Busted by the Feds! Part II

As we huddled together wondering about all this, Richard strolled out of the police station. He came over to us and compassionately asked, “Are you guys alright?”

What kind of question is that? How could we be “alright?”

“No, not really,” I explained. “We have never been in this kind of trouble before.”

Richard attempted to console us by saying, “Well, there’s no evidence of criminal intent here that I see.”

My spirit instantly lifted with his hopeful comment. Then he ruined it all by following, “But, of course, I’m not the prosecutor.”

He certainly could have left off that last part for my sake.

Having worked in prison ministry before, I couldn’t help but wonder if our missionary work would end by me visiting Lydia in prison for the next 10 years.

We caught a later flight to NY, but it was the most worrisome weekend of my life.

Since Chris, the Civil Aviation guy had given me his card and had said to call him with any questions, I decided to do just that.

Returning to Indy on Monday, I called him.

“I’ll meet you at the coffee shop there in the airport,” he agreed.

As we talked with Chris we asked what he thought would REALLY happen to Lydia.

He smiled. Chris was a Christian. He explained, “My dad is a pastor and has always pastored churches in need. I knew the other day what you guys were going through and I felt for you.”

I really appreciated Chris’s kindness and understanding but he hadn’t answered my question yet. What’s gonna happen?

“Well, if there are no criminal charges, there are still possible civil charges that could be pressed.”

“What are they?” I inquired.

“Well, there could be prison time, but more than likely you would get off with just a fine,” he stated.

“How much?”

“Up to $7,500 per violation, he said.

Quick calculation—could be 20 years in prison and $15,000 (“just a fine?”! Not the retirement I had hoped for, for sure!)

It helped a lot that Chris told us he expected that Civil Aeronautics would opt for only a letter of warning. “But,” he said, “You will for sure get that much. Don’t let this happen again.”

When things lightened up a bit we asked Chris how many knives were confiscated in a day at Indy. He said, “Oh maybe fifty on a normal day.”

He quickly followed, “But of course, most of them are 3 or 4 inches long—not 13 and a half, and 15 inches like yours!”

Our meeting with Chris ended with us feeling a lot better, but still super worried about the summons.

We told no one of our plight. Not even family and close friends. We just told our family who received our Indiana-addressed mail for us, as nonchalantly as we could, “Hey if you happen to get anything from a police department or federal office, just send it on to us.” Nothing more was said.

Eleven months went by and no summons had come.

But every time we traveled through the Indy airport for the next several months, we would see the same Officer Charlie walking around our gate area. Coincidence? Surveillance maybe?

And then it came. A letter from the Indianapolis Airport Police. Was this it? The court summons?

“Dear Mrs.Hines,

We were cleaning out our evidence room here at the police station and we located two large knives we believe belong to you. You are free to come by and pick them up.”

Whoohoo! Returning the evidence means no trial. No trial means no felony conviction. No felony conviction means no sentence. Whoohoo! No letter of warning ever came from the FAA either! It was great NOT to hear from Chris.

Soon afterward I made a trip to Indianapolis. Walking into the airport police station I asked for the “knives.”

“When were they left here Sir,” asked the young desk officer.

“October 14^th,” I replied, with no hesitation. (That’s one date I will NEVER forget.)

“Were you forced to leave them here?” he further inquired.

“Yes, Sir.” (Never have passed out free machetes to anybody before—duh!)

He thumbed through the log book.

“Oh, that was October of last year, “I clarified”

“Oh yes, here it is, “he said.

About that time the other officer came out of the evidence room with the two machetes.

“Here you are, Sir,” he said, slapping them down on the counter.

Those stupid machetes had cost me my peace of mind for over a year. I wasn’t about to simply grab them and walk back through the airport terminal. Uh-uh.

“Uh, do you have a paper bag or something I can put these in?” I requested. “I don’t want to set off any alarms when I walk back through there.”

A nearby female officer took her bag lunch out of its sack and handed it to me.

“Thank you, Mam, I really appreciate it.” (She didn’t know the half!)

Guess what—those machetes are NOT part of any curio display of ours anymore.

And, thank God, I didn’t have to start a new prison ministry—visiting my wife!

A year later, I saw Officer Charlie in the airport. I walked up to him and expressed my appreciation to him for his professional manner in handling the arrest of my wife. He remembered the incident and knew we were missionaries.

“I’m glad everything came out alright,” he said. “A lot of people don’t’ know it, but I am the missions treasurer at my church and I write support checks to eight missionary families every month.”

“Cool,” I thought. “Want MY prayer card?”

Busted by the Feds!

How could a nice, clean-cut lady like my wife find herself busted by federal agents at an international airport—on weapons charges? Heeheehee, let me tell you.

As missionaries who have to travel a lot to raise lots of money to support the overseas ministry, we were on our way to Buffalo, NY to speak at a big church. Or so we thought.

The TSA security line where the rubber-gloved inspectors sing out the monotone, “All keys, coins, cell phones, laptops, anything metal--all MUST come out!”

They already had our keys and cell phones in the gray plastic bins. Our carry-ons were in the “oven”. We were waiting for them. Waiting and waiting. Two scowling TSA agents pointed their fingers at the X-ray monitor screen.

Lydia, my wife, was sure it was my carry-on that was the hold up. I always drag around a myriad of electronic gadgets with all their cables, power supplies, docks and batteries.

Nope….not this time. It was HER bag. The bag of missionary curios she didn’t want to get broken. No shrunken heads or snake skins in there, but lots of trinkets from the countries where we had worked. Little woven baskets, prayer cards, wood carvings, flags……and two machetes!

In the hotel room, the night before our flight, I had casually reminded her. “Now, Honey, don’t forget to take those machetes out of the carry-on before we go through security tomorrow.” She didn’t.

The TSA guys and the uniformed Indianapolis Airport Police were chattering on their walkie-talkies. In seconds, out of nowhere, the plain-clothes feds in their suits and ties surrounded us. One of them approached me and said, “Uh, just so you’ll know, this is probably going to be a pretty big deal.” He was right!

“Mam, you’re going to have to come with us.”

As the law enforcement entourage escorted us down the shiny-tile-floored hallway, the green and brown Starbucks sign seemed to mock me as I went by. Even a 600-calorie cappuccino could not help now.

I walked beside the uniformed Indy Airport cop that had made the arrest.

He casually said, “There is a new law on the books here in Indianapolis, that hasn’t been tried in a court of law yet.” (This was three years after 9-11)

“Oh, dandy,” I thought to myself. “They have an air-tight case against my wife carrying these two machetes and she readily admitted that they were hers. We will be the ones to “set the court’s new precedent.””

As we tried to avoid all the ogling eyes, we passed a couple cops on foot patrol. They saw the two big machetes in the arresting officer’s hand—the “evidence.”

“Hey looks like you got you a good one today, Charlie!” they taunted.

Entering the airport police station, the interrogation began. Officer Charlie filled out a generic pink arrest report form, asking Lydia her name, address, date of birth, SS number, etc.

Forty-five minutes later the real doozey of an interrogation began. The grey-suited, former FBI agent now with TSA Law Enforcement (We’ll call him Richard) flipped open his wallet in the typical “just-the-facts-Mam” way, showing a shiny silver TSA-LE badge.

His first words were,” Now I don’t mean to insult your intelligence Mam, but what on earth were you thinking?”

Without any fear, Lydia looked him in the eye and replied, “I guess I wasn’t thinking very well. I just forgot and left them in there. I didn’t think anything about it.”

There followed a string of pressing questions. What work do you do? Where are you going? What are you going to do there? Why are you carrying machetes into a weapons-restricted area?

On that last question Lydia came up for air. “I just never have thought of them as weapons.”

“Well, how do you think of them then?” Richard tested.

“Well, I use them in my kitchen and to work in the yard. Not as weapons.”

“Well Mam, if it had been a gun, would you have considered it a weapon?” Richard pressed.

“Well, yeah, Lydia said, “but they’re not guns.”

Lydia was taking all this so innocently and calmly that I was afraid she was blowing it with the investigator.

She kept saying to me, “Nothing will happen. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”

Every time I countered by saying, “You didn’t mean to do it, but you DID!. That’s the problem.”

In an attempt to help, I tried to explain what Lydia had meant with one of her verbal statements.

Richard looked at me and firmly said, “This would be a real good time for you not to say anything.”

“Sorry, Sir.”

As the probing went on, it became obvious to G-man Richard that Lydia had truly forgotten about the machetes and had no criminal intentions. When he finished writing up the statement from Lydia, she took his pen and signed it.

Hoping we were done and would be released, Mr. Richard informed us that the two people sitting off to the side of the interrogation table were representatives from the federal office of Civil Aeronautics. He explained that Officer Charlie had made the arrest, that he, Richard, was TSA Law Enforcement and that the other two deal with the “civil side”.

“This is not only a criminal issue but also a federal civil issue,” Richard concluded. More scary words for sure.

The Civil Aeronautics people moved to the table to have their shot at Lydia. Their interrogation was much shorter but, reminded us that Lydia could go to prison as well as pay a hefty fine for the civil violation. The CA guy, Chris did have a slight smile as he talked with us and seemed kind.

During the interrogation process, the Crime Scene photographers hovered over our little red roll-aboard that had carried the machetes, snapping photos from all angles. One funny moment was when they tried to re-construct the placement of the machetes “as they had been when discovered.” They arranged them criss-crossed in the suitcase and then asked us, “Something like that?”

Click, flash, click, flash-- the tampered-with evidence was documented.

After about an hour and a half, the three law enforcement agency reps told us we were free to catch a flight out. We were released under “non-custodial” arrest.

Finding our way out of the drab confines of the investigating room, Lydia and I walked slowly toward the first seating we could find. Lydia pulled along her red roll-aboard with all our missionary curios inside—all except the machetes. They were now confiscated “evidence.”

We began to shake and cry. Nothing like this had ever happened to us before. Lydia had never even had so much as a traffic ticket. Now she was under arrest on federal weapons charges!

CHECK BACK IN A FEW DAYS FOR THE PART 2!

"God, I need a crane.....really!"

God was busy changing history in Barrio Ingles. Never before had there been an evangelical church in this rough neighborhood where the saying goes, “Enter if you want to--leave if you can.” In other words, many people had entered this bar and brothel-infested section of town, only to be shot, stabbed, mugged or drugged.

But now, our church-planting team had entered, and we were there to stay. People were being saved. Yes—life-changing, genuine transformation through Christ.

The new church building was going up, and Pastor Omar Moya was preaching words of life to the searching people. But we had a problem. The trusses for the roof of the new church were welded steel. They were heavy, and they were big. We had no way to erect them.

“God, we need a crane!”

Back in 1989, tropical storm Roxy had swept through La Ceiba, Honduras. A cargo ship, the “Boston” had been docked just a few blocks away from the new church, which also sat on the beach.

During the storm, the waves rammed the Boston against the wooden dock again and again until it smashed completely through, leaving the big boat drifting. Raging surf then pushed the ship up on the beach just a few feet from the church. And there it sat in its sandy grave.

It was an ugly, rusting hulk of a thing that just sat there, oxidizing in the salt spray. It was just a big hunk of junk—scrap metal! And nobody could move it.

Wait---what’s that sound? That rumbling growl. It’s a big diesel engine. But where is it? Oh—it’s coming toward the beach!

It was the crane! And that crane had finally come to dismantle and haul away the rusty remains of Boston. Panel by panel, the torches cut away sections of the hull. But they were just getting started.

Going down to talk to the operator, my fellow missionary, Larry Burke, proposed that the crane operator allow us to hire him and his machine to lift the heavy trusses into place. And that’s what happened. In half a day the job was done. No problem.

But…..just a couple of days later that crane disappeared. Yep! All work on salvaging Boston came to an abrupt halt. The crane left. Just plain gone. Nothing. Nada. And it never came back.

Where did that big crane that had shown up “out of the blue” go? And why? Had God really SENT that crane to help us?

You will never be able to convice this boy otherwise. Cause I saw it happen.

And the church? Today it still radiates the love of Jesus to that barrio—the first church to ever “survive” in Barrio Ingles.

And Boston? Well, she still sits there, rusting on the beach just a few feet away from the church.
Oh yeah, “Thanks for sending us that crane, Lord. And now I need a …….”

"Señor, I watch you cah"

Yes, I do have a mischievous streak in me—and sometimes it comes out!

It was our family tradition when our children were younger and at home, to go out to eat every Tuesday evening. It just so happened that Tuesday nights were family night at Pizza Hut, and we could get that wonderful garlic bread with a layer of melted cheese on top, four drinks, and a family-sized pizza—all for $8. (I think Pizza Hut actually manipulated us and caused us to make their $8 family night "our" tradition.

Petty theft is not uncommon on the streets of La Ceiba, Honduras, so young boys always hang out at restaurants and other stores to offer in broken English, “I watch you cah”. Once you determine whether they mean they want to wash your car or watch your car, then you can give them the go-ahead. They'll do both if you want. But, as we went into Pizza Hut that night, I hadn’t talked to any of the young, ambitious car watchers.

After a delicious thin-crust Super Supreme was washed down with Pepsi, we said goodbyes to the other missionary families (who also always went to PH on family night—such bargain hunters, those missionaries!) we headed toward our gray Toyota truck. As we were walking by a nice, shiny Ford F-150 pickup a young "car-watcher" seemed to physically materialize in front of the Ford—hand held out and saying, “I watch you cah….I watch you cah.”

I couldn’t help what happened next. My orneriness took control. I pointed directly at the shiny Ford and questioned, “You watched this car?”

“Sí, Señor, sí, Señor,” the boy repeated mechanically, walking backwards in front of me so as not to lose eye contact (and to keep that outstretched hand begging me for a financial reward.)

As anticipation built in the boy’s eyes, I said calmly, “Oh, that’s not my car! It’s this one over here,” pointing to the gray Toyota.

Disappointment flooded the young boy’s face as he realized he had blown it. In an effort to salvage his business, he quickly pointed to my car and said, "I watched that one too.!”

Laughter broke out among us. I teased him for a moment, but didn’t let the fun get out of hand. I know the hard life these street kids live and they do what they can to earn a piece of bread. There was no way I was going to leave it there.

Reaching into my pocket and pulling out the standard “watch you cah” rate, I handed it to the young entrepreneur. He gave me a quick “Gracias,” and his bare feet pattered up the sidewalk to collect from his next customer.

I hope he remembers me as the guy who laughed and paid him to watch someone else’s car—instead of just the naughty missionary who had some fun—at MY expense!

God bless all the street kids. Help me to love them like He does.

"Slim, we got a problem"

“Slim, we got a problem.” Not words you want to hear from the pilot of the plane you are riding in 6000 feet in the air!

It was a lovely summer day, somewhere over the wooded hills of Kentucky when my pilot friend, Jerry, (tan jacket in photo) broke the news to me over the intercom. His homebuilt RV-4 aircraft is a tandem-seat, bright yellow hotrod of a plane he fabricated and assembled himself in his garage. He even overhauled the used engine himself. We were on the way home from a day trip to Ashville, NC and I was riding back seat. That’s the good seat--all the fun and no responsibilities.

“What is our problem?” I cautiously inquired, looking out the canopy and down at the thick forest of trees that would make any attempt for an emergency landing pure suicide.

“Well, the cable came off the right rudder pedal.”

Continuing to fly straight and level would be no problem. But this meant no ground steering upon landing, no right rudder and no right brake! In other words….NOTHING WAS GOING RIGHT! It was all going south!

I was thinking, “Ya know, we’ve got enough gas to be up here for a couple more hours. It would really be good, I mean REALLY GOOD, if we can think of a way to fix our problem while we’re up here. But how?

The pilot, Jerry, was also the builder of the plane, so he knew every piece of it very well. The problem was not about the knowing. It was about not being able to reach the rudder pedal to work on it. Jerry is 6 feet 4 inches tall. In this tiny cockpit, and with the flight control stick between his knees, there was no way he could get to the cable that needed to be reattached.

“I can’t reach it. I don’t know what to do, Slim.” (I’ve had the nickname “Slim” from Jerry for thirty-some years.)

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear him say. Why didn’t he say, “I’ll have her fixed in a jiffy, Slim….don’t worry.”

What he did say was, “I can see the nut that fell off.”

“Jeepers,” I’m thinking, “That’s not much consolation when these two nuts riding in the airplane may die in just a little while. “DON’T’ JUST LOOK AT IT, GET THE NUT! PUT IT BACK ON, JERRY!”

“Hey, Slim, I’m going to try something.”

I was thinking, “Well I sure hope that “something” is more of a sure-fire fix than some kind of airborne “experiment!”

“I’m going to try to remove the control stick. Take it out. You can fly from back there until I see what I can do.”

Huh? Did I hear him right? Take the airplane apart in mid-air? Yup, I heard right.

“Take over”, he called through the intercom.

“I got it,” I confirmed, gripping my backseat control stick with a little more care than normal. And on we flew—trees still thick as ever below.

Jerry’s head almost disappeared from in front of me as he twisted the nut off the bolt holding his control stick to the control cable mechanism. The cockpit was so tight he could hardly find a space big enough to lay it while he squirmed to get his arms far enough under the dash to reach the cable.

Can a person pray anywhere? Oh yeah! Can you fly a plane, wish you were on the ground, wonder if you’re gonna die soon, and pray, all at the same time. “Roger, roger.” I mean....., “Jesus, Jesus!” And I wasn’t taking His name in vain. I was as respectful and sincere as ever---the trees……they’re still down there!

Believe it or not, in a few minutes, Jerry’s head popped up and he reported the problem fixed. One rudder cable nut had just saved two flying nuts.

Oops, almost forgot. Now we had to put the plane back together! Whew, that went OK too.

Sometimes people ask me if I am afraid to fly in a plane that was built by hand in somebody’s garage. Are you kidding? I want to say, “Oh sure, I would much rather fly on the FAA certified commercial aircraft like Aloha Airlines flight 243, where a third of the fuselage was ripped off, sucking out a flight attendant over the Pacific. Or, maybe good old Southwest Airlines, that offers a new “scenic” fare, featuring five foot skylights, offering fresh air instead of the normal stuffy economy class.

No—let me fly with the guy who built the plane in the first place. He knows how to fix it—even at 6000 feet!

NO THANKS!

I will never forget my friend, Lt. Santos Escobar

We are born. We die. And in between, we have that window of life. We touch others lives, and we are touched. Life gives us experience after experience that we process together—together with friends.

This week I lost a friend. Lieutenant Santos Escobar of the La Ceiba Fire Department, with whom I served as a volunteer for eight years, died, leaving behind his wife, Yadira.

Santos was my friend. He was jolly and was always up for a great belly laugh. We fought fires together, played volleyball together, and studied God’s word together.

Allow me to share a memory.

On a hot, sunny day, I was the assigned driver for unit #521, the tanker shown in the photo. On any fire department run, the officer in charge of the mission always rode in the right seat to give orders to the crew. We were returning to the station after a call.

As we neared the La Ceiba shipping dock, where boats from the Bay Islands came and went daily, I saw a middle-aged man standing near the right curb. To my shock, as the heavy tanker, with a full load of water got near the man, he lunged in front of us, throwing himself toward the front wheels! I slammed on the air brakes and we ground to a halt. Santos jumped from the right seat to check the suicidal man’s condition. Thankfully, I had gotten the unit stopped in time and the man was OK, but obviously very intoxicated.

Santos patiently and kindly led the man to the sidewalk, gently sat him down there, then hopped back in the truck. I threw the shift lever into first gear and we started rolling. Again, the man jumped from the curb and threw himself in front of the huge, dual rear wheels. I freaked, slamming on the brakes again.

Santos shook his head in disbelief and, once again, climbed down out of the truck to lead the man to the safety. This time Santos scolded the man and told him to stay put. Santos’ trying to talk mean to this poor man was somewhat comical since we all knew this seasoned firefighter to be gentle and unusually kind to everyone. Nevertheless, he shook his finger and told him not to move.

Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as the wheels began to turn again, it was the same scene all over. This guy just wouldn’t give up.

But my friend and supervising officer, Santos had a plan. As he pulled the man to the curb a third time, and while still physically holding him down, Santos waved for me to put the unit in motion.

“Go, go, go,” he yelled, motioning with his hand.

I started forward, keeping a close eye on the rearview mirrors. As I reached about 8 mph, and the unit was several feet away from the intoxicated man, Santos let go of him and came running fast, hopping onto the rolling tanker. It was a risky move, but it worked. It was unfortunate that the man was drunk--but fortunately, because he was drunk, he couldn’t get back up in time to get himself under the wheels again.

The suicidal man lived on, and Santos was back in the “shotgun” seat. It was a risk that my friend Santos was willing to take to save a desperate man from taking his own life.

Now the life that saved that life, is gone. But I remember when Santos prayed for Christ to come into his heart. My good friend and missionary colleague, Larry Burke, discipled Santos and his wife, Yadira.

Our missionary assignments have taken us away from Honduras, and I have not seen Santos for many years. I don’t know where Santos was spiritually when the end came, but I do know…..I will never forget my friend, Santos Escobar. Rest in peace, buddy.

THE EASTER JESUS GOT SAVED!

As a pastor and missionary I believe in our youth. Don’t give me that stuff that says, “youth are the church of tomorrow.” Sorry, they are very much the church of today.

In the late 90’s, while living in Honduras, my wife Lydia and I were chosen to plant a new church in an upper-middle class area of La Ceiba. I chose a young aspiring Honduran pastor, Vicente, (Photo to the right) to work on the team me. He led our youth.

Although our small upstart had begun with only 5 people in January, by Holy Week it had grown to 35. We were gearing up for the big day—Easter. The youth were to prepare a drama. We had no church building as yet, and since our tiny rented house would hold only a few, we decided to meet outdoors in the side yard. We strung up lights, set up chairs on the grass--and prayed it would not rain!

To our amazement 64 people came that first Easter! And when it came time in the service for the youth drama, they did a super job presenting the story of the raising of Jairus’ daughter from the dead—a true and fitting resurrection story. Fourteen-year-old Gloria played the dead daughter of Jairus. Vicente played Jairus, weeping over his loss. And Jorge, 16, played the part of Jesus. The youth had worked very hard and when it came time to perform, they were at their best. Applause rang out as the once-dead daughter hugged her daddy.

My preaching time focused on the question, “What will you do with Jesus?” I picked up my guitar at the end of the message and began to sing the chorus, “I have decided to follow Jesus.” The invitation went out to those who had not yet received Jesus in their hearts, but would like to that night.

And who was the very first to respond? To my surprise, walking toward the platform to make his public confession of faith—IT WAS JESUS! Yes, I said JESUS! Jorge, who just minutes before, had so passionately portrayed Christ in the drama was the very first one.

Others followed, and we finished that first Easter service at Villa Mary Church with a great celebration of the risen Christ. I just call it—THE EASTER JESUS GOT SAVED!