CHAPTER 9—TO THE REGIONS BEYOND

I never realized the deep cost of taking the gospel to the unreached till I was around nine years old. When the edges of the Kingdom of God are extending, the enemy will fight harder.

At the yearly Enarotali conference of mission workers it is decided that Dad and Don Gibbons will trek ten days further east to the Ilaga Valley to build an airstrip among the Western Dani and Damal tribes. Two earlier attempts have failed—Dad and other trekkers have been raided, and escaped unhurt. And now with prayer, thorough preparation and good interpreters, surely success will follow.

Dad treks back to Homejo, packs up our belongings and heads to Enarotali with a troop of carriers. We settle into a small brown log cabin (next to the Big Log House that Einar Michaelson the pioneer had built). I love our small house—two tiny bedrooms upstairs, with a living room, dining and kitchen below. Mom makes it cozy with curtains and pictures.

Ro and I make friends with Indonesian missionary kids and slowly pick up the Malay trade language. We busy ourselves with them making clay bowls, cups and saucers from a red cliff nearby. We also visit with Kay and Ken Troutman, close to our age, who live up the hill. Danny my baby brother is born months later in our log house, attended by a Dutch doctor. He is tiny, blond, and red-faced…and Ro and I jostle for turns in carrying him.

When Danny is around three months old Dad and Uncle Don set off with around ten carriers for the Ilaga Valley. Ro and I are still in our pajamas when we hug him goodbye in the misty morning. We don’t really understand the long months of absence, though there will be short wave radio and infrequent letters. “Be helpful to Mom…I love you,” he says, kissing us. And he hugs Mom one last time before trudging off with the caravan.

My sister and I try to be more helpful as the weeks pass. Mom and Alice Gibbons talk to their husbands every few days on the radio in the house up the hill.

Then one day Uncle Ken Troutman the field chairman knocks on our door. He sits next to Mom on our rattan sofa and shares gently that her mom Sue Bowman has passed away of a heart attack two days ago—he just received the telegram. Mom’s shoulders heave with grief as others try to comfort her. I am sad, but know Grandma is in Heaven. I think of the beautiful handmade dresses she crafted for us. If only Dad were here to comfort Mom!

In the following weeks Mom develops a bone infection in her thumb…it’s hard for her to pump the kerosene Tilly lamp at night. She weeps….Ro and I try to help with Danny.

One Saturday all of the mission group take motorboats across Lake Paniai to Obano where the airstrip is to dedicate a new Cessna mission plane. We’re to have a picnic at the beach on the way home, and I’m excited.

But it’s cloudy and starts to rain after the service as we chug home across the lake. I mourn our misfortune, and Mom comforts me. “There’ll be another picnic sometime, Honey.

The next day I’m surprised to see thick smoke rising across the lake near Obano. Other mission workers gather and we find out an Ekari rebel group has destroyed our new plane! They even killed two local policemen and three Indonesian mission workers, including Ro’s young playmate Netti. We are horrified! The tribesmen had been planning to attack on Sunday, but decided to delay because of wet weather.

I am in awe. “Mom, we could have all been killed yesterday, if the weather had been sunny. God protected us!”

“Yes, Marlene, that’s true. We’re safe. But I’m so sorry for the families of those who died.” We visit the Indonesian wake of grieving families, to give comfort.

The uprising continues to build and all of the missionaries begin to sleep in the large log home near us, with travel bags packed. Many Ekaris join in the uprising against all foreigners. Dutch soldiers begin to fly in from Holland to protect their colony.

I enjoy the excitement but feel vulnerable. We pray at night as a family, and Mom talks to Dad as often as possible on the radio. I hear that rains are slowing progress of airstrip construction in the Ilaga…wet clay has to be removed by hand. Teams of Danis are hired and paid with steel axes and cowrie shells.

Longing for Dad, I take comfort in reading his black Scofield Bible. Beginning in Genesis I inch my way to Leviticus and bog down. But I keep praying, “Lord, help Dad and Uncle Don to finish the airstrip. Please bring Dad home for Christmas!”

Dad doesn’t make it home for Christmas, but the Lord does answer my prayers. The uprising is quelled, we sleep in our own home again, and Mom’s thumb slowly heals. And soon the day arrives for us to actually fly into the Ilaga Valley to join Dad. I am so happy…it’s been seven long months! The Western Dani and Damal tribesmen will now be able to hear about Jesus.