up at it, then found himself counting the brilliant stars that battled the moon for attention. It was silly, he knew, but he couldn’t help wondering if one of those bright lights was Sara. He chuckled and pushed the thought from his mind.

“What is troubling you, young man?”

Sam whirled in surprize, the old soldier instincts kicking in without a thought. He had not heard the pettit, silver-crowned woman step up behind him. His shot of nerves melted to embarrassment and he couldn’t find words, suddenly, to speak with her.

“Oh—I—well—I—” Sam stammered.

“Something weighs on your mind—very heavily,” Millie continued. “I noticed that, since you came, you haven’t really been here. Are you not committed to this ministry?”

“I am. Definitely, I am. I just—I thought—” Sam battled that old lump in his throat. “I thought it would be different,” he sighed wearily.

“Did you imagine heroics and adventure?”

“Yes. And, of course, it has been all that. Today has been perfect in fact, except—”

Millie awaited the young soldier’s words, but they faltered. 

“Except what?” she pressed.

“Except that my heart is not in it,” Sam replied glumly.

“Why?”

Sam drew a long, ragged breath and answered, much like a reprimanded school boy.

“She died.”

“Oh—” Millie responded softly. “I had heard that your wife had died. You two were planning to serve together?”

“Yes.”

“Sam, let me ask you this—Who called you to be a missionary? God, or your wife?”

Sam looked to the ground, his face burning with a shame Millie couldn’t see in the dark.

“God,” he answered, almost with a whisper. 

“Is He still calling?”

“Yes,” Sam replied in the same tone. 

“Who is in charge? You or God?”

“He is.”

“Is He good?”

The night sounds of the jungle loomed loud against the long silence.

“He is,” came the pinched words at the end.

“Even through hard things or through things we don’t understand?” 

“Yes.”

“Young man, I can tell you from experience that the life of a missionary is rarely easy. It takes the same sort of dedication that your Marine service requires. I believe you understand that better than most. Sam, please do not take this as an accusation when I say it, but think this over carefully. When God works to refine us—to prepare us for His service—He tends to pull our idols from our hands. Sam, did your wife become an idol in your life?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you feel you had a right to expect that she would be your companion for your entire life?”

“Now that you put it that way—seems kind of silly, doesn’t it.”

“Not at all. But you have to face up to that before you can really serve from your heart.”

“But I don’t understand. I did let go of her—before we married. I was intent on this service and refused to even consider a relationship with her. I was not going to let anyone or anything get in the way of my calling—But God just threw us together, then made it very clear she was to be mine. She chose me. She chose the ministry—even though she had the whole world in her grasp. She chose Christ instead of the World.

“Why,” Sam seethed as fiery tears stung his eyes, “would God do that? Why press her into my arms, only to tear her away the very moment I latched on?”

“I cannot say,” Millie sympathized. “All I know is that God’s ways are higher than ours. He understands what must be. I know that He knows us better than we know ourselves, and He is able to conform us into the image of His Son. Suffering is the only way to do that.

“And. If you embrace this life, your wife will not be the only sacrifice you face. You cannot serve God greatly without first being wounded deeply. This is so true that even God Himself cannot do it. To fulfill His magnificent purpose in this world, He too had to suffer. So know this—even though you’re hurting and do not understand why, He knows your pain and is walking this trail with you.

“Only—will you hold His had through the deep darkness as tightly as you did through the light? If you will not, it is very possible you will miss your calling—and I know that you very much do not want to miss it.”

Sam crumbled onto a nearby boulder and burried his face in his hands. He just didn’t have the strength to fight any more. 

“Young man, I’ll leave you to your private conversation with God. Know that Burt and I will be praying for you.”

As silently as she had come, Mildred floated into the darkness and was lost amid the flitting shadows cast by the glowing bonfire. Sam sat for a good long time, his heart a hurricane.

He was angry with God—that he knew clearly. It wasn’t right, but it was honest. The whole island fantasy seemed so unfair. It was like a setup meant to crush him.

A sudden thought zipped troubled across his mind. He saw a woman slip into a crowded mansion. She wove through a sea of guests who did not even notice her. A man reclined at the table, talking with the host and munching on figs. The woman collapsed at his feet and began to weep. She carried a small, carved gemstone box—very expensive—filled with a spicy sweet perfume. The little box was very fragile—like glass. In a fold of her clothes, she crushed it. The oil dripped from the saturated cloth and covered the man’s feet. The fragrance was overwhelming.

Crushed. Poured out. Fragrant.

“Do not trouble her,” the man said. “She did it to prepare me for my burial.”

Crushed. Poured out. Fragrant.

The crushing released the fragrance sealed in the box. Crushed—just like her pain had crushed her.

Fragrant. The beauty came out of the crushing. The smell—for which women would pay a fortune—must have been heavenly.

Spent—all for Jesus.

The question arose—vividly—hauntingly—in the forefront of his mind.

“Will you be fragrant?”

“Lord, what do you mean?” Sam asked aloud. 

“Will you be fragrant or not?”

“I want to be fragrant.” 

“Will you be crushed?” 

“Must I?”

Silence.

“Can I only be fragrant if I’ve been crushed?” 

“Will you be crushed?”

Sam’s heaving heartbeat ticked out the eternal moments of his epic battle. The silence rang in his ears. It was a fight to the life, and Sam knew that the only way to victory was through surrender. This topsy-turvy reality grated against every soldier’s bone in his body. 

With a sudden rush of clarity, Sam caved. 

He crumbled to his knees and cried out, “Not my will, Lord, but Yours be done.”

A huge weight lifted from Sam’s soul. The pain was still there—the grief of loss—but the anger sifted away like a morning fog. He didn’t know how, but Sam knew that he and Jasmine would be OK. Life without Sara would still be hard, but it would go on. For the first time in weeks. he knew he could truly give his all.

“Here I am, Lord. Send me.”