Fingernail Moon
by
Janie Webster

Fingernail MOON The True Story of a Mother's Flight to Protect her
Daughter

JANIE WEBSTER

DOUBLEDAY NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY
AUCKLAND PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY a division of Random House, Inc.
1540

Broadway, New York, New York 10036

DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are trademarks
of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. Book design by Bonni
Leon-Berman Star map illustration by Jackie Aher Published by
arrangement with Hodder and Stoughton, a division of Hodder Headline
PLC ISBN 0-385-49529-3

Copyright 1998 by Janie Webster All Rights Reserved Printed in the
United States of America

Foreword ix

Prologue

1. How Long, O Lord?  17

2 Money in My Shoes  31

3 Crossing the Rubicon 49

4 The Light Down Under  73

5 Under the Juniper Tree  97

6 Don't Leave Home Without It  117

7 Tunnel Vision  147

8  Pipe Dreams

9 Crushed Grapes  171

10 Incognito 193


11 Amazing Grace  209

Epilogue The Revenge of the Three Black Bags 235

Foreword.

WHEN MY DAUGHTER AND I FLED AMERICA, STAYING WASN'T AN option.

Dropping everything to board a train and then a plane for an unknown
destination, did what usually only happens in the serendipity of dreams
and fantasies.  No return tickets were purchased.  As sojourners, home
was wherever we plopped our bags and rested our heads, sometimes for a
week, other times for months.

The financial restrictions of our journey radically altered the
comfortable lifestyle we had left behind.  Becoming stranded without
money was a constant concern.  We survived to tell the story because of
the unwavering support of my parents, Jess and Kathleen Webster.  Even
with sustaining financial support from them, our lifestyle was
sometimes dispiriting and always exhausting.  Their assistance kept us
going and their prayers, united with those of friends in America and
around the world, lifted us above whatever treacherous ground we
traveled.

Writing this book dredged up painful memories that had begun to settle
in the riverbed of my soul.  As a chronicle of our fugitive years, this
intimately personal book omits many particulars concerning the legal
case, as well as descriptions regarding my daughter's abuse.

Since the abuse had been perpetrated by her father, my husband, someone
she and I had loved, the pain embeds deeper in the strata of past
experiences, cutting a wider swath for both of us.  At more than one
point during the writing, bargained with God "I'll go around the world
again if You will take away the pain of reliving this story."  The
encouragement of my editor and of my family and friends restrained
mental flight, returning me to grapple with whatever I didn't want to
write about.  They patiently read the manuscript, offering helpful
suggestions and heaps of "You can do it."  The book also passed the
litmus test of my daughter's scrutiny and benefited from her ideas.

Receiving little instruction on how to survive as a fugitive, I learned
as I went.  The intent of this book is not to be a manual on how to
successfully flee with a child.  Many events critical to our survival
have been omitted.  These omissions do not diminish the debt of
gratitude I feel to people whose support helped us along our way.

The outcome of our flight would have been quite different had it not
been for the faithfulness of friends in the countries we visited.  In
hindsight, some of the precautions may have been unnecessary, but at
the time, they had seemed vital to our security.  don't judge anyone
who decides not to run from an abusive situation, nor do I advocate
becoming a fugitive to protect a child.  My vision is to work for the
safe shelter of children so that fleeing wouldn't be necessary.

Within the physical journey was hidden a spiritual one.  Purposes
nested within each other like boxes, all enclosed in the primary
objective of protecting my daughter.  Writing about the journey has
been like uncovering box lids to reveal purposes, some understood
better than others.  When incidents such as arriving in a new country
with no place to stay soured the journey, they were mitigated by the
sweetness of observing God's power to engineer circumstances for our
good.  saw firsthand (and continue to see) God's unique ability of
transforming difficult circumstances into intriguing results.  Although
my daughter and I would not have chosen such a journey at the outset,
neither of us would trade our experiences for anything.  Now that the
physical journey has ended, the spiritual one continues, affirming that
God can be trusted.

,

AS MICHELA AND I WAIT IN THE SNAKING L!  NE AT THE AMERIcan Express
office in Brussels, refuse her request to sit near the travel
brochures.  She must be within arm's reach in case a quick departure is
necessary.  Panic paralyzes swallowing when I imagine the consequences
if the Moneygram transaction fails.  I possess only enough cash to fund
a frugal return to Italy.  My anxiety isn't lessened by the hysterics
of an American woman who has lost her Travelers Cheques.  Leaving the
American Express office she beats her head with her hands and wails at
her husband, who quietly looks at the floor, either from embarrassment
or remorse.

By the time I step up to the agent, my throat is collared by fear,
making speech difficult.  Handing over my passport, explain that a
Moneygram from the States has been sent in my name, the designation
being "international."  The train of thought derails abruptly when the
tracks end.  No plan exists for safeguarding these Travelers Cheques
from being traced, cashing them could leave a crumb in the forest trail
to our whereabouts.  Acting as if I have changed my mind about the
Moneygram, ask to speak to the office manager--privately.

Michela and I are directed to an office where he listens as if I'm the
fifth fugitive to cross his path this day.  Without emotion for our
circumstances, he advises how to avoid having the numbers of the
Travelers Cheques traced.  If larger denomination checks are requested
when receiving the Moneygram, they can be exchanged for lower
denomination checks with no cross-referencing.  The transaction, which
is free of charge, makes tracking the original check numbers
impossible, particularly when the checks are exchanged at another
American Express office in a different country.

Although the manager's apparent lack of interest in our plight is
reassuring in one way, his purpose may be to keep me calm and settled
until the police arrive.  At the counter, watch the actions of the
agent like a hawk, intent on noticing whether her fingers type numbers
from my passport into the computer.  Retrieving my passport would
require lunging over the counter to snatch it before grabbing Michela's
hand and running into the street.

After a reasonable number of questions and giving a bogus address in
Kentucky, the Moneygram comes through without a hitch.  Desperate to
flee the location where our global position is momentarily nailed down,
I must remain on the spot to sign the checks.  request as many $500

Travelers Cheques as available to avoid signing $10, 000 worth of $20
checks.  This large sum of money from my parents doesn't come to us
from their surplus, but from their limited retirement savings.  The
fingernail moon is indelibly stamped on every check, reflecting their
pledge to be there for us, whatever the sacrifice.

, if h , 00 > , , , X.

on Srartctsco's EfeZarr JoarnS I see the moon, the moon
sees me, the moon sees somebody I want to see.

God bless the moon, God bless me, God bless the somebody I want to
see.

One.

How Long, O Lord?

A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a
journey, aud such a long joureey .  . .

--T.  S. ELIOT, JOURNEY OF EHE MAGI ONCE IN THE TRuCK, I TELL MY
DAUGHTER, ELLEN, THAT WE are going for a ride.  As a six-year-old,
Ellen lives in the present and going for a truck ride is the only
explanation she needs.  She has no inkling that she is embarking on a
long journey.  Neither of us knows that we will never return to our
home and life in San Francisco.

Earlier in the evening as I prepare for this moment, excitement surges
so strongly through my body that I doubt whether I could carry on a
conversation without revealing my intentions.  Don't let the telephone
ring, God.  Alone in the house, pace between the kitchen and my bedroom
as I pack last-minute items.  The cast-iron skillet on the kitchen
stove alludes to the possibility that I may be going from the frying
pan into the fire.  Should I take my daughter and risk the unknown, or
should I stay and risk what I know?

As I secure the house to depart, fly-on-the-wall observers might
discern that I am going out for the evening, but they would be wrong.

After placing the supper dishes in the dishwasher, say goodbye to my
kitchen by pondering for an inordinate amount of time on what to do
with the leftover chicken.  If I put it in the garbage can, it could be
weeks before the garbage is put out for collection.  Eventually, l
store the chicken casserole in the refrigerator, thinking perhaps Ellen
and I could eat it tomorrow evening.  Laughing nervously in the
quietness, I wonder if I will "chicken out" at the eleventh hour.  Thus
far, the most irreversible action has been pouring milk down the
drain.

No train tickets have been purchased, and the $100 bills, which are
becoming moist next to my body, could be redeposited.  Few friends
would be the wiser if I decide not to go through with the plans for
this evening.

The doorbell shatters the silence like the breaking of glass.

The arTival of this encounter with Jim, Ellen's father, brings both
relief and apprehension.  Every inch of my body is as taut as a
stretched rubber band.  At the time arranged, he brings her home
following a two-day visit.  do not encourage him farther than the hall,
fearing that his suspicions may be aroused by the emptiness of the
refrigerator.  Ellen wriggles on the carpet as her father discusses
plans for picking her up after school on Monday, forty five hours from
now, the lead time before Jim becomes aware of our departure.  My voice
sounds high-pitched and unsteady, altered by the pounding pulse in my
throat.  want to blurt out that this might be the last time he sees his
daughter, but the urge dissipates in fear.  After the door shuts, I
anguish whether my intentions to flee with Ellen have been
transparent.

If Jim suspects anything, he could phone the police, or even wait on
the street and track us himself.

Timing is critical.  When the doorbell rings later, fear that Jim could
be returning something Ellen left behind in his car.  What a relief to
hear the voice of my coworker Stephen, who is helping us escape.

Turning off lights as we go through the house, Ellen and I meet him
downstairs after he backs his truck into the garage.  While Stephen
distracts Ellen, I transfer our luggage into the back of the truck.

Ellen eagerly slips into the front seat, expecting a truck ride before
bedtime.  As I stand in the dark garage after the truck has pulled into
the driveway, all that remains to be done is activate the garage
door-closer and hasten under the cascade of descending metal.

Now that the truck is in full view of neighbors and passersby, charge
from the house as if an explosion is imminent, intent on leaving the
premises as quickly as possible.  If Jim is watching, hopefully he will
think I am running to escape the rain.  Before the garage door makes
contact with the asphalt, the three of us are on our way toward the Bay
Bridge.  look back over my shoulder at our rain-soaked stucco home
without becoming a pillar of salt.

The beads of rainwater on the windows distort the view inside and out,
hiding from the outside world the three occupants of the truck.

For the first time in my life, I attempt to disguise my appearance, but
I draw the line at changing hair color.  When everything else is
changing in my life, need to recognize myself in the mirror.  Amid the
rain spots on the rearview mirror, my appearance has been significantly
altered just by stuffing hair into a cap and wearing glasses, but I
shiver at the thought of being identified while stopped at a traffic
light.  So I sit on my left hip, facing the interior of the truck and
my daughter's side.

As we cross the Bay Bridge, I wonder if another big earthquake will
strike at this moment, our journey beginning and ending in the water
below.  No perceptible earth movements occur to impede our advance, the
only upheaval seems to be along the fault lines of my emotions.  The
downpour creates the illusion of traveling within an insular bubble
that bursts upon arrival at the Amtrak station.  Since the ticket
office is closed, the waiting passengers remain in vehicles to keep
warm and dry.  dread contact with the outside world, fearing that
someone will recognize me.

The onward rush of recent days comes to a standstill as the scheduled
arrival time of the train comes and goes.  Waiting is insufferable when
freedom depends on leaving city, county, state, and country quickly.

Conversation between the three of us takes place in fits and starts
because there is little to talk about, the past is slipping away, and
the future is a slippery unknown.

The absence of conversation releases my mind to speculate on what could
happen to us as fugitives.  If money runs out, will strangers believe
our story and extend mercy?  One friend advises hiding in a convent, as
in The Sound of Music "How long, O Lord?  " is the pivotal question,
thinking about returning before committing to departure.  The knowledge
that sleeping in our beds is only thirty minutes away is comforting.

Our vulnerability overwhelms me.

Waiting generates questions from Ellen "Mommy, are we going on a
train?

Where are we going?  " With meager enthusiasm, tell her, "Sweetheart,
we are going on an adventure.  I'm not exactly sure where this
adventure will take us, but it will be exciting."  As a six-year-old
who reads fairy tales, Ellen views know-asyou-go travel differently
from me.  Serendipity is a matter of course in adventure stories like
Alice in Wonderland, which have prepared her for boarding an
"adventure" train.  Telling her about spending a night in Seattle would
inform Stephen of our plans.  If friends and family aren't aware of our
whereabouts, they can answer investigative questions truthfully, "I
don't know."  Ellen's response to our "adventure" concerns me more than
the uncertainty of times and places.  The greatest unknown is how she
will respond to being cut off from family, friends, home, school--and
father.  Will she resent me for turning her life upside down, or thank
me?  A friend, an adult survivor of child sexual abuse, believes with
all her heart that Ellen will be grateful.  Whatever the outcome,
Ellen's trust in me will be put to the test.

As a gift for our journey, Stephen presents me with a roll of coins for
making phone calls.  The expediency of this thoughtful gift takes me a
step further toward resolve.  When the train is an hour late, the roll
is opened on the spot to call a distant Amtrak office.

The estimated arrival time is one hour from now.  worry about what
effect this delay will have on the rendezvous in Seattle with Tiffany,
the daughter of a San Francisco friend.  The store of change diminishes
further when I call Seattle to confirm our arrival tomorrow evening.

Reluctantly, entrust my precious message to an answering machine.

The onward rush begins once more when the train pulls up to the
platform.  During the "pause, " a change has occurred within me.  The
emotional cord with life in San Francisco has been cut.

All thoughts of sleeping in our beds have vanished.  accept the mandate
to protect Ellen from being sexually abused by her father again, and I
am ready to run with my decision.

Action is an antidote for fear.  Holding Ellen's hand, I spring toward
the train like a cat toward its prey.  Stephen sets our suitcases on
the platform and leaves without saying anything, his words and deeds
have already wished us well.  Besides, customary farewells don't fit
the context of this goodbye.  Lifting the bags into the dark passageway
between the cars, I place Ellen beside them.  For an instant, I hang
suspended with one foot on the train step and the other dangling.  The
unknown pulls at my ankles like weights, holding me back until I shift
my gaze upward toward my daughter's expectant face.  The point of no
return overtakes the eleventh hour as the train moves toward Seattle.

I MET MY FuTURE HUSBAND, JIM, ON A BLIND DATE IN KENtucky before our
senior year in high school.  During that romantic summer, we saw each
other every day until Jim returned to boarding school in Virginia.

After leaving high school, we both attended universities in different
states, anticipating the prospect of four melancholy years of dating
others as well as each other.

During our sophomore year, when Jim was a student at Yale University in
Connecticut and I was a student at the University of Kentucky, it
dawned on us that telephone, travel, and dorm fees would go a long way
when applied toward joint living expenses.  Wanting to be with Jim as
well as wanting a university degree, believed that the two desires were
not mutually exclusive.  accepted Jim's marriage proposal and
transferred to Southern Connecticut State College (now University) and
became his wife.  Not having clearly defined goals, I merged into the
multilane expressway with others on their way to becoming teachers.

In contrast to my vague career aspirations, the future course of Jim's
medical career was well charted.

During the second half of our senior year, our money ran out.

Since the education degree did not have a strong hold on me, I
willingly pulled out of student teaching to take a temporary job in New
Haven and graduated with a liberal arts degree in history and political
science, minus the teaching credentials.  Clueless as to how I would
use this degree, I was content to focus on Jim's career, which both of
us understood would take precedence over mine.

After our university graduations in 1970, Jim's medical career
necessitated hopscotching the country to attend medical school and
graduate school in Nashville, residency training and being chief
resident in medicine in San Francisco, and a postdoctoral fellowship at
the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland.  During Jim's
medical training, my income from working at the medical centers where
he trained helped support us.

When he began earning a salary, worked part-time and earned an
associate degree in architecture and building construction.

Our life together yielded both pleasant and challenging memories.

Then, in 1982, a few months following our fourteenth wedding
anniversary, discovered that Jim's professional success had masked a
personal torment that he had never shared with me.

Following his return home to Bethesda from a medical meeting in San
Francisco, I found an admission ticket to a sex shop in his shirt
pocket at the dry cleaner's.  stared at the ticket in disbelief,
knowing the reputation of this establishment, which even the city of
San Francisco closes down periodically for lewdness.  Wanting

I

How Long, O Lord?

to explain away this loathsome ticket, told myself that lien may have
gone to a sex show as a lark with friends from the meeting.

Patronizing such a place went against the kind of person Jim was, his
reputation.  I resisted overreacting emotionally until hearing his
explanation, but I felt as limp as the cotton shirts on the counter.

That evening Jim confessed to frequenting sex shops as a prelude to
involvement with prostitutes.  Unbeknownst to me, his episodic
involvement with prostitutes had begun during the second year of our
marriage.  For hours, listened as he poured out the dark pain of his
duplicity.  Jim had been a master of deceit, even to himself.  He coped
with deception by building a wall in his mind that divided his life
into two segments--faithful versus unfaithful husband--each blocking
awareness of the other side.

Regardless of which side of the wall he found himself, he was convinced
that he was a loyal husband, believing each appointment with a
prostitute to be his last.  Years later, this mechanism of deception
would terrorize me concerning his relationship with his daughter.  The
power of denial erected another wall, separating the abusing from the
loving father.

What a release he experienced as the burden of deception lifted!

I would have rejoiced to witness such liberation of a soul if my
emotional load had not become heavier as his lightened.  had had no
inkling that there was a dark side to my intelligent and controlled
husband, who expressed affection and emotions, although rarely
insecurities or fears.  What he told me went against everything I had
believed to be true about him, and that made me angry.  Jim's
confessions directly opposed the years of my trusting his
faithfulness.

l was angry at two people Jim for betraying me but more angry at myself
for trusting him all those years.  didn't feel like breaking china,
ranting or raving, or getting even.  Jim's revelations pierced deep, as
emotional acupuncture might cause numbness to feelings.  A veneer of
repose settled on me, but when I was alone, a spontaneous fusillade of
the word "duped" would shoot from my mouth.

Neither of us were certain if our marriage would survive this crisis of
trust.  Jim told his parents what had happened, but I refrained from
telling mine.  He pleaded for my forgiveness and a second chance at
being a faithful husband, confessing his hope in God to help him.

During our marriage, Jim had attended church regularly, even Bible
studies and prayer groups, the latter mostly at my instigation.  When
his outward interest in God waxed and waned, had attributed it to the
demands of work.  NOW I understood that the guilt from failing to
control his sexual desires had driven a wedge into his relationship
with God, as it had with our sexual intimacy.  Early on in our
marriage, I had suggested marriage counseling, but Jim had refused.

NOW, when our pastor recommended a counselor to bridge the crevasses in
our relationship, Jim agreed.  Initially, we participated in joint and
then separate sessions.  As our home life settled and moved on to other
concerns, Jim relaxed, seeing that I did not intend to leave him or
expose his actions.  Choosing to attend fewer counseling sessions
himself, he encouraged me to continue, intimating that it might help me
become a more satisfying sexual partner.  According to his thinking,
the responsibility for fidelity in our marriage was shifted on to my
shoulders.

ForgivingJim was possible, but taking the responsibility for his
unfaithfulness carried a relational cost.  Forgiveness liberates and
multiplies love, but accepting misplaced responsibility strikes at the
root of love.  When the roots go deep, one strike may not fell the
tree, but vitality is sapped from its life.  I had dreamed of walking
hand in hand through life with my childhood sweetheart, becoming old
together, very old.  Blissful happiness had never been part of the
dream, but faithfulness and togetherness had been essential.  Was this
dream salvageable without the faithfulness?  I didn't know how to
modify it to make it work.  Resolving to work through anger and
resentment as best I could with God's help, I prayed that Jim's faith
in God would strengthen his selfcontrol.

During this time of relational upheaval, Jim faced a career change
deciding on a medical school faculty position to follow the current
postdoctoral fellowship.  It was the most inopportune time to make a
major life decision.  In hindsight, taking off a year from the medicine
circuit could have been lifesaving, but the concept probably never
entered Jim's mind.  Returning to San Francisco had been our first
choice, but now I perceived the city differently, as a place with
painful associations, not a place for a new beginning.  Since both of
us desired a fresh start in new surroundings, Jim applied to other
medical centers and was offered a faculty position in Arizona.  When he
was offered an assistant professorship in San Francisco, pleaded that
he refuse it, having no peace about returning there, but at decision
time Jim could not resist the pull of his first choice, a plum of a
position.

NEW BEGINNINGS AREN T ONLY GEOGRAPHICAL.  AT THIRTY-FIVE years of age,
only a smattering of sand remained in my reproductive hourglass.

Being a mother had not interested me until the panic of a childless
future gripped me.  What if I desired to open the door of motherhood
next month, or next year, asked myself, and it was too late?  Whether
my panic stemmed more from an attempt to restore dismantled dreams than
biological considerations was impossible to gauge.  Jim had never
pressed me about having children, although he was supportive about
becoming a father.  Six months before moving from East Coast to West
Coast, I happily became pregnant.

Morning sickness and moving three thousand miles during the last
trimester of pregnancy diverted my attention from misgivings about
living in San Francisco.  Jim drove our car and beagles across country
while I traveled by air.  Alone on the plane, I reflected on Jim's
comments about the newly identified disease, AIDS, which is sexually
transmitted and had appeared on the San Francisco infectious disease
scene in 1983.  Most cases had been reported in the homosexual
population, but anyone would be at risk if a sexual partner were
infected with the HIV virus.  During our first week of living in San
Francisco, the San Francisco Examener printed a story about prostitutes
and the risk of AIDS, but settling into a new home and anticipating a
new role as a mother pushed concerns about the disease to a cerebral
back burner.

The birth of Ellen, our new daughter, diverted attention from the
marriage, bringing delight to our life.  Jim became a "rising star" at
the medical center, advancing from assistant professor to associate
professor and taking on directorship of a clinical research
laboratory.

For the first time in our lives, financial pressures were not needling
us.  To the outside world, our marriage of twenty years, our healthy
daughter, and our lovely home may have appeared enviable.

In 1985, when Ellen was a year old, entered graduate school at San
Francisco State University as a part-time student in geography.

Training as an architectural draftsman had kindled my interest in using
cartography as a tool for studying disease distributions.  Later, as I
sat in a restaurant in Switzerland with Jim and some of his medical
colleagues, a thesis topic developed from their conversation mapping
the distribution of favism, a blood disease, on the island of Rhodes in
the Mediterranean.

My rise in academia had not been as meteoric as Jim's, but graduate
student awards had opened opportunities to present papers.  On one such
occasion in October 1988, when Ellen was almost five years old,
presented a paper at a cartography meeting, which required me to be
away from home for several nights.

Returning from the meeting, I found that Ellen wasn't happy to see me,
as I had expected she would be.  As the evening progressed, her
conversations and physical interactions with her father bewildered
me.

At bedtime, felt uneasy about Jim's effusive compliance to Ellen's
whims and her control over him.  In my absence, she had slept in the
bed with her father and seemed to resent my presence.

During the following days, noticed changes in Ellen's personality and
behavior.  She clung to me when we passed men on the street,
manifesting for the first time an unnatural fear of men.

L

How Long, O Lord?

When I asked her about the nights she spent with her father while I had
been away, she commented, "Mommy, in my mind, wish you had been
there.

" One day when the three of us were eating lunch at home, Ellen
initiated a conversation about keeping secrets.  All of us agreed that
secrets were not a good idea, except when buying birthday gifts.  Ellen
pushed the conversation further by mentioning that her father had asked
her to keep a secret about something he had done.  Without responding,
he left the table to retrieve something from the kitchen, as if he had
not heard Ellen's comments.

Ellen persisted "Daddy told me not to tell you, Mommy, because it was
our secret."  When I asked what the secret was about, Jim mumbled that
there hadn't been any secret.

"But, Jim, Ellen said that you did have a secret and told her not to
tell me something."  Again, Jim ignored my comment.

Troubled by Ellen's comments about secrets, I recalled some recent
publicity about "red flags" and the sexual abuse of children.

Until now, Jim's relationship with Ellen had appeared healthy, except
for his disregard of my strong objection to his showering with her.

Unexpectedly, an issue that had never before confronted me was causing
an avalanche of confusion and questions having no answers.

Unable to ignore the changes in Ellen's behavior and what I had heard
her say, was at a loss to know what action to take.  Expressing my
concerns to Jim would jeopardize our marriage, which was worth
preserving for Ellen's sake.  She deserved a childhood living with both
parents.  Besides, I wasn't convinced that Jim had sexually abused
her.

With this in mind, proceeded cautiously, taking my own counsel.

At the San Francisco Child Advocacy Center, the counselor who heard my
concerns confirmed the existence of "red flags" and suggested that I
make an appointment with Ellen's pediatrician for a physical
examination.  Thankfully, this exam disclosed no physical evidence of
sexual abuse, but Ellen's responses to questions prompted her
pediatrician to recommend that she be evaluated by a psychiatrist
specializing in child sexual abuse.  Hesitant to subject Ellen to such
an evaluation, sought a second professional opinion without involving
her participation.  When I presented the family history and changes in
Ellen's behavior to a clinical psychologist, he concluded that more
investigation was justifiable and reported her case to Child Protective
Services.

When the report reached the district attorney's office, I was contacted
by a detective and a representative from Child Protective Services,
both men.  They asked to interview Ellen alone at a neutral place, not
her home.  Because of Ellen's fear of men, I pleaded that women
investigators be assigned to her case, but learned that this request
could only be met if Ellen were evaluated at the child abuse clinic
located in the same hospital where her father worked.  This
bureaucratic inflexibility was incomprehensible, but my petition fell
on deaf ears.  What if Ellen and I came face-to-face with Jim at the
hospital?  What if Ellen were evaluated at the hospital clinic and the
sexual abuse was not substantiated?  Rumors could sully Jim's
reputation if the visit were not kept confidential.  Having worked in
medical centers, I was aware how gossip and speculation spread through
departments like wildfire.  Not convinced that Jim had sexually abused
Ellen, only wanted to leave no investigative stone unturned.

Reluctantly, I agreed to Ellen being interviewed at nursery school.

After notifying the director, I told Ellen that two men would be asking
her some questions at school.  Before her class Halloween party, Ellen
was interviewed for fifteen minutes by two men she had never seen
before.  When I asked her about the interview, she said that they had
asked her questions about a doll, they had been nice, and she hadn't
been afraid.  When I pressed her about the questions, she didn't want
to talk about the interview.  By phone, the inspector from the district
attorney's office informed me that the interview with Ellen had
revealed no evidence of her having been sexually abused by her
father.

When I expressed doubts that a four-year-old would have trusted two

How Long, O Lord?

male strangers with intimate details about what had made her feel
uncomfortable with her father, the inspector said that they had not
been wearing uniforms during the interview.  When I expressed doubts
that a reliable conclusion could be reached during such a brief
interview, my request for further investigation was denied.  When I
mentioned Jim's past involvement with prostitutes and my concern about
his current involvement, the tone of the inspector's voice signaled
that the penny had dropped concerning the case.  The inspector
intimated that marital distrust of my husband may have influenced my
thinking about his relationship with our daughter.  Whatever I said as
a mother concerned for the welfare of her child was received through
the filter of a vindictive wife.  For now, the case was closed but
could be reopened if new evidence appeared.

I rejected the validity of the report filed by the district attorney's
office.  The conclusion could be correct, but the interview had been
too brief and threatening to Ellen to prove anything.

Lack of substantiation on these terms did not necessarily mean that
abuse had not occurred, particularly with a young child who is hesitant
to talk with strangers.  Screaming silently about my inability to
expose the truth, the weight of the solitary burden was crushing.

When the plague of doubts and uneasiness did not go away, heeded the
advice of Ellen's pediatrician and made an appointment with the child
psychiatrist she had recommended.  worried about the effect of more
questions on my four-year-old daughter, who had already been questioned
by her pediatrician and two strangers at school.  The child
psychiatrist evaluated Ellen during three weekly one-hour sessions.

During these weeks, I stayed close to Ellen but refrained from
instructing her not to tell her father about the "talking" sessions
with the doctor, not wanting to validate secretive tactics.  Although
Ellen had opportunities to mention the office visits to her father, to
my knowledge she didn't.  At the completion of Ellen's evaluation, the
psychiatrist concluded, "It is my opinion that Ellen was sexually
abused by her father by contacts that were physically painful and
emotionally devastating."  Believing my daughter and pursuing the
investigation of her father were choices with consequences.  On the
evening I confronted Jim with my fears, I asked Ellen's adult
babysitter to spend the night in our home as a safeguard.  In the past,
Jim had never acted violently toward me, but our relationship had not
come up against anything as formidable as this accusation.  After Ellen
had gone to bed, I informed Jim of our appointment the next morning
with a child psychiatrist who, after evaluating Ellen, had concluded
that he had sexually abused his daughter.  An explosion of anger did
not occur, but his actions were chilling.  As he stood leaning against
the kitchen cabinet, Jim's hand hovered above a cooking knife on the
counter, never touching it.

Except for this incident, his demeanor was stunned, incredulously
offering denials but never erupting into rage as I had feared.  His
emotions were controlled until the next morning at the psychiatrist's
office, when, after being presented with Ellen's verbal and physical
responses to play therapy, Jim exploded with angry denials.  Ellen's
psychiatrist encouraged him to seek another professional opinion.  For
a second time, Ellen's case was reported to Child Protective
Services.

At my request, Jim moved out to his own apartment.  For a while, the
three of us dined together at restaurants, hoping to ease Ellen's
adjustment to the new living arrangement.  Although we reassured her
that the separation had been our decision, Ellen assumed the
responsibility for her father's departure, confiding that she blamed
herself "for what Daddy did to me."  The threesome outings became less
frequent as tensions between Jim and me crescendoed.  Although Jim
resented my insistence that he arrange for a chaperone when Ellen
visited his apartment, he complied, on one occasion expressing fear of
going to jail.

How Long, O Lord?

DURING THE NExT YEAR, JIM AND I RETAINED LAWYERS TO initiate the
dissolution of our marriage and to resolve the custody of Ellen.  In a
preliminary family court hearing, Ellen's psychiatrist stated that she
had treated Ellen on a regular basis, for one-hourweekly sessions
during the previous six months.  Concerning this therapy, she
testified, "I believe that Ellen has improved and has successfully
begun a healing process.  She feels much safer and more secure than she
did when therapy first began six months ago, when she was angry and
clinging toward her mother.  Ellen is now opening up to me verbally,
regarding what ensued between her and her father.  She has told me
several times in words that her father sexually molested her."  Six
months after Ellen's initial evaluation, Jim requested a second
psychiatric evaluation.  The judge ordered a family evaluation by a
different psychiatrist, one who had a clinical appointment at the
medical center where Jim worked.  The psychiatric evaluation, eight
months after the beginning of Ellen's therapy, revealed no evidence
that she had been sexually abused by her father.  It was recommended
that I receive counseling, which would be "salutary" to align my
"misguided" thinking.  The dictionary definition of "salutary" is
"producing a beneficial or wholesome effect."

"Beneficial" for whom?

What's "misguided" about listening to the words of your child and
taking action to protect her welfare?  Not to have taken action would
have been "misguided."  Soon after this second evaluation, Jim
requested that Ellen attend a dinner party at his apartment.  When he
telephoned, asking to pick her up earlier than we had planned and
before dinner guests would be arriving, refused, not wanting Ellen to
be alone with him at his apartment.  In a low raspy voice, which I had
never heard before, Jim threatened to kill me and "lay me out flat.  "
He warned that Ellen's psychiatrist would regret meeting him in a dark
alley where he would cut her into pieces, sending each part to
different locations.  The macabre nature of Jim's threats and his
strange voice was terrifying.

He was only five minutes away from me by car.  Believing that my life
was in danger, I attempted to defuse his threats by calmly speaking
them back to him.  Eventually, he regained his normal voice and
apologized for threatening me.  listened for a retraction of his desire
to carry out the threats, but I heard only a disavowal of intention.

Verbal exposure to the depth of Jim's anger convinced me that my
well-being was also at risk.

Two.

Money in My Shoes.

The owl and the pussyvat usett to sea I?  a a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some ho?  ey and plenty of moHey, Wrapped up in a five-poured
note.

--EDWARD LEAR, THE OWE AND THE PUSSYCAT DURING THE AUTUMN OF 1989, A
YEAR AFTER CONFRONTING Jim with the psychiatrist's conclusions about
Ellen's sexual abuse, I was preoccupied with the forthcoming court
hearing where the allegations of sexual abuse would be examined by a
judge with relation to Ellen's custody and visiting rights.  On October
17, I was shaken out of my single-track thinking when the earth moved
under my feet, as it did for everyone in San Francisco.

When the building I was standing in did not "pancake" after fifteen
seconds of jolting, ran outside with the other students to the shrill
sound of car alarms activated by the shaking.  I panicked, realizing
that Ellen was sitting at Candlestick Park with her father, waiting for
the first baseball game of the World Series to begin.  On the car
radio, I heard that concrete had fallen at the ballpark, expressways
had collapsed, and the Marina District was burning.  All I could do was
wait at home as the city darkened without electricity, but glowed
orange on the horizon from the fires.  After several hours of watching
the street from the front window, headlights pulled into the
driveway.

Ellen and Jim were safe, despite their top-her seats at Candlestick
Park.

The earthquake seemed a minor blip in the seismology of mylife when
compared to appearing at the family court hearing in early November.

The San Francisco Court Building was still festooned with yellow police
tape, alerting pedestrians to structural damage.

Aftershocks were on the mind of the judge, who instructed us to duck
under the sturdy oak tables if the building began shaking.  For five
days in a closed hearing, the judge listened to testimonies and read
depositions on whether Jim had sexually abused Ellen.  On the fifth and
final day, Jim, appearing to be ill, testified in a barely audible
voice, denying all allegations of sexually abusing Ellen.

After the hearing, my lawyer speculated that legal protection for
Ellen, in the form of supervised visits with her father, was unlikely,
since her sexual abuse had not been substantiated by legal evidence,
such as photographs, physical evidence, or an admission of guilt by the
perpetrator.  In the legal sense, the words of an almost five-year-old
and the psychiatrist's findings were considered secondary
evidence--circumstantial.  Jim's reputation and his position as an
associate professor of medicine could work to his advantage by giving
credibility to his denial.

Two days after the hearing, Jim phoned me from the hospital, where he
was a patient after collapsing at his apartment and struggling for
hours to reach the telephone to call for help.  His diagnosis was
pneumocystic pneumonia, a complication of AIDS.

Hearing that Jim had full-blown AIDS, I fell to my knees by the phone
and wailed, crying for my childhood sweetheart and the husband I had
adored when ignorance was bliss.  Within minutes, my mind leaped to the
present and the possibility that Ellen and I could be HIV-positive.

The next day Ellen and I were tested at the San Francisco Blood Bank.

For more than twenty-four hours, our future hung in the balance,
abducted by the present.  Shock deadens the sensation of
consequences.  The diagnosis of HIV-positive for either or both of us
was beyond what my imagination could conjure.  Before the anesthesia of
surprise had worn off, I learned that our tests were negative.  For the
moment, rejoiced, although I knew that subsequent testing would be
necessary to confirm these results.  The uncertainty of Ellen's sexual
contacts with her father made the outcome of her future tests less
secure.  For me, God had worked the pain and frustration of our
marriage for my physical salvation.

Jim's immediate medical condition was life-threatening, and his
prognosis was uncertain.  Although the diagnosis had struck me like a
thunderbolt, the possibility of Jim being HIV-positive did not come
totally out of the blue.  During the past year, he had had frequent and
persistent respiratory illnesses, often searching for decongestants in
the medicine cabinet when he had come to pick up Ellen.

At Jim's request, I visited him in the hospital at a time when the
woman he was seeing would not be visiting.  It was as if the hospital
room had been declared an allegation-free zone.  Jim's vulnerability
and his close proximity to death opened the way for us to comfort each
other.  His happiness about our HIV-negative tests comforted me, and my
sadness comforted him.  The unfortunate timing of his reinvolvement
with prostitutes had occurred when the prevalence of AIDS was
increasing at an alarming rate in San Francisco.  When I asked him why
he, an expert in infectious disease, had not protected himself, he
simply said, "I just didn't."  l left the hospital terrified that Jim
would infect Ellen with the HIV virus if he abused her again.  After
the court reconvened in January 1990 for the judge's ruling, Ellen
could spend every other weekend and alternating holidays at her
father's house, unsupervised.

Her protection would depend on whether the judge decided the sexual
abuse by her father was substantiated.  Putting Ellen at risk of sexual
abuse again could now be life-threatening.

The idea of running with her had been like a winged seed blowing about
in my mind, which now began to germinate in a fertile recess.

A MYRIAD OF CONSiDERATIONS SURFACED AS I CONSIDERED shutting down our
lives in San Francisco.  Whatever the future, selling the house was a
given, a function of the divorce proceedings, rather than the custody
issue.  Although our house had suffered no major structural damage
during the earthquake, potential buyers were looking cautiously at
houses in an earthquake zone, and selling the house quickly, or even to
our financial advantage, was unlikely.  The greatest challenge to
preparing the house for sale was relocating Arcturus, our beagle named
after a star.  Several weeks before Christmas, Ellen and I reluctantly
sent him to my parents' home in Kentucky as cargo, requiring a change
of planes in Cincinnati on a winter's night.  When my parents picked
him up at the airport, Arc was in good condition but suffering from a
raspy, overused bark.  Arc's departure before putting the house on the
market solved two problems eliminating the doggy smell and arranging
for his passage to Kentucky without arousing suspicion.

If Ellen and I were to flee America, passports would be necessary.

Although my passport was valid for years, Ellen didn't have one, nor
even an appropriate photo to submit with an application.  Taking a
passport photo of Ellen would be too risky in case she mentioned it to
her father.  I had to take a chance with a slightly out-of-focus,
nonregulation-sized vacation photo of Ellen.

On a mid-December afternoon, an official at the San Francisco passport
office measured the photo of Ellen and rejected it, advising me to
resubmit the application with a suitable photo.  Walking away, I prayed
that God would intervene and returned to the same person, stressing the
importance of his accepting this application without delay.  Without
looking up, he directed me to

Money in My Shoes

another official in the same room, presumably with higher bureaucratic
authority.  She grimaced when the photo measurement turned up short,
and I held my breath until she asked me where I wanted the passport
mailed.  Without my asking, she offered to process it as a "rush
order.

" By the power of Amazing Grace, Ellen's passport arrived at my
parents' home in Kentucky before our Christmas visit.

The problem of what to do with the car was solved when it was stolen
from the front of our home two weeks before Christmas.  Why anyone
would want to steal a fourteen-year-old Toyota wagon for a joyride was
beyond comprehension.  After a few days, the car was found parked on a
street in South San Francisco, having suffered no damage, it was as if
the thief had used a key to unlock it.  Stupidly, the thief had left in
the car a video charge slip with his name on it, but submitting this
information to the police would have involved me in an investigation I
did not want to pursue.  My mind was preoccupied with a higher goal
than tracking who was responsible for the car theft.  l would have
benefited more if the car had not been found, but the theft seemed more
for my annoyance than for anyone's profit.  Bartering with a teenage
neighbor, agreed to give him a car I no longer wanted to drive in
exchange for his painting the dog's room.

ELLEN SPENT CHRISTMAS DAY WITH HER FATHER, AND I SPENT the day with the
flu at the home of a friend who did her best to make me comfortable.

As a spiritual Christmas gift, my friend Linda wrote a Bible reference,
Ezekiel 34l-31, on notepaper in the shape of a sheep.  Verse 12 became
regular reading, "The LORD God said, will look for lost sheep and take
care of them myself, just as a shepherd looks for lost sheep.  My sheep
have been lost since that dark and miserable day when they were
scattered throughout the nations.  But I will rescue them and bring
them back from the foreign nations where they now live.  will be their
shepherd."  As a sheep in the fold, I had lost trust in the Shepherd,
Jesus.  The bottom line was that I didn't trust men, Jesus, as man,
included.  Although I had attended church regularly during the last few
years, I had rarely opened my Bible, dangerous reading for anyone
attempting to avoid God.  I read these verses in Ezekiel again and
again, asking myself if the Shepherd could be speaking to me.

The day after Christmas Ellen and I flew to Kentucky to celebrate the
holiday with my family.  My grandparents presented me with money for
legal fees to appeal against the court's decision if necessary, but my
lawyers had offered little hope that an appeal would reverse the ruling
they anticipated.  If I could not protect Ellen legally, then putting
distance between Jim and Ellen was a contingency plan.  Moving with
Ellen away from the Bay Area was much preferred over becoming a
fugitive with her.  During Christmas week, I applied to the doctorate
program at the University of Kentucky and was offered a position and a
scholarship contingent on completion of my master's thesis.  With this
offer came a glimmer of hope that we could move to Kentucky, separating
Ellen from her father without living on the run.

While Ellen and I were still in Kentucky, Jim applied for a court order
requiring Ellen to return to San Francisco by his birthday, a few days
away.  The order seemed unnecessary, since he knew that our return
flight reservations were scheduled for the morning of his birthday, his
action suggested that he believed we might flee and was trying to put
the law on his side.  Possessing passports and money, I had considered
leaving the country with Ellen during Christmas week, but departure
from Kentucky would have linked my family too closely to our fleeing.

Besides, legal loose ends remained in San Francisco--the judge's ruling
on the issue of Ellen's sexual abuse and on my petition to move to
Kentucky.  Perhaps the lawyers would be wrong.  Running away was still
the last resort.

Speculation ended in January 1990 when the judge ruled that sexual
abuse of Ellen by her father had not been substantiated.

The judge ordered that Ellen be monitored by a psychologist i who would
detect any evidence of future abuse.  This "wind in the sails" approach
of protecting Ellen was not acceptable to me.

Physical custody of Ellen was awarded to me, but in March she would
begin staying with her father unsupervised.  The judge ruled that I was
free to move to Kentucky to pursue my doctorate, but Ellen's residence
must remain within a fifty-mile radius of San Francisco.  If I were to
take Ellen for any reason farther than the nine counties of the Bay
Area without Jim's consent, I would risk being charged with a felony.

The same applied to Jim.

Asking lawyers for advice about becoming a fugitive was pointless, as
they are obliged to direct clients toward law-abiding behavior.

Psychiatrists advised against fleeing with Ellen for various reasons,
including her possible frustration and anger at living on the run.  The
consequences of being captured (through media exposure, the work of
private detectives, or the efforts of the FBI) would put me in prison
and Ellen in full-time custody with her father--a worse situation than
if we hadn't fled in the first place.

Hiding in foreign countries was also less secure, due to international
reciprocal agreements regarding child custody disputes.

The consensus among the lawyers, counselors, and psychiatrists was
"Don't do it."  But this advice had been delivered professionally--not
without compassion, but not as Ellen's parent.

Desperately needing to talk with someone who spoke from my perspective,
I attempted to contact Elizabeth Morgan, a doctor who served a prison
sentence for concealing the whereabouts of her daughter, who had been
sexually abused by her daughter's physician father.  At the time, she
could not speak to me directly, but she sent a message "Go to jail to
protect your daughter."  In my case, going to jail would create more
problems for Ellen than it would solve, as I was the only family member
who could take her into hiding.  Contacting several mothers who had
attempted living as fugitives with their children, all had either
surrendered or been apprehended--although none of these women
discouraged me from going on the run to protect my daughter.  In every
case, their children now lived with the fathers.

Counsel on what I should do was divided into two camps professionals
who said no and the mothers of the abused children who said go.

As Jim's physical condition had improved, he defiantly claimed that he
would beat AIDS.  During his medical training, I had witnessed Jim's
triumph over hepatitis B, continuing to work at the hospital until the
yellowness of his skin, not the severity of the symptoms, forced him to
stop working for a few days.  Certainly, AIDS was more life-threatening
than hepatitis B, but Jim's physical stamina had seemed invincible,
above reproach from God and man.  If anyone were cured of AIDS, I
believed Jim would be the one.

Man's counsel left me turning in circles.  I needed to speak with
someone other than a friend, family member, or involved professional,
someone who understood the God connection in decision-making.  Although
God and I had not been too close recently, I consulted a priest, who
did not know me, asking him, "What should I do?  " He wisely did not
answer the question directly, but he counseled, "Listen to what you
cannot accept and let that guide you."  Along the lines of determining
what you can and cannot accept, he mentioned counting the cost of
decisions, as in Luke 14 28.

"For which of you, when he wants to build a tower, does not sit down
and calculate the cost, to see if he has enough to complete it?

Walking home, I established what I could not accept Ellen being
sexually abused again and becoming HIV-positive.  The cost of
protecting her could be a prison sentence, if I--we-survived the
journey.

That night I opened my Bible, letting the pages fall where they
would.

God directed my attention to Joshua 1 7-9.  "Only be strong and very
courageous .  . . Have I not commanded you?

Be strong and courageous.  Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord
your God is with you wherever you go."  These Scriptures sealed my
decision.  Unlike Joshua, I had not trusted God to guide me through the
wilderness.  Disappointment about my mar ir.

riage and now Ellen's abuse had compelled me to keep God at arm's
length, but He was wooing my heart.  Despite fearful second-guessing
and not trusting God's protection, I knew what I had to do.  The first
step was to alert my parents to make flight reservations for San
Francisco.

NAILING DOWN A SAFE AND RELIABLE MONEY PLAN BECAME A priority during
the next two weeks.  As expected, home buyers were moving at a snail's
pace, so money from the sale of the house was out of my reach for now,
and probably forever if I became a criminal.  The legal appeal money
from family would now become the fleeing money.  At the onset of the
journey, I planned to carry cash, lots of it, leaving credit cards at
home.

Only a few weeks remained to transform the family money (which had been
deposited) into portable cash.  Withdrawing thousands in cash did not
raise eyebrows at my bank, which served wealthy Asian clients, the
limiting factor for the bank was the amount of available cash, which
necessitated making arrangements ahead to target "cash-on-hand" days.

I had hoped to carry $500 bills, but I was told by the bank official
to be grateful for the $100 bill, since the U. S. Treasury had
contemplated discontinuing it to make drug transactions more
cumbersome.  Bit by bit, I accumulated $28, OOO in crisp, thick $100
bills, squirreling them away in my wardrobe closet, which had never
been so well appointed.

Living on the run offered two options organizing our own way, or
linking up with an underground network.  Hiding within a network with
frequent location changes did not appeal to me.  In a vacant city
office, I met with a legal adviser to discuss how to live as fugitives
and how to connect with the underground network Listening to stories
about mothers who had fled with their children, I learned that most
either surrendered, were caught, or died on the run in America.  One
mother in hiding with a child was stopped for a traffic violation and
apprehended "in bad shape, scarcely able to care for her own needs.  "
Some parents who were caught went to prison, others did not.  Either
way, custody of the children almost always was awarded to the parent
who had not committed the crime of child abduction.  Such dreadful
outcomes sent shivers through my body, as I speculated on what it would
take to put me "in bad shape."  The legal adviser confirmed that Jim's
position and resources could jeopardize our safe hiding in America.  I
was warned not to trust assurances from Ellen's father if he offered to
make legal deals for our return, many women were now sitting behind
bars as part of such deals.  The FBI, not private detectives, posed the
greatest threat to our capture.  As a result of this clandestine
meeting, I devised a mental list of "never" and "always" actions never
open a bank account, always fly non-American air carriers, always use
our legal passports, never mail anything directly to my parents, always
call from public pay phones, and never call my parents' home.  For this
prudent counsel, I offered the legal adviser one of the crisp $100
bills, but she encouraged me to save it for the trip.

The privilege of planning an open-ended global itinerary thrilled me,
even under these circumstances.  Poring over atlases and maps, the
sparkling jewels in geography's crown, delighted me.  When I asked the
geography faculty at San Francisco State University hypothe ical
questions about living abroad, New Zealand came up most often.  Its
geographic isolation, English-speaking culture, and reputation for
being behind global times in crime made it an attractive destination
for a mother and child on the run.

Fearing that my home phone might be bugged, I called airlines for fares
and flight times from the pay phone at the supermarket.

Both air reservations and advance purchase savings for any
international flights were off-limits, since I would need to use my
passport name.  Amtrak accepted phone reservations for two under the
name Chris Kramer, on February 3, 1990.  I had chosen Chris for its
nongender status and Kramer from a movie about a wife who left her
husband, albeit under different circumstances.

To my ears, Chris Kramer sounded legitimate.

A WEEK BEFORE OUR DEPARTURE MY PARENTS ARRIVED IN SAN Francisco.

My mother did not doubt that I was taking the right action, believing
that my well-being was in danger as much as Ellen's.  My father
reluctantly gave his blessing on our becoming fugitives, fearing that
living on the run would be too risky for his only daughter and
granddaughter.  As a jury member, he had seen what happened to
offenders who violated court orders.  Although my mother abhorred the
possibility of my imprisonment, she believed staying in America was a
greater risk.

The stack of $100 bills totaling $25, 000 was almost two inches high.

Shopping with my parents, I tested numerous money carriers, targeting
various anatomical locations, eventually buying a sternum necklace, a
leather belt with a zippered hideaway, and a midriff pouch.

Although I creased the bills with an iron, the money in the leather
belt bulged as if it were a seed pod ready to burst its contents to the
wind.  To prevent my leaving a trail of $100 bills through some
airport, my father sewed the zipper closed with dental floss to ease
the stress.  The cash was divided among the hiding places, with $2, 000
in the sole of each shoe, $8,000 in the sternum necklace, $4, 000
hiding behind the dental floss, and $12, 000 at the midriff level,
giving me the appearance of early pregnancy.  I worried that clothing
would be insufficient cover for such a quantity of cash.  Would the
scent of money track me?

For when the cash ran out, my parents and I discussed sending American
Express Moneygrams, which could be designated for an international
"money pot, " thereby absolving my parents from the responsibility of
targeting the pickup point.  Although this computer transaction offered
flexibility in retrieving U. S. dollars in the form of Travelers
Cheques, Moneygrams would pinpoint our global location at American
Express offices through passport identification .

Limiting our luggage to two carry-on suitcases, I can't risk an airline
losing all our belongings.  Packing clothes for a journey of unknown
duration to an unknown destination, likely to span all seasons, called
for my mother's pragmatism.  She advised taking more of my clothes than
Ellen's, since her clothes would be replaced along the way.  Consulting
Ellen about what toys and treasures to pack was not possible, but my
mother's intuitive relationship with her granddaughter was a close
second.  A few favorite books and Little Ponies, a doll from New
Orleans (a gift from her father), a stuffed dog, a colored pencil set,
as well as her comfort cloth--a diaper never used for its original
purpose-were stuffed into a diminutive school backpack.

Packing my clothes required more strategy, since I would not be
shedding clothes periodically unless my weight ballooned.

Heavy and bulky items, such as my favorite boots, were painfully
excluded from the to-go pile on the bed.  One coat, one jacket, one
sweater was the general rule, going two by two was reserved for
underwear, T-shirts, shoes, and socks.  Most items, except for corduroy
slacks and a winter coat, met an all-season standard.  My
three-inch-thick Bible was the only book in the pile.  Pictures of
family and friends, checkbook, credit cards, and driver's license were
left behind, as either adding to the pain of separation or threatening
to expose our cover in hiding.  My mother added safety pins, a sewing
kit, and vitamins to the heaping pile.  In a waist pack, I carried a
pen, small notebook, Swiss Army knife, a house key (just in case I
changed my mind on the way to the station), and a wallet with smaller
denomination bills.  When the two suitcases were full, I said goodbye
to "friends" of the cloth, hanging in the closet, who didn't make the
cut.  In a few short hours, I would be saying goodbye to everything my
eyes rested upon.  The suitcases could not even carry the rudiments of
my life, much less the comfort items, such as a jewelry box.

Contacting my parents on the journey would require stealth and
organization, knowing that their phone line would be tapped by the
FBI.

My mother composed a list of U. S. A. contacts, identifiied by
initials, with telephone numbers minus the area codes.

This enigmatic phone list would travel with the cash for future
reference, not pointing toward anyone in America if the list were lost,
or found on me.

The possibility existed that Jim might send bogus messages to alarm or
confuse my parents.  Through the use of a code word, my parents could
trust the authenticity of the message, as being from me.

All evening the three of us wracked our brains for a phrase, meaningful
only to us.  In the wee hours of the morning, my mother remembered a
special night in our backyard when I was about eight years old.  My
parents had looked up at the crescent moon, thinking of the trail of
nail slivers I left behind from biting my nails, which turned out to be
a lifelong habit.  They reminded me of what had been said many years
ago in Kentucky as we had gazed at the moon.  Mother had said, "Janie,
when you are grown and away from us, look at the fingernail moon and
know that we are thinking of you.  We'll always be there for you,
wherever you go."  Our journey could not take Ellen and me beyond my
parents' love and encouragement, nor farther than the "fingernail moon,
" which became our code words.

When the day of our departure dawned, stormy and rainy, I remembered
the verses from Ezekiel, given to me a month earlier on Christmas
Day.

The airport goodbyes to my parents, who were returning to Kentucky,
tore at my heart.  Their farewells to Ellen had been in the driveway
the night before, when Jim had picked her up for an overnight visit,
and could not include all the things they had wanted to say to her.

That goodbye could express only the emotion of a twenty-four-hour
separation, since both Jim and Ellen believed she would be reunited
with her grandparents the following day.  Letting go of their only
daughter and granddaughter would be the most difficult path they would
ever walk.  The pain of what the future might hold could break, or even
kill them.  My parents and I agreed that if anyone, even one of them,
died while we were on our journey, Ellen and I would not return.

Looking at their tearful faces, I wondered if I would ever see them
again.  I knew that they were thinking the same

,

thing.

In less than ten hours, all preparations for the journey had to be
completed on my own without the companionship of my parents or my
daughter.  When Jim brought Ellen home in the evening from the
overnight visit, departing swiftly to catch the night train to Seattle
was crucial.

Three.

Crossing the Rubicon.

A pause--ix which I begae to steady the palsy of my xerves, "Hd to feel
that the Rubicon was passed.

--CHARLOrrE BRONTE, JANE EYRE IN THE DIMLY LIT TRAIN CAR, PASSENGERS
ARE SETTLING FOR the night.  I am disgruntled that so many people have
decided to travel on this particular Saturday night in the dead of
winter.

Ellen manages a chunky school bag and a collapsible luggage cart as I
balance the load of two suitcases and a shoulder bag.  On the bumpy way
to our seats, I look furtively from face to face, fearing that I will
recognize one.  Looking at the clumps of luggage surrounding our seats,
I wonder how the two of us will manage carrying our home on our backs
when even a train aisle challenges our capabilities.

When the conductor appears to collect our tickets, I explain about the
ticket office being closed, thinking nothing of pulling out three
nicely ironed $100 bills.  Familiarity in handling 280 of them the
night before has bred in me something akin to contempt.  He makes a big
fuss about his inability to provide change and the other passengers
look my way, the last thing I want to happen.

Ellen settles easily into sleep, but every cell in my body is on
alert.

The speed of the train's forward motion makes me giddy.

Pinpricks of light blur in the windows like surreal moving pictures
punctuating the darkness.  The push-pull of the past gives way as each
mile of track puts more distance between us and San Francisco.

The alarm will sound when Jim goes to Ellen's school on Monday
afternoon, less than two days from now.  I wonder where in the world we
will be by then, when the lead time ends and the chase begins.  Will I
wake up in San Francisco tomorrow morning, comforted that I have been
traveling in my dreams?  Anything seems possible tonight.

As I had embraced the dark cover of night, so I welcome the dazzling
sunlight of the morning, finding myself not in San Francisco but
whizzing along the edge of the snow-covered Cascade Mountains.

Watching Ellen awaken, I think only of finding coffee.  In the dining
car, chrome table accessories glisten to compensate for not being
silver, and we breakfast on delicious pancakes.  It's easy to believe
that we are embarking on an adventure until the waiter comments on the
out-of-the-ordinary method of payment from the night before.  I cringe
that the conductor told the waiter about a woman who flashes around
$100 bills.  Keeping a low profile is my intention, but within the
first hours of becoming a fugitive, my indiscretion causes a crisis of
confidence.  Perhaps, as my father had been concerned, I won't be able
to pull it off.

During the afternoon, I concentrate on entertaining Ellen and avoiding
conversations with fellow passengers, which goes against the grain of
my personality.  Ellen and I play tick-tack-toe, challenge each other
to a brown versus white cow-counting contest, and read to one
another.

For years after, Ellen talks about two memories from the first day of
our journey eating pancakes in the sunny dining car while looking at
the snow-covered mountains and passing through the city in Washington
State where her kindergarten boyfriend had moved.  Why speeding through
his city on a train should bring her so much pleasure is a mystery.

Crossing the Rubicon

What a contrast between how a six-year-old and a forty-two-year-old
emotionally perceive the fleeting proximity of a former boyfriend!

Ready acceptance of what the present holds will stand Ellen in good
stead for the future.

When the train arrives in Seattle after dark, I phone Tiffany
immediately.  What a relief to hear her unrecorded voice!  While we
wait at the station, I tell Ellen our immediate plans spending the
night at Tiffany's home and then taking a long flight the next day.

Questions from Ellen are few, either due to tiredness or because she
senses that I do not know where we are headed on this "adventure.  "
After dinner, when Ellen is tucked in bed, Tiffany and I focus on
destinations and airline timetables.  Crossing the Canadian border to
reach Vancouver International Airport is the first leg of tomorrow's
journey, but where to go from Vancouver is up for grabs.  I am
encouraged that Tiffany, only an acquaintance, has invited us to her
home and has even taken a day off from work to help us on our way.  As
a ground rule, or rather air rule, a nonAmerican air carrier will be
chosen, on the assumption that any legalities for accessing passenger
lists would take longer.  Tiffany suggests booking with a lesser-known
Canadian airline, which flies to the Orient.  A flight to Tokyo, with
seats available, leaves tomorrow afternoon.  Risking seat availability,
I make no reservations until the last minute, in case anyone attempts
to trace our escape path.  Discerning the optimal level of
cloak-and-dagger maneuvers for each situation is frustrating.  As a
novice fugitive, I take the admonition "to err on the side of caution"
as a modus oper"Hdi The next day starts early to accommodate the
two-hour drive to Vancouver International Airport before the afternoon
flight to Tokyo.  When the Canadian official waves us through the
border checkpoint without inspecting passports, I sigh with relief to
be traveling on Canadian soil.  The cocktail of emotions also includes
sadness at leaving my country.  Looking over my shoulder once again, I
view the welcoming sign for cars entering the U. S. A. and wonder how
much time will elapse before a sign welcomes our return.

At the airport, reality exceeds fantasy.  In the past, I may have
imagined spontaneously boarding a plane for Europe, but my imagination
had not stretched to flying off to an unknown destination.  As we say
goodbye to Tiffany in front of the terminal, I realize that Ellen and I
may not see a familiar face for a long time.

Walking away from Tiffany's car, I feel the magnetism of the past and
the resistance to its pull as we enter the terminal.  Ellen and I tread
on the boundary of a new identity, laying aside past history, even our
names.  At this juncture, pausing to adjust to this unfamiliar turf
before charging toward the airline reservation desk would have been
wise.

I ask the representative about afternoon flight departures, and she
confirms that the I, 30 P. M. flight to Tokyo has seats available.

Fearing a stopover in Hawaii, I blunder by asking if this flight stops
on U. S. soil, if I had asked whether the flight was nonstop, no
flashing "red lights" would have been activated in her mind.

Then, as if ordering ice cream, I say, "I'll take two one-way tickets
to Tokyo."  Noticing the top of Ellen's head below the counter, she
inquires where we will travel after Tokyo.  It is within my power to
restore her confidence by saying X, Y, or Z destination, but I only
shrug, saying, "I don't know, " not wanting to reveal our plans to
visit Australia.

Her eyebrows rise again when there is no luggage to check, confirming
her suspicions.  Now she has no inhibitions about informing me of the
necessity of purchasing round-trip tickets, something about Japanese
immigration officials requiring incoming passengers to have ongoing
tickets, covering the airline for the responsibility of getting us out
of Tokyo.  The policy doesn't make sense, but what can I do?

Ellen and I need to be on that flight, even if it means purchasing
round-trip tickets.  When she asks for a credit card number, I lamely
tell her that I didn't bring it with me.  Pulling out thirty-five $100
bills from the money pouch inside my slacks, I count each one out loud
for fear of making a mistake.  My mind flashes back to a comment made
by a bank employee in San Francisco "You should be grateful for $100
bills because they might be scrapped by the government to make drug
transactions more difficult."  Indignant that this woman should suspect
my money is drug-related, I want to blurt out, "Although I'm fleeing, I
am not a criminal."  Scraping her hand across the counter to gather the
bills, she delivers a parting shot "People don't generally travel this
way."  Fuming about the purchase of useless tickets, I ask a different
reservationist at another counter about the round-trip ticket policy to
Japan.  His puzzled look answers my question, but nothing can be
redeemed at this late hour before boarding.  All I can do is take care
of it in Tokyo.  I buy Ellen a coloring book on horses with the
leftover Canadian currency, and color with her until I am no longer
angry.

The flight is fully booked, Ellen and I being among the few non-Asian
passengers.  I cringe when our seatmates photograph my blue-eyed,
fair-haired daughter, unable to explain my concern that the photo could
be sent to a Japanese relative who lives in San Francisco and might see
Ellen's picture on a milk carton.

Freakier things than that have happened.  While Ellen plays with the
plastic fishes that held the soy sauce, I think about our midnight
arrival in Tokyo with no place to stay and ask the kindest flight
attendant for a hotel recommendation.

Leaving the airplane in Tokyo, we walk along corridors that could be in
any country until Japanese characters dominate, making the surroundings
appear like an exaggerated version of San Francisco.  With no luggage
to claim, we soon board a courtesy bus, having reserved a room at the
hotel recommended by the flight attendant.  Heading toward the center
of Narita in the darkness, I strain to see the lay of the land.  At the
hotel desk, I dread showing my passport for registration, but there is
no alternative.

While we sleep upstairs in our room, my name will be registered on
paper downstairs for everyone to see.  Judging from the expense of the
hotel, our stay in Japan will be brief.

The hotel room could have been a Holiday Inn in the States, except for
the Japanese characters on the phone and on the complimentary
shampoo.

Ellen amazes me by unpacking her toys and arranging her treasures on
the nightstand.  Although I don't sense that I'm thousands of miles
from home, my body is confused-should it gear up for a new day or
welcome the bed?  I relax, knowing that our departure, if discovered,
has not yet been confirmed.  Once Jim knows, I can no longer rest in
complete assurance that I won't be captured, but tonight I can sleep
peacefully.

BRIGHT SUNSHINE FILLS THE HOTEL COFFEE SHOP THE NEXT morning.  By now,
the lead time is over.  Monday in San Francisco has come and gone.

Jim has been to Ellen's school, not finding her there.  He has listened
to my recorded voice on the answering machine.  He has knocked at the
door of the dark house, whose key I have in my pocket.  More disturbing
than all of these, he has telephoned my parents, who would have acted
surprised and worried by our disappearance.  Beyond this, I don't want
to know what's happening on the other side of the Pacific.

All my energy is riveted to surviving on this side, but before we move
on, I want to take advantage of seeing Japan.  Eating at Japanese
restaurants in San Francisco has prepared us for a breakfast buffet of
fish and miso alongside bacon and eggs.  Ueno Park in downtown Tokyo is
the unanimous sight-seeing suggestion by the coffee shop employees, who
take a warm interest in an American woman and child traveling alone.

Neither the zoo monorail nor the vibrant plumage of the Austral-Asian
birds nor the pandas at Ueno Park grab Ellen's attention as much as a
dinky playground with automatic rides.

Entering the teahouse for lunch, we are expected to remove our shoes
and place them by the entrance.  I am uncomfortably aware of the value
of my shoes, and choose a table as close to the door as possible so
that I can cast an anxious eye in their direction.

Sitting on mats at low tables, we order green dumplings.  Chicken and
dumplings are my father's favorite food, but he wouldn't like these.

The following day I decide to stay closer to the hotel and airport,
since the flight to Sydney leaves in the evening.  The shops along the
narrow, crowded streets of Narita intrigue Ellen, but her face
brightens at seeing the Golden Arches.  McDonald's is wonderfully
predictabe and familiar to our palates.  Leaving its spacious interior,
we merge with the ever-present crowds in the street.  Inquiring at a
travel agency about receiving credit for the round-trip tickets, I
panic on learning that the crediting operation must be accomplished at
the airline offices in Tokyo, not at the airport, as I had planned.  It
is already early afternoon, taking a train into downtown Tokyo could
jeopardize catching our evening flight to Sydney.  Yesterday the round
trip to the city took four hours, but if I don't make the effort, $1,
000 will be lost.

Staying another day in Japan doesn't enter my mind.  The frantic
compulsion to keep moving hasn't taken me far enough from San
Francisco.

At the Narita railway station, the departure board is a challenging
puzzle.  As I struggle to understand the location of transfer points
for a direct train, a Japanese woman who speaks English offers to help,
even waiting with us on the platform until we board the correct train
for downtown Tokyo.  Other passengers kindly give Ellen lots of
attention, which makes me nervous.  At the Qantas office, I learn that
a refund from the Canadian airline must be obtained to apply as credit
toward our tickets to Australia.  This credit can only be transacted by
a Qantas official at the airport when we purchase the tickets.

Returning to the street, I briskly walk to the Canadian airline office,
spurring Ellen on with the admonition, "If we don't hurry, we will lose
$1, 000, which could buy a lot of Happy Meals."  Fortunately, airline
offices congregate in Tokyo, since Ellen's walking tolerance has been
reached.  On receiving the refund from the Canadian airline, we break
into a run toward the train station.  If the hotel van departs for the
airport without us, we miss the flight to Australia and our efforts
will be all for nothing.

In choosing trains for the return trip to Narita, I am on my own--no
one steps forward to direct me.  It doesn't take long to realize that
we have boarded the wrong train traveling in the right direction.  This
local train stops at every hamlet and will arrive in Narita long after
the hotel van has departed for the airport.  Across from us, a Japanese
businessman obviously understands my hand-wringing comments to Ellen
and spontaneously suggests that we disembark at the next station to
catch the express train that is following this train.

Hoping this man knows what he is talking about, we risk it and abandon
the certainty of the slow train.  The express train comes, as he said
it would, arriving at the Narita station seven minutes before the van
departs from the hotel.  I look for a taxi but don't see one.  A walk
that took fifteen minutes earlier in the day must take seven minutes in
the dark.  Running through the streets as fast as Ellen's legs permit,
we are still several blocks from the hotel.  Turning a corner, I see
the van parked at the entrance.  Before I can gasp with relief, the
headlights flash on, signaling that the driver is preparing to
depart.

Clutching Ellen's hand tightly, I gesture wildly with my free arm to
attract the driver's attention, my eyes fixed on the headlights.  At
the entrance to the hotel parking lot, I communicate again with my arms
the need to retrieve luggage from the lobby.  Breathlessly, we collapse
in our van seats and the wheels begin to move.  Ellen beams at winning
the race against time, and I am forever committed to buying her Happy
Meals.

Finding the Qantas official at the airport is analogous to catching
mercury.  People at each airline desk have seen him, but no one can
pinpoint his whereabouts.  While we are waiting at the Qantas desk,
eager to check in and sit down with our carry-on luggage, he appears
and approves the credit voucher toward the tickets to Sydney.

The frantic pace ends abruptly as we settle to wait for boarding.

Ellen, who has received little attention during the day, except for
being pulled in this or that direction, needs to be prepared for the
long flight ahead.  I mention our destination, Australia, but it
doesn't mean much to her until I talk about kangaroos.

"Mommy, will we see kangaroos?  " "Probably not, because we will be
staying in a city--Sydney."

"Will we go back to America after visiting Australia?  " "Not for a
while.  We are on an adventure and there are several places I want to
visit before returning to America.

" There is much more to say but introducing the future in small doses
seems best, particularly when both of us are exhausted.

ON OUR DESCENT INTO SYDNEY, I SCAN THE HORIZON FOR the Opera House,
whose majestic aerial view turns out to be the extent of our
sight-seeing in Australia.  When the airline representative checks our
passports, he finds no embassy-approved visas to pave the way for our
entering Australia.  Pretending to pay attention on how to obtain them,
I am kicking myself inwardly for not researching this detail more
carefully.  I had planned to stay in Australia for a while before
moving on to New Zealand.  In this quadrant of the hemisphere, where
land masses are few, we have Hobson's choice and must travel on to New
Zealand.

Ellen and I are restricted to nine hours in Australia, which in effect
means nine hours in the airport.  The prospect of boarding another
plane makes me irritable.  When Ellen asks about our plans, I am too
preoccupied about dealing with another airline to answer.  Will Air New
Zealand be suspicious of an American woman traveling with a young child
and no luggage to check?  I ask myself.  At the Air New Zealand
reservation desk, I receive quizzical looks when I ask whether
Americans need a visa to visit New Zealand.  For an instant, I fear
another round-trip ticket situation, but this time I possess more
savoir faire than I had in Vancouver.  The airline agent does most of
the talking and oneway tickets to Auckland are issued with few
questions.

Weariness from hopscotching latitudes and longitudes, as well as
crisscrossing datelines and time zones, settles on both of us as we
anticipate the four-hour wait before the flight to Auckland.

Exhaustion dulls the disappointment of bypassing Australia, a country I
had wanted to see.  Even in the air-conditioned terminal, the heat of
summer from outside makes us drowsy.  The midmorning bustle of the
terminal does not keep us from slumping in the vinyl seats, encircling
our cases with arms and legs, and snoozing for a short while.  Ellen is
refreshed by the nap, her curiosity about this "adventure" awakens
again and questions tumble out.

"Do Bebe and Granddaddy know where we are?  " "No.  It's safer for them
if they don't know where we are."

"Does Daddy know where we are?  " "No, he doesn't know where we are.

No one does."

"I hope that Daddy isn't sick in the hospital.  I love Daddy, but I
want to live with you, Mommy."

"Ellen, he wasn't in the hospital when we left San Francisco.

He was feeling much better.  Do you remember how well he looked?  "
Remembering her father in good health, Ellen relaxes.  Although she
doesn't ask any more questions, I tell her again why I took her away.

"Sweetpea, I left America because I want you to be safe.  You said that
Daddy made you feel uncomfortable.  I was afraid that he might touch
you again, so I left San Francisco to protect you.  Your father is very
angry with me for taking you away.  He's not mad at you, I'm the one
who decided to leave with you."  Ellen wants to talk about something
else.

After lounging and snacking, we walk the corridors to stretch our legs
from the last flight and loosen up for the four-hour flight to
Auckland.  While we are sitting at the gate, waiting to board our
flight, I introduce another issue.  "Ellen, you need to choose a , ,
new name.

"Can I pick a name?  " "Yes.  I'm keeping the name Chris.  Would you
like to be called Katie, Elizabeth, Emily, Zoe, or Catherine?  " I ask,
suggesting the names of friends she has left behind.

"I don't know what name I want to have.  Will our last name be the
same?  " "No.  I'll choose a new one when we get to New Zealand.  "
Later, Ellen perks up on hearing a name paged through the airport
loudspeaker system.  Without hesitation, she announces, "I want my name
to be Michelle."  On the Air New Zealand flight, I sit next to a young
man from New Zealand who has been traveling in Canada.  Somewhere over
the Tasman Sea, as Michelle practices writing her new name, I ask my
seatmate about the availability of temporary jobs and the
cost-of-living expenses in New Zealand, irrelevant issues for most
tourists.  He suggests fruit-picking as employment, but moving from
pillar to post with the fruit harvest sounds awful, particularly for a
child needing to attend school.  Feigning mild indifference, I ask him
what last names are common in New Zealand.  From the list he recites, I
choose Williams, since William is my father's middle name.

On the flight, Michelle becomes curious about our new country of
residence.

"Michelle, the biggest surprise about New Zealand will be the
temperatures.  The southern hemisphere is experiencing summer, so it
will be warm."

"Mommy, can we go swimming if it's hot?  Do they have beaches?  "
"Probably.  It's the same ocean, the Pacific, that we walked along in
San Francisco."  Her excitement encourages me.  By the end of the
flight, my seatmate is clued in to our circumstances and offers the
name and telephone number of his parents if I ever need help, a
foretaste of New Zealand's extraordinary hospitality.

We land in Auckland, where nothing bridges the coolness of the airplane
cabin and the sweltering outside temperature.  At the top of the plane
steps, Michelle and I are smacked with an invisible wall of 90øF heat,
which intensifies as we descend to the runway.  I yell to Michelle,
"It's warm enough to go swimming!  " Inching along in the serpentine
line of passport control, I kick our suitcases along the floor in front
of us.  If passport control suspects something and refuses us entry,
could we face another air flight?  And to where?  Back the way we have
come?  Their questions are perfunctory.  "Visiting New Zealand on
vacation?

. . . For how long?  .  . . Where will you be staying in Auckland?  "
Before we have learned to pronounce Auckland without it sounding like
"Oakland, " our passports are stamped with threemonth tourist visas.

Judging from the numbers of travelers in the airport terminal, February
is a popular tourist time in this hemisphere, particularly among young
trekkers from Europe.  Using a courtesy phone, I call motel after
motel, hearing the same thing "No vacancy."  I surrender the phone to
another traveler when Michelle persists about going to the rest room.

When we return to wait for a phone, Michelle collapses from the heat in
a limp heap on the floor, despite the air-conditioning.

Back on the phone again, I try a backpackers' hostel with the same name
as a church camp I once had longed to attend in America as a
teenager.

They have a room.  After receiving assurances that the hostel is
located in a safe neighborhood, I take it.

A van shuttles passengers from the airport, which is located in the
country, into the city, where the hostel is located, giving us
door-to-door service.  An old but respectable building along a
tree-lined boulevard turns out to be the backpackers' hostel.

The owner apologetically explains that a mixup has occurred, the
occupant of the room that was to have been ours will be staying
longer.

Since no other rooms are vacant, our only option for the night is to
share a room with a young working woman.

With grave hesitation, I ask, "Won't she mind strangers moving into her
room?  " "No, she's used to it when the season is busy.  It will be
fine with her.  With you in the room, her rate will decrease.

Anyway,

Crossing the Rubicon you probably won't see her because she returns
late at night and leaves early in the morning for work."  We are shown
a small room with no air-conditioning, no fan, no breeze from the
single window, and no working girl, but Michelle and I are too tired to
look for a room elsewhere.

In a twin-sized bed, the heat from our bodies creates a tropical
environment under the sheet.  I want to fling the sheet (and caution)
to the wind, but I am afraid our roommate will notice the money belts
on my body and the shoes by my side.  Putting two and two together, she
might hit me on the head, take the shoes, and rent a cooler place to
live.

When she arrives during the night, I check out her silhouette through
slitted eyes, appreciating that she doesn't turn on the light.

From her moves, she is accustomed to getting ready for bed in the dark
with strangers in the room.  When I open my eyes in the morning, her
bed is empty and all our cash is accounted for.

Sharing a room with a stranger robbed me of more sleep than the heat
had.  The first priority of the new day is to find a private room that
can be locked.  Walking to a nearby neighborhood with large homes, one
of them has been converted to a youth hostel.  Supposedly, the house
was once the residence of a Maori queen, but no hint of past splendor
remains.  In the cool of the morning, the cubicle of a room seems
pleasant enough without air-conditioning.  Although it does not have a
window, louvers in the door ventilate it with air from the screened
porch.  Above all else, it is private, lockable, and cheap.

Now Michelle and I are free to explore the city of Auckland, whose
sunshine, tropical warmth, and spatial sprawl remind me of Southern
California.  It's understandable that the air feels the same because
their latitudes have hemispheric symmetry Auckland is 36ø South, and
Los Angeles is 34' North.  The museum at the Domain introduces us to
the cultural heritage of the Maoris (the indigenous people group in New
Zealand), who fashioned massive blocks of wood into seagoing boats,
decorating the carved wood relief with paua shell.  During the
demonstration of dance and music, one Maori-style song is reminiscent
of how "Amazing Grace" is sung in the mountains of Kentucky (minus the
drums and grass skirts).  Are my homesick ears bending sound waves?

Once the music and dance ends, Michelle's tolerance for touring the
museum plummets.  Under a canopy of shade trees on the museum grounds,
I brief her more about our new life in New Zealand.

"Michelle, people in New Zealand will ask us where we are from in
America.  You need to tell them we lived in Cincinnati, Ohio.  Don't
mention that you lived in San Francisco, or that you were born there.

" "Where is Cincinnati, Ohio?  " "Do you remember the airport we would
fly into when we visited Bebe and Granddaddy in Kentucky?  " She
nods.

"Well, Cincinnati is the big city across the river from the airport.  I
don't like telling a lie, Michelle, but it wouldn't be safe for us to
mention San Francisco."

"Can we call Bebe and Granddaddy on the phone?  " "No, not for a while
yet.  When we do talk to them, we can't tell them where we are."  As
the afternoon heats up, the shade trees offer less comfort.

Wilting in summer heat, Michelle pleads to cool off in a swimming pool,
but going to a public pool is problematic, since wire baskets are out
of the question for storing the amount of cash I'm wearing.  In blue
jeans and athletic shoes, I don't blend in with the others around the
pool.  Since I can't enter the water, Michelle's swimming space is
restricted to the edge of the pool at the shallow end.  Squatting and
walking alongside her, I avoid the puddles of pool water to keep the
money in my shoes from getting soaked.  Feeling ridiculous and hot, I
long to jump into the refreshing water, but hearing Michelle's shrieks
of delight as she bobs up and down is worth my discomfort.

The hostel takes on a different personality when the sun sets.

The first-floor communal room becomes a party room with a makeshift
bar.  Throughout the day, the management has turned no one away.

Sleeping bags are strewn on the floor, particularly on the screened
porch outside our door, and cigarette smoke hangs above them in the
still air.  The plywood walls of our room block ventilation and some of
the ubiquitous mosquitoes, which enter through the louvered door, but
do not keep out the audible sighs of lovemaking from the adjacent
cubicle.  Sleep eludes me as I worry about a cigarette igniting a
sleeping bag, turning the upstairs central core into an inferno.

Thankfully, Michelle sleeps easily and deeply.

The next morning, Sunday, we awaken earlier than the sleeping bodies we
step around outside our door but too late to attend church.

Arriving at the Auckland Cathedral as services are ending, I initiate a
conversation with the organist about recommendations for another
hostel.  The afternoon is spent walking in the heat to check lodgings
that are all either too expensive or without vacancies.  By late
afternoon, Michelle and I give up searching and resign ourselves to
spending another night with mosquitoes, smoke, and passion one room
removed.

The coolness of the park revives Michelle.  As she climbs on the base
of a large monument, I talk with a mother who turns out to be the wife
of the organist I had spoken with earlier at the cathedral.

Amazed that our paths should cross on the same day, she invites us home
for refreshments.  As a place to live, she advises me to consider
Wellington, which is cooler than Auckland and would be more comfortable
for heat-sensitive Michelle.

Besides, Auckland, like Los Angeles, requires a car, whereas Wellington
is more compact for traveling on public transportation.

Circumstances and counsel point toward Wellington, but before packing
up again, I need to catch up on sleep--several nights' worth.

Walking back to the cathedral, Michelle and I attend Evensong for
spiritual refueling and to pray for protection at the potential
crematorium.  Years later, I learn from a New Zealander that this
hostel was damaged by fire a few years after our stay.  Listening to
the hymn "Loving Shepherd" in the coolness of the cathedral soothes
both of us.  After the service, we kill time by walking in the
neighborhood, intending to return to the hot hostel just before
bedtime.  On the way to get something to eat, I recognize a couple from
the hostel who also recognize us.  When they turn out to be Americans,
I edge away from conversation until I learn that the woman is a
nurse-therapist for abused children.  A floodgate of feelings is
released as I seek a sounding board as well as validation.  Michelle
asks her how other abused children feel.

Speaking as a therapist, our new friend confirms that our situation is
not unique.  As the four of us eat Indian takeout on park benches, I
thank God for the encouragement received through this compassionate
couple.  Staying the extra night seems to have had a positive
purpose.

Back at the hostel, we talk about America and exchange mementos.

Giving us their address and telephone number in America, they offer
their cottage in Vermont as a hiding place.

The heat and the day's activities once again cause Michelle to sleep
soundly.  It being a Sunday night, the hostel guests do not party with
the same intensity as they had the previous night.  The next morning a
young woman who is sweeping the porch recommends a hostel in
Wellington, assuring us, "It's much nicer than this one."  Not ready to
make the daylong train journey to Wellington, I find out the names of
several motels and hostels at the cathedral office.

Most turn out to be either too expensive or lacking vacancies--the same
story as the previous afternoon's search--but one refers us to a budget
hotel.  By midafternoon, we have settled into a room that is not as
cheap and smells of mildew, smoke, and stale carpet, but it is private,
lockable, and air-conditioned.  The amenity list lengthens.

To celebrate our deliverance, Michelle suggests visiting the zoo to see
the kangaroos she missed in Australia.  Sadly, the intense heat
discourages many of the animals from venturing out into their
enclosures.  I make a beeline for the bird enclosures while singing to
Michelle a song about the kookaburra I had sung as a Brownie Scout
around a campfire between bites of stmores.

The mighty, mighty king of the bush isn't laughing merrily on a gum
tree this afternoon, but then why should he, perched on a dead tree
trunk in a hot cage?

The nocturnal house offers a refreshing respite from the heat and a
view of a bushy-tailed opossum, resembling a koala more than its
American cousin.  In the darkness, our eyes are opened to the plight of
flightless birds in New Zealand.  These birds, with their exotic Maori
names, such as the kakapo, haven't fared well in standing their ground
against the domestic cats introduced to New Zealand by immigrating
Europeans.  Viewing the shy kiwi, I wonder if Michelle and I stand a
chance in New Zealand without taking flight.  Will New Zealand's scant
human population be sufficient cover for us to maneuver safely as
fugitives?  If only the ratio of sheep to people were reversed
sixty-four million people to four million sheep.  My fears are
reinforced when the owners of our budget hotel and their son cross our
path at the zoo.

BEFORE GOING TO SLEEP, MICHELLE AND I THANK GOD FOR the cool, quiet
room, and pray for Jim, that God will change his heart.  Michelle prays
that her father is not in the hospital.  As she sleeps, I try to
calculate how many days we have been on the run.

Crisscrossing the International Date Line and spending nights on planes
has left me confused.  New Zealand doesn't appear to be a jumping-off
place for Antarctica and the South Pole, but when I imagine myself and
Michelle near the bottom of the globe, I feel acute isolation from the
people I love.  By now, over a week since our departure, the legalities
for my arrest will have been set in motion.

Deportation back to America and separation from Michelle could occur at
any time if I'm caught.  The honeymoon period of life on the run is
over.

Four.

The Light Down Under.

Where there is a great deal of lipSt, the shadows are deeper.

--GOETHE

THE SIT VER SERI!  I LEAVES AUCKLAND FOR WELLINGTON AT 8

A. M. , requiring an early morning sprint to the train station.  To my
dismay, the money exchange isn't open, and I possess no New Zealand
currency.  Although the tickets have been purchased, I have no way to
buy food and drink during the all-day train ride.

Michelle will suffer hunger and thirst, due to bad planning on my
part.

On the train, I appeal to the conductor to take American dollars for
food, but he explains that won't be necessary.  The price of the
tickets includes lunch and an afternoon Devonshire cream tea a pot of
tea and a scone served with strawberry jam and whipped cream.  Could
our Shepherd be preparing a table before us?  I ask myself.

Outside Auckland, the farming plains give way to hills loaded with
sheep, a visual clue of the skewed ratio of sheep to people in New
Zealand.  As we feast, I think of Psalm 23.  Michelle and I need a
guide who knows the terrain and how to steer us away from threatening
ravines.  Can I trust God to carry us around and over dangerous
pitfalls?  Trust is growing, but painful memories jab holes in my
trusting heart.

Elevation changes are dramatic along this route, the train traverses
breathtaking river gorges on stiltlike viaducts.  At one point, the
train tracks make a giant cursive E on the landscape to climb the sharp
rise onto the Central Volcanic Plateau.  As the train hugs the coast
traveling south to Wellington, the volcanic peaks and scrub landscape
are softened by dazzling views of the Pacific Ocean.

At Paraparaumu Beach, the setting sun highlights the stark silhouette
of Kapiti Island, looking like a rock-camou{laged offshore submarine
rising to the surface.  The island was once a sanctuary for a Maori
warrior chief, but now it harbors species of birds on the fringe of
extinction.

At dusk, Michelle and I get our first view of Wellington.

Windy Wellington is much cooler than Auckland, hopefully, it will be
energizing for Michelle.  On the station platform, Michelle balks,
expressing her tiredness "I'm cold, " then a few seconds later, "I'm
hungry, " then "I'm thirsty, " all legitimate complaints but
particularly annoying at a time when there is no way to obtain local
currency.  I have no idea where to find the backpackers' hostel where
we have a room reservation and shrink from heaving luggage and a tired
child through a city of hills in the dark.  Hailing a taxi, I propose a
condition to our fare.  The driver obliges by exchanging an American
$50 bill at a rate that doesn't seem too far out of line.  The change
from the taxi ride (in New Zealand dollars) will provide for hostel and
dinner expenses until the banks open the next morning.

The hills and chilled air of Wellington remind me of San Francisco.  As
the taxi zigzags up a hillside, I glimpse the hostel's neon sign.  Our
private room juts from the hillside, taking the full brunt of the wind
while offering a magnificent view of the harbor, which is beginning to
sparkle with lights.  The lofty steeple of a church that caught my eye
on the way up the hillside dominates the foreground as a signpost.

Our curiosity about exploring Wellington is nil.  Hiking down the hill,
we stop at the first restaurant for a late dinner, climbing back up
again at a time of night when an exhausted six-year-old child should be
tucked in bed.  Michelle is asleep before her head hits the pillow, but
for adults exhaustion doesn't necessarily pave the way for sleep.

Airfares and hotel and restaurant expenses have reduced the $100 bills
in the money belt at an alarming rate.

Now that the security of moving from place to place is over, I dread
establishing ourselves in one place, where a routine will place my feet
on the same paths, talking to the same people, day after day.

Our life could be readily observed by anyone wanting to find us.

Besides, finding hostels and restaurants is infinitely easier than
arranging an apartment lease, utilities, school, transportation, and so
on.

After visiting the bank, Michelle and I walk to the church with the
steeple.  The minister, Reverend Brown, enthusiastically embraces our
situation after hearing our story.  Immediately, he phones a
parishioner who has a furnished basement apartment for rent.  An
appointment with Mrs. Hadley, a widow who lives alone, is arranged for
as soon as public transportation can get us there.  The prospect of our
living in a safe neighborhood with a good elementary school overwhelms
me with joy.

Before leaving Reverend Brown's office, I mention the need to safely
stow the cash I am carrying.  Opening a bank account in my passport
name could be traced via computer records.  Storing so much "mystery"
cash in the church safe might prompt questions from the church staff.

When Reverend Brown proposes a safety deposit box, the money storage
problem is solved.  A telephone call to the bank confirms that no
identification is necessary.  I leave the church office jubilant that
two daunting hurdles have been leaped in one day a safe place to live,
and a safe place to store our money.

Several bus changes are necessary to reach Mrs. Hadley's home, which
is located on the other side of Wellington.  Our excitement grows as we
walk through the attractive neighborhood where children Michelle's age
are playing.  Seeing Mrs. Hadley's neat brick home with lovely shade
trees and a front yard full of flowers, I thank God for His
provision.

As we enter the walk to the house, we see Mrs. Hadley holding the door
open for several people who are leaving.  I introduce myself, and she
seems surprised by our presence and flustered when I express interest
in seeing the apartment.  Minutes earlier, she had rented it to the
people we greeted on the porch.  Apologizing for the misunderstanding,
she insists that she would have waited for us, but she assumed that we
weren't coming.

Perhaps she hadn't anticipated the time required for public
transportation.  I know that Reverend Brown had made our appointment
definite, but it doesn't matter now, the apartment is gone.  Seeing
that I am on the verge of crying, Mrs. Hadley invites us in for
refreshments.  Focusing on the cup of tea steadies me, and the tasty
homemade cookies delight Michelle.  Mrs. Hadley has no idea of the
depth of my disappointment, or how much I need to establish a home away
from hostels and restaurants.  There's no point in telling her, the
deposit furnished by the future tenants cancels all hope of our
acquiring this apartment.  I ask to see it for future comparisons and
perhaps because I still haven't let go of the hope of living here.

Seeing the cozy, albeit sparsely furnished, apartment (minus a
refrigerator and a bed) rubs salt into my wounded soul.  Michelle
scampers through the rooms as if we are to be the new tenants, and I
ridicule myself for rearranging the scant furniture in my mind, an
exercise in futility.

Disappointment quickly changes to despair as Michelle and I walk away
from the house.  I do not like the way God is handling this situation,
snatching this apartment away from us at the last minute, literally out
from under our noses.  At the bus stop, I can no longer control the
tears.  Michelle becomes quiet, for she has never seen me cry on a
street corner.  Although she is disappointed (responding more to my
feelings than her own), she doesn't view this missed opportunity as the
proverbial backbreaking straw.  Since leaving San Francisco, I have
been telling her

L

The Light Down Under that God will lead and protect us, so she volleys
God's faithfulness back at me.  While I have been hurling angry
potshots at God about His cruelty, Michelle has been securely anchored
in the present, not focused on what could happen to her in the
future.

Giving words of comfort from a faithful heart, she says, "Mommy, don't
cry.  It will be OK.  We have a place to live."  What should have been
a celebration dinner becomes a functional intake of food.  Still
preoccupied with inner contentions about the future, I haven't learned
the spiritual lesson of taking life minute by minute as my daughter
has.  Despair fuels the idea of returning to America Michelle might be
harmed more by this undertaking than by the threat of sexual abuse in
San Francisco.

Perhaps I misunderstood God's instructions about fleeing with her.

At least in America, the support of friends and family could help us
face the future, however dreadful.  I didn't expect this journey to be
easy, but it seems impossible.

Back at the hostel, I peer into Michelle's face as she sleeps,
imagining life for her in America if we returned.  Pulling from a money
pouch the yellow legal-sized page with the telephone numbers, I read
the list of pros and cons about leaving San Francisco I had noted at
the bottom to aid my decision process.  Below the columns, I had
written "None of the nine counties [in the Bay Area] offer hope for the
future.  I must go beyond them to receive hope.  If Ellen were to
develop AIDS, I could not live with myself."  Michelle is right, hope
for the future has not been cut off.

Healing begins when I acknowledge that finding a refrigerator and a bed
for the apartment could have been costly.  Hope for this journey is not
about whether I rented an apartment today, as Michelle reminded me, our
needs are covered tonight.  Life is not turned upside down in the
southern hemisphere because February is summer.  Disappointments happen
in New Zealand, even for people who are not on the run.  As I glide
toward sleep, I remember a Scripture song using verses from
Lamentations "The LORD'S loving kindness indeed never ceases, for His
compassions never fail.  They are new every morning.  Great is Thy
faithfulness.  The LORD is my portion says my soul.  Therefore I have
hope in Him" (Lam.  3 22-24).  I have enough hope to last until
morning.

The list of available apartments at the rental agency offers no
encouragement.  When the agent advises walking through neighborhoods to
look for advertisements posted in the local shops or in the windows of
homes, I wonder how many neighborhoods Michelle's six-year-old legs can
manage.  To begin our search, we need to change elevations.  The agent
suggests taking the Kelburn cable car to save climbing a steep
hillside, in addition to being fun.  Near the top of the incline,
Wellington's harbor, encircled by tree-covered hillsides with a
mountain range in the distance, comes into view.  The spectacular views
momentarily lift the pressure of finding a place to live until the
cable car stops with a jolt at the top.  Michelle and I follow the flow
of passengers into an area that appears too prosperous for my budget.

After walking a few blocks, wishfully thinking about living in the
basement of one of these fine homes or over a garage, the residences
end and a row of shops begins.  Michelle is single-minded about wanting
a cold drink to revive her.  Heading toward a corner grocery store, I
look for a community bulletin board but find none.  As I slowed down to
look at the map, a man's voice interrupts my concentration.  "Can I
help you find what you are looking for?  " Streams of shoppers are
eddying around the three of us as we stand in the middle of the
sidewalk.  The man, who is wearing jogging shorts and has a newspaper
under his arm, is willing to help.  I reply with expectant interest.

"I'm looking for an apartment to rent in this neighborhood.  Do you
know where ads might be posted?  " Shaking his head, he responds, "I
don't know of any bulletin boards, but a friend of mine may know of an
available apartment.  He works at this grocery store, the one in front
of us.  Wait over there while I go ask him."  He gestures us toward a
pewlike bench and returns in a few minutes, announcing that his friend
knows of an apartment located on this street, only a few hundred yards
beyond the shops.

On this side of the street, garages are at street level and paths
descend the hillsides into the glen below.  Trees and thick shrubbery
obscure the view of the houses from street level.  As we check the
street numbers above the garage doors, the man explains that his friend
doesn't know if the apartment is available now.  Due to a keen interest
in knowing more about the apartment, as well as the brevity of the
walk, I discover little about the man walking beside me.  At the garage
matching the number we have been given, a woman and a young girl, who
appears to be the same age as Michelle, are washing their car.  When we
inquire about the apartment for rent, Ruth, the owner, is surprised
that anyone should ask.  "My husband and I have not advertised it
because we're uncertain of our plans.  In fact, only one person, the
young man at the grocery store, knows that it might be available in the
future."  Noticing that the man who helped us has continued down the
street, I send a wave of gratitude in his direction.

The girls, who have been eyeing each other curiously, start walking
toward the house.  As Sara, Ruth's six-year-old daughter, and Michelle
peel off to jump on the trampoline, Ruth and I continue to the house.

The path, whose curves make it longer than I expect, might be an
annoyance when carrying groceries, but its seclusion is ideal for
hiding out.

The entrance to the basement apartment is tucked around the corner of
the house, not visible from the end of the path.  Only one side
receives daylight, since the back is pressed against the hillside.  The
smell of must dominates the small sitting room, which has potential for
coziness.  The galley-style kitchen is drab but offers a splendid view
of the forested glen.  A bathtub and refrigerator share the utility
room with a washer-dryer.  Retracing our steps to the end of the
sitting room, a minuscule hallway leads to the bedroom.  My nose tells
me that we are getting closer to the source of the musty smell.

Reluctantly, Ruth opens the bathroom door on the outside corner of the
bedroom.  On the walls, intricate tendrillike circles of mildew look as
if they have been applied with the consistency of design.  If mildew
patterns can accomplish such uniformity, why can't the freckles on my
arm coalesce to form an even tan?  I ask myself.  Ruth apologetically
explains that the walls need to be cleaned before painting can be
done.

Eager to secure a hold on this apartment, I offer to clean the mildewed
walls, a small price to pay for living in a lovely neighborhood near
shopping and a school.

Ruth and I retreat from the musty odor to talk upstairs in her
kitchen.

She asks, "How did you find out about this apartment?  " After I
explain our encounter with the man on the sidewalk, she reflects, "I
didn't recognize him, which surprises me, since I have lived in this
village for fifteen years.  Does he live here?  " "I don't know.  I
didn't find out much about him."  Ruth is respectfully curious about
our situation an American woman and child living in a youth hostel and
wanting to set up a new life in a foreign country.  Although I like
her, sharing our circumstances with someone I have known for only
thirty minutes makes me cautious.

However, trust works both ways.  Coming off the street as a stranger, I
can offer no references, only the truth, an incredible story that Ruth
believes.  After she has talked with her husband, Peter, the apartment
is offered to us and accepted.  Since Ruth and Peter had no idea of
renting the apartment yet, scheduling renovations--namely new
carpeting-catches them off guard.  A week of work in the apartment will
be necessary before we can occupy it.  They graciously offer their
guest room for us to stay in until the work is completed, but I don't
feel comfortable barging into their household, no matter how eager I am
to swap the transient crowd at the hostel for family life.  To
accommodate both our needs, the three of us devise a plan.  Michelle
and I will spend the following night in their guest room before leaving
for a week's excursion to the South Island while the carpet is being
laid.

On the way back to the hostel, I marvel at the extraordinary sequence
of events of the past few hours, bringing us to an apartment (including
a bed and a refrigerator) tucked away on a lovely

The Light Down Under

hillside.  Michelle and I are not eager to pack our travel bags again,
but coming home to our own place and the prospect of attending school
will make this trip more like a vacation.  Michelle likes having Sara
and Frances, her older sister, upstairs as companions.  Already, she
has been invited to go swimming with them the next afternoon.

Two DAYS LATER AT THE HARBOR, MICHELLE AND I BOARD THE Interlslander
Ferry for the three-hour crossing from Wellington to the South Island,
watching the porpoises play in the Cook Strait.  Through the Tory
Channel, land and water meet abruptly with bush-clad mountains dropping
steeply into the fjord.  On the South Island, the Coastal Pacific train
to Christchurch squeezes between rocks engulfed in sea foam and the
Kaikaua Mountains.

Christchurch lives up to its reputation as "a distinctive touch of
England."  The willow-lined River Avon flows gently through the city,
carrying boating students.  The English breakfast including a grilled
tomato, a piece of fried bread, and a piece of bacon is identical to
one I remember in Oxford.  The spacious sky to the west reminds me of
Wyoming, hinting at the Canterbury Plains, which are several hundred
cricket fields away, the frontier being closer than England.

After Christchurch, the train crosses the Canterbury Plains and
traverses a river gorge on a viaduct higher than Christchurch
Cathedral.  At Arthur's Pass, surrounded by high mountain lakes and trout
rivers, the train reaches its highest point in the Southern Alps.

Then, as if by tectonic magic, the plains vanish as the train descends
to the sea through lush rainforests--nothing short of a continental
make over.

At Greymouth, we transfer to a bus.  Arriving at Fox Glacier, only
three of us have no lodging reservations, it is the end-ofsummer
tourist rush, and all the budget rooms were reserved long ago.  The
patient bus driver takes responsibility for us, even offering us a room
with his family if all else fails.  One expensive room at the Fox
Glacier Hotel is vacant.  Michelle and I and a woman from England
decide to share it, splitting the cost.

At dusk, Michelle, our roommate, and I tramp through fern groves and
subtropical vegetation, heading for a local tourist attraction, the
Glow Worm Grotto.  The grotto isn't really a cave but a hollowed-out
circular path exposing a cross-section of earth.  Sprinkles of light
glow with unearthly luminescence amid the subterranean tangles.

Shining the flashlight on the spot, we see only roots and clods of
earth, taking on faith the presence of small beetles with glowing
tails.

The hamlet of Fox Glacier is scenic, but experiencing the grandeur of
the mountains requires transportation.  The three of us hire a van
driver to take us to the glacier where we walk on ancient ice that has
been receding since the 1950s.  The top crust, dirty from the summer
season, needs a dusting of snow to restore its freshness.  Our driver
warns us not to leave shiny objects, such as jewelry or keys, Lying
around.  Distraught motorists at the glacier have been seen stalking
the native kea, a scruffy-looking alpine parrot, who has a reputation
for snatching unattended keys.

Michelle and I board a bus to return to the plains, where we view Mount
Cook from the other side of the Southern Alps, having been dazzled by
its reflection at Lake Matheson on the rainforest side.  The Maoris
named Mount Cook "Cloud Piercer, " but today only a tuft of cloud
brushes up against the stone face.

In Mackenzie country, the sheep fill the road, eddying to either side
of the bus, which stops and waits for the woolly clump to pass.

The turquoise hue of Lake Tekapo results from the glacial rock "flour"
suspended in its water, complementing the palette of tawny colored
grasses.  Michelle photographs me hanging on to a bronze monument
honoring the sheepdog.  Both of us long to stroke Arcturus's velvet
ears.

Thei ght Down WHEN THE INTERISLANDER BRINGS US BACK TO WELLINGTON A
week later, Peter is waiting to pick us up.  "Chris, have you heard the
news about another American girl who has been hiding in New Zealand?

Her mother is a doctor who went to prison."

"Dr.  Elizabeth Morgan's daughter?  " "That's the one."

"Where did they find her?  " "She was living in Christchurch."

"Oh, good grief.  Michelle and I only left Christchurch this morning.

It must be buzzing with reporters from America.  Has the story been
publicized much?  " "It's a big story in today's paper."

"Peter, this isn't good.  Why couldn't Elizabeth Morgan's daughter
remain in hiding a bit longer, at least until Michelle and I left New
Zealand?  It flags New Zealand as being a hiding place."

"You're right, Chris.  It's not the best timing for you and
Michelle."

Becoming even more concerned after reading the newspaper account, I
learn that Dr. Morgan's daughter, who is slightly older than Michelle,
used the name Ellen in hiding.  The choice of New Zealand as a place to
hide and the choice of names by Hilary Morgan says to Jim, "Here we
are.  Come and get us."  I feel like a sitting duck, but instead of
fleeing I am grounding our position by moving into an apartment and
enrolling Michelle in school.

THE JOURNEY TO SCHOOL CONSISTS OF HIKING UP THE PATH, walking past
three houses, and crossing a street.  Enrolling Michelle as a pupil
without documentation is risky.  As we wait to speak to the principal,
I concentrate on relaxing, not wanting to appear as desperate as I
feel.  If necessary, I will emphasize the fact that Ruth, a special
education teacher known at this school, has trusted us enough to rent
us an apartment in the basement of her home.  After cordial
introductions, the principal asks about Michelle's age (six), previous
schooling (kindergarten) and why we have moved to New Zealand (new
start following a divorce).

These warmup questions are easy to answer, but soon the conversation
turns to passports and immunization records.  When she asks to see our
passports, I fuss through my bag, apologizing for having forgotten
them, along with the immunization record.  I hate to lie, knowing that
the passports are touching me and that the immunization record is with
my parents.  She asks me to bring them to the office the following day,
but says Michelle can begin classes today if she likes.  I check myself
from expressing profuse gratitude toward this wonderful woman, who
enrolls Michelle in school.  The passport dilemma is postponed.

Hopefully, the principal, who may suspect the nature of our situation,
will never find her mental way back to this administrative detail.  I
plan to let this sleeping dog lie.

The principal leads us to a classroom, calling the teacher into the
hallway for introductions.  Within minutes, Michelle and I are standing
before a class of twenty-five children whose curious eyes are directed
toward the new American girl.  Michelle shrinks shyly from this
singular attention, but the teacher's warm welcome puts her at ease.

She is given a desk next to another new student, Alex, a girl from
Christchurch.  Stalling for time to see how things go with Michelle, I
scan the walls, which are lined with colorful displays of New Zealand
lizards and birds, the current topic of study.  Having already
encountered the wall-climbing gecko outside our apartment, I am
relieved to learn that it is harmless.  The bird pictures are familiar
from the New Zealand paper currency.  Each bill denomination features a
different native bird, culminating with the $100 bill displaying the
takahe, which is making a successful comeback from near extinction.

When I leave, Michelle looks self-conscious, but she is talking to
Alex, who soon becomes a close friend.

After four weeks of constant togetherness, having a five-hour break
from Michelle's company is glorious.  On the way to the city center, I
walk through a succession of public cut-throughs l

The Light Down Under down the hillside.  Lined by wooden fences, these
walkways run past people's yards, bringing me nearer the windows of
homes beside the path than would be accepted in America.  It's tempting
to glance in through the windows, at people moving around their
cozy-looking kitchens surrounded by familiar things, but I keep my eyes
straight ahead toward the views of the bay and the city, looking
neither to the right nor the left.  I don't want to be reminded of what
I'm missing and what I've lost.

The safety deposit vaults are located in the bowels of the Bank of New
Zealand.  As the talking elevator drones on, I imagine what would
happen to the thirty-plus stories above me if an earthquake were to
occur, like San Francisco, New Zealand sits on the edge of several
tectonic plates.  But I feel shaky for another reason Does today's
success of enrolling Michelle in school, coupled with finding a
well-situated apartment, preclude the success of this venture?  Too
much success, like too much failure, can make one feel insecure.

The incandescent friendliness of the vaultkeeper brightens the
fluorescent environment.  This bank official, dressed in khaki shorts
and walking shoes, looks more like a misplaced park ranger, but
strolling through the Wellington business district has accustomed me to
summer business attire.  I complete the safety deposit box application
in the name of Chris Williams and hold my breath.  Without asking for
identification, the official leads me into the vault and pulls out a
box, which I take to a tinted glass enclosure offered for the
convenience of the bank patrons.  For my purposes, the glass could have
been tinted even more to conceal these undressing maneuvers from anyone
watching from the reception area.  Airfares have exhausted the sternum
necklace, leaving hiding places only in the leather belt, the midriff
pouch, and the shoes.  Snipping the dental floss stitches on the zipper
with the miniature scissors of my Swiss Army knife, I retrieve the
bills, which appear to be permanently creased.  Next, I unzip my jeans
to pull off the midriff pouch, which displays the same convex curvature
of my stomach.  Then, removing the inner soles from my shoes, I pull
out bills molded, through heat and pressure, into the shape of my
instep.  To my consternation, several have partially disintegrated.  By
now, the enclosure smells like a locker room--no laundered money
here.

I slip the money, totaling $15, 000 in American currency, into an
envelope, which becomes my bank account.  Keeping out the disintegrated
bills, I test their currency status immediately.  The cashier at the
foreign currency exchange accepts them, but her nose twitches.

From the perspective of a fugitive, storing cash in a safety deposit
box has a downside.  Besides the money accruing no interest, I
relinquish immediate access to the money, which can now only be
retrieved during banking hours.  God only knows what I will do if we
need to leave Wellington in a hurry, but the exhilaration of shedding
the money dispels all other concerns for the moment.  The Maori name
for New Zealand means "the land of the long white cloud, " and my steps
are as light as any of the clouds above me.  The brilliance of the
sunlight gives the shadows a cleaner edge.  Ruth had mentioned the
striking radiance of light in New Zealand, advising us to wear
sunglasses to protect our eyes.  Years later, I learn from teaching
geography that a thinning of the ozone layer above the South Pole
permits more ultraviolet rays to reach this part of the globe.  Will
"the land of ultraviolet rays" provide sufficient shadows for hiding?

I ask myself.

Walking home through the campus of Victoria University reminds me of
the graduate students and faculty I left in San Francisco without
saying goodbye.  I ache with homesickness, now that some of the
survival pressure has been removed.  In San Francisco, I was advised
not to phone America during the first month or two when everyone would
be pumped up to find us.

Now my imagination runs rampant, and I fear that one of my three
elderly grandparents has died, or that Jim has threatened my parents
for information of our whereabouts.  The worrying suspense drains me.

Will my mother's blood pressure and my father's heart condition be
strained by the stress of not knowing where we are?  Their survival
depends on knowing that Michelle

The Light Down Under

and I are safe.  Without hearing from us, my mother may have conjured
up the worst possible scenario our living on the street, our capture,
or our deaths.  I am not certain which one of these would be the most
terrifying to her.  I long to call America, but bad news might paralyze
tentative efforts at beginning a new life in Wellington.

CREATING AS NORMAL A LIFE AS POSSIBLE FOR MICHELLE AND myself ranks as
an objective on the same hierarchical level as staying safe.

For Michelle, school and church contacts open opportunities for
birthday parties, sleepovers, and dance lessons in a church hall.

Sunday dinner invitations fill our schedule and our stomachs with lamb,
kumara (the Maori sweet potato), velvety ice cream, and pavlova, a
meringue piled with cream and kiwifruit, which elevates "luscious" to
new heights.

During the weekends, friends include us on family swim outings at the
elaborate public facilities around Wellington, where New Zealanders
develop gills when they are not tramping through the rugged outdoors.

School balances Michelle's time, but I suffer from having no weekly
routine, except aerobic classes at the university and walking Michelle
to and from school.  While other children walk to school unaccompanied
by an adult, I operate in a different mode, compelled always to be on
watch.

To institute more routine in our life, I propose having a Friday night
celebration, a weekly event to look forward to.  Although the details
vary from week to week, the festivities usually include dinner at
McDonald's, a trip to the library, and the purchase of an inexpensive
gift for Michelle, usually something for school.  I am amazed how
assigning gift status to a notepad, an ink pen, or a pair of socks
magnifies the satisfaction it gives her.  When it rains on Friday
evenings, we eat pizza or fish and chips at home in front of the rented
TV.

On one of our Friday evening excursions, a fingernail moon shines over
Wellington's harbor, reminding us of my parents.  The light of the moon
triggers a serious talk with Michelle, who releases some pent-up
frustrations.  When Michelle has had a bad day at school, fiery darts
fly in my direction from the short fuse of her temper, because she
knows her anger is safe with me.

"Bebe and Granddaddy are thinking of us tonight.  Mommy, I want to go
back to America and see them in Kentucky.  The kids at school talk
about their grandparents and ask me questions about Daddy.  I don't
know what to say.  I tell them that I don't want to talk about it.  "
"Sweetheart, sometimes I don't know what to say when their mothers ask
me about your father.  I tell them that I'm divorced and starting a new
life, but they look at me in a funny way."

"I want to see Sister Elise [Ellen's babysitter in California].  I miss
my friends at kindergarten .  . . Catherine the most.  Does Sister
Elise know where we are?  " "No one knows where we are."

"Can we go back to America without seeing Daddy?  I love Daddy, but I
want to live with you.  I want to see Daddy sometime.  Is he going to
die?  " "It's not possible to go back to America without seeing
Daddy.

I know that you love him.  When we left America, do you remember how
well he looked?  He still has the illness that gives him trouble
breathing."

"What's it called?  " "Your dad was treated for pneumonia, which caused
his lungs not to work properly."  After walking a little way in
silence, Michelle brings up another concern.

"What happened to the toys in my room?  The girls here have things that
I had in America.  When my friends come to my house here after school,
there's nothing to play with."

"I know.  I wish it were different, but I can't buy you lots of toys
because I must be careful about how I spend our money.  You remember
that Daddy and I were selling the house before we left?

The Light Down Under

All of our things will be boxed and waiting for us when we return.  "
Michelle has given up so much.  Desperate to make her happy, I entreat,
"Don't you like living in New Zealand?  " "Yes, but I'd rather live in
America, " she says simply.  The conversation has come full circle, and
the uppermost question in Michelle's mind hasn't been answered.

MICHELLE ISN T THE ONLY ONE WHO FEELS FRUSTRATED AND lonely for contact
with home.  In San Francisco, my mother and I had agreed on a U. S.

A.

telephone contact, Marcella, her close childhood friend.

Unbeknownst to my mother, I had arranged for other family friends, Joy
and Wayne, to act as the initial contact so that Marcella becomes the
intermediary.  Planning for the day I call America, using a phone card
from a public telephone seems the safest option to avoid calls being
traced.  Calling from New Zealand during school hours in the early
afternoon works out to be bedtime in Kentucky, a mutually convenient
time in both countries.

One afternoon about two months after leaving America, when I can wait
no longer, I insert my phone card in a public telephone on the campus
of Victoria University, but I still worry about the call being
traced.

My skin tingles from anticipation, not knowing what to expect.

The news from home could be good or bad.

Feeling as though someone has their fingers around my neck, I press the
numbers with slow deliberation.  "Hello, " says the familiar voice,
which does not sound sleepy.  "Joy, this is Janie, " I whisper
self-consciously.

"Janie!  I can't believe it's you.  Are you both OK?  We have been so
concerned for you.  Let me get Wayne."  In seconds, Wayne, her husband,
is speaking into the receiver.  "Janie, are you and Ellen all right?  "
Before he can question me further, I blurt out, "Is everyone at home
OK?  Have you seen my parents?  " "I talked to my dad, who said that
everyone is fine.  Your parents aren't saying much, so I don't have
much to tell you.  I can't push too hard for information because I
don't want him to suspect anything--that I'm your contact."

"That's OK.  I just need to know that everyone is still alive.  My
mother will be tight-lipped about all of this.  She is not telling
anyone, not even my grandparents, when she receives word about us."  It
is strange to hear familiar voices calling me Janie.  I remind myself
to say Ellen, instead of Michelle.

"Wayne, I can tell you so little about our life here.  Please reassure
my parents that God is meeting our needs.  Ellen is in school and
taking dance lessons.  We have an apartment that is safe and in a nice
neighborhood, and friends have been wonderfully supportive.

Wayne, I don't want to talk too long.  I can't imagine how this call
could be traced from your phone, but anything seems possible.  "
"Janie, in your situation, it's better to be safe than sorry."

"I don't know when I'll call again--a month or so from now."

"Call us anytime, any hour.  When I call Marcella, this friend of your
mother's, I won't give my name."

"That's right.  Just say that you are a friend of the family.

Don't mention my name, in case the FBI bugs her phone."  As the phone
card counts down the seconds, I remember another important detail.

"Wayne, when you talk with Marcella, mention the words fingernail
moon.

Then my parents will know the message is from me."  The phone card
beeps and then cuts us off.  I sigh with relief.

For a fleeting moment, apprehension about my family is gone.

ACCORDING TO RUTH, WORKING WIVES AND MOTHERS LIKE herself in our area
need housecleaning services.  Having arranged with her to do weekly
cleaning and ironing to offset the rent, I'm eager to line up
additional work.  Within a few weeks of advertising on the community
bulletin board, I have cleaning jobs ar .  =

The Light Down Under ranged from Monday to Friday too much routine, but
the extra cash comes in handy.  The mother of Michelle's friend, Alex,
accompanies me on several cleaning jobs, picking me up in her 1950s
silver Jaguar.  We consider starting a housecleaning business together,
but Bite the Dust Cleaning turns out to be the right venture at the
wrong time.  Soon, our passports will identify Michelle and me as
overstaying our three-month tourist visas in New Zealand.

Despite all the positive benefits of living in Wellington, the
predictability of life here makes me uneasy.  Jim could have hired
private detectives to track us from Auckland, or the FBI could be
making inquiries at fitness centers and churches in Wellington at this
very moment.  Jim would know where to look for me.  Now when I hear
footsteps on the wooden boards of our porch, I stiffen and peer
cautiously from the windows before opening the door, expecting a
confrontation with him.  I have no reason to suspect that our hiding
place is threatened, but I am losing confidence that we are safe from
discovery in New Zealand.  Not knowing puts me on edge, the edge of
despair.

Restlessness intensifies after our immigration visas expire, but
leaving the security of New Zealand troubles me.  Michelle could be out
of school for an indefinite period of time, and the expense of air
travel and living in hotels could exhaust our money supply.

Although I have been frugal in New Zealand except for travel
excursions, which I look forward to, the stack of bills is dwindling.

In the near future, the supply will need replenishing, but few American
Express offices exist in New Zealand for receiving Moneygrams.  The
islands of New Zealand, unlike the countries of Europe, don't provide a
compact political-geographical structure for picking up money in
various locations.

The pendulum of uncertainty knocks around inner peace.

Emotions seesaw between the hope of staying and the despair of going.

Life is comfortable here, but it could become unsafe.

While I was growing up, my father used to advise me at times of
indecision to "Do something, even if it's wrong."  I have never
understood the wisdom of this admonition until now, when the inability
to make a decision is turning me into a jellyfish.  Leaving New Zealand
might turn out to be the "wrong" action, but then circumstances hint
that staying could be "wrong, " too.  There's no way to know whether my
shot-in-the-dark decision will turn out for good or for ill.

After about four months in New Zealand (one month as an overstayer), my
body reacts from the tension within.  During the wee hours of the
morning, as Michelle sleeps next to me in the apartment's solitary bed,
I wake up sweating, with a pounding pulse.  A swig of antacid gloop
gives no relief.  If these symptoms are leading to a heart attack,
Michelle could awaken to find me dead.  On the other hand, this could
be an anxiety attack.  Her vulnerability makes my heart pound harder.

The triage desk at the hospital recommends coming to the emergency
room, but that would mean waking Michelle and hiking up to the road at
2

A. M. to meet a taxi, or calling upstairs for help.  A few minutes of
reflection convince me that receiving medical care at the hospital is
impossible anyway, since I can't risk using my passport for
registration purposes.

I phone a doctor friend from church, but he is out of town until the
next morning.  His wife offers to come to our apartment immediately,
but nothing can be done.  All action in the human realm is blocked.

The pounding lets up a bit when I acknowledge helplessness, the
inability to control even the beating of my heart, and eases more when
I accept death, which is what I fear the most.  From the hand of the
Great Physician, I receive a dose of peace, just enough to put me to
sleep--for a few hours, not eternity.

Early the next morning Michelle and I are awakened by our dear friends,
the doctor and his family, knocking frantically at the door.

By now I feel fine and the symptoms are gone.  Michelle asks, "Why are
they here so early?  "

I

The Light Down Under NOT LONG AFTER THIS INCIDENT, MICHELLE AND I
RECEIVE AN invitation that sheds light on the path leading from New
Zealand.  The leader of a church club Michelle attends invites us for a
weekend outing to Paraparaumu, the beach I had noticed on our initial
train ride to Wellington.  The beach is beautifully littered with jaw
breaker-sized pumice, sculptured driftwood, and mottled shells with
wedding cake tops.  Walking at the water's edge near the foam lines
reminds us of our strolls at Ocean Beach in San Francisco, but the sand
between our toes in New Zealand has a different feel.

Toward evening, driftwood is collected to make a bonfire for roasting
hot dogs and marshmallows.  Huddled around the fire to take the chill
off the night air, my friend and I discuss our future plans.

Her lodger, a young woman from Malaysia, returns to Singapore soon to
begin a new job.  In Singapore, Michelle could attend an
English-speaking school and there may even be employment for me as a
tutor in English.  Upon arriving in Singapore, she will consult her
employer, who is well connected in the city, about helping us establish
a life there.  Living in Singapore sounds hopeful.  In the brilliantly
clear autumn sky, the Southern Cross is above the beach and a
fingernail moon hangs over Kapiti Island.

MICHELLE's REACTION TO LEAVING NEW ZEALAND SURPRISES me.  Saying
goodbye to friends and her school isn't as traumatic as I imagined it
would be.  Although I tell her that we are still on our "adventure" and
Singapore will be a stopover, she believes that leaving New Zealand
will bring her one step closer to America.  I wonder how long the
"adventure" theme will appease her frustration.  Would there ever come
a time when Michelle might contact America on her own?  As always, I
can't answer her question about when we will be returning home.

At a final meeting with Reverend Brown, we discuss a departure
itinerary as well as the Singapore option.  Disappearing in western
Australia on a nine-hour visa before flying to Singapore is rejected as
being too risky.  Stopping over in Singapore, which has a reputation
for being safe, is preferable to Hong Kong for a woman traveling alone
with a child.

Leaving the country could be risky after overstaying for two months.

We don't know how immigration will react to this breach of the rules.

Judging from the media concerning the Hilary Morgan case, New Zealand
doesn't want to become a haven for fugitives protecting children.  Laws
pertaining to future custody cases have been proposed to strengthen the
power of extradition.  Leaving New Zealand from Christchurch may offer
less resistance for overstayers than Auckland, an immigration hotspot,
and would draw attention away from Wellington if anyone discovers these
reservations in the future.  Reverend Brown, who has formerly been a
pastor in Christchurch, writes a letter to present to immigration (if
necessary) verifying that I have not been a burden to the state, or
anyone else, during our five-month stay in New Zealand.

Thinking beyond Singapore, Greece offers a good currency exchange rate
and relatively inexpensive living costs.  Visiting the island of
Rhodes, the site of my thesis topic, is an enticement for stopping in
Greece.  For a woman traveling solo with a child, Athens would be
better than Istanbul, which arouses my curiosity as a stopover on our
way to Europe.  Reverend Brown suggests the Isle of Man, off the
western coast of England, for seeking protection in the isolation of an
island, as I had in New Zealand, but, looking at the map, the small
island looks too confining.  I leave my true name and my parents'
address with him in the event something drastic happens to us.  After
our departure from New Zealand, he plans to write my parents a letter
of encouragement.

Before saying goodbye, Reverend Brown takes a snapshot of me with my
back against the generic brick of the church building for enclosure
with the letter.  In this case, a picture will be worth more than a
thousand words, particularly to my mother, whose fears are not allayed
by messages without my voice behind them.

The Light Down Under 71

l OUR GOODBYES COINCIDE WITH THE MIDWINTER FEAST, cEt Ebrated with
dinners and gifts, a pleasant diversion from thinking about leaving a
place which feels like home.  Bone-tired exhaustion sets in from the
emotional fatigue of saying goodbye to friends who have cared for us as
loved ones.  As I clean the refrigerator and pack our bags on the eve
of our departure, I must leave behind many items I would like to
take.

A box of winter clothes is left behind to be sent to us later whenever
and wherever we establish our next residence.  The carry-on standard is
strained to the limit by our bulging suitcases and an extra tote bag.

Continually, I cross-examine myself to determine whether reason or fear
is propelling our departure from New Zealand.  The phrase "hit the
ground running" pervades my thoughts.  Although this is what I need to
do in Singapore, little energy remains to hit the ground, running or
otherwise.  Despite our weariness, Michelle and I are ready when the
mother of a classmate drives us to Wellington Airport for the flight to
Christchurch and on to Singapore.

Five.

Under the Juniper Tree.

, , It is enough now, O Lord, take my life.

--ELUAH IN THE OFFICIAL GUIDE, SINGAPORE ADVERTISES ITSELF AS BEING
"safe, clean, green, and always hospitable, " comforting words for
fugitives seeking a haven.  Immigration offers us one month of
hospitality as fanlike ferns wave welcome in the airport terminal.

The hot humid air from outside infiltrates the environmentally
controlled air of the terminal.  The flight crew has warned me that
accommodation options in Singapore are limited to international hotel
chains.  Opting for predictability and a central location, I make a
reservation at one in the city center.  Michelle warms to staying in
Singapore instantly when she learns that the hotel has a rooftop
swimming pool.

The Chinese taxi driver surprises me by being a deacon at a church in
Singapore.  It is as if God has appeared to chauffeur us in a city
where only 3 percent of the population profess Christianity.  Handing
me a church card, he invites us to attend his church, thus providing a
vital contact in a city of strangers in case of an accident or a
medical emergency.  If my appendix had been

. L

removed before leaving America, I would have one less medical emergency
to worry about.

Amid rows of stately palms, Singapore is gearing up to celebrate
twenty-five years of independence.  Banners laud the slogan ONE PEOPLE,
ONE NATION, ONE COUNTRY.  Michelle gets a kick from watching the
rickshaw bicycles hold their own with cars in bumper-to-bumper
traffic.

The steel and glass towers are edging out the low, shuttered buildings
with street-level colonnades which, in times past, sheltered shopping
stalls.  Few of these architectural beauties remain, I'm a generation
too late to experience the intrigue of old Singapore.

Our hotel room is opulent compared to the New Zealand apartment.

Here, we don't flinch when pulling back the shower curtains as we had
there, expecting to see gargantuan spiders and rarely being
disappointed.  Before heading to the pool, I question the hotel
receptionist relentlessly about the security of the hotel safe for
holding cash.  When her voice indicates that she is becoming impatient
with my queries, I yearn to say, "You don't understand how vital this
money is to my daughter and me.  If other hotel guests lose their
money, they can get new Travelers Cheques at American Express or call
home for money, but I can't."  To her, I appear neurotic.

During a break from swooping Michelle up and down in the pool, I write
a letter to my parents, intending to mail it on our way out of
Singapore to friends in Kentucky, who will then send it on to my
parents.  Every word is scrutinized for location-giving detail, even
the blank stationery is held up to the sunlight to inspect the
watermark.  Mostly, the letter includes assurances about our well-being
and expressions from the lips of Michelle.

Important details, such as where we have been, where we are, and where
we are going, are omitted.  Although the sanitized letter is boring, my
parents will hang on every word originating from my hand and dote on
Michelle's drawings, signed Ellen.

When the late-afternoon thunderstorms drive Michelle from the pool, I
call our Malaysian friend, who has arranged to intro i duce us to her
employer, Mr. Lee, the following afternoon.  His administrative
connections could be helpful in establishing a life in Singapore.  One
disadvantage about hiding in Singapore is that Michelle and I do not
blend physically with the ethnic Chinese and Malay populations.

Presumably, our lives would center in the suburbs, where American
tourists tend not to frequent.  Trying to predict Jim's hunches on our
whereabouts, Singapore doesn't seem to be a contender, although I could
be wrong.  Several countries down the line, I learn from my mother that
the inspector at the district attorney's office in San Francisco had
suspected our initial hiding place as being New Zealand, not Europe, as
I had guessed.

The sanctuary of the Church of the Good Shepherd is crowded on this
Fifteenth Ordinary Sunday, as noted in the church bulletin.  If only I
could experience some ordinary days, Sundays or otherwise.  From the
sermon title, Receiving the Word I anticipate words of encouragement
from God.  The text for the sermon is the parable of the sower and the
seeds in Matthe 13, and I try to facilitate God's speaking to me by
adapting the parable to our experiences of living on the run.  The
seed, or gospel, represents my decision to flee with Ellen, falling on
various "soils, " or circumstances of the journey, symbolized by the
growth of the plant.  Initially, the seed falls to the ground and is
snatched by disbelief immediately, never taking root.

Michelle and I are past this stage, where the seminal idea of fleeing
sprang up in San Francisco and became rooted in the soil of
experience.

In the second soil, the words from God are believed for a while, but
the temptation to doubt eventually causes the plant to wither and die,
in New Zealand, the rocky circumstances of finding a place to live
almost cut off the shallow roots of perseverance, but I had endured the
temptation to go home.  In the third stage, the plant, or journey, is
in danger of being "choked" with the thorns of worry, riches, and
pleasure, at this point, the last two thorns seem more desirable than
suffocating, but the thorn of worry is omnipresent, popping up
everywhere to test my spiritual fortitude.  In the final stage, the
plant survives to bear fruit, symbolizing the journey's end, when
protection is accomplished, although God might define fruit-bearing
differently from me.

Through the sermon, God implies, "just as a fruit-bearing plant doesn't
happen overnight, neither will the purposes of this journey come to
fruition without sufficient time."  Although I expected this journey to
take time, I had estimated it would last six months, or a year at the
most, my mother had predicted the journey would last longer.  In my
impatience, I tend to underestimate time, whether I'm packing to catch
a plane or learning to trust God again.  I continually pester God with
"How long, O Lord?  , " but more pertinent questions for this journey
would be "How long, O Lord, before I trust YOU?  What's the minimum
time required?  ll

Almost forty-two years of living have conditioned me that expectations
calibrated at a high threshold in the imagination let me down more
times than not.  Living by expectations defeats my spirit with the
deadliest weapon of all for attacking the Achilles' heel of the heart
disappointment.  Life isn't a roulette game operating on the chance of
expectations, because God, not I, knows where the chips will fall.  God
reiterates, "Don't expect, just trust.

This journey won't end until trust, as well as protection, comes to
fruition.  The seed for trust has taken root in Canada, Tokyo, New
Zealand, and now Singapore."  I leave the church feeling as if the
journey is just beginning.

Later in the afternoon at the hotel, Michelle and I are introduced to
Mr. Lee and his children.  Our meeting is brief, since he leaves on a
business trip later in the day, but he suggests that we talk tomorrow
when he returns to Singapore late in the evening.

He invites Michelle and me to stay at his home, where he often extends
hospitality to friends.  Although he assures me that our presence at
his spacious home would not be an intrusion, I refuse his kind
invitation.  I don't know him well enough to feel comfortable staying
in his home.

The next day is filled with animals, exotic and otherwise

Under the Juniper Tree

l

I

i komodo dragons and penguins at the zoo and parrots riding bicycles on
trapeze wires at Jurong Bird Park.  Michelle selects colorful
hummingbird earrings for her grandmother, ones that will be treasured
but never worn.  At the Bird Park, what really captures our attention
is a sign above the toilet in the ladies' rest room that reads $250

FINE FOR FAILING TO FLUSH TOILET.  Instinctively, I look for cameras
but don't see any way to verify a nonflush.

Back at the hotel, Michelle scratches itchy red blotches covering her
arms and legs, having provided nourishment for many mosquitoes during
the day.  A tube of cream from the pharmacy has only a sketch of a
mosquito surrounded by Chinese characters to assure me of its soothing
purpose.  Riding in a rickshaw bicycle during five o'clock traffic
diverts Michelle's attention from scratching more than the cream
does.

After returning to our room for the evening, I page Mr. Lee as he had
requested.  Sleep does not come easily for Michelle, who is distracted
by the itching.  Although ready for sleep, I stay awake for Mr. Lee's
call, which comes at midnight from the lobby of our hotel.

When he suggests that Michelle and I meet him downstairs, I explain
about Michelle's difficulty in getting to sleep.

Knowing that Mr. Lee's busy schedule permits few appointment
opportunities, I suggest that we talk in our room so that Michelle can
continue sleeping.

Desperate to know whether Singapore is to be simply a stopover or a
place of more permanence, I ask him about living expenses,
English-speaking schools, and opportunities for employment.  Mr. Lee,
who speaks excellent English, offers encouragement at the prospect of
our living in Singapore but no concrete details.  The conversation
moves toward our personal situations, his of being a widower, and our
life of being on the run, which doesn't surprise him, since he has been
informed of our circumstances.  Moving closer, he puts his arm around
my shoulders as a gesture of comfort, but his next move catches me off
guard.  Confounded by his attempt to kiss me, I jerk backward, lose my
balance, and fall sideways, sputtering that I'm not interested in
"that."  Both of us are bewildered by the actions of the other.  We
avoid eye contact, with conversation continuing awkwardly as we
contemplate how to escape without appearing to do so.  Struggling to
conceal embarrassment and agitation, I do not want to expose how
wounded I feel.  Saying goodbye at the door, Mr. Lee advises me not to
stay in Singapore but to look for a man of similar culture in Canada,
or the United States, to marry.

Confusion makes responding to this parting shot difficult.  I mumble
that marrying is the last thing on my mind, as I'm not certain of being
legally divorced.  We wish each other well, and the door shuts on Mr.
Lee and Singapore.

I feel like screaming but don't.  want to wake up Michelle.  In hushed
tones, I express my anger and confusion to the mirror, the walls, the
bed pillows, alternately raging against myself and against Mr.  Lee.

How could I have been so stupid not to have seen it coming?

Giving Mr. Lee the benefit of the doubt, a major cultural
misunderstanding has occurred.  He anticipated helping our situation by
supplying us with a new name, as well as the legal documents
accompanying it.  Addressing the ceiling, I mutter, "God, I interpret
this incident as a catalyst to move us on from Singapore."  If
possible, I would leave Singapore tonight.

Will the day ever come when I see humor in the humiliation of this
misunderstanding?  I ask myself.

The next morning, following the itinerary I planned in New Zealand, I
reserve seats on a flight departing for Athens in the evening.  Since
reserving ahead for lodging means staying at an expensive hotel, I
decide to take our chances with tourist information at the Athens
airport.  Greece will serve as a vacation stopover on our way to a
place of residence somewhere in Europe.  Floating in the world without
the grounding of roots is eating away at something inside me.

My soul needs to arrive at an oasis that links me with who I am, it
thirsts for the companionship of friends who know me, like Janet in
Scotland or Gabriella in Italy, who both crossed my path in America.

Sadly, visiting l

!

'T' t these friends known by Jim is risky, but a dry, shriveling soul
can

ù be risky as well.  If I become too depressed, the journey is over.

Before leaving Singapore, I call Gabriella, who lives near Rome, to
alert her that we plan to visit Italy during the next few months.

Gabriella and I met while working at the same architectural office,
becoming friends before she and her husband, Francesco, returned to
Italy.  Although Gabriella and Francesco, Jim and I had spent time
together socially, Gabriella and I formed the foundation for the
friendship.  During the turmoil of the past year, letter-writing to
friends like Gabriella has halted.  She has no idea that Michelle and I
are on the run, or any knowledge of the events leading to our fleeing
America.  Despite the compassion she will feel for Jim and her
inclination to give him the benefit of the doubt, I am confident of her
loyalty.

Gabriella's familiar voice thrills me.  She has been concerned for our
welfare when attempts to contact us in San Francisco were
unsuccessful.

Hearing about our distressful situation is difficult for Gabriella to
comprehend during a brief phone call, and many questions must remain
unanswered until I see her.  Over and over, she repeats, "I can't
believe it.  I can't believe that Jim would do such a thing.  He is a
very intelligent man.  "

Under the Juniper Tree 79

ON THE NIGHT FLIGHT TO ATHENS, THE DESERT OIL FIELDS ARE a kaleidoscope
of illumination from the plane's window, oceans of blackness perforated
by islands of brilliant light.  At passport control, no obstacles block
our entry, but the stamp of our tourist visa is too smudged to reveal
how many months we can stay in Greece.

In the harsh fluorescence of the terminal, students sprawl on the
floor, using their luggage as headrests to catch up on sleep.

The hot, humid air intensifies the odor of vomit, sweat, and plane
exhaust.  Feeling queasy from the foul air, Michelle and I line up
behind others seeking a hotel room at 4 30 A. M.

At tourist information, we reserve a room in the center of Athens and
go outside to wait for a taxi in predawn darkness.

When a taxi pulls up to the curb, hands rush forward to grab the back
door handle.  Holding Michelle's hand and the luggage hinders me in the
dash to reach it.  I feel empathy with the blind man in the Bible who
had strived for years to be first to enter the stirring waters at the
pool of Bethesda Uohn 5 1-14).  The man's healing required Divine
intervention, which, in my case, slows the responses of those behind me
so that my hand touches the next taxi first.  When I show the driver
the reservation sheet, he looks puzzled.  When he doesn't recognize the
name of the hotel, my heart beats faster.

Traffic in downtown Athens is sparse at 5 30 A. M. Finding the street
is no problem, but the number doesn't seem to exist.  Spinning around
the block while peering at street numbers, our driver rams into the
back end of a taxi in front of us.  Without seat belts, Michelle and I
jolt forward but are not hurt.  Both drivers jump out to inspect the
bumpers, shouting and gesturing vigorously at one another.  A number of
fears have materialized in the thin morning air, a lesser one being
that the fare will be inflated to cover the damages.  After a few
minutes, our driver returns to the wheel in a bad mood, muttering to
himself in Greek.  On the next trip around the block, he jumps out at
an inconspicuous passageway, leaving us alone in the taxi.  Is he on a
mission to locate the hotel, or to settle a personal vendetta?  While I
am fiddling to lock the doors, he reappears, unloads our cases onto the
pavement, and motions for us to follow him.  There, situated in the
curve of an arcade, hidden from the street's view, is the Minerva
Hotel, where a room is reserved for us.

Stark fluorescent lights reveal a clean, functional lobby.  The setup
seems OK, but it is hard to judge the character of a hotel at 5

30 A. M. The woman at the front desk is reassuringly nice, but Michelle
is put out that there is no swimming pool.  The window in our small
cheerless room frames a brick wall and holds a window air conditioner
that puts out more noise than cool air, but the room is clean and the
adjoining bathroom makes it selfcontained.

During the dog days of August, Athens is inhabited by tourists and by
local residents who have stayed in the city to service the tourists.

Their faces wear the expression of wanting to be elsewhere, where the
air is cooler and sweeter.  While sight-seeing, I carry bottled water
for drinking and a bottle of tap water for pouring over Michelle when
she overheats.  When I suggest climbing the Acropolis, the fortified
hub of life in ancient Athens, Michelle is too hot to appreciate the
privilege.  Anticipating the experience makes me shiver with
excitement, even in the heat.

The upward path snakes through scrubby trees with dust from an entire
summer covering their leaves.  At the pinnacle, the sun strikes our
heads with blistering heat.  Intact monuments have been reconstructed
among the heaps of crumbling stones that are strewn around and Lying on
their sides.  Reconstruction of antiquities is unsettling.  I prefer to
see what Aristotle saw when he proposed the spherical nature of the
earth or, if that isn't possible, to see the ancient rubble of what he
saw.  Michelle is wilting, despite my efforts to cool her with splashes
of water.  After photographing a flushed Michelle in front of the
Parthenon with a camera on indefinite loan from a New Zealand friend,
we head down the hillside to buy cold drinks.

As we waited to cross the street at the base of the Acropolis, a large
tour bus stops directly in front of us and Tina Turner (known to
Michelle as Tina Turnip on Sesame Street) steps out.

Traffic in Athens stops.  She is dressed in a navy suit jacket and
slacks, and not an inch of her dynamite legs is showing.  As a
knee-jerk response, I scan the periphery for paparazzi, fearing that
our faces could appear in the background of an American TV show.  At
the entrance to the Theater of Dionysus on the other side of the
street, Tina Turner reverently kisses the ancient stone wall before
disappearing inside.  I want to call out, Wait!  I have wanted to tell
you something for years.  Once Ike [her former husband] mentioned on
television that you had experienced racial prejudice years ago at a
hotel in Kentucky, the site of my wedding reception.  I apologize for
whatever happened there.  I admire your spunk in fleeing from an
abusive situation.  You did what you had to do to survive, and I want
to survive with my daughter."  None of these words bounce off the
ancient stones, but stay within the walls of my heart.  How many times
had I left the aerobics class in San Francisco singing"What's Love Got
to Do with It"?  I am face-to-face with an American woman, a survivor,
who I recognize but who doesn't recognize me, not a bad deal for a
fugitive.  Unbeknownst to Tina Turner, she encourages my survival
spirit.  Motivated to encourage her in some way, albeit from afar, I
determine to pray for her welfare, initiating a celebrity prayer list
with Tina Turner's name at the top.

SPENDING TIME IN ATHENS DIRECTS MY THOUGHTS TOWARD MY graduate
thesis.

Before leaving San Francisco, I had mapped the incidence of favism on
the island of Rhodes, using the clinical data of a research
pediatrician in Athens.  Favism, or Mediterranean anemia, is an acute
blood disease occurring in some individuals after they eat fava, or
broad beans.  Tracking down Dr. Kattamis will be easy if he has
remained at the hospital I remember from the credits of the journal
article.  Hailing a taxi to take us to the hospital, I inquire at the
pediatrics department whether Dr. Kattamis is still on staff.  He is,
but he's not in the hospital today.

When Michelle and I return to the hospital the next day, we wait for
Dr.  Kattamis to return to his office after his clinic hours.

For times like these, the Golden Arches are handy to offer as a carrot
for good behavior, but Athens hasn't yet been chained with fast food.

As we pass the time in a playground near the hospital, my palms become
sweaty, not from the heat but from the likelihood of appearing foolish
during an interview with Dr. Kattamis.  Anxiously, I sift through
clinical symptoms, trying to recall without the aid of notes the ones
that apply to favism.  The harder I try to remember, the more memory
blocks I come up against--not a new phenomenon.  In New Zealand, I
spent hours i

Under the Juniper Tree trying to recall the names of friends in San
Francisco, even my Social Security number, to no avail.

It's possible that this respected physician will have no time to talk
with an American graduate student who intentionally presents no
academic credentials.  Yet, when approached, Dr. Kattamis is willing
to answer my questions about favism and is not put off by Michelle's
presence.  I am the only one uncomfortable until Dr. Kattamis puts me
at ease by pulling out tongue depressors for Michelle to play with.

The line between family life and professional life isn't as clearly
drawn in Greece as it is in America.

After twenty minutes of sorting through facts that have not been at the
top of my intellectual pile for months, my brain is weary from the
workout.  Leaving the hospital, I'm exhilarated by the rush of cerebral
juices and the prospect of visiting the island study site of my
graduate thesis.

MICHELLE AND I CROSS THE AEGEAN SEA ON OLYMPIC AIRways, clapping with
the other passengers (mostly Greeks) when the wheels touch the runway
on the island of Rhodes.  Traveling by bus to the city, we arrive in
the late afternoon, after the tourist office has closed.  I wish to God
that I could make reservations like ordinary travelers, but reserving
in advance could risk my arrest at an airport, a train station, or a
hotel.  If I'm to be arrested, I'd prefer it to happen by chance,
rather than ambush resulting from an error in judgment.

Room hawkers swarm around the bus, holding up pictures of houses and
yelling fragments of English at us.  Retreating back into the bus from
the verbal assault, I ask the driver for a hotel suggestion.  He offers
little hope that a room exists this late in the day during the month of
August, but directs us to a hotel three blocks away.  Our walk is not
in vain.  One room remains, a lovely room with a balcony, tiled floors,
and a private bath.  The rate is too expensive for more than one night,
but for this night the room has been reserved for us in heaven.

The swimming dilemma resurfaces when Michelle pleads to go to the
beach.  The stack of money has diminished to the point of fitting into
one receptacle the midriff pouch, which still contains thousands of
dollars in cash.  Although I'm only wearing a T-shirt and shorts, the
cash becomes drenched next to my body in the intense sun.  In the
shallow waves, Michelle splashes while I swelter from the ankles up,
wearing more cloth on my body than all the other women on the beach put
together.

The next day, throwing caution to sea breezes on a Greek beach, I leave
the money and our passports in the locked room of the small hotel we
had checked into the previous day.  More than wanting to swim, I want
liberation from carrying so much cash.

On the way to the beach, I worry that this relaxation of the rules
could be a fatal mistake, leaving us stranded with no money.  If the
cash were stolen from our room, the loss couldn't be reported to the
police.  Uneasiness dissipates when I feel the splash of the waves.

SEVERAL MONTHS BEFORE LEAVING SAN FRANCISCO, A FRIEND of mine had shown
me gorgeous vacation photos taken in the village of Lindos, located at
the south end of Rhodes.  Her descriptions had sharpened my interest
then, even to the extent of thinking what a wonderful hiding place it
would be.  Michelle and I board a bus for Lindos, which deposits us at
the village center.

Here, tourists hire guides to lead them on donkey rides up the steep
ascent to the Lindos Acropolis, situated on a towering rocky outcrop
overlooking St. Paul's Bay.  Supposedly the Apostle Paul came ashore
here on one of his missionary journeys.  Michelle pleads to ride a
donkey, reminding me of her dream to ride a pony in Kentucky.  Today is
the six-month anniversary of our departure, and I give in.

The donkey guide settles each of us atop a donkey, on a

Under the Juniper Tree 85 blanket covering a pillow.  When he enters a
shop to purchase a bottle of water before the climb, the donkeys, who
aren't tethered, become restless.  Suddenly Michelle's donkey bolts
toward the uphill path.  My donkey, stuck with a heavier load, follows
at a slower pace.

Neither donkey pays attention to my commands.

When I realize that the situation is out of control, I scream to
Michelle, "Hold on tightly!  " Looking happy that her donkey is in the
lead, Michelle says something I don't comprehend.  In the distance, she
bounces up and down, her legs thumping against the donkey's flanks,
which may be interpreted as "Giddyap."  Soon our donkeys are trotting
up the narrow steep path of switchbacks, passing other groups of
donkeys on the outside, close enough to the edge to dislodge rocks,
which tumble to the switchback below.  The blanket underneath me shifts
from side to side on the turns, each time tilting my body a little
more.  As other donkey guides yell to us, we see our guide running on
the switchbacks below us.  At the top, the runaway donkeys stop on a
dime at their watering place, allowing our guide to catch up and rebuke
us in Greek, presumably for starting without him.  The donkey escapade
becomes a journey highlight for Michelle, a rare life occurrence when
reality exceeds expectations.  For me, it symbolizes the potential for
harm's way lurking within every decision.

l

ON THE PEDIATRICS WARD AT THE HOSPITAL IN RHODES, I INterview a
pediatrician who has treated patients with favism while Michelle
studies a mural of cartoon characters depicting Bugs Bunny in a tunic
and Mickey Mouse wearing leather sandals.  The pediatrician mentions a
mountain village, Embonas, as one place on the island that has a high
incidence of the disease.  In San Francisco, Embonas had been only a
graphic arts bullet on a map.

At Embonas, the bus deposits us at a cluster of tavernas that seem to
exist more for the pleasure of the village residents than for
tourists.

Few people are stirring in the heat of the afternoon.

Older gentlemen are sitting and talking wherever shade is available,
mostly in doorways.  Walking through the narrow streets enclosed by
whitewashed walls, Michelle and I smell the scrumptious aroma of food
grilling on a charcoal fire.  I peer over a parapet to locate the
source, and a Greek woman looks up from turning vegetables on the
grill.  When I convey with my hands the heavenly scent of her cooking,
she motions us to join her on the terrace below.  In pulverized
English, she invites us to have dinner with her family.  Her husband,
who works in Athens, speaks a few words of broken English.

Feasting on peppers, zucchini, eggplant, potatoes, bread still holding
the oven's heat, and clusters of red-purple grapes, we communicate
using the universal language of gestures.  After dinner, Michelle plays
with a neighbor's daughter, and our hostess gives me a few dried fava
beans for good luck.

SUMMER IS WINDING DOWN, AND THE LANDSCAPE LOOKS TIRED.

Intent on making our way toward Athens and on to Italy before school
commences in September, I ask anyone who can communicate with me for
suggestions about an island stopover on the way to Athens.  The
consensus is Patmos, the Holy Island, familiar to me as the place where
the Apostle John wrote the Book of Revelation in the Bible.

At the tourist office in Rhodes, I purchase tickets for the next
available ferry for Patmos.  The agent explains that the Monastery of
St. John the Theologian has been successful at keeping discos and
nightclubs off the island, even the noisy engines of planes are
banned.

After the ferry tickets have been issued, another agent remarks that
she has received a notice requesting that no additional tourists be
routed to Patmos, since accommodations are full.  When I try to
unpurchase the ferry tickets, the agent shrugs the tickets belong to
us, but we don't have to use them.

The ferry for Patmos leaves Rhodes at noon, stopping at a number of
islands beginning with the letter K. Other passengers traveling to
Patmos confirm that we are arriving during a major l holiday
celebrating the Assumption of the Holy Virgin.  Michelle and I are
warned that, without hotel reservations, we may be sleeping on the
beach unless we find a room through a hawker on the pier.

On the deck, I stare for a long time at the sea.  If the ferry were to
lurch and catapult us overboard, no one in America would know where to
search for our bodies.  When I look at the water, the plunge is
appealing, but when I look at Michelle beside me, I recoil from the
idea.  The waves move whimsically on the surface, concealing the deep
below, just as the surface motions of my life, moving from island to
island, country to country, conceal a deep sadness.  In this abyss,
such treasures as my name, my hopes and dreams, and my freedom have
sunk to the bottom beyond my reach.  Words from the Bible--"Deep calls
to deep"--match my spirit.  God seems as fluid as the waves buffeting
the ferry, nearer at some times than others but mostly beyond reach.

I'm grasping for a temporal anchor, a guarantee that everything will be
OK, that all of this will be ending soon.  But no assurances exist ".

.

. all Thy breakers and Thy waves have rolled over me" (Ps.

When the ferry docks at 10 P. M. in Skala, the principal city on the
island of Patmos, a sea of people fills the pier and spills into the
street beyond, the crowd appearing larger than the ferry can
accommodate.  In the swell of bodies, I see no room hawkers, only
passengers pushing to reach the gangplank leading to the ferry.

The crowd towers above Michelle's six-year-old stature.  I can devote
only one hand to the luggage, and the cart bumps through the crushing
crowd, eventually tipping over.  Unable to right it, I drag it on its
side.  At the first telephone, I call a number that was given to me on
the ferry as a possible place to stay, but the person who answers
speaks no English.  Looking for a hotel on foot, Michelle and I pass
the police station, we will camp on its floor before spending the night
on the beach.

After about ten minutes of walking along the harbor with boats on one
side and outdoor tavernas on the other, Michelle and I come to a
hotel.

The owner insists that no rooms are available, but I persist,
emphasizing that I am traveling alone with a child.

With hesitation in her voice, she admits that one room remains
vacant.

About ten minutes earlier, a man had asked her to hold it, but he has
not returned.  Observing Michelle's tired face, she offers us the
room.

Later, I discover that our steps had been directed to one of the few
vacancies in Skala, as well as one of the best deals.

Crowing roosters awaken us the next morning.  Judging from the
overheard conversation at breakfast, this hotel is popular with French
tourists.  After a satisfying breakfast of rolls, fruit, and yogurt, I
am still hungry, but not for food.  My spirit needs nourishment that
feeds endurance and perseverance, reserves which have been running low
since leaving New Zealand.  Although Michelle and I sustain each other
by praying together, more intensive spiritual refueling is
required--the high-octane spiritual mixture of God's presence in the
assembly of worshipping believers.

Michelle and I enter a Greek Orthodox church, blinded by the dark
interior until our eyes adjust.  The pungent odor of incense catches in
my throat.  I strain to comprehend the priest, but my Greek vocabulary
is limited to courteous expressions like "Good morning" and "Thank you,
" useless phrases for grasping the meaning of a sermon.  The mystery of
the service is perplexing.  If the onion-shaped dome of the church were
lifted, I would see the hillside where the Apostle John received the
Book of Revelation, a spiritual conundrum for past, present, and
future.  Longing for revelation, not mystery, I escape with Michelle
outside into the white glare, thinking ahead to the nitty-gritty
reality of the beach.

Throughout the day, boats depart from Skala's harbor for beaches around
the island.  While buying water, Michelle and I miss the boat we had
intended to take and board the next one.  At the beach, when we can
stand the penetrating sun no longer, we withdraw to the shade of the
trees clustered around the taverna a few paces behind the beach.  Tepid
drinks refresh us enough to repeat the relaxing cycle of water, sun,
and shade.  A shade segment of the cycle is extended when I meet a
minister and his daughter from Louisiana.  Without spilling all the
beans about our situation, the three of us discuss God's guidance
through the morass of life's circumstances.  Their spiritual fellowship
primes the pump for another encounter later in the day.

Returning to Skala, Michelle and I cool off our insides with ice cream,
but we long for ice, both rare and suspect in Greece.

While we linger at the pier with our cones, an English-speaking
non-Greek woman asks if I will take their family photo.  Within
seconds, people I have never seen before are smiling into the camera as
if they know me.  As our conversation drifts in a personal direction, I
discover that Mendel and Jay are originally from Toronto and now serve
God in Israel.  While Michelle and their young son, Daniel, inspect a
titanic yacht belonging to the Sultanate of Oman, I tell Mendel and Jay
our circumstances without reservation, not understanding why I trust
these strangers immediately.  Our story comes as no surprise to them.

Both are authors of books on family life.  One book, written by Mendel,
chronicles the story of a young child who has been sexually abused by
her father.

After establishing spiritual common ground, they suggest praying with
me.  At first, I feel uncomfortable about huddling together on this
public pier, but the desire for God's intervention in our circumstances
overcomes self-consciousness.  When Jay encourages me to listen to his
wife's prayer because her words have spoken meaning into many lives,
God rivets my attention.  Hearing a husband say, "God speaks through my
wife.  Her prayers carry authority, " attunes my ears for listening.

As they pray on my behalf with their hands resting lightly on my
shoulders, I am no longer concerned about what other people on the pier
are thinking.  Their words aren't extraordinary, only powerful.

Mendel prays, "God will use your situation, your life, in a mighty
way.

Follow your heart.  Trust that God will guide you by your heart.  "
Opening my eyes after hearing these words, more from consternation than
elation, my first thought is that I won't be alive to see "mighty"
things, knowing that godly purposes are sometimes accomplished through
death as well as life.  Words such as "resolution" and "soon" would
have been more comforting, but I'm left with "trust" and "follow.  "
Mendel suggests that I contact Youth with a Mission (YWAM), a Christian
organization with a vision for bringing the gospel of Christ to the
world.  They are acquainted with a staff member, Barbara, who serves at
a YWAM base in Switzerland.  Mendel is uncertain whether she lives in
Lucerne or Lausanne, this information being in Israel.  The initiative
for pursuing the address rests with me after Michelle and I reach Italy
and Mendel and Jay return to Israel.

Leaving the pier, I hold Michelle's hand as I always do for security,
as well as for the pleasure of clasping her small hand.  At this
moment, her arm prevents me from floating upward, as an untethered
hot-air balloon might do.  The awe from praying has created a lightness
in my step, as if my legs will take me wherever I want to go without
effort.  Neither of the day's spiritual encounters has come about
through my initiation not the meeting at the pier, nor the earlier
conversations at the beach.  In time, I will contact Youth with a
Mission in Switzerland.  Whatever the outcome of "mighty, " God had
answered my n. orning prayer mightily.

Feeling as if in the presence of family, I confer with Jay and Mendel
about the viability of traveling to Italy next while the children
sculpt a sand castle.  In the light of the sun, they pray with me
again, now for the release of destructive emotions from the past.  I
visualize releasing the bindings on my skis (wherever they are).

Hearing in my mind the snap that permits the boots to be lifted from
their constraints, I remember that delicious feeling when leg muscles,
weakened from hours of tension, are relaxed.

As terrain changes for a skier on the slopes, so the relational terrain
of my life has gone from singleness to marriage to separation and
probably divorce by this time.  Emotional
bindings from the past aren't easy to shed and can make living in the
present feel like skiing through wet sand.  An accusation from Jim
calls to me from across thousands of miles "What gives you the right to
take my only child from me when I am dying?  " and a familiar refrain
"If only you hadn't .  . . I wouldn't have."  The power that I laid
aside to accommodate responsibility for Jim's actions must now be
reclaimed.

Empowerment is a process requiring time, unlike the immediate snap of a
ski binding.  Faith, like empowerment, is a process, "the assurance of
things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (Heb 111).

On the boat ride back to Skala, Daniel's cap blows overboard in the
strong wind.  I promise to send him one from Kentucky, adding
parenthetically, ". . . if and when I return."

STANDING IN LINE AT THE FERRY OFFICE, I FEEL DIZZY AND nauseated.

Earlier, at the beach, Jay and Mendel had encouraged me to make a ferry
reservation for Athens as soon as possible, since tourists leave Patmos
in droves during the latter half of August.  By the time we reach the
agent, the cold sweat of impending sickness grips me.

Abruptly, I run out of the office, calling to the agent that I will
return.  Michelle giggles nervously as I vomit into a flowerpot
outside.  Knowing that I don't have much time before the next episode,
I purchase tickets for a ferry leaving Patmos in one week's time and
quickly return to the hotel.

Throughout the evening, I become weaker from frequent vomiting in our
room's sink, the toilet down the hall is too far away.  Michelle
becomes very quiet, continually asking me if I feel better and bringing
me more glasses of water than I can possibly drink.  Attempting to
allay her fears, I assure her that my sickness is temporary, probably
caused by something I ate or drank.  Once when I had food poisoning in
San Francisco, Jim had started an intravenous solution during the night
to combat dehydration, hanging the IV bag on our hall tree by the
bedside.  Having a

I

resident physician in attendance had been reassuring, but tonight I
must deal with dehydration alone.

Fortunately, Greeks do not retire early.  At 2 A. M. , between vomiting
episodes, Michelle and I descend two flights of stairs to search for
food not for me, but for Michelle, who missed dinner.

Although the hotel bar is still open, there is nothing to eat, not even
crackers.  Breakfast is the only meal served at this hotel, and the
kitchen is locked.  We purchase an armload of soft drinks from the
bar.

Toward dawn, the vomiting stops, and the corner of the illness is
turned.

At breakfast, Michelle eats all the bread rolls in the basket.

The hotel manager matter-of-factly states that many people get sick at
this time of year, because the quality of the drinking water
deteriorates when the water table is low.  Our vulnerability to
something as common as food poisoning or water contamination has
threatened both of us.  If I were to contract a serious illness, how
would Michelle manage?  NO one had been there during the night to meet
her needs.  When I don't function properly, Michelle suffers, her
well-being correlates directly to mine.

In the evening, I feel like walking to buy food until I see octopuses
drying on lines.  Passing one of the tavernas, Michelle and I recognize
a museum curator from Amsterdam whom we met at the beach.

Motioning us over to his table, he introduces us to his American friend
and invites us to join them.  I decline, discreetly mentioning my
recent illness.  When the friendly American woman asks where we are
from, I say, "Cincinnati."  Asking her the same question, I stiffen
when she answers, "San Francisco."  Yearning to talk about home, I
mention that I have visited San Francisco and we swap earthquake
stories.  My stomach churns when she tells me that her daughter lives
on Taraval Street, a street in the neighborhood where I shopped, dined,
and banked.  I panic when, pulling out a camera, she offers to take our
photo and send it to us in Cincinnati.  Implying physical urgency,
Michelle and I make a speedy getaway.

A weakened body is fertile soil for anxious thoughts.  Seeing

I

l the mother of someone who lives in our area of San Francisco leaves
me shaking inside and out.  Michelle handled herself brilliantly by not
mentioning anything about San Francisco, particularly since her
favorite Mexican restaurant is on Taraval Street.

Possibly this woman has recognized Michelle's face from a milk carton
photo or from media publicity.  I have no idea how much our
disappearance has been publicized in San Francisco.  For all I know,
Michelle's face could be well known in the Bay Area by now.  My skin
bristles at how interconnected the world is.  When Michelle remarks
that I should not have talked about San Francisco and the October 1989
earthquake, I feel defeated.  Michelle's right, her astuteness amazes
and encourages me.  Thanks to my indiscretion, we could be sitting
ducks on this island for the next seven days until our ferry departs.

Like the would-be King David on the run for his life from King Saul, I
need a sanctuary, a cave to hide in.

THE MONASTERY OF ST.  JOHN THE THEOLOGIAN SITS ABOVE the Holy Cave of
the Apocalypse where the Apostle John received inspiration for writing
the Book of Revelation.  Removing the icons and religious symbols would
restore the cave's interior to look much as it did when the Apostle
John stayed there.  NO reconstruction here.  Whether the massive
Y-crack in the ceiling was caused by the voice of God calling to John
from an opening to heaven is open for speculation.  Certainly, the
voice of God is powerful enough to crack rocks, but He can also speak
in the gentle blowing of the wind.

NO ropes or barricades keep me from touching the recesses in the rocks
where the beloved friend of Jesus laid his head or supported his hands
while praying.  A level rock ledge was used as a desk by John's
secretary and scribe, Prochoros, who recorded the heavenly vision.  In
this cave, where the Apostle John was imprisoned in exile, he must have
longed for home, just as I do.

The first sentence of the brochure given to visitors reads "Your coming
to this holy place is not a chance event in your life."  Based on
Revelation 3 20, "Behold, I stand at the door and knock if any man
hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will eat
with him and he with me, " the visitor is asked, "Will you open your
soul to Christ, or will you keep it closed, condemning yourself to
fatal isolation?  " These words transport my mind through the cave
walls beyond time and place.  When I was a youngster, the familiar
picture of Jesus standing at a door and knocking had been on the wall
of my Sunday school class.  At that time, I didn't question the
physical image of Jesus, who, being Jewish, must have resembled the
Greek monks at this monastery more than the fair, cleanshaven Jesus I
grew up recognizing.

The depiction of this verse brings back memories of sitting in church
before air-conditioning.  Cardboard fans with Jesus on one side and a
funeral home advertisement on the other fluttered in every pew during
the summer.  Holding the wooden handles, some members of our
congregation used quick wrist action, while others made broad sweeps
through the air.  The air generated by the fans also kept at bay the
ever-present wasps that dangled above the organdy flowers on the
ladies' hats.  Taking off the white cotton gloves would have cooled me
more than anything.

How I wish that I could experience the sanctuary of the church where I
had waved a cardboard fan, where I had been baptized before a mural of
the Jordan River, and where I had knelt at the altar of marriage.

THE FIRST CLOUDS OF THE COMING SEASON ARE APPEARING ON the horizon
until someday, after we have left Patmos, their increase will drench
rain on the dusty leaves and fill the cisterns with good drinking
water.  As a final excursion, Michelle and I board a sight-seeing yacht
for a day trip to the island of Lipsos, a couple of boat hours from
Patmos.  The dazzling white church in the village is locked, we are
about to leave when the Greek l

Orthodox priest arrives with friends.  He ushers them and us into the
sanctuary to see the beginning of a remarkable phenomenon that occurs
every year at this time.  On August 23, the dried vinelike branches
surrounding an icon in a glass case burst into flower.  Today, August
21, the tight blooms are just beginning to open, and already there is a
faint scent of sweetness through the glass.  The miracle lives on, and
the priest is overjoyed that God has not disappointed him.  I wonder if
some years have been more difficult for him to trust God's faithfulness
than others.

ON THE EVENING OF OUR DEPARTURE FROM PATMOS, MICHELLE and I wait on the
pier for the arrival of the ferry that will take us to the Greek
mainland.  Michelle is driven to a frenzy by the ubiquitous bees, which
are the price to pay for the sweet-smelling air, which is scented by
orange blossoms and jasmine.  I am restless and ready to be on our way,
troubled by ongoing intestinal cramping.  Now we are part of the sea of
people on the pier, but, it being the end of the tourist season, the
swells have diminished.

Studying the faces of the tourists, I speculate that they are thinking
about returning to homes, jobs, a life waiting for their
reappearance.

Recalling the end of pleasant vacations in the past, I felt the same
reluctance of resuming the daily routine, now I long for it.

Throughout the night, the ferry hopscotches from island to island,
picking up and letting off passengers.  The gliding motion of the ferry
doesn't exacerbate the queasiness in my stomach as the bouncy tourist
boats did.  Michelle and I share a sleeping cabin with a woman from
Athens who has spent the month of August at her house on Patmos.  After
I express to our cabinmate my wariness of taxi drivers with whom I
can't communicate, she engages a taxi for us when the ferry docks at
the port of Piraeus, instructing the driver to take us to downtown
Athens.  This driver knows about the Minerva Hotel, where Michelle and
I are welcomed as returning friends.

At an English-speaking church near the hotel, the minister, an American
from Illinois, preaches from the gospel of John about healing.

My heart leaps for joy when Michelle writes on the service bulletin "I
love myself.  I love You, God."  These words validate the healing that
is occurring in her spirit.  Survival presses too heavily to detect
whether my spirit is healing.

After the service, I pray with the minister while his wife entertains
Michelle.  As an encouragement, the minister recalls the story of
Elijah running into the desert to escape Jezebel, who seeks to kill him
(I Kings 19).  Sitting under a juniper tree, Elijah, who is too tired
to travel, says to God, "It is enough now, O Lord, take my life.  "
Through the ministry of angels, God strengthens Elijah with a forty-day
supply of bread and water, enabling him to reach his destination, Mount
Horeb, the mountain of God.

Like Elijah, the specifics of my God-ordained destination are hidden.

I too do not know how much farther, nor how much longer I must
travel.

My grandfather used to tell me how, as a young truck driver in
Kentucky, he would order a 500-mile cup of coffee to help him make it
through the long-haul nights.  I need strong coffee, as well as
Elijah's supernatural nutrition, to sustain me during this journey,
which passes through the 3-D wilderness of despondency, despair, and
discouragement.  Michelle and I have wandered long enough in the
desert.

Six.

Don't Leave Home Without It.

Tickets and traveling documents these should be kept in a handy place
where you can check them several hundred times.

-MISS PIGGY LIKE so MANY OF OUR JOURNEYS, THE ALITALIA FLIGHT FROM
Athens to Rome arrives in late evening after the tourist information
office has closed.  Passengers walk purposefully through the exits of
the airport, confident of where they will be sleeping.

Michelle and I linger at the baggage claim area, asking the rental car
agents for a hotel suggestion.  One of them approaches me about a
friend who owns a small new hotel in downtown Rome, only a phone call
and a limousine ride away.  Michelle's eyes widen with anticipation at
the mention of "limousine."  Explaining that we do not require a
limousine, I ask if lire could be deducted from the room price if we
were to take a taxi.  No, I'm told, the limousine comes with the hotel
package.  Since the hour is late and the room rate doesn't seem
exorbitant for Rome, I accept the offer, expecting to ride in a
Cadillac instead of a limousine.  But, to Michelle's delight, a long
black limousine awaits us at the curb.

Concerned that this "new" hotel has no brochure, I am too preoccupied
to enjoy this superfluous luxury.

Although I recognize landmarks from previous trips to Rome, the hotel
address is meaningless.  The silence of the driver, who speaks no
English, gives me the heebie-jeebies.  We could be calmly riding to our
demise.  Michelle, oblivious to the tension I'm feeling, rolls around
in the spacious backseat, holding an imaginary cigarette holder and
prefacing every comment with "Darrrr-ling."  The limousine stops at an
inconspicuous street entrance where a neon sign in a third-floor window
advertises the Europa Hotel.

The luggage bumps against the walls as we climb the flights of
stairs.

Living in Italy will teach me that a plain, even poorly maintained
exterior can conceal an exquisite interior.  Despite the inelegant
access, the lobby of the hotel is attractively decorated with high-tech
furnishings.  After settling in a room that matches the modernity of
the lobby, I phone Gabriella.

After seven months without seeing a familiar face, the next morning I
am in the presence of a close friend who validates the Janie in me.

With Gabriella, it isn't necessary to conceal the truth about my
identity, I only need to explain why we have become fugitives.

Having seen toddler pictures of Michelle, Gabriella greets her as
Ellen.  Gabriella's familiarity with our past in America forms a bond
with Michelle.  On the drive to her home north of Rome, Michelle
enthusiastically agrees to being called Michela.

NOW I must remember to say Michela, not Michelle, not Ellen.

My name reverts from Chris back to Janie, since family members, who
won't be told our circumstances, have heard about Janie, Gabriella's
American friend.

The security layout where Gabriella and Francesco live with their two
children is a fugitive's dream.  At the entrance to the residential
development, a guard monitors the coming and going of residents and
visitors.  At their private gate, a friendly, albeit on-guard German
shepherd dog stands alert to movements surrounding the house.  Although
the security arrangement eases my mind, Michela and I are staying at
the home of friends who are known to Jim.

Seven years earlier, Jim and I visited Gabriella and Francesco when
they lived in Rome.  Although their residence has changed, finding
their new address through Francesco, a research physician in Rome,
would be easy for Jim, one doctor to another.  In Singapore, the need
to be with friends who know me had been irresistible, but now I
question the wisdom of staying where the chances of being caught are
greater.  Emotional security could become a threat to our physical
security.  Any ring of the telephone could be Jim or a private
detective.

Despite the risk, Michela and I are eager to catch our breath and savor
the taste of family life after several months of living in hotels and
eating in restaurants.  Adapting to the household's rhythm of work and
school, Michela delights at having residential playmates.

Gabriella and Francesco present her with a new outfit for her first day
accompanying their five-year-old son to an Italian-speaking school.

The gracious hospitality of this family is glorious but must be
temporary.

ON A NEW ZEALAND CALENDAR, THE FOLLOWING WORDS HAD been written in the
block for September 15 "Home, please God, grant me this gift for my
forty-second birthday."  Expecting to celebrate my birthday in
Kentucky, I calculate when we must leave Italy in order to arrive home
by September 15.  From the pantry of my imagination, the dinner menu
would include fried banana peppers and a birthday cake with gooey
icing.  It's tragic to admit that this party is dependent on Jim's
death, but praying for his death won't get us home any sooner.  God's
displeasure with such hateful motives would only add to my
discomfort.

Besides, I don't want Jim to die, I only want us to be free and safe.

I am convinced that God cares as much for Jim as He cares for me, so
this spiritual catch-22 will be with me for as long as Jim lives.

As an encouragement, Gabriella and Francesco introduce me to a priest
who learned English at a seminary in Toronto.  Father Josef suggests
that I contact an Italian priest in Toronto who will be returning to
Italy soon for a vacation.  Discussing Toronto as a hiding place
frightens as much as it thrills.  Living on the other side of the
Atlantic would put me in closer proximity to my parents, as well as Jim
and the FBI.

FatherJosef has confident assurance in God's guidance of those who put
their trust in Him.  Through God's faithfulness, Israel found safety in
the wilderness, as Michela and I have found protection and provision
during these last seven months since leaving America.  As drinking
water issued from the desert rock for the Israelites, air tickets were
issued to us at the last minute on crowded planes.  As manna had
appeared daily in the wilderness for the Israelites, hotel rooms had
been available for us during peak tourist seasons.  When Gabriella
hears Father Josef's comments, she acquaints me with an opera by Verdi,
Nabucco which echoes the longings of the Israelites living in exile by
the banks of the Euphrates.

Go, my thought on golden wings

Go alight upon the slopes, the hills where soft and warm the sweet
breezes of our native land are fragrant!

Oh, my countr, v so lovely and lost on remembrance so dear and
ill-fated.

Golden harp of the prophetic bards, why do you hang mute on the
willow?

Rekindle the memories in our breasts, speak to us of the times of
yore!

Just as for the cruel fate of Jerusalem, intone a strain of bitter
lamentation.

Otherwise let the Lord inspire you with a melody to give us strength to
suffer.

Writing these passionate words on the flyleaf of my Bible, I remember
Indian-summer breezes swishing through the willows by the frog pond at
my parents' home, as well as walking through the mist at Ocean Beach in
San Francisco to the tune of foghorns.

Perhaps the Israelites appreciated the beauty of the Euphrates as I
cherish the loveliness of living in Italy, but it doesn't prevent my
longings in exile from traveling to America on golden wings.

I'm happy that Michela is seeing the sights of Rome, this could be her
last opportunity.  On the way to the telephone office to call America,
we pause on the Spanish Steps, which flow like lava into the piazza
below.  The amber walls of grainy stucco are capped with terra cotta,
earth tones which envelop me.  Fountains at the base of the steps shoot
water to arrest their advance.  I throw a coin into one, and make a
wish.

With Michela standing beside me at the telephone office in Rome, I make
the birthday call to Kentucky.  Joy and Wayne, the Kentucky contacts,
have talked with my parents face-to-face, gleaning as much information
as possible without asking direct questions.  Consulting their notes,
Joy delivers my birthday message Mother and Daddy are there for us and
spend their time wondering where we are, Arcturus, our beagle, is their
joy and comfort, Ellen would have liked eating on the patio this past
summer--no bees, all three ninety-year-old grandparents are doing well,
but there's no news about Jim.  The dream bubble of traveling to
Kentucky bursts in my face.  Remembering the prayer of the Israelites
from the opera, I modify it to express my own heart, "God, I don't want
to be inspired with a melody of suffering, just give me strength to
suffer disappointment."  Our journey will be extending past my
birthday, which necessitates making a decision about future plans.

When I call Mendel in Israel to request YWAM's telephone number in
Switzerland, she doesn't have it.

However, Lausanne is the location.  Before saying goodbye, she reminds
me to let God lead through my heart.  At the moment, my heart is too
crushed to be led beyond the American Express office in Rome, where I
exchange Greek drachmas for Italian lire.

Looking at the calendar later in the day, I cross out September 15,
writing the same plea on my mother's birthday in October, my father's
birthday in November, and Jesus' birthday in December, knowing that I
could be setting myself up for disappointment but doing it anyway.

MICHELA AND I ARE INVITED TO LUNCH with FATHER GIANNI, the Italian
priest who works in Toronto, at his family's home in Viterbo.  He
advises that Italy is better suited for our situation than Toronto,
where a car is required and the cost of living is higher.  When Father
Gianni offers to funnel letters to my parents via his office in
Toronto, I take him up on it.  Although hiding out in Toronto seems
unlikely, the city is bound to figure in the journey at some point.

During the last month, four people of faith with Toronto connections
(two in Patmos and two in Italy) have crossed our path.  If I have the
choice, Toronto will be our portal for reentering the U. S. A.

A decision about remaining in Italy must be made soon.  We have been
staying with Gabriella and Francesco for two weeks, and their privacy
needs to be restored.  The uncertainty of moving forward and the
inability of staying where we are puts our future plans in limbo.

According to medieval Christian theology, limbo is an abode of the soul
not admitted to heaven but not condemned to punishment either.  On the
paradise-punishment continuum, living in limbo seems closer to
punishment than paradise, while living in Italy is on the approach to
paradise.

No direction regarding our future exists until Gabriella's family
offers us an apartment in their palazzo, a multistoried building in the
hill town of Soriano nel Cimino, where they gather during the summer
months.  The apartment remains vacant for the rest of the year,
primarily because it lacks a heating system.  It is offered to us
rent-free for the autumn, winter, and spring months if I agree to
arrange for heating and pay the utilities.  Trusting Gabriella's
judgment, I enthusiastically embrace the housing offer, sight unseen.

l l l

Situated in the Cimino Hills, Soriano is surrounded by dense woods and
chestnut groves.  The village of eight-thousand residents swells in the
summer when Romans escape to their vacation homes.  The precedent was
set in the thirteenth century when Pope Nicholas 111 built a castle on
the pinnacle of the hill as a summer residence.  The present town
descends the hillsides as if stucco buildings have flowed from an
eruption at the medieval castle, which is now idle after serving as a
penitentiary.

Two of the apartments at the palazzo are occupied.  The one above ours
is occupied during the summer by Gennario, Gabriella's father, who
returns to his home in Viterbo when the weather becomes cooler.  The
apartment next door to ours is occupied year round by Augusta, a widow
and friend of the family.  Our apartment has two furnished bedrooms, a
bathroom, a kitchen with a gas stove, a refrigerator, and a
wood-burning stove, and cavernous ceilings throughout.  The bedroom
windows have functional shutters opening over the garden, in one
bedroom, French doors open on to a balcony with a view of the castle.

Princess Michela chooses the bedroom with the balcony.

To become better acquainted with our neighbors (particularly when
Gabriella is present to translate), Augusta serves refreshments on the
terrace, enlisting Michela's help.  With sunshine filtering through the
grape arbor, Gennario, Gabriella, Augusta, Michela, and I celebrate our
new home by eating grapes and ripe figs and drinking coffee (milk for
Michela).  When Gabriella offers to loan us bed linen, moving in is
only a matter of returning to her home for our suitcases.

In celebration of my birthday and our new home, Gabriella suggests an
excursion to Viterbo, the town of her childhood, about half an hour's
drive from Soriano.  At a wholesale warehouse of Italian leather goods
owned by Gabriella's brother and sister-in-law, Michela and I are
invited to select gifts of Italian leather shoes.  For years, my mother
has chided me about assembling a lopsided wardrobe, heavy on shoes,
although rarely Italian.  How I wish she could see me walking up and
down the rows of elegant shoes, opening the box lids to breathe in the
robust, sinewy bouquet--paradisio!

Now that the door to Kentucky has been closed for the time being,
there's no point in crying over spilled milk, or, specific to Italy,
Four Roses Kentucky bourbon, which is ubiquitous among the rows of
liquor bottles at the cappucino bars.  My birthday dinner celebrates
our first day of residence in Soriano.  Augusta's extraordinary
culinary skills are manifested in a meal of homemade pasta, grilled
beef, roast potatoes, a salad of tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella
fresca, the delectable duo of prosciutto and melons, fresh figs,
pastries filled with cream, and coffee, served in the dining room of
Gennario's apartment.  In Gabriella's absence, goodwill translates when
languages fail us.

SHOPKEEPERS AND RESIDENTS IN SORIANO ASSUME THAT I AM German from my
appearance, judging me to be English when I speak.  Few suspect that
I'm an American until I tell them.  Supposedly, Michela and I are the
only Americans living in Soriano.

Only a handful of residents speak English, mostly young adults who have
traveled abroad or teenagers who are studying it in school.  The
Sorianese have a strong dialetto, or dialect, as do English-speaking
Kentuckians.  On one occasion, an Italian from Rome enters a shop in
Soriano to ask directions.  Not understanding the dlaletto of the
shopkeeper, the Roman looks at me to clarify.  Although I can't
translate, I'm pleased to have been mistaken for an Italian, not an
American.

The sounds of Soriano are as predictable as the fragrance of crushed
grapes in the autumn air.  Below our windows on the hillside.

is a hazelnut factory where thousands of nuts can be heard tumbling in
large drums.  Perhaps they will find their way into jars of the
delicious Italian breakfast spread made of chocolate and hazelnuts.

Dispensing with a knife and bread, I eat it with a spoon, sitting in
the kitchen after Michela has gone to bed.  Eating the chocolate under
a dangling lightbulb makes the gorging seem more unhealthy.  To
counteract the consequences of the chocolate, I religiously attend the
palestra, or gym, in Soriano.

From farther down the hillside, the toots of a 1930s train can be heard
when it enters or exits the tunnel bearing the weight of the town
above.  The only sound that doesn't soothe is the siren blast from the
piazza at 8 A. M. , noon, and 5 P. M. , reminiscent of air raid sirens
in war movies.  To counterbalance the jarring resonance of the sirens,
which the residents no longer notice, the bells of Trinita Chiesa
soften the air several times an hour with their gentle tones.

Although Michela is absorbing Italian like a sponge, she can't enroll
in Soriano's elementary school until she is fluent.  Learning Italian
and school subjects at home doesn't work, we already spend too much
time together.  Holding Michela's interest in studying when the garden
and Augusta's attention beckon her consumes more energy than I
possess.

The daily tasks of communicating in Italian, walking everywhere and
hand-washing our clothes in the bathtub deplete the energy reserves
necessary for home schooling.

In the afternoons, while the clothes soak, I rest on the bed, since the
apartment doesn't have a sofa or armchair.  If the church bells lull me
to sleep, I always dream.  One recurrent dream is set during my last
year of high school.  In other dreams, I converse with my parents and
grandparents, stroking my dog, Arcturus, whose wordless comfort reaches
places within my soul where words don't fit.  In some dreams, Jim and I
are intimate, as if nothing adverse has happened, until I jump with a
start about exposure to the HIV virus.  In other dreams, Jim pursues me
with harmful intent.  On awakening, dream and reality are confounded
for a while, the dreams appearing more real than hanging wet clothes to
dry on a balcony below a medieval castle.

To help Michela mix with girls her own age, she dances at a ballet
school at Viterbo, where friendships extend beyond the confines of the
dance class for lunch and play invitations.

Gabriella's sister, Lydia, an elementary teacher in Viterbo, invites
Michela to help her teach the girls English after school.  For a
Soriano companion, Lydia brings her a stray kitten named Pisalina.

When I ask a shopkeeper in Soriano for a large cardboard box to use as
a house for Pisalina, he looks at me quizzically.  Until this moment, I
have never made the connection between Pisalina's name and her
incontinence.  With innocent glee, I have been telling people in the
town about Michela's kitten, whose name translates as "Little Piss
Piss."  AIRFARES FROM NEW ZEALAND TO SINGAPORE, AS WELL AS THE two
months of hotel and restaurant expenses in Greece, have exacted a
sizable chunk of the cash reserve I carried from Wellington.  Soon it
will need replenishing, but the American Express office in Rome doesn't
transact Moneygrams.  Referring to an American Express directory of
services, I trace with my finger possible train routes on a map of
Europe.  I devise a money pickup plan, hoping to divert attention from
Italy if the Moneygram location is detected.  Picking up the Moneygram
in Brussels could imply that I live in the United Kingdom and have
crossed the Channel for an American Express office on the Continent.

Traveling past Brussels to stay in Ostend, a ferry port for the United
Kingdom, would reinforce this impression as well as avoid the
cosmopolitan prices of hotels in Brussels.  I remember being told in
San Francisco that retrieving money is the most vulnerable time for
arrest, assuming my passport number has been redflagged by the FBI and
perhaps Interpol.  At the very least, receiving a Moneygram in an
American Express office pinpoints our absolute location.

Diverting attention from Italy wouldn't be the only purpose of
traveling through Europe.  As we have made our way to this side of the
Atlantic through the eastern back door, Michela has only seen the
Mediterranean side of Europe.  I want her to see more of the European
landscapes that impressed me in the past.  Never l knowing when the
journey could be cut short suddenly by discovery and deportation, goals
become short-term and urgent while living on the run.

During the past four months since leaving New Zealand, tension has been
building.  As anyone standing near me would notice, sighs heave in and
out from deep within me.  Sighs serve the same purpose for releasing
tension in the body as the jiggling cap on a pressure cooker does for
releasing steam, keeping it from exploding.  Traveling by train in New
Zealand had relieved stress.

Once more the anticipation of traveling rekindles the spirit of
adventure that had been doused by the weariness of staying put.

As MICHELA AND I WAIT IN THE SNAKING LINE AT THE AMERIcan Express
office in Brussels, I refuse her request to sit near the travel
brochures.  She must be within arm's reach in case a quick departure is
necessary.  Panic paralyzes swallowing when I imagine the consequences
if this Moneygram transaction fails.  I possess only enough cash to
fund a frugal return to Italy.  My anxiety is not lessened by the
hysterics of an American woman who has lost her Travelers Cheques.

Leaving the American Express office, she beats her head with her hands
and wails at her husband, who quietly looks at the floor, either from
embarrassment or remorse.

By the time I step up to an agent, my throat is collared by fear,
making speech difficult.  Handing over my passport, I explain that a
Moneygram from the States has been sent in my name, the designation
being "international."  The train of thought derails abruptly when the
tracks end.  No plan exists for safeguarding these Travelers Cheques
from being traced, cashing them could leave a crumb in the forest trail
to our whereabouts.  Acting as if I have changed my mind about the
Moneygram, I ask to speak to the office manager--privately.

Michela and I are directed to an office where he listens as if I'm the
fifth fugitive to cross his path this day.  Without emotion for our
circumstances, he advises me how to avoid having the numbers of the
Travelers Cheques traced.  If larger denomination checks are requested
when receiving the Moneygram, they can be exchanged for lower
denomination checks with no cross-referencing.  The transaction, which
is free of charge, makes tracking the original check numbers
impossible, particularly when the checks are exchanged at another
American Express office in a different country.

Although the manager's apparent lack of interest in our plight is
reassuring in one way, his purpose may be to keep me calm and settled
until the police arrive.  At the counter, I watch the actions of the
agent like a hawk, intent on noticing whether her fingers type numbers
from my passport into the computer.  Retrieving my passport would
require lunging over the counter to snatch it before grabbing Michela's
hand and running into the street.

After a reasonable number of questions and giving a bogus address in
Kentucky, the Moneygram comes through without a hitch.  Desperate to
flee the location where our global position is momentarily nailed down,
I must remain on the spot to sign the checks.  I request as many $500

Travelers Cheques as possible to avoid signing $10, 000 worth of $20
checks.  This large sum of money from my parents doesn't come to us
from their surplus, but from their limited retirement savings.  The
fingernail moon is indelibly stamped on every check, reflecting their
pledge to be there for us, whatever the sacrifice.

The geographical compactness of Europe is convenient for exchanging
checks.  Rotterdam is the nearest non-Belgium American Express
office.

After a few hours of train riding, we search for the American Express
office in Rotterdam.  The endorsing of these newly acquired Travelers
Cheques takes fifteen minutes.  Several hundred smaller checks are
issued in the exchange, and all must be signed.  The staff moves me
from the counter to a desk for signing while Michela sets up an
imaginary travel agency in front of the travel brochures.

For thirty minutes, I hinge on signing my name after writing it only on
immigration forms these past eight months.  This tedious exercise
yields safe, although not secure, ùa money.  The thousands of dollars
in Travelers Cheques are no more secure than cash.  If I lose them, the
money is gone.  Obtaining replacements via America would be
impossible.

To celebrate our success, I suggest seeing more of Holland.

Amsterdam is too far away, but the city of Delft, a champion of blue,
my favorite color, is a short train ride away.

At one end of the market square in Delft, Michela and I enter Nieuwe
Kerk (New Church), whose construction began in the fourteenth
century.

While I gaze at the stained-glass windows, Michela gets down to
spiritual business, using the pencil and paper provided for prayer
requests.  In large letters, she writes "God wants everyone to love
Him.  I love Him best of all.

Michela."  It's small wonder that Jesus said the kingdom of heaven
belongs to people who see God through a childlike heart.  Outside the
church, a statue honors a local man who symbolized justice with stones
spelling out the letters of a Dutch saying EVERYBODY WALKS IN GOD S
PATHS.  I would have added stones saying WHETHER THEY ACKNOWLEDGE HIM
OR NOT.

We walk up and over stone bridges, across canals, and past buildings
with cookie-cutter facades and cupolas, where the predominance of
bricks reminds me of Kentucky.  At the Royal Porceleyne Fles, where the
famous porcelain is made, potters with clay-coated fingers create at
the wheels.  As Michela and I talk about God being the Potter and
humans, God's creations, being the clay, the potter, who is Jewish,
overhears our conversation and acknowledges the confounding simplicity
of this truth.  In the Old Testament Book of Isaiah, God knew the kind
of spiritual pots Esau and Jacob would inhabit while they were still in
the womb.  The discretion of the Divine Potter in creating some vessels
for honor and others for dishonor is a faith concept I do not
understand and probably never will.  But I choose not to throw out
faith in God with the bathwater of doubt.

After buying pastries to eat on the train, we return to Bruges via
Rotterdam, viewing an orange sunset through the iron lattice of a
Dutch-style Golden Gate Bridge.

IN BRUGES, MY HEART BEATS FASTER THAN USUAL AS I CALL Mary Ellen, a new
contact in Kentucky from the list of telephone numbers my mother had
given me in San Francisco.  The purpose of this call is to arrange a
regular time and day of the week for talking with my parents, ear to
ear.  At this prearranged time, my parents will come to her home to
wait for my call.  I learn from Mary Ellen that my parents have talked
with Jim face-to-face in Kentucky.  Choosing to meet him in a public
place, a parking lot, they accommodated his request to see Arcturus.

His health had appeared good, except for his hands shaking.  My parents
had pleaded that he pave the way for our return by dropping the charges
against me and by agreeing to supervised visitation when Ellen would
stay at his home.  Jim had urged my parents to persuade me to return
home, via any contacts which they might have with us.  He had offered
to drop the charges against me if I agreed to give up all custody of
Ellen, my having only limited and supervised visiting rights.  With a
clear conscience, my parents had said to Jim, "We don't have any idea
where Janie and Ellen are hiding."  This telephone message hits me like
a load of Belgian bricks.

The penny finally drops that this journey could last years, much longer
than I had anticipated when hopeful grace had launched us out of
America.  Knowing Jim, he will beat AIDS, as he had said and his good
health indicates.  That being the case, this journey will last until
Michela reaches legal adulthood at the age of eighteen.  Enduring
another eleven years of living from country to country is
inconceivable, and my parents could never subsidize a journey lasting
that length of time without selling their home.

Before allowing that to happen, Michela and I would return to
America.

If only I could obtain a work permit to contribute as I go!

Michela and I linger inside the telephone center, ostensibly because
it's raining, but actually I'm too stunned to move.  Survival depends
on shifting cognitive gears for a longer haul.  On a defiant
impulse, I break free from inertia and call Linda, the friend in San
Francisco who gave me the Bible verses from Ezekiel on Christmas Day.

Hearing my voice on her work phone, she begins to cry.  Neither of us
can speak as the seconds count down on the phone card.  Michela stands
quietly at my side, wanting to talk to Linda, who has loved her as a
surrogate auntie, but I shake my head no.  The risk is too great that
Michela may unintentionally divulge a clue to our whereabouts.

Our tearful conversation lasts less than five minutes.  From a Bible on
her desk, Linda reads the last verse from Psalm 73 "But as for me, the
nearness of God is my good, I have made the LORD God my refuge, that I
may tell of all Thy works."  Once again, I wonder if I will live to
tell the story of our journey.

Seeking spiritual grounding, I search for a Christian bookstore in the
Bruges directory and find one a short walk away from the telephone
office.  An English-speaking employee there invites us to attend a
church prayer meeting that evening.  When I accept, Michela sputters
during the afternoon about attending a boring meeting where desserts
won't be served.  As a goodwill gesture, I offer her a treat now.

Riding in a horse-drawn antique carriage through the old city appeases
her sense of justice.

At the prayer meeting, about twenty believers sit at a long table, the
kind which, at other times, might be laden with dishes for a potluck
supper.  By design, I sit next to a woman from Toronto who translates
the gist of the prayers from Flemish to English.

Understanding every word is not critical, it's the praying in concert
with other believers that validates my spirit.  Although I know very
little about these people by the end of the evening (and they know even
less about us), spiritually we connect.  Despite cultural distinctions,
the spiritual union within God's family cuts through my isolation like
a knife.  God created faith in the context of a family for fugitives
like us, or for anyone cut off from loved ones through either death or
circumstances.

SITTING ON THE STATION PLATFORM IN BRUGES, I CHASTISE myself for not
running faster through the underground passage, thinking of times
during the morning when ten seconds could have been saved.  Missing the
train from Bruges to Brussels by seconds, this delay may cause us to
miss the international train connection in Brussels.  Anger builds
until I notice that our tickets to Lucerne are for two adult tickets.

In my haste to catch the train, I did not catch the mistake.  The
satisfaction of converting the ticket to a child's fare changes to
panic when I realize that the platform has been changed and we are
waiting at the wrong one.

Running through the underground passageway, we are once again in danger
of missing the train to Brussels.  Emerging on the platform as the
guard blows the whistle, we dart toward the nearest car steps, making
contact with them just before the train moves.  It arrives at Brussels
on time, giving us only five minutes to reach the track for the train
to Switzerland on our return to Italy.

Michela and I arrive on the platform one second after the train begins
to move.  Walking beside the slow-moving train, I'm indignant that the
guard stands on the car steps, blocking the way.  I plead for him to
let us board, but he's immovable.  Shouting rude words in his direction
as the train accelerates beyond my capacity to keep up would only
generate remorse later.  Synchronizing train connections has never been
as frustrating or as challenging.

A crisis of confidence brings me to an angry halt on the platform.

A Belgian naval officer who has witnessed our attempt to board the
train steps up beside me.  With appropriate reserve, he says, "There
may still be a way to catch the train that you missed, but there's no
time to waste."  Offering to carry the suitcase to speed up our
mission, he explains on the run that we are taking a local train to
play catchup with the train we have just missed.  At the central
station, two stops away, the international train makes a longer stop.

Michela and I plant our feet and luggage on the local train as it
begins to move, signaling thumbs-up and gratitude to the naval

I

officer from the car doorway.  Since the ride is short, we don't bother
taking seats but remain poised near the door for springing off at the
central station.

As our local train pulls into the station, the international train with
window signs for Switzerland is in view, only a few tracks away as the
crow flies.  But how a crow flies means nothing at a train station.

Michela and I run the length of the platform, climb the steps to the
bridge spanning the tracks, and descend to the platform.  I urge
Michela along, even though her breath hasn't recovered from the last
run.

If Michela and I had won an Olympic sprint, our spirits could not have
been higher than when we step on to the train that eluded us the first
time.  Congratulating ourselves with high-five signs, we celebrate our
victory in the vintage luxury of the dining car.  The white tablecloth,
polished wood, and brass table lamp imbue our success with intrigue, as
if we are traveling under clandestine circumstances on the Orient
Express.

AT LUCERNE, MICHELA AND I STROLL ACROSS THE COVERED wooden bridge
spanning the river and look out at the Alps in the distance across the
lake.  Walking through the town, we pass the telephone office, where I
impulsively turn in.  Searching in the Lausanne directory for the
telephone number of the YWAM base, I ring it, asking to speak to
Barbara, the YWAM staff member Mendel and Jay had mentioned in
Patmos.

I get through to her immediately with no time to reflect on my purpose
in calling her or why I'm interested in YWAM.  After explaining that
I'm seeking God's direction, having been given her name by Mendel and
Jay on a pier in Greece, I briefly disclose our circumstances.  Barbara
invites us to visit the YWAM base in Lausanne, although staying at the
chalet won't be possible for tonight.  Traveling directly to Lausanne
hadn't been my intention, but her consideration of immediate
hospitality is welcoming.  Barbara encourages me to explain our
circumstances in a letter.  After receiving my letter, she l'

will check with hospitality about scheduling a date for us to visit.

When she mentions the French-speaking elementary school sponsored by
YWAM, hope fills the telephone booth.

The interdenominational church in Lucerne celebrates World Communion
Sunday by spotlighting the global crisis of fleeing refugees.

The sermon highlights the fugitive Jacob, who fled from the death
threats of his brother Esau (Genesis 27).  God had protected Jacob, a
deceiver and supplanter of Esau's birthright, reassurance that God's
protection doesn't depend on a track record of obedience.  Scripture
confirms that God is not surprised by our predicament, having dealt
with many fugitives on the run David hiding from Saul, Elijah hiding
from Jezebel, and, as a heavenly parent, the flight of His own Son.

Through a dream, God had directed Joseph to flee with Mary and Jesus,
whose life was threatened by the plans of King Herod to kill all boys
two years old and under in Bethlehem and the surrounding villages.

The magi from the East had brought gold, frankincense, and
myrrh--international currency for the flight to Egypt--to this
economically poor family, who couldn't have financed such a journey
without these gifts.  God, who had ordained the journey, supplied the
provisions accordingly.

Few details about Jesus' life as a fugitive are recorded in the
Bible.

The departure from Nazareth occurred at night (Matt.

2 14), just as ours had from San Francisco.  Joseph may have avoided
the primary roads to escape agents from King Herod sent out on this
search-and-destroy mission, perhaps on the lookout for a Jewish man
traveling with a wife and young son.  Mary may have attempted to make
Jesus appear older, or even to disguise His sex, but what a difficult
age to keep Him quiet.  On the long donkey ride to Egypt, Mary and
Joseph must have wondered how long they would need to live in a foreign
country, unable to contact their family and being cut off from their
synagogue, their land, even from information about King Herod.

As the three of them established a new life in Egypt, Joseph may have
looked longingly at the shops of Egyptian carpenters, missing his
tools, left behind to reduce the weight of what the donkey carried.

Mary must have longed for the familiarity of her own hearth where she
had prepared the family's meals in Judea, selecting only her favorite
cooking pot for the journey.

In Egypt, Joseph received a second dream, informing him that King Herod
had died and instructing him to return to Judea.

Joseph may have discussed the implications of this dream with Mary
after Jesus had gone to sleep.  If Joseph were mistaken about God's
instructions, returning to their homeland would mean his son's death.

At least in Egypt, their son had been safe.  Some aspects of living in
Egypt may have been pleasant walks along the Nile at sunset, or the
taste of unusual vegetables from the marketplace.  On the long journey
back to Israel, Mary and Joseph may have had second thoughts about
returning home, the remembrance of Egypt becoming more attractive with
each passing mile.

Jesus' life as a fugitive sets biblical precedence, offering more than
empathy for our situation.  Just as Joseph had stayed in Egypt until
Herod died, I plan to remain in hiding until Jim dies--unless God
speaks clearly through a change in Jim's heart that we should return to
America.  What was good enough for Jesus is good enough for us.

Seven.

Tunnel Vision.

Does the road wied up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole day long?

From more to night, my friend.

--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI, UP HIL THE AIR, THE SMELLS, AND EVEN THE FACE OF
SORIANO HAVE changed during our two-week absence while traveling on the
Continent and beyond.  Grape-pickers in the arbor below our windows
have crushed enough grapes underfoot to ferment the garden breezes.

Mushroom-pickers appear in the village with baskets and boots in search
of the edible Boletus fungus, whose market value lures hopefuls into
the woods surrounding Soriano, where it thrives.  A good find can be
lucrative, although the hunt is not without risk.

Selecting and eating a similar but poisonous species results in a
hospital stay for some mushroom-pickers each season.

An autumn chill is in the air, both inside and outside our apartment.

A bombola, a movable heater with a gas tank, is our source of heat.

Although everyone assures us that the bombola is safe, they relate
unnerving tales about exploding gas tanks.  Its heating capacity is
adequate for the bathroom, but the bedrooms warm only slightly in its
presence.  I shiver to think what the apartment will be like during the
winter.

Preparations for the Sagra delle Castagne, the Chestnut Festival,
produce obvious changes throughout Soriano.  Boughs from the local
chestnut trees decorate the shop entrances, and roasting chestnuts
spice the air.  Towering medieval-style gates of wood stand at the
entrance of each contrada, or medieval quarter, of Soriano.  The delta
symbol, representing the triune nature of God, stands at the entrance
of our contrada, Trinita.  Below our windows, flag bearers for Trinita
have been practicing with a drum corps for weeks.  Becoming accustomed
to the cadences, Michela and I mark their rhythms--even when the drums
are silent.

During the October festival, Sorianese who have moved away return to
cram the narrow streets.  We watch the pageant from a window
overlooking the piazza.  One contrada, St. Georgio, stages a drama
about a dragon pursuing a young maiden who is saved by the skill of a
valiant horseman.  The slaying of the dragon releases a bevy of lovely
young women held captive in the center of a giant chestnut.  For an
instant, I imagine the maiden's't shock if, when her deliverer had
slayed the dragon, he had turned on her as an adversary.  Hating the
dragon had been straightforward and uncomplicated for the maiden, but
the remembrance of past love would prevent her heartstrings from
playing a harmonious melody of hatred for her treacherous protector.

My "knight in shining armor, " as friends had referred to Jim during
our courtship years, had now become the pursuer, the adversary.  Bit by
bit, the stress cracks of sadness are breaking my heart apart, perhaps
even undermining its physical function.  Dying from a "broken heart"
may cause more deaths than it's given credit for.  Only God can rescue
an exiled heart from lethal sadness.

BEFORE THE wiNTER RAINS BEGIN, MICHELA AND I TOUR NEIGHboring hill
towns by bus, passing establishments named Pizzeria Ketchup and Cafe
Bar, which confirm the Italian predilection for curious English
combinations.  In one village, after we have waited a long time for a
return bus to Soriano, two carabinieri, members of the local police,
stop to ask where we are going and assure me that the bus is usually
late.  When it finally does arrive, Michela and I sit on the backseat
at her request.

Looking out of the back window, I notice the carabinieri behind the
bus, but think nothing of it until the police car follows when the bus
turns off the main road.  While the bus stops in the piazza, the
carabinieri wait, pulling out behind the bus when it leaves.  At the
next village, they do the same.  Have they recognized our faces from a
crime photo, my American accent giving us away?  Blonde hair and blue
eyes are conspicuous in Italy.  I may have been foolishly stubborn
about changing my hair color.  Since the carabinieri know we are
traveling to Soriano, they must be planning to arrest me when we get
off the bus.

Arriving in Soriano, I descend the bus steps holding Michela's hand,
looking neither to the left nor to the right.  In my peripheral vision,
I see one of the carabinieri approaching the bus.  Cutting into my
path, he addresses me in Italian, "Excuse me, Signora.  Are you staying
in Soriano?  "Yes, " I answer, trying to appear calm.  I want to run
away, but we are hemmed in by two carabinieri in front of us and the
bus behind.

Pulling out a pad, he asks, "What's the address?  " Playing dumb to the
language (which doesn't require extraordinary effort), I gesture up the
hill as a statue might, my body stiff with fear.

"Are you here with a husband?  " he asks, pointing to his ring finger
in case I have not understood the question.

"No, " I answer, shooting an involuntary glance in Michela's
direction.

His question could be leading up to the topic of custody.

Desperately, I mentally flip through Italian words to compose a
question, and ask apprehensively, "Why?  Official husiness?  ll

Noticing my tension, he attempts to put me at ease with a charming
smile.  "No, Signora, " saying something I don't comprehend.  "I would
like to take you for a ride in the country, " turning an imaginary
steering wheel in the air to aid communication.

'lTomorrow?"ll Completely taken aback, I attempt to suppress my relief,
which turns to irrepressible joy.  Michela, who understands the intent
of his question, starts to smile.  Sensing that she is about to enter
this conversation, I send her a mute "Shh" with a glance.

Despite his persuasive efforts to fix a date, I decline the invitation,
unaware that my heartfelt gratitude is being interpreted as
encouragement.

As we walk up the hill toward home, Michela asks, between giggles,
"Mommy, does he want to marry you?  " I anticipate this question,
having heard it once before in Greece when a man had been
overattentive.  Turning to assure her that marriage is out of the
question, I notice the police car inching up the hill behind us.  The
tone of my voice becomes serious as I say, "Michela, don't look back.

The police car is following us.

Walk past our gate, even if we see Augusta."  Not wanting the
carabinieri to discover where we live, we hurry past our kitchen window
without glancing in its direction.  The police car continues to creep
behind us until we reach the piazza.

Ambling in and out of shops, I keep a lookout until, assuming that they
have given up and returned to their village, we walk home.

Later in the afternoon, when Michela is playing outside, she sees the
police car drive by our gate.  I have no way of knowing whether the
carabinieri saw Michela in the yard.  If the spurned invitation has
caused ill feelings, there could be repercussions for me.  Every one in
the town knows that the American woman and child live next to
Augusta.

A knock at the door could turn into an arrest.

This encounter with the police intensifies the worrisome issue that
aliens living in Italy are required to register at the local police
station.  Justifying that the authorities are more concerned about
tracking terrorists than about parents involved in custody

I

t disputes, I had decided not to comply.  If Jim suspects that we are
hiding in Italy, registering with the police could be tantamount to my
calling his lawyer in San Francisco with a change of address.

Unless a schooling opportunity in Italy opens soon, our departure will
make police registration here a moot point.  Michela has already missed
four months of school, and I worry that she is slipping behind in her
education, losing ground that can't be reclaimed.  The French-speaking
YWAM-sponsored school in Switzerland seems the only option.  After
calling Barbara at YWAM, a mutually convenient date is set for us to
visit Lausanne.

ON THE MORNING WE LEAVE FOR SWITZERLAND, I OVERSLEEP.

Augusta, mindful of our need to catch an early bus, knocks on our door
at 5 30 A. M. , thirty minutes before the bus departs.  She extends a
cup of steaming coffee to jump-start me, and the novelty of her early
morning presence sparks Michela into action.

Running down the hill with the luggage cart bouncing on two wheels, we
board the bus for Orte and the station.  Here we catch the northbound
train for Florence and Milan.  A day's journey puts us at the base of
the Italian Alps, where a full moon transforms Lake Maggiore into a
sheet of silvery glass.  On the Swiss side of the Alps, it's raining.

The Lausanne YWAM base, frequently filled to capacity, is a busy
training center for missionaries, having a crossroads relationship with
Europe as well as YWAM connections.  The main building is an
eighty-year-old chalet that was previously a hotel but now houses
students enrolled in the training schools.  From the upper floors,
views open across Lake Geneva to the French Alps.  Views in the other
direction extend across forested hills and rolling meadows, which have
miles of hiking trails.  Our room at Canaan House, where guest rooms
are located, flows with warm air and hot water.  This friendly,
supportive environment with its magnificent surroundings could be the
promised land of our future.

Michela plays with the children of YWAM staff members while I meet the
leaders to discuss opportunities for serving as a short-term
volunteer.

I don't conceal the fact that my reason for coming to YWAM isn't a
missionary call, although I'm prepared to serve God at this beautiful
haven that has a school for Michela.

Expressing compassion for our situation, the leaders are concerned
about whether I could maintain a demanding job on the base while caring
for Michela's needs.  Concern is also expressed about Michela's
adjustment to a French-speaking school without a background in the
language.  The bottom line is that support for our living on the base
isn't extended.

Disappointment is blind to logic.  Responding to my dejection, one of
the leaders contacts another YWAM base in England, where the work pace
would be slower and a local English-speaking school would be available
for Michela.  After a phone call of introduction, this base in the
Midlands of England extends hospitality, but offers no guarantees or
even encouragement that an opportunity exists.  If I am willing to make
the trip across Western Europe and the English Channel, the door of
opportunity is ajar.

Michela and I prepare to leave for England.

ON THE CONTINENT, THE ROUTE TRACES THE SAME PATH WE traveled several
months earlier to pick up money in Brussels Lausanne, Basel, Brussels,
Bruges, and Ostend.  A hovercraft lifts us across the English Channel
to the white cliffs of Dover, the lock and key of the kingdom.

British Rail takes us the last leg of the journey through London and
into the Midlands.

The YWAM base is situated in pastoral countryside surrounded by
villages with hyphenated names, thatched roofs, and pubs with local
stories suggested in their names.  The flat terrain is in bold contrast
to Switzerland, even Soriano.  The base itself is smaller than Lausanne
and seems to have fewer people passing through.  Michela links up with
some girls about her age, who are children of staff and would-be
schoolmates.

i r

. . i

During the meeting with the base leaders, I once again admit that the
missionary call is not my primary impetus for joining forces with YWAM,
but I add the fact that I'm prepared to work as a temporary volunteer
in hospitality, the kitchen, the administrative office, or wherever I'm
needed.  Once again, the leadership doesn't support our serving at the
base, believing that such a living arrangement would not be the best
for Michela and me.  As a confirmation, no volunteer opportunities
exist that match both my capabilities and the restriction of caring for
Michela after school hours.

One of the leaders offers to call some friends of YWAM, Tim and Audrey
Couper, about opportunities in Oxford, where the Coupers live with
their four children.  Audrey teaches at a Christian school, which could
have significance for Michela.  The Coupers encourage us to stop in
Oxford on our way back to Italy.

Nine years ago, living in Oxford had been a desire of my heart.

On returning to America from a solo trip to Great Britain, I had
encouraged Jim to explore the possibilities of securing a medical
position in Oxford, but he never pursued it.  Although I remind myself
that YWAM's purpose isn't hiding fugitives, their decision feels like a
refusal to embrace us.  Rejection is a bitter pill to swallow, no
matter how acceptable the chaser of understanding.  A Bible verse,
Proverbs 3 5, is inscribed on a plaque in our room "Trust in the LORD
with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.  "
According to my understanding, we are shuffling between European
countries on a wild-goose chase and spending far too much money and
energy, both of which are in short supply.  I feel like a pawn piece on
a chessboard, wanting to believe that the Hand of God, not man's, is
directing the moves to avoid checkmate.  As a last-ditch effort, I
telephone Janet, a friend in Scotland, but get no answer.  After
calling her father, I learn that she is on an extended visit to South
Africa.  The slamming of doors is deafening.

EXCEPT FOR THE NEW RAILWAY STATION, OXFORD APPEARS much as I remembered
it.  Michela and I check into the same bed-and-breakfast I stayed in
nine years ago.  The proprietor's son has taken over the business, but
the establishment remains much the same, despite renovations.  The tiny
room above the entrance, where the chinking of milk bottles had
awakened me at 4 A. M. , is now a storage closet.

Michela and I walk along the Thames River (known here as the Isis),
watching the punters near the college boathouses.  The Thames is joined
by another river, the Cherwell, with the broad expanse of Christ Church
Meadow filling the Y-shaped confluence of the two rivers.  With the
Thames at our back, the Cherwell at our side, and the spires of the
colleges before us, Michela and I head across the meadow toward the
High Street.

Cutting through Rose Lane, we play hide-and-seek in a maze of low
hedges and rosebushes at the entrance to the Botanic Gardens.  In
medieval times, the gardens had provided the university's school of
medicine with healing herbs and plants.  Entering the gardens, we sit
on the banks of the Cherwell under a birch tree, its peeling bark
intrigues Michela.  Enamored with this spot near Magdalen Bridge, we
designate the birch tree as ours and vow to return to this special
place.

The Coupers invite us to their home in the evening.  While Michela
enjoys the company of their four children, I explain to Audrey and Tim
the circumstances of our situation.  Both offer support to prepare the
way for us to move to Oxford.

The next day at Emmanuel Christian School, where Audrey teaches,
Michela and I are introduced to Mrs. Stokes, who would be her
teacher.

She puts Michela at ease by showing her how to have fun on the
computer.  Since the school's enrollment is small, Michela already
knows a good portion of the students through her introduction to the
Couper family.  She finds the school setup favorable, but her hopes
have been raised too many times recently to become enthusiastic.

l

The rapidity of changing expectations has been unsettling for both of
us.  A lifetime of decision-making has been squeezed into the nine
months since leaving America, and our current meandering leaves us
feeling disconnected.  Enthusiasm for this adventure is waning faster
than the new moon.  At the close of the day in Oxford, Michela prays to
be back in America by Christmas, a month from now.  The desperate
search for a place to live has pulled security out from under her.  She
no longer knows what to expect from our life on the run, but
celebrating Christmas in Kentucky is a secure scenario in her
imagination.  For Michela, leaving Italy to return to America would be
joyfully anticipated, but leaving Soriano to move to Oxford wouldn't be
worth the painful goodbyes and the difficult adjustments of living in a
new country.

Ingredients for a pleasant life come together in Oxford a beautiful
city, the possibility of a good school, and new friends who are willing
to help us.  But the inclination to establish life in a new country, as
I had in New Zealand and Italy, is missing.

Living on a YWAM base would have simplified moving no leases, utility
hookups, or start-up expenses for equipping an apartment.

All I want to do is return to Italy and rest.  Italy is a comfortable
niche, but we don't belong anywhere.

THE RETURN TO SORIANO IS NOT TRIUMPHANT, AS I HAD hoped it would be,
since the opportunity for living in Switzerland did not materialize.

Oxford remains an option, but establishing a home and paying for
private education would be costly in terms of both money and energy.

Despite the exhausting efforts of our three-week trip, Michela and I
are no closer to finding a safe place to live with a school.

The contagion of despair spreads with abandon in my soul, no longer
being held in check by hope.  Imagined perils clamor for my attention
like gongs, but one prevails.  What if we are dying of AIDS?

I ask myself.  For the first time since leaving San Francisco, the
urgency for a second HIV test consumes me.  Although the initial tests
were negative, the physicians in San Francisco had advised subsequent
testing for confirmation.  Through Francesco, HIV testing is arranged
for us at a hospital in Rome.

Four combinations of test results are possible both of us being
positive, both being negative, and either being positive and the other
negative.  If my test result were positive and I were to die before her
father, Michela would unequivocally return to his custody.  It's the
oxygen mask principle on an airplane secure the caregiver's mask
first.

Whatever it takes, I must remain positive in attitude, as well as
HIV-negative, because Michela's well-being depends on it.  Life, except
for aging, is on hold.

THE VOICES OF MY PARENTS WASH OVER ME LIKE A SooTHING balm, entering my
ears and warmly diffusing through my body.

For the first time in nearly a year, I hear their familiar
inflections.

Precautions have been taken on both sides of the Atlantic to ensure
that this maiden telephone call won't be traced.  I have made the call
from a public phone booth in Viterbo, my parents receive it at the home
of their friend Mary Ellen, who is unknown to me as well as to Jim.

Our news is generic Ellen (not Michela) is taking dance lessons, we
live in an apartment (not on the street) and are eating well (not from
a soup kitchen).  No idle word slips from my mouth.  Every one is
inspected before freefalling across the telephone cables.  When my
mother asks about the weather, I answer after excessive hesitation,
"It's sunny, " not wanting to communicate hemispheric seasons.  Knowing
that our health is foremost in my parents' minds, I don't mention the
HIV testing.  A diagnosis of negative would be the perfect Christmas
gift.

My parents, on the other hand, are free to provide all of life's
details.  I demand that my parents be truthful, no matter how dire the
news, but I know that my mother will sift whatever she tells me through
the sieve of encouragement Arcturus, who is acting like a puppy,
devoured my father's hearing aid, Jim, being in good health, obtained a
divorce and married his fiancee last August.

The closure of the marriage, which is welcome, gives me an odd feeling,
because it has occurred without my presence and my signature.

Hopefully, Jim's preoccupation with a new wife will divert his
attention from pursuing us.  Her decision to marry, not his, surprises
me.

AFTER FouR MONTHS OF LIVING IN ITALY, UNEXPECTED NEWS arrives several
weeks before Christmas.  Gabriella's sister, Lydia, has arranged
Michela's admission at the school where she teaches in Viterbo.

Getting Michela to and from school is the only obstacle.  The
Soriano-Viterbo trip is about an hour each way, involving walking, a
bus ride, and more walking.  School, which is six days per week,
finishes at 1 P. M. each day to allow the children to eat the main meal
of the day at home, but the early dismissal precludes my return to
Soriano in the morning.  The journey and the four-hour wait in Viterbo
dampen some of my enthusiasm, but the opportunity is an answered
prayer.  Returning to the classroom excites Michela, whose Italian has
progressed to the level of translator for me.

Until Francesco telephones with the HIV test results, the Advent season
feels more like the anguish season.  A week before Christmas the gift
of our lives is presented to us and later relayed to my parents.

Both of our tests are negativo, a word which achieves the opposite
effect of its meaning.

At a time when I feel like celebrating, a snowfall blankets the
faggeta, or forest, in the hills above Soriano.  A large number of
people from the town, including Augusta, Michela, and me, trek to the
forest for an afternoon of sliding down the snowy slopes on plastic
bags, which make surprisingly good sleds.  Coming in from the
brilliance of sun and snow, Michela and I warm ourselves before a wood
fire in the kitchen stove and drink hot chocolate .

The season is festive, despite being cut off from family and the
familiarity of home.  Michela and I decorate a small plastic tree (on
loan from Augusta) and set it atop the bombola.  Michela is concerned
there won't be any gifts under it, continually asking me for a number
count, as well as whether they are big or small.

On Christmas Eve, Augusta prepares a traditional dinner of fish before
the three of us attend midnight mass.  Every seat is taken and
worshippers line the walls, their singing drowning out the guitars.

The unity of believers in Christ, past and present, reverberates
through the splendor of eighteenth-century architecture in air heavy
with the smell of incense and burning candle wax.

Christmas will never be far from Michela and me wherever we go, because
we belong to a spiritual family with global roots.

Hearing the familiar melodies sung in a tongue not altogether
comprehensible is a preview of eternal harmony.

A week later, toasting the New Year with Gabriella and Francesco, I
reflect that 1991 could be a Jubilee Year, the year of the Lord's favor
when the captives are released.  However, our journey's end doesn't
necessarily mean legal freedom for me.

Whatever the future, the blank slate of a new year, void of
disappointments and mistakes, inspires hope.  Thinking beyond, I wonder
where Michela and I will be a year from now.

During the first week of the New Year, Michela celebrates the new age
of seven years.  Friends of all ages join us for a birthday party at
the pizzeria where Michela and I often hold our Friday night
celebrations.  The generosity of our friends fills the birthday table
with Barbies, school clothes, and toys, but the warm glow from the
birthday celebration quickly fades a week later when Pisalina
disappears, never to return.  Our last view of the scrawny kitten, who
has never enjoyed good health, was in the garden, heading toward the
cover of the hillside, possibly to seek a place to die.

!

While we are in Viterbo on school days, the winter's cold invades the
apartment unopposed until Augusta begins building fires in the
wood-burning stove to warm our return.  Despite her thoughtfulness,
breathing becomes a detectable exercise in the apartment, particularly
the bedrooms.  Michela develops sequential coldlike illnesses, missing
almost as much school as she attends.  When the illnesses are passed on
to me, she misses even more school.

Energy is ebbing from both of us, as car lights dim when the battery
runs low.  As a recharging mechanism, I affirm that at least we don't
have AIDS, but our illnesses have been too persistent for me not to
think about depressed immune systems.  Even on healthy mornings, I feel
as though weights are strapped to my extremities, preventing me from
rising.  Relief surges through my body when I manage to pull myself up
and away from the soft mattress and place both feet on the concrete
floor.

The bed, a place of restoration, can also be a pit of emotional
quicksand where I cry after Michela has fallen asleep and where I cry
out to God for answers about the future.  AIDS isn't the only threat to
our well-being.  The stress of living as a fugitive is taking a
physical toll on my body.  During a January telephone call to my
parents, I propose returning to America if legal charges against me are
dropped and legal protection for Michela, such as chaperoned visits
with her father, is guaranteed.  This proposal is passed on to the
lawyers, but goes nowhere.

When January seems as cold as it can get, the teenagers on the morning
bus ride to Viterbo inform us that America is at war with Iraq.

With alarm in her voice, Michela asks, "Mommy, are Italy and America
going to fight each other?  " Her sigh of relief is audible when I
respond, "No, we're on the same side in this war."  How different our
situation would be if we were living in a country that supports Iraq.

Listening to the Italian television and radio for news about the war is
frustrating.  After a string of incomprehensible words, I hear
"President Bush" and then another sequence ending in "Saddam Hussein.

" Purchasing the Herald Tribune at a newsstand in Viterbo, I scan the
American-published newspaper while walking the narrow streets to
Michela's school until one morning a car comes dangerously close to
sideswiping me.  I have been warned about the danger of walking through
the narrow medieval streets, a priest was killed by a car fifteen years
ago in Soriano.  For my protection during the Gulf War, Michela
commandeers the newspaper under her arm each morning, returning it when
I promise to read it at the library reading room.

Reading between the lines, I sense that America is closing ranks,
gathering into the collective protection of the fold.  Wanting to be
enveloped, I'm on the outside of the fold in more than geographical
terms.  If the Gulf War escalates, our protection could be jeopardized
by staying in Europe, but Canada, not America, would become our safe
haven.

Soriano is well acquainted with the reality of war.  Above Michela's
birthday table at the pizzeria, a photograph records the aftermath of
the World War II bombing of Soriano.  Allied forces made up of English
and Americans had demolished half of Soriano while capturing the town
from the German forces who occupied the school.

During the bombardamento, hundreds of villagers had been killed in
their homes.  The young woman who cuts my hair tells of her father,
who, as a child, found his father in the bombed rubble, years earlier,
his mother had died at his birth.

Tragedy on top of tragedy is not uncommon in Soriano.  As a young wife,
Augusta had endured the deaths of her infant son and her husband within
thirty days of each other.  Their only child had lived a few hours
after birth while his father lay dying from an illness on a different
floor of the hospital.  When Michela and I accompany Augusta to the
cemetery to decorate their graves with garden flowers, gravestone after
gravestone is marked June 5, 1944.  Photographs of 1940s vintage have
been converted to porcelain and embedded in the gravestones, revealing
deaths of all ages.  The Gulf War doesn't seem far away while walking
in the cemetery at Soriano.  In America, cemeteries could begin having
more than their share of gravestones dating from January 17, 1991,
until who knows when.

THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF OUR LIFE ON THE RUN PASSES WITH only a thought
of how many more anniversaries must I endure.  At the beginning of
February, a twelve-inch snowfall blankets Soriano.  The frosty weather
necessitates feeding the wood-burning kitchen stove around the clock to
augment the heat from the bombola.  The weight of the snow breaks the
power lines, rendering the electric heater useless, as well as the
electric lights.  When the pipes in our apartment freeze, Augusta
supplies drinking water, and I wash our clothes in her tub.

When the unit supplying the hot water breaks two days later, Augusta's
bathtub becomes even busier.  At the end of the week, the only reliable
comfort in our apartment is the heat from the wood-burning fire in the
kitchen stove and the gas bombola, which has given no hint of
exploding.  Eventually, the pipes thaw without bursting, the
electricity is restored, and the malfunctioning hot water unit is
repaired each one of these transient difficulties has been mitigated by
the warmth of Augusta's care.  Experiencing her loving kindness may
have been more critical to our well-being than the necessities of
electricity and hot water.

The discomforts of our habitation make the prospects of traveling
during winter and wartime more agreeable.  During every phone call, my
mother asks, "How's your money holding out?  " Regardless of my
response, she always warns, "Don't let it get too low."  Putting off an
excursion to pick up money could result in the realization of my
mother's fear if the Gulf War lasts longer than our money reserves.

The inclination to penetrate Europe as deeply as we had during the
autumn money pickup isn't as strong this time around, more from fatigue
than strategy.  Scanning the American Express directory for an office
that transacts Moneygrams and is geographically near Italy, I realize
that Monte Carlo satisfies both of these conditions.  As a bonus,
winter's cold should make the French Riviera way off-season in price.

AT THE STATION IN CIVITAVECCHIA, MICHELA AND I HAVE several hours to
wait before boarding the international train that tracks up the west
coast of Italy into Monaco via the Italian Riviera.  In the waiting
room, an Italian grandfather pulls from his pocket a string of pearls,
presenting them as a gift to Michela.

The spontaneity of this unusual gift catches me off guard.

Although he looks and acts kindly, appreciation abruptly turns to
suspicion and the fear that we could be unwary participants in a
fencing operation.  On seeing that the quality of the pearls is
suitable for dressing-up play, I blush with penitence.  Distrust has
been calibrated too high.  Determining where to place trust is as
erratic as picking one's way through a field of land mines.  God help
me if I'm wrong in gauging the safety zone.  As Michela fingers the
pearls in wonderment, these words come to me "God doesn't make life
easy, only possible."  As I repeat these words over and over again,
they are seared into my spirit by the fire of a Spirit holier than
mine.  In New Zealand, I had accused God of making life impossible.

Trust is growing.

Few people are traveling on the northbound night train.  For most of
the night, Michela and I have the compartment to ourselves, which is
comfortable for sleeping but worrisome for security.  Stories circulate
among European rail passengers about robbers who spray anesthetic
gas into the train compartments to remove backpacks and handbags.  The
irreplaceable passports and Travelers Cheques are as close to me as
possible, as they always are while traveling.  A man from Syria, who
speaks little English, shares our compartment for a while.  When he
gets up to leave at a station stop, I look for him on the platform.

The Gulf War has prompted in me an unwelcomed wariness of persons from
the Middle East.

With crisp sunlight coming through the train window, I awaken to views
of the Italian Riviera.  A quick check of Michela's breathing and my
midriff pouch reveals that we have survived the night with our lives
and valuables intact.  Monte Carlo is sunny and cold, degrees removed
from beach weather.  The family-run hotel assigned by tourist
information is the right price, and the room's temperature makes us
feel at home.  I am more relaxed about accessing the Moneygram than I
had been in Brussels, and our stay in Monte Carlo is like a vacation
until our unfortunate choice of movies reinstates trepidation.  In
Kindergarten Cop, Arnold Schwarzenegger saves a mother and son who are
on the run from a maniacal husband.

As I try not to think about the movie from the evening before, the
Moneygram comes through without a problem.  Carrying $10, 000 in
Travelers Cheques puts me in a good mood, and I wish that I could
challenge the fur-swathe women riding in limousines to a cash-carrying
contest.  Since it's February 14, Michela and I celebrate having each
other at the Oceanographic Museum, where a chambered nautilus is as
large as a dinner plate and rare specimens of heart-red coral from
Sardinia stimulate our imagination about their monetary value.  On the
outside terrace at the cafeteria, we lunch on fast food and feast on a
dazzling view of the Mediterranean Sea.  Over our shoulders, the peaks
of the Maritime Alps are dusted with snow.

THE GULF WAR HAS PUT EUROPE ON EDGE ABOUT SECURITY, causing passports
to be checked and rechecked by border officials.  Their questions are
routine, but all seem to flip through the pages of my passport, looking
at me with mute questions.  Their eyes seem to ask why an American
woman and child who haven't returned to their homeland for over a year
would be traveling alone when their country is at war.

The train threads through the Maritime Alps toward the Swiss Alps and
on to Lausanne, where I will exchange the newly acquired Travelers
Cheques.  At the American Express office, I sign such a great quantity
of lower denomination checks that the agent offers me the pen, saying,
"You've earned it."  Before leaving Italy, I had contacted Barbara, who
graciously arranged a few nights' stay at YWAM before returning to
Soriano.

Four months have elapsed since our last visit, and I'm ripe for another
explosion of English.  Communication in Italian requires so much energy
that speaking English is like being on a verbal vacation.

YWAM's attraction goes deeper than providing opportunities to speak my
native tongue and its close proximity to an American Express office.

God speaks at Trinita Chiesa in Soriano, but my proficiency in Italian
is more suitable for buying bread than comprehending sermons.

YWAM is an oasis where our spirits are refreshed with comprehensible
words.  The organization is programmed without being mechanical,
dependable without being predictable, and complete without being
perfect.

Believers from a multitude of countries pass through YWAM Lausanne.

Some have been persecuted in their home countries for their faith.

All, even those from the West, have risked something to obey God's
call, the cost of discipleship being higher for some than others.

Believers who risk the most trust the most in God's leading along the
precipice of faith.

Returning to Italy via the Simplon Express under the Alps, Michela and
I must awaken for a 5 30 A. M. change of trains in Verona.  As I set
the travel alarm, a man from Yugoslavia in the compartment comprehends
about our disembarking at Verona, assuring me through gestures that he
won't be sleeping.

As the train enters the Verona station, Michela and I are sleeping
soundly because the alarm switch has jostled to the off position during
the journey.  When the train comes to a stop, the man, true to his
wakeful word, nudges my arm and points to the platform sign.  With a
start, I shake Michela, knowing that we have only a couple of minutes
to disembark before this train moves in the direction of Yugoslavia.

Scrambling to gather our coats and luggage, Michela is still asleep
when I put on her shoes i I and guide her along the corridor.  She
doesn't awaken until stumbling off the train into the cold night air.

Looking about the deserted platform, she begins to cry, but a
reassuring cuddle must be postponed until we locate the platform where
trains depart for southern Italy.

WINTER HAS LOST ITS GRIP IN SORIANO DURING OUR WEEK S absence.

Warmer temperatures have awakened the harbingers of bloom daffodils,
mimosa, and forsythia.  Michela and I welcome spring with greater
anticipation.  During the previous year, we had lost spring by
traveling from winter in America to summer in New Zealand.  Two boxes
of winter clothes have arrived from New Zealand, bringing whiffs of our
basement apartment there.

Michela speculates that these boxes, which have traveled on a very slow
boat, were delayed by Saddam Hussein in Iraq, but I caution her about
blaming him for everything.

Traveling to Monaco and Switzerland, although shorter than other trips,
generated more exhaustion.  If only I could be released from carrying
the mantle of responsibility for Michela's protection for a short
time.

I fantasize about having a weekend, even a day, without being
responsible.  Digging deeper into the grab bag of experience to find
the silver lining of the dark clouds is wearing me out.

My health is becoming a growing concern.  Initially, the suppressed
appetite and subsequent weight loss were welcome, but the intensifying
stomach pains were not.  In the past, losing weight had required effort
and discipline.  Could an undetected tumor be causing the effortless
weight LOSS?  I wonder.  The thought of cancer flits through my mind
like a little fox in the vineyard, too cunning to be caught or chased
away for long.  The possibility of AIDS simmers on the mental back
burner.

One afternoon in February while walking to pick up Michela at school,
abdominal pains make standing upright difficult.  The cramping worsens,
even after eating bread from a bakery along the way.  Hunching over to
relieve the stress, I poke at my stomach, fighting pain with pain.  My
goal is to reach Michela's school.  At the entrance, I collapse on the
steps.

One of the teachers, a friend of Lydia's, takes me to the hospital
while Michela remains with Lydia at her apartment.  Laura, a doctor
friend whose daughter is a friend of Michela's, meets us in the
hospital parking lot with a wheelchair.  If internal hemorrhaging is
responsible for this intense pain, which prevents me from walking, I
could die, Jim used to talk about the danger of patients dying from a
bleeding ulcer.  What would happen to Michela if I died from a bleeding
ulcer?  She would eventually be returned to America and end up living
with her father, whose legal record is spotless.  My parents wouldn't
stand a chance of gaining custody of her.  Whatever happens, I can't
die.

In the emergency room, no questions, paperwork, or registration are
required for my hospital admission.  Without delay, I am wheeled from
room to room for a battery of tests X rays for abdominal obstructions,
a gynecological exam, ultrasound for gallstones, and multiple blood
tests.  Years of working in medical centers make the hospital
environment comfortingly familiar.

The surgery ward is a large room with eight barrack-style beds, two to
each wall, and two banks of tall shuttered windows.  On the hospital
chart, I am registered as Jenny, but the ward nurses refer to me as la
Americana.

Soon after arriving on the ward, I receive an injection for abdominal
spasms.  Within minutes, all pain is gone.  Feeling selfconscious about
the dramatic recovery, I walk (without support) down the hall to the
bathroom.  Finding no soap, paper towels, or toilet paper, I report
this to the nurse, who explains that the patient, not the hospital,
supplies these amenities.  Noticing the empty nightstand, I discover
that the patient also provides tissues, water cup, water, and even
silverware.  As I contemplate my predicament, the teacher who brought
me to the hospital appears at my bedside laden with these essential
items, plus a robe and slippers from Lydia.  Michela, who is concerned
but less frightened about my condition, will spend the night at Lydia's
apartment.

Test reports reveal no abnormalities, but a final test, an endoscopy,
will determine whether the pain has been caused by the eruption of an
active stomach ulcer.  The periodic bedside visits by Laura and
Agostino, her husband, also a doctor at the hospital, have been
reassuring, since few of the hospital staff speak English.  As I lie in
the dark ward, wondering if Michela is sleeping, the day's events are
relived.  Although I wouldn't have chosen this ordeal, the support
Michela and I have received has been overwhelming medical care without
questions and cost, strangers and friends alike ministering to my needs
and caring for Michela, hospital visits from Augusta, Gabriella, and
Francesco, and being cared for by English-speaking doctors who are
friends.

Mornings on the surgery ward begin at 6 A. M. when the lights are
turned on, the shutters and windows are opened, and the floors are
mopped.  Since I am scheduled for an endoscopy, the breakfast rolls
pass by me, as does the coffee.  In the clinic, neither the doctor
performing the procedure nor the assisting staff nurse speak English,
so my questions go unanswered.  After spraying the back of my throat
with an anesthetic, the doctor begins threading the slender tube down
my esophagus.  Within seconds, I gag, panicking from the buildup of
saliva.  Unable to speak, I point with staccato jabs at my throat, and
the tube is hastily removed.  More power to any Italian who can endure
an endoscopy prepped only by an anesthetic throat spray.  After an
injection of atropine to calm the reflexes, the tube is reinserted and
the test is completed.  The diagnosis is an active stomach ulcer, but
not a bleeding one.

On my discharge from the hospital, the staff doctor prescribes an acid
reducer and instructs me to abstain from drinking cappuccino (which I
adore) and from drinking wine (which will be easier to give up).  I
laugh wryly when the doctor, who is unaware of our situation, advises
me to reduce stress in my life.  On leaving the hospital, a severe
headache from caffeine withdrawal is my chief physical complaint,
compelling me to order a cappuccino at the cafe opposite.

On the way back to Soriano, our friends treat Michela and me to ice
cream, which hopefully neutralizes the cappuccino.  Michela is relieved
to see me walking upright, smiling, and back on the coffee scent.

ON GOOD FRIDAY, AUGUSTA PUTS AN ELECTRIC CANDLE IN her window before
the three of us join the venerable Processione del Christo Morto
through the streets of Soriano.  Chained prisoners carrying small
wooden crosses lead the procession, followed by two men who alternate
carrying a tall wooden cross, which must be propped against the side of
a building for the changeovers.  A statue of Mary towers above a
reclining figure of the dead Christ as musicians with guitars play a
dirge.  Townspeople, including Augusta, Michela, and myself, follow the
procession through the medieval neighborhoods, whose windows are aglow
with white lights.  Participating in this funeral procession
communicates the human suffering of Jesus' death as no Good Friday
service (which has its sights on the Resurrection) has ever done for me
before.

On the original Good Friday before the Sabbath, this son, brother,
friend, teacher, neighbor, and favorite carpenter had died a torturous
death, and there seemed to be no hope for the future.  One physical
death is enough for any man to suffer, but Jesus experienced the
spiritual death of every human past, present, and future.  He even
suffered the death of those who choose to experience their own deaths
rather than accept His death waiver, which remains unclaimed to collect
eternal dust.  It's no wonder that Jesus sweated blood in the garden
while contemplating the exponential magnitude of death He would need to
endure.

During the Easter school break, Michela and I learn that she won't be
allowed to return to school for the new term.  A new administrator
requires that she register and submit legal identification and
vaccination certificates, which are in America.

Attending school in Soriano now seems unlikely.  Michela is
disappointed about not seeing her classmates and teacher again, but she
bounces back with the resiliency of a seven-year-old.  I, on the other
hand, feel as if someone has punched me in the stomach, which
customarily bears the brunt of anxious circumstances.

The closing of school opportunities in Italy means one thing-moving to
a new country.  Perhaps enough time has elapsed since our departure
from America to divert the searchlight from Janet's home in Scotland.

I sEcAME ACQUAINTED WITH JANET IN 1981 AT A CHURCH in Washington, D.

C.

, where she worked as a nanny for a British diplomat.  Our
transatlantic friendship was maintained through letters and phone
calls, as well as two visits to Scotland, once on my own and once with
Jim.

As with Gabriella, I had not corresponded with Janet during the last
year in San Francisco, and she knows nothing about Michela's sexual
abuse, or my becoming a fugitive to protect her.

When I telephone her, hearing my voice relieves one of her fears,
assuring her that I'm alive.  With characteristic grace, she forgives
the long communication break and welcomes us to her home in Perth at
our earliest convenience.

Within the week, Michela and I cross the English Channel on a two-week
scouting mission to Scotland.  When I call Janet from London about our
U. K. Iocation, her health condition stops me in my tracks.

Janet is immobilized by debilitating pain in her back, but she won't
accept our returning to Italy without visiting her, urging us to come
and divert her attention from the pain.

Following Janet's encouragement and my heart, Michela and I board a
train for Perth, uncertain whether I'm selfishly pursuing the wrong
direction or persevering in the right one.

On Janet's living room floor, the three of us eat fish and chips,
reclining on pillows.  Catching up on the intervening years in Janet's
company is a feast for my soul.  Like Gabriella, she knows the Janie
part of me, which removes the stress of hoping new acquaintances
believe and trust me, a stranger off the street with no credentials.

Immediately, Janet calls me Chris to safeguard against calling me Janie
in public.

Janet meets Michela, whom she knows as Ellen, for the first time,
having received pictures of her from San Francisco.  Michela readily
warms to Janet, quickened by the knowledge that she has known me in
America, as well as her father and even Arcturus.

Eight years ago on this side of the Atlantic, Janet, Jim, and I dined
together at a Perth restaurant within walking distance of where Janet
lives now.  At that time, she had lived in a village outside Perth, but
her current address would be easy to trace.  As the manager of a
residential care home for adults with learning disabilities, Janet has
no telephone listing in her own name.  Her private calls are
transferred from the care home next door, a turn of events that figures
positively for the security of our visit.  Janet and I wonder whether
Jim has hired a private detective to monitor her house periodically for
our presence.  Whenever the doorbell rings during the visit, this
thought leaps to our attention.

Before going to bed, Michela asks Janet, "Did you get tired of your
mother when she took you around the world?  " Amused by Michela's
earnestness, Janet replies, "No.  I wasn't as fortunate as you to
travel around the world with my mother."  Michela perceives this
adventure as a rite of passage during childhood, as unexceptional as
vaccinations or attending school.

The town house where Janet lives is situated on a hill overlooking the
center of Perth.  The broad city streets extend across the plain until
interrupted by the meandering River Tay, resuming on the other side and
extending up a line of hills, dominated by Kinnoul Hill, which hosts
the Easter sunrise service.  In another direction, the faint outline of
the Highlands can be seen through blue haze on the horizon when the sky
is clear, the clarity of the natural light reminiscent of New
Zealand.

Since leaving the playgrounds of New Zealand, Michela has been on the
lookout for a flying fox, a rubber tire suspended from l a cable that
glides several feet above the ground between two launching platforms.

Walking to the playground in Janet's neighborhood, Michela sees from a
distance the silhouette of a flying fox, exclaiming, "God has answered
my prayer."  Watching Michela gleefully fly through the air, I reflect
about coming to Scotland.  With Janet's boundless energy constrained,
our visit is quite different than I had expected.  Doing fun things
with Janet could have been the antidote for my persistent weariness,
although I wouldn't trade our living room floor talks for anything.

Unable to ease her pain, Michela and I may be adding to her discomfort
by our presence in her home.

Looking for a baseball diamond at the playground, I don't really expect
to find one.  My thoughts turn toward baseball, more from its being
something American than from interest in the game.  If life decisions
were organized as a baseball game, I would signal from the mound for a
relief pitcher.  Walking off the field to sit in the dugout would be
fine with me.  But I'm not alone on the mound without someone to pinch
hit, field, and run with her, Michela would be vulnerable to whatever
pitches came her way.

Unaware about what is happening in America, I'm pitching in the dark.

It's impossible to discern whether the pitches are even reaching home
plate, much less within the strike zone.  I don't even know if I am in
the right ballpark.  All I know is that we are at the right
playground.

The Umpire calls me by name "Janie, take this journey one day at a
time, knowing that being in the right playground is as significant as
being in the right country."  When Janet's pain doesn't lessen after
days of immobility, she enters the hospital for evaluation.  Sitting by
her hospital bed, we discuss the pros and cons of our moving to
Scotland.  Ewen, Janet's pastor, has offered us the option of becoming
lodgers in the manse with his family, even pointing out where Michela
would attend school.  Janet offers the extra bedroom in her house for
as long as it takes us to become settled in Perth, although staying
with her carries risk.  A staff member or resident at the I home next
door could innocently divulge through a telephone inquiry the presence
of an American woman and child.  Jim knows that Janet lives near
Perth.

On the way back to Janet's home, I impulsively visit the walkin clinic
of the hospital whose rooftops I have seen from our bedroom window.

Under normal circumstances, I would take decongestants and analgesics
for a respiratory ailment that has lingered for several weeks, but
normality has no place in our life.

Knowing that my vital signs are critical for two bodies, the thought of
becoming ill or hospitalized between Scotland and Italy frightens me.

When the doctor pronounces my lungs to be clear of pneumonia, I breathe
easier.  Walking through the emergency room on the way out of the
hospital, how could I know that I would be caring for Michela in this
waiting room in the future?

AFTER DEPARTING PERTH FOR OUR RETURN TRIP TO ITALY, picking up money is
the overriding concern.  American Express in America is balking at
sending such large Moneygrams, now requiring my mother to specify a
country designation rather than "international."  The United Kingdom is
chosen as the generic Moneygram destination, since money could be wired
from the U. K. to any other country in Europe or the world.

Picking up money at the American Express office in Edinburgh would be
convenient, but if the transaction were detected, any future sojourning
in Scotland could be threatened.  The American Express service
directory notes an office in York, a convenient and beautiful stopover
on the way to the ferry for crossing to the Continent.

After checking into a bed-and-breakfast in York--the same one I stayed
in nine years ago--Michela and I head to the American Express office
for a Moneygram of lesser value than the previous ones.

Although the York office is open and equipped to transact a Moneygram,
the London office, where authorization is issued, is closed for a Bank
Holiday weekend.  Remembering what one of my geography professors had
said about our living on the run--"Persistence is as valuable as
knowledge"--I persist for an hour and thirty minutes.  Normally, I
would shrink from contacting office personnel on a day off work, but
I'm infuriated by the silly rules that have blocked access to my
money.

Michela, who has been sitting for several hours without interesting
occupation, is bored and unhappy.  From her pouty mouth issues a stream
of complaints, alternating with pleas for ice cream.

Periodically, I hiss idle threats at her "Unless you shut up, you will
never eat ice cream again."  Her whining escalates, endearing neither
of us to the American Express employees.  The climate of our lives
always depends on how I respond to pressure, barometric or otherwise.

If only Michela could comprehend the difficulties I face and not
multiply the pressure, but that's asking too much of a seven-year-old
living on the run.

Since no one with authority can be reached on this sunny afternoon (who
can blame them?  ), the transaction must wait until Monday at an
American Express office on the Continent.  On the way to purchase ice
cream, fireworks explode in my stomach from being angry at everyone,
even the United Kingdom, for declaring a Bank Holiday weekend.

Boarding the train at York for London marks the beginning of a travel
marathon.  After taking the ferry from Dover to Calais, we arrive at a
station in Paris at 11 30 P. M. , discovering that the international
train for Basel, Switzerland, departs from a different Metro station.

Possessing no French francs, only pounds sterling, and with the
currency exchange closed, taking a taxi across Paris or even purchasing
Metro tickets for the right station is impossible.  Walking through the
Paris metro after midnight with a child and luggage puts me on
heightened alert.  The passageways are mostly deserted, except for a
few couples and a smattering of solo men.  When we are the only ones
along an expanse of corridor, the tread of our footsteps echoes in the
eerie quietness.  When other footsteps reverberate in the passageway, I
look over my shoulder.  Turning a corner, we link up with a woman from
Ipswich who was on the train and offers to buy Metro tickets for us,
accepting reimbursement in pounds sterling.  Notwithstanding the
tickets, her presence in the underground corridors adds to our safety
in numbers until the three of us board the connecting Metro train.

SINCE THE AMERICAN EXPRESS DIRECTORY LISTS AN OEFlcE IN Basel, we hang
around the train station there, waiting for the tourist office to open
for obtaining directions.  Once again, efforts at transacting the
Moneygram are thwarted the American Express office has been closed
down.  If I don't receive a Moneygram soon, we will be without cash in
one week's time.  After a day and a night of train traveling, Michela
and I must reboard a train, the last thing either of us wants to do.

Scouting American Express offices down the line, one is a sure bet.

Arriving at Lausanne in midafternoon, I douse the internal fire pit
with a carton of milk before taking a taxi to the American Express
office, where the Moneygram comes through without a problem.  On the
shortest possible notice, I call YWAM, inquiring whether a room is
available.  Locating the person in charge of hospitality requires
several phone calls and an hour's wait, during which I look at American
Express travel brochures.  In the end, we receive the green light to
spend the night at the YWAM base.

Before returning to Italy, I discuss attending a YWAM discipleship
training school beginning in July.  Again, I am encouraged by the
director of the school to seek an English-speaking school for
Michela.

The YWAM door remains closed.  Possibly the journey is coming to an end
and Italy is the last stop.

As OUR TRAIN WAITS IN THE BERN STATION BEFORE GOING ON to Lucerne, a
changing point for trains to Italy, I jump up with a start.  Glancing
at my watch, I announce suddenly to Michela, "Let's go.  Pack up.

We're getting off the train."  Looking up from the colored pencils and
paper strewn on the train table, Michela says in bewilderment, "But we
don't get off here.  You said Lucerne."  Addressing the floor, as I
gather our luggage, I say, "I know.

I've changed my mind.  We don't have much time.  I'll explain on the
way."  When the whistle signals the train's departure, Michela and I
are standing on the platform at Bern, uncertain of which direction to
proceed, having only the address of the American Express office.  In
fifteen minutes, the office closes--if it still exists in this city.  I
ask directions from anyone who makes eye contact, but no one knows its
location.

Looking across umpteen lanes of rush-hour traffic on a street near the
station, I see the AMERICAN EXPRESS logo in a second-floor window.

The office door doesn't budge in response to my jiggling the handle,
but knocking brings several young women to the lobby.  Through the
glass door, I plead to exchange Travelers Cheques.  Although the
urgency of the request puzzles the employees, the door is unlocked.

The transaction itself takes only a few minutes, but signing the checks
extends their workday after hours.  In appreciation, the next day's
coffee break is my treat.

At the station, waiting for another train to Lucerne, Michela wants to
know what's going on.

"Sweetpea, I'm proud of you.  You supported me without knowing why,
running with me when it didn't make any sense.  While sitting on the
last train, I realized that we would be arriving in Lucerne after the
American Express office there had closed and that we would be leaving
for Italy the next morning before it opened.  I had forgotten that the
Travelers Cheques needed to be exchanged outside Italy."  I refrain
from mentioning the preoccupation that had caused my absentmindedness
believing our journey would end soon, making the exchange of Travelers
Cheques unnecessary.

Opening my Bible on the way to Lucerne, I turn to the Psalms in praise
of God's provision in Bern.  Throughout these songs from the heart,
people who have lost hope in the goodness of God still cry out to Him
in their distress.  Their monologues of suffering and disappointment
about living in exile penetrate the spiritual crevasses in my soul.

Lured by the word "hope" in Psalm 130, as the red trumpet flowers
signal nourishment to the hummingbirds in my mother's garden, I read
"Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O LORD .  . . I wait for the
LORD, my soul does wait, and in His word I hope.  My soul waits for the
LORL more than the watchmen for the morning, indeed, more than the
watchmen for the morning."  When I grabbed Michela's hand in Bern, her
trust in me, not her understanding, had been critical.  Digging in her
heels or dragging her feet would have prevented us from reaching the
objective.  The same could be said about God's leading and my following
when His reasoning is incomprehensible and directional cues are few.  I
strain to see the light at the end of the tunnel, whether it be the
pinprick of an opening or the lights of an approaching train.  Janet
used this metaphor in her farewell prayer, but this journey has none of
the directness of a tunnel, it's more like threading one's way in the
dark through a labyrinth of perplexing turns.  I want to come out of
the tunnel where I have been stumbling around without the light of
understanding.  Out of the tunnel, the darkness of night is natural and
expansive, a fingernail moon shines light on the beauty and delights of
the journey's path.  But, for now, the horizon remains dark with no
hint of morning light.

Eight.

Pipe Dreams.

As the raitl hides the stars, as the autumn mist hides the hills, as
the clouds veil the blue of the sky, so the dark happeniHgs of my lot
hide the shi} g of Yourface from me.

Yet, if I may hold Your hard in the darkness, it is e?  enough.

Since I know that, though I may stumble in my going, You do notfall.

--A CELTIC PRAYER TIME IS RUNNING OUT ON OUR APARTMENT IN SORIANO.

ALthough I know Gabriella's family would never act against our welfare,
the apartment will be needed during the summer, that had been our
agreement.  During the remaining weeks of living in Soriano, every
action is gauged for the short-term, even deciding the quantity of
coffee to purchase.  At the same wholesale leather goods warehouse
where the gift of shoes had originated, I purchase three enormous black
canvas bags.  Although departure from Italy is imminent, our
destination is unknown.  Only two possibilities exist Perth and
Oxford.

Of the two, Janet's friendship gives Perth the edge over Oxford.

Uncertainty fuels daydreams about a third destination.  Spending an
afternoon shopping for Italian gifts to take back to America, I
speculate that these gifts could be given soon.  Daydreams about
rebuilding life in America eventually fall flat after hitting a wall
with bars on the windows.

Telephone calls to my parents yield no indication that Italy is the
last stop before Kentucky.  There has been no news about Jim's health
for months.  Before any mention of him, every telephone conversation
begins with a well-being inventory of family members and Arc, our
dog.

Mother keeps a list of friends who telephone, asking about us.  Their
greetings and comments remind me that life in America goes on without
me.  When my mother's gallbladder is removed, I'm the last person in
her life to find out about the surgery.

Michela sidetracks conversations about moving to Scotland with a
plaintive plea "Mommy, when are we going back to America?  I feel
homely."  Her word "homely" becomes a byword for us, merging "homesick"
and "lonely."  Michela's remedy to feeling "homely" is to find another
place to live in Soriano if returning to America isn't possible.

Issues such as school enrollment, police registration, and housing
don't trouble her.  Except for schooling, all her needs are being met,
even speaking Italian no longer frustrates her.  She has no complaints
about living in Scotland, but she has no inclination to leave Italy.

Her sole preoccupation is the forthcoming dance recital, where she will
wear a white tutu amid the red-wine velvet curtains, crystal
chandeliers, and gold leaf of the theater in Viterbo.

A TRAIN AND FERRY IOURNEY TO THE UNITED KINGDOM WITH three heavy black
bags isn't possible.  Traveling by air to Scotland

Pipe Dreams

is the expedient option, but a standard air ticket from Italy to
Edinburgh costs over $1, 000.  When I reject this fare, the travel
agent in Soriano checks charter flights.  On a charter flight leaving
Rome for Edinburgh on June 22, only two seats remain, each ticket
costing half the regular fare.  I take them on the spot.

During the weeks in Soriano, all our possessions must either be
discarded, returned to their owners, packed for traveling, or boxed for
sending.  Emotions drain from us with every tearful goodbye.  I say
farewell to friends at the paiestra in Soriano, where I have
conditioned my muscles to a degree I shall never see again.

During our last week, Michela sticks like glue to Augusta, who prepares
a goodbye dinner worth returning to Italy for.

At the airport in Rome, Michela is unhappy and tearful about leaving
Augusta, her friends, and thella Soriano.  The farewell would have been
more intense if it had included Pisalina, her kitten.  The three black
bags, which are borderline immovable, are checked and not slapped with
a weight surcharge.

When the plane's wheels touch the runway in Edinburgh, Michela and I
clap for the crew, which has become an on-the-run family tradition.

The flight attendant's welcome is inappropriate for passengers who are
moving to Scotland, but refreshing in that it doesn't exhort me to have
a nice day.  Hoping to pass on my anticipation to Michela, who converts
her name to Michelle again, I say with attendant pomp, "On behalf of
the flight crew, we welcome you to a new life in Scotland.  For those
passengers traveling on the run, we hope that your stay will be
permitted."  Not wanting to bump other passengers with our excessive
carry-on luggage, Michelle and I wait until the plane empties.  At
passport control, the immigration officer asks the customary questions,
which I answer as a customary tourist.

Flipping through my passport without looking up, he asks for the third
time, "What do you plan to do in the United Kingdom?  " "My daughter
and I plan to visit Scotland and England, " I state for the third
time.

"Are you married?  " he asks, looking me in the eye this time.

"No, I'm divorced."  With an edge of sternness in his voice, he
demands, "How do you plan to pay for your stay in the United Kingdom?

" "I have U. S. dollars in the form of Travelers Cheques."

"Are you certain that you have brought enough money?  " This question
is unanswerable, but I assure him that I could draw upon funds in
America if my money were to run out.

"I am concerned that you and your daughter could become stranded in the
U. K. with no means of support, " and he asks to see Michelle's
passport.

I give Michelle a look that communicates, "Let me do the talking" when
it dawns on me where his questions are leading, he's concerned that we
will end up destitute, living off the government.  I watch to see
whether any numbers are entered in the computer, but he only flips
through the passport pages.  After more questions about funding, I
surreptitiously retrieve a wad of Travelers Cheques from my jeans and
spread them on the counter so he can inspect their validity.  I'm too
tired to think about returning to Italy, or worse yet, America.

Responding to his questions diverts my attention from wondering what
will happen to us if we are refused admission to the United Kingdom,
.

I must keep him talking.

"Sir, these checks, totaling about $3, 000, will keep me from becoming
a leech in your country."  Diverting the conversation to less
threatening turf, I continue, "In addition to sight-seeing, I'm
researching a graduate thesis on .  . . " The discourse is interrupted
by a slight swirl of his hand in the air, as if he is conducting me to
stop the flow of words.

When he resumes another round of questions on marital status, an
airline agent interjects from the sidelines, "I believe this woman and
her daughter have been delayed long enough.  Is there a reason to
detain her?  " Airport employees on the periphery communicate their
impatience to close down this section of the terminal for the night.

Coming up with no justification, the immigration officer stamps our
passports begrudgingly.

The airline agent escorts us through the deserted terminal wing to the
baggage claim area, apologizing for the third-degree questioning I have
been subjected to for the past thirty minutes.

At this time of night, the currency exchange is closed, and the last
buses for the train station in Edinburgh have departed.  The airline official
 phones for a cab, explaining that I have no pounds sterling,
only Travelers Cheques in U. S. dollars.  The company agrees to change
a $50 Travelers Cheque, the last I possess of the lower denomination
ones.  Using the airline's telephone, I call Janet, but the line is
busy.  The agent offers to telephone her about our arrival time in
Perth.

Arriving at the Edinburgh station four minutes before the last night
train departs for Perth, there is no time to change money or even
purchase tickets.  On the platform, the conductor is about to blow the
whistle, but he sees our sluggish approach.  At the nearest car
entrance, he helps me hoist the three bags onboard to expedite the
train's departure.

Groaning in disbelief, he asks, "What do you have in these bags?

Bricks?  " "No, " I reply.  "Gold bullion!  " "So, you're a lady of
mystery."  Having no ready reply, I respond with a Mona Lisa smile.

When the conductor appears again to collect tickets, I have none.

Having witnessed our catching the train on the run, or rather on the
crawl, he produces two tickets.  However, the leftover change (in
pounds sterling) from the cab ride is only enough to buy one ticket, a
child's fare at that.

"Well, lady of mystery, since British Rail doesn't accept gold bullion
and won't force a wee lass to ride the train alone at this hour of
night, you ride free, " concludes the conductor.

The distance from the train station at Perth to Janet's home is a
comfortable walk in the daylight, but not after midnight with a tired
child and three cumbersome bags.  Although the remaining pounds
sterling weren't sufficient for an adult train ticket, the leftover
coins are the precise amount for cabfare to Janet's home, including a
tip.

Lights are ablaze on the porch and in the living room, signaling that
Janet hasn't gone to bed.  The helpful airline agent whose intervention
facilitated our admittance into the U. K. had kept his word.

FOR SEVERAL DAYS, THE THREE BLACK BAGS REMAIN IN THE ENtrance hall,
waiting to be dragged up the stairs to a second-floor guest room.

I move through the house with the nimbleness of a garden slug, fatigue
has converted well-toned muscles into rubber.

Janet's back condition has improved, although a good portion of each
day is spent resting in a supine position with the hope of averting
surgery.  My homelessness and Janet's comfortlessness bond us, as
mutual affliction does.  Both of us regret our limitations for serving
the other.  Janet needs a chauffeur, but driving is off-limits for
me.

I need help in finding a place to live, but the constant pain prevents
her from searching the byways of Perth with me.

Michelle's frustration about leaving Soriano triggers disagreeable
behavior.  At mealtimes, she complains if something other than pasta is
served.  When the only television in the house is not programmed to her
wishes, she throws a fit, earning her the nickname Squeak.  Michelle
holds me personally responsible for the weather, a daunting onus during
a wet summer in Scotland.

Janet introduces me to a word that has the right onomatopoeia for
diffusing anger "throttle."  To give Janet a peaceful break, Michelle
and I spend a few days in Kinloch Rannoch, the Highland village where
Janet grew up.  I want to introduce Michelle to the rugged terrain that
impressed me years before.  The city and then the forests in the river
valley are left behind as the road across the moor rises in a
succession of plateaus, which Janet's father counts as thirteen
steps.

The shaggy Highland cattle with their crescent horns browse in the
heather, which softens the stark edge of the landscape with mauve and
purple tints.

The River Tummel flows dark with peat, the color of Guinness, as Janet
says.

Nothing obscures the silhouettes of the mountains.  The symmetry of
Schiehallion, "the mountain of the fairies, " contrasts with the craggy
projections of neighboring mountains.  Its conical shape inspired the
invention of contour lines for communicating elevation changes on maps,
and its magnificent bulk figured in eighteenth-century experiments to
determine the weight of the earth.  The geomorphology of the Grampians
awakens the sleeping giant of geography within me.

As Michelle and I sit before a coal fire in the sitting room of the
bed-and-breakfast, I initiate a conversation to clear the air and
hopefully ease the tension between us.  Trying not to sound
high-handed, I begin "Michelle, you know that we couldn't stay in the
Soriano apartment."

"You could have found us another place to live in Soriano."

"I tried, but apartments were few and far between.  The one we visited
was too expensive.  Anyway, finding a place to live wouldn't have
solved the problem of registering with the police, or schooling for you
in English."

"You could have taught me at home."

"We tried home schooling, but it didn't work.  It wasn't your fault.  I
was too tired to teach you."

"You just wanted to come to Scotland to see Janet."

"Yes, it's nice living near Janet.  She's a good friend who cares
about--" Michelle interrupts, "She likes you more than she likes me."

I am tempted to quip, "That doesn't surprise me, given the way you have
been acting, " but such a remark would have only driven the wedge
farther between us.  Michelle is waging emotional war on two fronts
grieving the loss of, first, America and now Soriano.  In New Zealand,
she had expressed frustration about being uprooted from America, but
now her hostility has intensified.

Scotland is several countries removed from New Zealand, and her
weariness from being on the move has increased, as has mine.

Although I have made no commitments to her about returning to America,
comments in New Zealand, such as "We're heading toward America, in the
direction of home, but the journey could take a long time, " had
quickened hope.  Keeping the future vague seemed the only option, but
her hopes have been dashed with every new country.

Michelle's protection and happiness are becoming mutually exclusive.

Michelle isn't the only one unhappy about being away from America.

When I learn that my twenty-fifth high school reunion is occurring
during the Fourth of July weekend, I once again lean on a
self-defeating coping mechanism.  The ludicrous scenario of attending a
school reunion doesn't stop me from placing a last ditch telephone call
on July 2 to Mary Ellen in Kentucky.

Pumped on 1966 maturity, hope evaporates on learning that Jim has
recently taught at a medical symposium.  Yet again, I prey upon him,
rather than pray for his change of heart.

On the Fourth of July, while Americans barbecue hamburgers and watch
fireworks, missing a school reunion has reduced me to tearful misery.

Graduates within miles of the festivities won't even bother to attend,
and others would gladly trade a reunion weekend in Kentucky for a
weekend in Scotland.  For me, the reunion celebrates something deeper
than being twenty-five years past high school.  It is a symbolic link
with the past when life was less complicated, under the protection of
family.  The reunion signifies normality talking about children, jobs,
accomplishments, marital status, and so on.  If I showed up, I might
win the prize for traveling the farthest, but what would I say about my
life?  "Well, I'm divorced, homeless, and living out of three large
bags, carless, unemployed, and supported by my parents, and wanted by
the FBI on charges that could send me to prison for a very long time.

Promise not to tell anyone that I am here,
cross-your-heart-andhope-to-die."  Such blathering sounds too much like
high school.

After eighteen months in hiding, missing a school reunion becomes an
emotional watershed, just as birthdays had been in Italy.  Flailing on
a sea of dreams, the surge of circumstances threatens to hurl me over
the dam of false hopes toward an emotional crash on the other side.

Survival depends on draining the pit of pipe dreams, enabling me to
embrace life as it is.  Only God's detonation is powerful enough to
break through the damming false hopes.  Will my soul survive the
upheaval of blasting?

When I am drained of false hopes, will I survive walking in the pit of
reality?

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE REUNION WEEKEND, THE DRAININC of the pit
begins with the determined resolve to establish ourselves in Perth.

Scanning the listings for apartment rentals, following up newspaper
ads, and checking the bulletin boards in the local shops produce only
two apartments meriting a visit.  Neither is suitable for our needs.

Janet leaves no stone unturned in calling friends about available
housing opportunities.  Although Ewen and his wife, Sue, reconfirm
their gracious offer for us to be lodgers at the manse, I resolutely
hold out for a place of our own.

When a month's search yields nothing, I question whether Perth is where
we are meant to be.  I also question God's purpose in directing us here
for only two months.  Exhaustion from moving eighteen times in as many
months has shortened my temper with Michelle, who is bratty about
everything.  Although Janet encourages us to stay at her home as long
as necessary, I need a place to live where our tension is inflicted on
no one but ourselves.  Janet and I agree that contacting the Coupers in
Oxford could open a new door of opportunity.  My telephone call to them
comes two days before their departure on a YWAM mission trip to the
Czech Republic.  After expressing interest in registering Michelle for
the new school year at Emmanuel Christian School, Audrey encouragcs me
to call Mr. Wilson, the principal, immediately.  Only two days remain
in the current school year, and Michelle's application must be
submitted before it ends.

After several agonizing rings, Mr. Wilson answers.  Prefacing the
inquiry with apologies for calling him at home, I express my interest
in enrolling Michelle.  Saving the details of our situation until
meeting him in person, I make an appointment for 11 30 A. M. on Friday,
the day after tomorrow.  Putting down the receiver, I hastily prepare
for a train journey that begins at seven o'clock the next morning.

Momentarily, Michelle is stunned by the abruptness of the travel plans,
then, as if a light switch is flipped, she remembers that
predictability is not part of our routine.

Traveling to Oxford could be another wild-goose chase, although Oxford
has the same thing going for it that New Zealand had disassociation
from the past.  As a safe haven, all connections would be new in
Oxford.

Before falling asleep, I listen to the bleating of the sheep in the
field next to Janet's town house, an anomaly in an urban residential
neighborhood, even for Scotland.  Wherever Michelle and I have
sojourned on this journey, sheep have been a part of the landscape the
hillsides of New Zealand and Soriano and now Scotland.  Their cries cue
my thoughts to an Old Testament leader who had needed reassurance from
God on the eve of a momentous decision.  Gideon, chosen to lead the
Israelites--significant numerical underdogs--into battle, petitioned
God to confirm His decision on the threshing room floor.

According to Gideon's preconditions, dew was to appear only on the
fleece, not the ground.  When it happened, Gideon was still not
convinced.  On the second night, Gideon requested that the fleece be
dry and the dew be only on the ground.  On both nights, the dew

Pipe Dreams

had complied according to Gideon's terms Uudges 6 36-40).  The wet and
dry fleeces of our moving to Oxford depend on Michelle's admission to
Emmanuel Christian School and finding a place to live.

ON THE LAST DAY OF THE SCHOOL YEAR, MICHELLE AND I board a red
double-decker bus for Summertown in Oxford.  Victorian residences with
stone tracery at the windows line the entrance to this neighborhood
where the spires of the Oxford colleges are visible above the
rooftops.

Emmanuel Christian School is housed in a 1970s single-story building
that had been constructed as a school but had been idle for a few
years.  Before meeting the principal, Mr. Wilson, Michelle and I are
taken to see Mrs. Stokes, the teacher who showed Michelle the computer
during our last visit to Oxford.  If admitted to the school, Michelle
would be the fourth American girl in this class of fewer than twenty
students.  Has God brought America to Michelle, since she can't go to
it?

Mr. Wilson is astonished to learn the circumstances of our journey,
since I had not hinted about them during the telephone conversation.

Now that we are face-to-face, I cover all the salient points Michelle's
sexual abuse, the criminal charges against me, our living on the run,
and her father's diagnosis of AIDS.  I bring no credentials as to the
trustworthiness of these claims, all references begin with this
journey.  God alone is my witness.

Leaning forward in his chair to plant his forearms on the desk, Mr.
Wilson extends compassion with the question "How can we help you, Mrs.
Williams?  " "More than anything else, my daughter needs to attend a
school without jeopardizing our safety.  She needs to be registered as
Michelle Williams, not using her passport name.  I have money for
school fees, although I don't know if the amount will be sufficient for
a school like this one."  Mr. Wilson explains that school fees are
assessed on a sliding scale, assuring me that admission, not
necessarily money, is the obstacle.

"Mrs. Williams, your inquiry has been well timed for Michelle's
admission.  It was imperative that your petition be considered at the
final board meeting of the school year.  Would you be willing to tell
them the story you have told me?  " Without hesitation, I agree to
petition the board of directors in less than an hour.  "Mr. Wilson, do
you think they will admit Michelle, given the obstacles?  " "I don't
know what the other board members will decide.  The legal issue seems
the most problematic.  I pledge my full support on admitting Michelle,
but all decisions must be agreed upon by the board of directors."  As
our meeting ends, Mr. Wilson suggests, "Why don't you have some lunch,
since the board will be deciding on other matters before hearing your
petition?  Michelle is welcome to eat with the children, and you are
welcome to join the teachers in the staff room ."  As we bring back
sandwiches from a deli, Michelle is eager to eat with classmates.  At
the coffee area of the staff room, a blue and white mug catches my
eye.

The Wildcat mascot of the University of Kentucky (known there as U.

K.

) is on the mug with the slogan GO, U. K.

None of the teachers remembers how it reached the U. K. from U. K. in
America, but every sip of coffee brings a smile to my lips.

After lunch, the board members listen sympathetically to my story.

Without deliberation, they agree to accept Michelle's application
unofficially, contingent on the response of legal counsel.  Catching up
with Michelle during the closing assembly, she seems to have settled
into the class.  On the way to celebrate her conditional school
acceptance under our tree at the Botanic Gardens, she pesters me to buy
a school uniform at a shop on the High Street, but we buy frozen yogurt
instead.

Every one acknowledges that apartments in Oxford are scarce and tend to
be expensive.  The abundance of students drives up the rent, making
competition intense for the inexpensive apartments.  At a real estate
agency near Summertown, few apartments within my budget are listed.

Living options are as limited in Oxford as they had been in Perth.

When I call Janet about Michelle's conditional school acceptance and
tell her my concerns about finding a place to live, she suggests asking
at the church we had attended the autumn before with the Coupers.  I'm
skeptical about the likelihood of finding someone at the church on a
Saturday morning, but she strongly urges me to give it a try.  Since I
don't have a better idea, Michelle and I walk in that direction.

Several blocks before reaching the church, Michelle stops to look at
pictures of homes in the window of a real estate agency.

Entering the agency on a whim minutes before closing time, I ask about
the availability of furnished one-bedroom apartments, centrally located
and near public transportation.  The real estate agent suggests an
apartment in Headington that will become available in September.

Before she gives me the tenant's name and telephone number, I ask what
options exist in lieu of signing a year's lease.  Justifying this
request more than necessary, I elaborate about researching a graduate
thesis, which makes the length of our residency in Oxford uncertain.  A
way of escaping a year's lease exists six months' rent up front and one
month's deposit, a non-refundable fee, to be paid two weeks before
occupancy.

On the way to a public phone, Michelle and I pass the home of the
Coupers (now on their way to the Czech Republic) and the church, our
original destination.  When I call the tenant, he invites us to see the
apartment, which is only a ten-minute walk away.

The second-floor perspective offers security and detachment from the
busy flow of pedestrians and traffic on the London Road.

Although the one bedroom is small (barely enough room to enter the bed
from the sides), the spaciousness of the kitchen and the living room
makes up for the cramped sleeping quarters.  Fireplaces that had once
been fitted with gas heaters now add only character to the rooms, where
electric wall heaters supply the warmth.  Michelle offers suggestions
for rearranging the furniture, which means that she likes it.  This
cozy apartment would be a haven, a place for closing the door and
shutting out the world.

If the real estate agency had been open, I would have secured this
apartment immediately, despite Michelle's whining about being hungry.

Paying the six months' rent in cash, and the nonrefundable fee, two
weeks before occupancy without making a special trip to Oxford seems to
be the only complication.  Sending a check from Scotland in the name of
Chris Williams would be impossible without proper identification.

Responding to Michelle's call for food, we order sandwiches at a nearby
shop.  Although I want to eat in the cafe's garden, I give way to
Michelle's desire to picnic at the park the tenant mentioned.  After
eating, I push Michelle on a roundabout in the playground until I feel
nauseated.  With no one to push her, she loses interest and heads for
the swings.  Hanging back from nabbing the empty swing, she has
something to tell me.  Staring at two girls in the adjacent swings,
Michelle whispers, "Those girls were at the school yesterday."  The
other girls express self-conscious recognition of Michelle, but no one
initiates contact.  When I hear one of the girls call out to her father
nearby, I make a move.  Their father, Francis Prittie, confirms that
Hannah and Rachel, as well as two older children, attend Emmanuel
Christian School.  When I mention our intention to move to Oxford,
Francis invites us home to meet his wife, Sally, and talk about the
school and Oxford.

While Michelle and the girls play in the backyard, I discover that
Sally and Francis know the Coupers well, both through school and
through attending the same church.  This association paves the way for
relating the circumstances of our moving to Oxford.  Sally and Francis
encourage me with their compassion and willingness to help us.

Both confirm that the rent on this apartment in Headington is quite
reasonable.  According to the tenant, we hadn't been the first to view
it.  Since competition for apartments is so intense in the area,
Francis suggests dropping off a letter of interest at the real estate
agency.  When I mention needing to come to Oxford two weeks prior to
occupancy, Sally and Francis look at each other and smile.  They have
been praying for someone to stay at their home during their family
vacation the last two weeks of August.  If Michelle and I were to stay
at their home and care for a young kitten during these two weeks, our
mutual problems would be resolved.  I accept the house-sitting offer
contingent on securing the apartment.

Committing to the apartment before Michelle receives official school
admission is a risk, but the sequence of events during the past three
days encourages taking it.  On the way back to the bed-and-breakfast, I
slip a letter signed Chris Williams through the mail slot at the real
estate agency.

When the agency reopens, Michelle and I are waiting at the door to
stake our claim to the Headington apartment.  If the agent requests
passport identification, the deal will be off.  Registering our legal
name and address would be too risky.  The agent accepts the
nonrefundable fee, which holds the apartment until two weeks before
occupancy.  No identification is requested, but it helps to deal in
cash.  The leasing contract, in the name of Chris Williams, will be
ready for signing then, when the six months' deposit will be due.

A few days in Oxford have yielded new friends, a place to live, a
house-sitting offer to facilitate the timing of our move, and
unofficial admission to Emmanuel Christian School.  God has gone beyond
confirming the wet and dry fleeces.  Through Michelle's steps, God
directed us to the window of a real estate agency, to a playground, and
possibly to other Divine appointments whose purposes are not yet
evident.  The appointment by the swings would have been lost in the
sands of time if my willfulness had prevailed--a poignant lesson for
the future.

EARLY ONE MORNING IN MID-AuGusT THE THREE BLACK BAGS are once again
lined up in Janet's hall, waiting for an all-day train ride to
Oxford.

Saying goodbye to Janet, I momentarily lose my nerve.  Perhaps leaving
the security of Janet's support to strike out toward unfamiliar
surroundings is foolhardy, a decision we will regret.  The Oxford
apartment will be unbearably lonely after weeks of daily exposure to
Janet's friendship.

At the Waverly Station in Edinburgh, I heave our bags, one by one, onto
a luggage cart, heaping tote bags on top.  One holds a round metal tray
decorated with birds, a gift from Scotland for my mother.  The cart
lumbers along under its heavy burden until a jerk sends the tray
skimming across the terrazzo floor like a stone on water, creating such
a clamor that all eyes in the waiting room turn in our direction.

Being the focus of attention in a travel center filled with Americans
is as jarring for me as the noise had been for them.

When I ask the conductor about where to put our bags, he shakes his
head, knowing, as I do, that they are too heavy for the overhead racks
and too large for the floor space between the seats.  The end-of-season
luggage fills the racks at the ends of the train cars.

After confirming that our destination involves no changes, he motions
me to follow him toward the end of the train.  Opening the mail car, he
heaves our bags inside.  Indiscreetly, I swear that no bombs have been
concealed in these bags.

When I express concern about the security of our luggage, the conductor
assures me that they will be safe traveling with the mail and are too
heavy to "walk away."  On the train, an English couple who have been on
vacation in Scotland sit down next to us.  By initiating conversation,
I learn that they live in Headington, a few doors from our apartment.

Sitting next to future neighbors confirms the move to Oxford once
again.

Knowing that the train remains at Oxford for only a few minutes before
departing for Reading, Michelle and I are the first passengers on the
platform.  Our bags will end up in London unless I quickly locate a
conductor to retrieve them from the mail car.  At first, the conductor
doesn't take me seriously.  "Luggage isn't stowed in the mail car, " he
says, ready to brush me off.

When I persist, he follows me to the back of the train and opens the
mail car to reveal three black bags.  Through the iron fencing, Sally,
Hannah, and Rachel are standing by their station wagon, ready to
receive us and our bulky load.  The stress of saying goodbye to Janet,
the exhaustion of heaving bags, and the melancholy of arriving at a
city that is having its first downpour in weeks all combine to generate
doubts about making Oxford our new home.  The warm hospitality of the
Pritties' home puts things right again.

Now THAT I CONDUCT FINANCES IN TRAVELERS CHEQUES, I M no longer
accustomed to carrying large amounts of cash pounds sterling this
time.

On the short bus ride from the bank to the real estate agency, I become
uneasy for another reason.  If passport identification is required when
I sign the leasing contract, the apartment will have to be
sacrificed.

Initially, the real estate agent counts a stack of pound notes, more
than fifty of them.  Minutes drag on precariously as she sorts through
the paperwork.  I glance at the wall clock to ease apprehension.  All
plans for living in Oxford are in the balance until the contract is
signed.  If the words "Can I see your passport, Mrs. Williams?  " are
voiced, all would be lost.  Eventually, I hear the words I have been
waiting for "Mrs. Williams, please sign here."  I leave the office
with a contract, legally significant for Chris Williams, whoever he or
she may be.

After an orientation on the workings of their house, the Pritties
depart on vacation.  Since I'm allergic to cats, Michelle takes charge
of the kitten, a role that she happily assumes.  Within a few days,
living in close proximity to the kitten produces an allergic reaction,
but road-map-like, itchy eyes are a small price to pay for a lovely
place to stay during a time of need.

A portion of every day is spent exploring Oxford, usually ending up
downtown to purchase items for our new home while resisting Michelle's
pressure to purchase a school uniform before receiving official
acceptance.  Telephoning the secretary to the board of directors
confirms that official acceptance won't occur until they meet again,
just prior to the beginning of the school year.

Frequently, shopping trips conclude with ice cream under our birch tree
in the Botanic Gardens, where we watch boaters maneuver through the
water.  Some struggle with entangling the pole in tree branches or the
mud, making little progress through the water while expending a great
amount of effort.  Michelle and I giggle impatiently at their
clumsiness.  Later, I am humbled when my ineptness at handling the pole
makes the children in my boat wonder if they will ever return to the
boathouse.

AT THE BEGINNING OF SEPTEMBER, SALLY MOVES us AND OuR black bags into
our new apartment.  Both of us walk through it, praying for God's
protection in every room.  The horror of a police officer or a private
investigator knocking on our door flashes across my mental screen.

Sally's prayer for halting the mildew advance in the bathroom jerks me
back to reality.  Only one person knocks at our door on this first day
in our new home one of the board members, who delivers the official
letter of Michelle's acceptance at Emmanuel Christian School.

Carrying one's house is self-limiting.  Moving is transformed when
possessions fit into three bags, everything is unpacked and arranged
within a few hours.  I wonder if I will remember the freedom and
enjoyment of owning fewer possessions when we return to America and the
opportunity to stockpile is restored.

It's not known how many cloaks hung on the hooks above where Jesus
slept, or whether He packed a bag when visiting friends in a distant
village, but He did instruct His disciples on how to pack for a
preaching tour "Do not acquire gold or silver or copper for your money
belts, or a bag for your journey, or even two tunics or sandals or a
staff, for the worker is worthy of his support" (Matt.  10 9-10).

ON THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, MICHELLE AND I BOARD A double-decker bus at
the stop outside our door for a thirty-minute ride that takes us within
two blocks of the school.  All the children in Michelle's class are
younger, but a friendship forms on the first day with another American
girl, Stephanee, who is also a newcomer to Oxford.

Michelle's school attendance is a treat for both of us.  What a
delicious feeling it is to walk along a street alone, popping into a
shop without resistant discussion from my daughter.  What enjoyment it
is to seek a workout gym, a salon for haircuts, and a shop to buy
coffee on my own!  A search of seconthand shops turns up a small
black-and-white TV for our Friday night celebrations, now moved to
Saturday, a more celebratory night for BBC programming.

Once Michelle settles in at school, she begins taking dance lessons,
which have become a canary-in-the-coal-mine indicator of this
journey.

If and when resources are no longer available for this privilege, the
viability of the journey is at stake.  I shall return to America before
depriving Michelle of safe housing, good nutrition, schooling, and her
treasured dance lessons.  A question sits on the back shelf of my mind,
one which I periodically remove and examine in the light of prayer.  Is
Michelle's life more secure in hiding with me than it would be living
in America in the open?

Desiring an evening of entertainment other than television and pizza, I
accompany the Coupers to a performance of Dvorak's From the New World
symphony at the seventeenth-century Sheldonian Theater, where Oxford
University graduations are held.  As we sit in a hall inspired by a
Roman amphitheater, the guest artist, Scottish percussionist Evelyn
Glennie, tunes the kettle drums.  Stretching to lean out over the drum,
Ms. Glennie, who is deaf, presses her body on the surface to feel the
vibrations.

With fingertips resting on the drumhead, she listens through her
fingernails for fine-tuning adjustments.  Her second performance is as
stellar as the preparatory one has been, bold percussion lighter than
the clouds painted on the theater's ceiling.  Hearing the familiar
refrain of the From the New World symphony, the melancholy notes "Daa
.

. . dee.  . . daa, daa .  . . dee .  . .

daa, " I recall Lyrics that Dvorak lifted from slave songs in America
"Going' home .  . . going' home .  . . Yes, I'm going' home."

Throughout the evening, these words strike a harmonious triad chord of
body, soul, and spirit.  Michelle and I will return to America someday,
but going' home may be a long time comin'.

Now that false hopes and pipe dreams are draining from the pit of
reality, expectations of spending birthdays and holidays in America
don't provoke desperate phone calls home for an update on Jim's
condition.  Recent news from America has been more speculative than
substantive.  Little is known about Jim's life, his health, or how
vigorously he is searching for us.  I know that Gabriella in Italy and
Janet in Scotland, both known to Jim, have not been contacted.

ONCE LIFE IN OXFORD SETTLES INTO A ROUTINE, THE SWIRLING waters of
survival, which have kept the adrenaline pumping, diminish.  Gone is
the security of being on the move.  The predictability of staying put
threatens our safety, particularly in a city frequented by American
tourists.  Every day I look into their faces, hoping against
recognition, but the faces who see me without my seeing them worry me
the most.

The boggy pit of resignation is pockmarked with depressions that engulf
unstructured time like quicksand.  I express to Linda, a friend and
teacher at Emmanuel, the frustration of living in a city rich with
bibliographic resources but being unable to access them for researching
my thesis.  She introduces me to a friend, Andrew, an academic
affiliated with Oxford University.

In a former Victorian residence that has been converted to university
offices, I explain why it would be difficult for me to obtain a
reader's card, even though I am (or have been) a bona fide graduate
student in America.  Andrew informs me that obtaining a card requires
passport identification.  Registration could be risky if someone at the
university were to contact San Francisco State University for
verification.  Until now, I have been careful not to leave a paper
trail of my true name, except on immigration and Moneygram forms.

After a night of pondering the possible consequences of this
application, I compose a letter of request, including my passport
number as well as outlining my thesis topic.  Accompanied by Andrew's
letter of recommendation, the application is submitted.

Prepared to lay aside a rule I had pledged allegiance to at the
beginning of the journey, I sense a greater need within me fulfilling
intellectual work.  I feel that the neurons of my brain are lounging
around, no longer snapping to attention.  My contemporaries, all the
other forty-four-year-olds in the world, are going forward with their
lives as I slip farther behind in mine.  A week later, I receive a
reader's card with privileges to use one of the most outstanding
libraries in the world.  I read articles about fava beans and favism at
a long table with a leather inset top in the reading room of the
Radcliffe Camera.  For the first time in years, the potential exists to
make this journey count toward professional goals.

ALTHOUGH FRIENDS AND ACTIVITIES ABOUND IN OXFORD, loneliness stalks me,
particularly on Sundays, when the daily routine is suspended.  From the
church pew, I stare at the injunctions inscribed at the top of the
stained-glass windows IN FAITH, osEY.

FAITH, ENDURE.  IN FAITH, PRAY.  I have obeyed, I am enduring, and I am
praying that God, the One who has the power to change the course of the
future, will resolve our situation.  Our second Christmas season while
on the run is approaching.  My heart aches to relax at my parents' home
with a cup of coffee, hear my name called every day, and smile at the
future.  Sitting reverently in the church service, inside I'm wrestling
with God to reveal some sprigs of hope from the crevasses of a
landscape void of future plans.  Jacob, during the loneliest time of
his life when he was separated from his family and fleeing from the
wrath of his brother, Esau, wrestled with God in the flesh all through
the night.  At daybreak, Jacob's endurance paid off when the blessing
was received, but his life would never be the same.

He received a new name, Israel, and would limp to his grave, thanks to
a dislocated hip joint (Gen.  32 24-29).

As I stand for the last hymn, I'm astonished that my hip joint supports
me.  Why had it been necessary for Jacob to strive with both God and
man at the same time?  I ask myself.  I'm fed up with striving to
understand God's timing and purpose.  I want it to be over.  Like the
limited shelf life of manna in the wilderness, hope can't be stockpiled
for the future.  But, like Jacob, I don't depart from God's presence
empty-hearted, but receive a momentary dispensation of hope from God's
unlimited supply.

SEVERAL MONTHS INTO THE SCHOOL YEAR, MICHELLE's teacher, Sally Stokes,
and I plan an evening get-together, more for the purpose of becoming
better acquainted than a parentteacher conference.  Earlier in the
school year, Sally had reported

Pipe Dreams

that Michelle was adjusting well in the class and that her academic
progress was steady and good.

"You really are an adventurer, aren't you?  " Sally states, more as a
matter of fact than a question.

"Not by nature, but I'm becoming one.  I feel restless when I stay in
one place too long."

"You've only just arrived in Oxford.  Are you thinking of leaving
already?  " "Leaving is always on my mind.  If our safety were
threatened, we would leave within minutes.  Whatever happens, less than
three months remain on our tourist visas for the United King.  , ,
aom.

"There must be a way to stay in the United Kingdom to allow Michelle to
complete this year of schooling.  If you need to know where you stand
legally, I know a trustworthy lawyer who could advise you."

"I don't see how he could help me.  Overstaying could mean deportation
if I'm caught.  Staying in the United Kingdom would necessitate leaving
the country and risking reentry."

"Taking the ferry to France could solve the visa problem.  Another six
months in the U. K. would allow you time to catch your breath in
Oxford."

"Sally, I'm not sure that I want to catch my breath.  I'm more
comfortable when we are on the move, but for Michelle's sake I have to
stay put for as long as possible."

"Chris, you may find it difficult to adjust to normal living again,
once all this is over."  Returning to life as it was in America becomes
more challenging with every new country of residence.  A restless
spirit accompanies me everywhere.

THE BBC TELEVISION SERIES CIASSIC ADVEA!  TURES BECOMES regular
viewing.  Since leaving San Francisco, I have called our travels an
"adventure, " although, more recently, Michelle refers to it as "our
journey around the world."  This TV show documents ordeals about solo
sailors traversing oceans, climbers conquering mountains, and trekkers
crossing deserts, but never the ordeal of a fugitive running with a
child.

Common threads run through all the adventures risk, uncertainty,
endurance, and perseverance.  All the television adventurers express
feelings of isolation, loneliness, or wanting to be elsewhere,
particularly toward the end of their journeys.  When all comfort is
gone, obsessions develop the sailor dreams of a hot bath, the trekker
in the desert thirsts for ice-cold water.  Weariness dulls the threat
of risks during the ordeal.  The long-distance biker in America slumps
onto the handlebars from sleep deprivation, threatening to swerve off
the road.  Reaching the goal is all that matters.  Exhilaration, as
well as the sweat of exhaustion, shines from the faces of these
television adventurers who have been pushed beyond their natural
limits.  All leaned on the support of others to reach their goals.

If our adventure were depicted on Classic Advextures it might be
represented by a round-the-world sack race, with two unmatched legs
running in one sack.  Hearts and hands reach out to us from the
sidelines, cheering us on, extending the glass of water when needed, or
offering a supportive arm when my steps falter.  There have been too
many helps to consider them coincidental.  An unseen advance team has
been mobilizing support at each and every turn.  An unseen Hand has
been holding mine.  Breaking through the barriers of my natural limits
has allowed me to tap into God's stamina, receiving power that is
perfected in weakness.

Nine.

Crushed Grapes.

Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter rue, The Wine of Life keeps oozing
drop by drop .  . .

THE RUBAIYAT OF 0 gHAYYAM
ON MY CRANDMOTHER S BIRTHDAY, FOUR DAYS
AFTER CHRISTMAS, Michelle and I board the ferry at Portsmouth for Le
Havre in France.  Leaving the United Kingdom (for a brief time) is
imperative to remaining here--legally.  Michelle and I stand in line
with passengers who have presumably spent Christmas in the U. K. and
are returning to the Continent for the New Year.  For us, this crossing
is the initial leg of a scouting mission to YWAM in Switzerland.  The
immigration officer looks at my passport, but he doesn't hand it back
immediately as he has to the others in front of me.

With official sternness, he asks, "Do you realize that your tourist
visa for the United Kingdom expired seven days ago?  " "Umm .  . .

yes.

When I was planning this trip, I didn't think that a week would make
that much difference."  The look on his face communicates that I made
the wrong response, even though it had been the truth.

"Not paying attention to dates stamped in your passport can make a big
difference.  There are no grace periods for immigration visas."

"I'm sorry that we didn't leave on December 22, but I wanted to spend
Christmas with friends in the U. K. before traveling to France, " I
respond, checking my inclination to explain more than is necessary or
prudent.

A warm flush creeps up my neck as the delay causes the people behind me
to shuffle impatiently.  After reiterating several times the importance
of honoring the passport visa dates, the officer returns our
passports.

With this encounter, the risk of deportation has doubled, immigration
problems can occur when leaving a country.  , as well as entering.

A TOURIST BUS TOUR ISN T MY FIRST CHOICE FOR SEEING Paris, but it's an
expeditious way to spend the afternoon here with a seven-year-old.  On
this day, New Year's Eve, Michelle could outwalk me through the streets
of Paris.  Recovering from the flu, a bus tour is all that I can
manage.  Taking Michelle to the Eiffel Tower had been a journey
objective before leaving America, in addition to seeing Gabriella in
Italy and Janet in Scotland.  The last day of 1991 holds fascinating
juxtapositions of place gazing up at the Eiffel Tower, dining at the
marketplace where Joan of Arc was martyred, and returning to a
bed-and-breakfast in Rouen where a king of France had stayed.  It
saddens me that Michelle won't remember all that she has been
privileged to see.

Toward midnight, Michelle and I hear firecrackers and merrymaking from
the street.  Even the family who owns the bed-and-breakfast is having a
party below us.  The whole world is partying without us, but staying up
to welcome the first minutes of the New Year seems pointless.  This
time last year in Italy I would never have imagined the two of us in
France, listening to New Year celebrations from our beds in the dark.

The TGV from Paris to Lausanne speeds so rapidly that the stones
alongside the track are a blur.  In July 1992, six months from now,
Crossroads, a discipleship training school for students thirty-five and
older, will be offered at the YWAM base in Switzerland.

The name of the course is intriguing, since our lifestyle is
perpetually at a crossroads, and the YWAM leaders encourage me to
apply.  Decisions regarding applications will be made later in the
spring, but my acceptance seems likely.  In Switzerland, immigration
visas are for three months, but leaving the country even for a brief
time extends the visa another three months.  The course lasts six
months and begins three days before our forthcoming U. K. immigration
visas will expire.

Walking through the forest trails next to the base, Michelle and I view
the chalet from a new perspective.  The prospect of attending the
YWAM-sponsored French-speaking school excites Michelle, who already
knows some of the pupils, children of the YWAM staff.  Learning to
speak French is a carrot for her, plus living at the chalet.  During
past visits to the base, receiving kind attention from the young people
attending the training schools has delighted her.  For me, survival is
the primary, though not the exclusive objective for living at a
familiar place.  Getting to know God better is a strong secondary
consideration.  Other Crossroads students may be more focused in their
spiritual goals, but none will be singular in their decision.  Trust is
gradually being restored through God's protection and provision, which
is reinforced daily.  The accumulation of these blessings is wooing me
back into the circle of His love.  Spiritual ground, lost to the enemy
through disappointment, is being reclaimed.

ON THE RETURN FERRY TO ENCLAND, THE U. K. IMMIGRATION officer thumbs
through my passport, asking few questions as he checks the date
stamps.

When the customary questions come, his terse comments cause my palms to
dampen.  Any attempt on my part to lighten or divert his line of
questioning is met with a piercing stare.  Feeling exposed, I want to
run for cover, but Michelle and I are an hour out of port on the
English Channel.

Other non-European Community passport holders are fidgeting in the line
behind us.  The officer announces that he will need to keep my
passport, instructing me to return in one hour's time.  In two years of
traveling on the run, my passport has never left my possession, except
momentarily across a counter to immigration officers and American
Express agents.  Stripped of it, the journey is arrested.

As Michelle and I move restlessly around the ferry, I pray for God's
intervention.  For all I know, the officer could be notifying officials
in Portsmouth to arrange our detention, which would result in
deportation.  There's no doubt that he suspects me of something.  If he
checks my passport number against an international list of felons
(which undoubtedly exists in some computer file), his suspicions will
be validated.

Sixty minutes later, when I step up to the immigration window, the
officer's questions target the fact that we haven't returned to the
U.

S. A. in two years.  Although I stick to my story of researching a
graduate thesis, he's not convinced.

"How does your daughter's father feel about your taking her away for
such a long time?  " "Well, it's a long story."  I want to proclaim
that her father is dead, but I would be unable to bear the look on
Michelle's confused face caused by such a lie.  The officer would
notice it as well.

Looking down at Michelle as if reluctant to speak in her presence, I
continue, "It's not a problem for her father, but it's difficult to
explain at the moment."  Studying a page of the passport, he seems to
have another question on the tip of his tongue, but it stays there.

The questions halt above the din of the ferry's engines.  I'm
immobilized without our passports and fear that the slightest twitch of
my body will tip the scales in Jim's favor.  Only my eyes follow his
hand as it moves toward the stamp, hesitating in midair.  Then I hear
the blessed plonk-plonk, which frees us to live six more

Crushed Grapes

months in the United Kingdom.  I check myself from offering exuberant
gratitude, and walk away as if no crisis has been averted.

While Michelle watches a video in the children's room, I go to the
cafeteria for a cup of coffee.  The immigration officer approaches me,
holding a coffee cup.  Perhaps he has reconsidered, but the passports
have been stamped.  He offers to buy me a drink, but I decline the
offer, being on guard against social interaction.  Apprehensively, I sk
if he is on a work break to ascertain whether he is approaching me on
official business or speaking off the record.

As I expected, he's on a work break.  With no forewarning, he asks,
"Are you involved in a custody battle?  Are you running from your
daughter's father?  " As one lie begets another, I blurt out, "Oh no.

I'm not running from anyone."  Judging from his expression, I haven't
convinced him this second time that my daughter and I are on a carefree
world tour.

Desperate to change the subject and to stave off any interest he might
have in getting to know me better, I mention how my faith in God has
sustained me during my travels.  Although he acknowledges that having
faith in God is a good thing, he concedes, "It's too late for me.  "
This is a topic I can run with and not away from.  Our conversation
takes no more menacing turns, at least not for me.

THE EXHILARATION OF WALKING OFF THE FERRY ONTO THE

home soil of England fades quickly.  In the aftermath of the adrenaline
surge during the crisis on the ferry, fatigue turns my arms and legs to
Silly Putty.  At 10 P. M. , the bed-and-breakfasts in Portsmouth are
either without vacancies or not interested in taking guests at this
late hour.  One guest house says no but to call back if I'm stuck
without a place to stay.  When I do, persistence pays off.

Outside the ferry terminal in the dark and misting rain, I hire a cab
to take us to the guest house.  Michelle's exhaustion produces
instantaneous sleep.  I lay awake, wondering if my limbs will recover
by the next morning to permit us to catch a train for Oxford.

At breakfast, Michelle announces to everyone that today is her eighth
birthday and that she will be having a party later in January.

The guest house owners present her a gift--a handkerchief embroidered
with lilies of the valley.

A WEEK LATER IN OXFORD, DURING A TELEPHONE CONVERSAtion with Janet, I
mention our close call on the ferry.  Janet, aware of our return to the
United Kingdom, had been attending a wedding in York at the time.

"Chris, what time was your passport withheld?  " she asks
purposefully.

"Let's see .  . . The ferry left Le Havre about 4 45 P. M. , so it must
have been about 6 P. M. " "At about that time, I was in the hotel room,
getting ready for dinner.  Chris, I became so worried about your
well-being that I knelt by the bed, praying for your protection,
sensing that you might be having difficulties reentering the United
Kingdom."  The electrifying power of the Holy Spirit crackles on the
telephone line, causing me to put my hand over my mouth in awe of how,
through the prayer of a dear friend, God saved us from deportation .

THE ENCOUNTER ON THE FERRY HAS QUICKENED AN URGENCY to know where I
stand with U. K. immigration.  During an appointment with the lawyer
Sally Stokes had recommended last autumn, I divulge the legalities of
my situation, my defiance of a court order to remain in San Francisco,
and the child abduction charges Jim initiated after our fleeing.  He
confirms that these criminal charges would block employment in the U.

K. , even if

Crushed Grapes

my skills were unique enough to justify my being awarded a job over a
British citizen.  He warns me to be out of the United Kingdom before
July 4, and to stay away for at least three months, the longer the
better.  A third tourist visa would not be issued after a short stay in
another country.  If I decide to overstay, the risk of deportation
would increase and lock us into staying in the U. K. for the duration
of the journey, just as leaving could be closing the door on ever
returning to the U. K.

Only one scenario provides legal justification for staying marriage to
a citizen of the U. K. Both of us agree that this solution could cause
more problems than it solves.

The inner turmoil of facing difficult decisions takes a physical
toll.

Without treatment, the stomach pains have intensified since the
encounter with immigration on the ferry.  The acid-reducing medicine
prescribed in Italy was consumed months ago.  One afternoon while
shopping, the severity of the pain suspends our errands.  On the walk
home, Michelle and I meet a friend, who is the mother of a schoolmate
and whose husband is a physician.

Later that evening, she phones with a recommendation for a doctor in my
neighborhood, a friend of her husband's.  If I'm unable to obtain an
appointment the next day, using her husband's name as a reference, I'm
to call her back.

Throughout the evening, Michelle watches me bending in pain, the milk
and antacids giving little relief.  Her memory flashes back to Italy,
when I was doubled over with pain in the school parking lot and taken
to the hospital.  Her emotions erupt like a geyser as she rocks back
and forth on her heels, sobbing, "Mommy, I don't want to be left
alone.

I want Jesus to take care of me if you go to the hospital.  I want Him
to stay with me."  Over and over again, she expresses her fear of being
alone and her frustration at not seeing Jesus in person.  Both of us
cling to the hope of a medical appointment the next day, but staying
out of the hospital until then is critical to Michelle's peace of
mind.

Registering for medical care is a risk, but the pain leaves me no
choice.  The next afternoon at the local clinic I sit alone with the
clipboard and the form, deciding to register as Chris Williams, a
transient nonresident.  After I explain the circumstances of my life,
this compassionate physician prescribes the medication I need and opens
the door of his clinic for Chris Williams to return as needed.

ON THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY OF OUR DEPARTURE, NEWS from America reports
that Jim is beginning to have health problems.  Although my interest in
Jim's health for the past two years has arisen more from malevolence
than goodwill, sadness, not joy, overwhelms me.  Without mentioning
Michelle's abuse, I write Jim a letter expressing sadness at how life
has turned out for both of us and for our daughter.  Sending it to my
parents via a contact, I doubt that the letter will go any farther.  My
writing such a letter to Jim will be difficult for them to
understand.

The pain of separation from their only child and grandchild has been
almost more than they can bear, moreover, they haven't been insulated
from Jim's hurtful actions and angry words, as I have been on this
journey.  Repeatedly, when Jim telephones, my parents have pleaded with
him to let us return to America.  Jim's defiance rings in their ears,
as he has regularly said to them, "I want full custody of Ellen.  "
Returning to America could happen at any moment, or it could happen
years from now.  When blindfolded to the amount of time left as a
fugitive, I grope for plans as if playing an existential blindman's
bluff.  The uncertainty keeps me dithering about whether to commit
myself to a six-month YWAM school.

The news about Jim's health puts me into a mental holding pattern on
life.  Although the application and references were submitted to YWAM
months ago, the deposit is outstanding.  I look to America for
direction, but guidance unfolds on this side of the Atlantic .

THE GRAY SKIES OF WINTER ARE BRIGHTENED BY THE LOVING concern of a
woman who sits with US at church.  Madge, who is the same age as my
mother, relates to us from a grandmother's and a mother's heart.  Our
friendship commences when Madge invites us to her home after church to
taste cooking from her homeland, Jamaica.  Sunday after Sunday, Madge
speaks with the conviction of one whom God has brought through pain to
the joy on the other side, "Mark my words, Chris, God will plead your
cause, " quoting verses from Psalm 35, a prayer of rescue from one's
enemies.

"Chris, God is on the job.  Tell Him your heart and leave it with
Him.

Mary became a fugitive to save her Son.  You are doing the same thing
for your lovely daughter.  Mark my words, God is pleading your cause.

" Madge is right.  God is on the job, working in Michelle's life, as
well as my own.  Michelle's eyes are opened to the truth during an
eight-hour stomach virus, whose symptoms make her the sickest she has
been on this journey.  Staying close by her side, I find my attentive
care reaps more fruit than I could imagine.

When the symptoms are gone by evening, Michelle declares
matter-of-factly, "Mommy, you have been taking care of me all around
the world.  You have to think of so many things.  It's like Paul
Daniels, but only a bigger magic trick."  I am overwhelmed at being
compared to Paul Daniels, whose television tricks of illusion awe
Michelle every Saturday evening.

During these past two years, Michelle hasn't acknowledged any
appreciation of the difficulties I've faced.  Although I had cared for
her during illnesses in San Francisco, her medical care had been
orchestrated by her father.  Successfully caring for her on my own has
earned respect and gratitude, previously reserved exclusively for
him.

A mellowing in our relationship occurs.  Whenever I am tempted to
respond to Michelle in anger, I remember my status as being on a par
with Paul Daniels.  Reduced defenses on both sides lead to my telling
Michelle more of our situation how I broke the law by going against her
father's wishes and the judge's decision when I took her away and now,
for this action, I risk being sentenced to prison when we return to
America.  Michelle needs to know how things stand, particularly if I'm
arrested and she is taken from me without warning.  Bestowing on her
these confidences releases her compassion toward me, empowering her to
make a difference in my life on this journey.  Thereafter, perceiving
that I need encouragement, Michelle pats my arm saying, "Mommy, it will
be OK, " just as she had said during the first tentative days in New
Zealand.

DURING THE SPRING OF 1992, MICHELLE AND I ATTEND A church meeting to
hear Jackie Pullinger, a British woman who established a drug addiction
rehabilitation program in the Walled City of Hong Kong.  As a young
single woman, she had left Great Britain to serve God, not knowing
where she was going.  When God directed her to leave the ship in Hong
Kong, she brought the hope of Christ's saving power to heroin addicts
and prostitutes.

Focusing her talk on the Good Samaritan, she encourages every Christian
to use their own donkey for helping others, rather than calling on and
expecting the church donkey to do what needs to be done.

For the first time since leaving San Francisco, I envision a Divine
purpose behind this journey, a spiritual parallax viewing the fears,
pain, and weariness from a new perspective.

None of our experiences will be wasted, as Michelle and I equip a
donkey for helping others who travel along this path.  God's power is
uniquely aimed to turn evil intent into good, and no story in the Old
Testament communicates this truth more dramatically than the saga of
Joseph, the son of Jacob, in Genesis 37.

Sold into slavery by his brothers, Joseph prospered in Egypt, attaining
a position of authority in Pharaoh's household through God's favor.

When Joseph ignored the sexual advances of his boss's wife, she used
deception to send him to prison for doing the right thing.  When the
potential for release finally arrived, God failed to jog the memory of
the cup bearer whose job had been restored by Joseph's interpretation
of a dream.  Joseph spent another two years in the dungeon.

Evil intent was again turned inside out when Joseph's freedom was
restored and his position elevated to ruler.  As the dispenser of grain
during a famine, Joseph spoke to his desperate and hungry brothers "And
as for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good in
order to bring about this present result, to preserve many people
alive" (Gen. 50 20).  Although I don't want to go to prison, the
bottom line of God's power is drawn at His ability to use even a prison
sentence for good.

Soon afterJackie Pullinger's talk, a television documentary stirs up my
passion about equipping a "donkey" for serving others in the future.

The BBC production, Why WomeH Kill, interviews women in American
prisons who are serving prison terms for murdering a man, usually a
husband, to protect themselves and/or their children.  In all cases,
prolonged abuse has been a factor.

Pacing before the television, my heart aches for these women, isolated
from their families and cut off from nurturing their children.

Someday I may know their pain.  Child abduction, like murder, is a
felony.

WITH LESS THAN TWO MONTHS REMAINING BEFORE CROSSroads begins, the
nonrefundable deposit is mailed to YWAM and I notify the real estate
agency that we'll be leaving the apartment.

When the dithering about the future ends, my migraine headaches ease.

Michelle looks forward to reconnecting with a YWAM base where she has
fond memories, and I anticipate the discipleship school as preparation,
spiritual conditioning, for what is to come in America.

About this time, we receive a large box from my parents gifts of
clothes and jewelry, sections of my graduate thesis, stickers of horses
for Michelle, bits and pieces from America.  Per my instructions, the
parcel had been sent to someone in Colorado, who had sent it on to
Linda, our mutual friend in Oxford.  Gifts we can see and touch
reconnect us after telephone conversations have faded.  Even the local
newspaper my mother had used for packing is saved and read.

Ordinarily, a notice in the church bulletin about a counseling seminar
in Oxford wouldn't catch my eye, but seeing that the speaker, Professor
David Seamands, is an American theologian from a seminary located a few
miles from my parents' home, I register.

On the first evening of the Christian counseling conference, home comes
to me through the speaker's Kentucky accent.  On learning from his wife
that her father had been the minister of my grandmother's church, I
feel as if family has arrived.  I tell the Seamands the circumstances
of our coming to Oxford, and they offer to contact my parents once
Michelle and I have left Oxford.

Later, without mentioning times and places, Professor and Mrs. 
Seamands have dinner with my parents in Kentucky, reassuring them that
good things are taking place in our lives, a witness that gives my
parents hope.

Through the conference, I get to know Helen, who is a member of our
church and a counselor whose ministry prompts Christians to listen
quietly for God to speak to their spirits.  We meet for a morning
prayer retreat in the pastoral setting of an Oxfordshire village.

After praying together, we withdraw separately to listen to God and
meditate on a passage from Ephesians that the God of our Lord Jesus
Christ, the Father of glory, may give to you a spirit of wisdom and of
revelation in the knowledge of Him I pray that the eyes of your heart
may be enliphtened, so that you may know what is the hope of His
calling, what are the riches of the glory of His inheritance in the
saints, and what is the surpassing greatness of His power toward us who
believe.

(Eph.  11 7-l sa) The word"inheritance" stands out from the passage,
not from a monetary standpoint but from the inheritance of time spent
with my family.  Deprived of savoring the last years of their lives,
never knowing when any of them could pass on into eternity without a
goodbye, I grieve the loss of these riches and resist placing them in
God's keeping.

As I sit alone with my Bible, the quietness is disrupted by
restlessness from within, which challenges even keeping my body
still.

Daydreaming, a tension-reliever since childhood, has become a lost
art.

Not even physical exhaustion calms the internal revolutions of my
spirit.  Helen prays for the liberation of sparkle and vitality in my
life, which are being held hostage by a restless spirit.

Helen wisely recognizes that fun revitalizes the body and soul, as
prayer does the spirit.  On several occasions, the elegant sitting
rooms of Oxford's Randolph Hotel are our venue for "fun" and coffee.

On another day, we enjoy tea and crumpets at a hotel in the Cotswolds
after praying together in a fifteenth-century church, since moving to
Oxford, my heart's desire has been to revisit these villages, which I
had seen on my solo trip to England ten years before.  As the Scripture
had called for, the eyes of my heart are being enlightened, God hears
the cries of my heart, and they matter to Him.

Several days before we leave Oxford for Switzerland, a friend stops by
to bring a parting gift and a gift of Scripture as a prescription for
the weariness engraved on my face "Come unto Me, all who are weary and
heavy-laden, and I will give you rest" (Matt."

28).  Although I'm too preoccupied with carrying the load to accept
rest, Jesus stands ready to be yoked into carrying my burdens, whenever
I let go of them.

LEAVING THE U .  K. FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE VISA EXPIRES RAISES no
objections from immigration.  On the flight to Zurich, I am insecure
about being the only single parent in Crossroads, or on the YWAM base
for that matter.  Although Michelle and I have not lived communally,
living in the chalet couldn't be more difficult than living in
someone's home and worrying about disrupting their privacy.  Will I
have the energy to deepen my relationship with God, with Michelle, and
with other Crossroaders, as well as attend to communal chores and care
for our needs?  This agenda bespeaks exhaustion.  To Swiss immigration
in Zurich, I present a letter acknowledging registration in YWAM's
six-month course.

Michelle and I settle into our own room on the top floor of the chalet
with an expansive view of the French Alps.

During the opening worship service, with the group of thirty students
representing eleven countries, I share verses from Ezekiel 34

26-27, verses of hope and restoration farther along in the chapter
which had been so important to me before leaving San Francisco.

Although nothing (that I can tell) is trumpeting the advent of showers
of blessings, the revelation of timing belongs to God.

During the mornings, speakers from around the world deliver a week of
topical lectures.  The afternoons are spent attending small group
meetings, as well as performing assigned chores.  One weekend a month
every Crossroader signs up for kitchen duty on a rota basis to relieve
the weekday kitchen staff, a policy I will come to cherish.

While I attend classes and meetings, Michelle spends time in childcare
with children of other staff members.  Once school begins in September,
the French language becomes an end in itself to Michelle, not an
obstacle to education.  An English-speaking friend in her class
translates instructions from Michelle's teacher, who speaks no
English.

Switzerland fits Michelle like a glove the Lyrical language,
ice-skating as part of the school curriculum, the snow-covered
mountains, the liveliness of the YWAM base, and a cuisine that leans on
bread, chocolate, and cheese.

SPIRITUAL EXPECTATIONS BEFORE COMING TO CROSSROADS HAD been for inner
healing through the process of forgiving Jim, but God has different
expectations for my spirit.  One of the school speakers, who has
experienced the death of a son, gives me words from the book Don t
Waste Your Sorrows by Paul Billheimer.

One is not broken until all resentment and rebellion against God and
man is removed.  One who resents, takes offense, or retaliates against
criticism and opposition or lack of appreciation is unbroken.

All selfjustifcation and self-defense betrays an unbroken spirit.  All
discontent and irritation with providential circumstances and
situations reveals unbrokenness.  Genuine brokenness usually requires
years of crushing, heartache, and sorrow.  Thus are selfwill
surrendered and deep degrees of yieldedness and submission developed,
without which there is little "Wape love.

Many years ago in San Francisco, I had a vivid dream where a hand had
been squeezing a cluster of grapes and the extract of their juice had
flowed into a chalice.  Although the dream had seemed significant at
the time, its meaning had been puzzling.

Now, sixteen years later, the gist of this dream is depicted on a wall
at YWAM through a painting by a Norwegian pastor.  I understand that
the integrity of the grapes is enhanced through their yielding to the
Divine purpose of becoming wine, and so it is when my yielded spirit is
crushed by the hand of God to produce a precious flow.  In the
Scriptures, so many spiritual elements are described as being poured
out like wine the Holy Spirit, the blood of Christ, the faith and
service of believers, and the love of God.  Can the crushing blows in
life work to one's advantage, becoming a splendid vintage when the
extract is placed in the hands of the Divine Vintner?

I read about Job, who is the epitome of a broken spirit, though not
initially.  Brokenness occurred when Job closed his mouth and opened
his ears to God's revelations.  When Job admitted to "knowing too
little and talking too much, " he lost his desire to complain, and to
negotiate his own terms with God.  If a broken bone heals incorrectly,
it must be reset, often becoming stronger than before the break.  God
doesn't break our spirit to reset it.

The broken spirit remains broken, for this is its strength, pride
(defined as sufficiency without God) tends to reset it.

As I run after happiness, clinging to bulky expectations, Christian joy
is defined as suffering pain with a good attitude.  Does a broken
spirit turn the tables on the spiritual law which says that only
bone-crushing sorrow produces inner strength?  Certainly, nonbroken
spirits respond to God's nudgings only when their backs are against the
wall of despair, but what freedom it would be to learn as much from
pleasure as from pain!

A spiritual breakthrough occurs when a Crossroads speaker prays
individually for us during corporate worship, calling us to the front
for prayer as the Holy Spirit directs through our hearts.

When the speaker mentions the past attaching itself to our lives as a
leech that can suck vitality from the present, I step forward for
prayer.  No perceptible physical change occurs initially, but slowly
over the course of months the revving in my spirit that has blocked
relaxation subsides.

The key to maintaining a broken spirit is tossing away my own agenda to
assume one planned by the God who created time and who knows the
present, past, and future.  To make certain that I heed the point, one
of the final speakers in Crossroads focuses on the forty years of
wanderings by the Israelites in the wilderness, a journey that should
have lasted weeks.  The prideful spirits of the Israelites refused to
embrace God's instructions, forgetting how enemies had been swallowed
up by the deep, how water had gushed from the desert rock, and how
manna had appeared each morning on the ground.  Their stubborn choices
kept them traveling in circles, or, as the speaker puts it, "taking
another lap in the wilderness."  Perhaps, in my situation, the
consequences of disobedience would mean traveling around the world
again in the opposite direction.

Supported by the school leadership, I elect to remain in Lausanne for
Michelle's schooling when Crossroaders disperse on mission trips to
Egypt, Africa, and Italy in October of 1992.  As a kitchen staff
member, I assist in preparing meals and balancing the books on food
expenditures.  I don't like cooking, and the kitchen becomes a bivouac
for wilderness training.  Although the food on the base is tasty, the
availability of fresh vegetables often depends on donations of produce
coming through the kitchen door.  When baskets of leeks arrive, the
European students are delighted, but after weeks of leeks, the
gold-digging cousin of an onion has worked its way into every soup,
quiche, and stew.

When leeks still remain in the pantry, a kitchen worker from
Switzerland produces a printed recipe for leek breakfast porridge,
which is prepared but rejected by all.

THE COMPLETION OF THE CROSSROADS COURSE AND THE DEparture of students
opens space in the chalet for the next school, a discipleship training
school for younger students.  One young man, an American from
California, becomes a hero in Michelle's female-satiated life.  Wanting
to spend as much time with Steve as possible, Michelle pleads to eat at
his table or hang out with him during free time.  Sometimes it's OK,
but when it's not, Steve sets boundaries of time and place with firm
kindness.  For the first time since the experiences with her father,
Michelle feels comfortable in a man's company again, receiving from
Steve that which had been lost, a restoration of trust.  His friendship
doesn't disappoint us, as God gently restores my trust as well.

Browsing through an American news magazine in the reading room, I learn
of a Swiss-based philanthropic organization, founded by a countess
whose goal is to dispatch her fortune to help those who cannot speak up
for themselves.  She considers children "the voiceless of the world.  "
Once Helen had said to me in Oxford, "Chris, you've earned the right to
speak, " and I had marked a verse in Proverbs where the mother of King
Lemuel (considered to be Solomon) advises her son "Speak up for those
who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are
destitute" (Prov.  31, 8).  Fear silences some abused children.

Others, who speak about their abuse, may not be believed.  In an
adult-powered legal world, sometimes children are destitute of
credibility, particularly if their voice threatens the security of a
creditable adult.

The future asserts itself into the present, not only through receiving
this vision of megaphoning the voice of abused children when the
journey ends, but also through the ticking of passport time in
Switzerland.  Now that four months have elapsed on our visas, a silent
alarm sounds, warning me to make arrangements for the next step.

Attending another YWAM school would be too expensive, but perhaps
volunteer opportunities exist on bases in other countries.  I contact
YWAM bases in Ireland and Jamaica, but nothing clicks.  Applying to
YWAM's hospital ship, I realize that the work economics of a single
parent and child aren't compatible with the ship's needs.  Our
occupation of a family berth would provide only a part-time worker,
since much of my workday would be spent caring for Michelle.  I
understand these logistics, but time is running out in Switzerland and
overstaying isn't an option.

Watching Anne of Green Gables videos suggests Nova Scotia as our next
country of residence.  Halifax is geographically removed from the
mainstream of Canada but close enough for trips to the mainland for a
rendezvous with my parents, or a visit with a friend from high school
who lives in the Horn of the Moon in Vermont.

NOVA SCOTIA AS A POTENTIAL DESTINATION GETS A BOOST during a money
pickup trip to Vienna.  After a successful money transaction at the
American Express office, Michelle and I stand in line for a tour of the
Opera House.  As we wait for the tour to begin, other tourists push
past us in order to be at the front.

Annoyed by their disregard for those of us standing in line, I proclaim
a biblical truth to the world at large around me, "The last shall be
first and the first shall be last."  A man's voice behind me responds,
"But that won't happen until the next age."  Frank is a medical doctor
who is studying German in Vienna.  When not in Vienna or visiting his
home country, Canada, he works in a missionary hospital in South
Africa.

After the Opera House tour, the three of us walk to the Central Cafe,
where Lenin and Trotsky reputedly played chess.  Patrons, in no hurry
to leave, read books and newspapers behind cups of coffee dolloped with
whipped cream.  At a grand piano, a musician plays "Satin Doll, " my
father's favorite jazz tune.  After selecting flaky, cream-filled
pastries from the dessert tray, I talk to Frank about moving to Canada,
without explaining our circumstances.

He agrees that Halifax has the benefit of being less expensive than an
urban area, such as Toronto, and is small enough for us to rely on
public transportation.

Putting the cart before the horse, dinner follows dessert as the three
of us dine at a fifteenth-century tavern in the old city.  The
low-timbered ceilings and small rooms compress the hopscented air,
heated by platters of steaming wiener schnitzel and the collective body
heat of diners who are agreeably escaping the autumn chill outside.

Dinner is hurried by Michelle's tiredness from sight-seeing, walking,
and adult conversation.  As I sing the praises of YWAM's MedAir
ministry, which flies doctors into crisis areas, Frank, who is
interested in aviation, expresses interest in visiting us at YWAM in
Lausanne.  Saying goodbye, Frank and I swap addresses for exchanging
information on YWAM and Nova Scotia.

ALTHOUGH FRANK HAS WRITTEN ENCOURAGING LETTERS FROM Vienna about living
in Halifax, I have held back from purchasing air tickets because such
an action wouldn't be following my heart.

My heart says that I want to spend Christmas in Scotland with Janet and
to say goodbye to friends in Oxford before crossing the Atlantic.  I
recoil at the scenario of arriving in a new country a few days before
our third Christmas away from home to spend the holidays at a
bed-and-breakfast in a strange city.

In Lausanne, Michelle and I shop for Christmas gifts.  Walking through
streets cut from a medieval template, the intersections are fluid,
never gridlike.  Holiday shapes framed in white lights float above
us.

The landscape in Switzerland during the wintertime is perpetually in
holiday attire the lace curtains and the carved wooden ornaments
against a background of evergreens and snow-covered peaks.  I purchase
a small white Swiss Army knife with the motif of a cat watching a
spider for Michelle and Swiss-made watches for both of us, having them
wrapped for opening wherever we are on Christmas morning.

The week before Christmas, when airline seats from Zurich to Heathrow
Airport and on to Edinburgh are available, I take them .  . .

rejecting Nova Scotia for the United Kingdom.  Calling Janet in
Scotland, I ask her to pray for our admission into the United Kingdom
at Heathrow on December 20.  Calling Sally Stokes, Michelle's teacher
in Oxford, I ask her to inquire whether Michelle could be readmitted to
Emmanuel Christian School if immigration grants us six months in the
U.

K.

On the day of our Lausanne departure, YWAM staff members who plan to
remain on the base during Christmas come together for a candlelight
breakfast focusing on friendship.  Thankfully, Steve left the base for
a mission trip to Chile the week before, otherwise, removing Michelle
from Switzerland and YWAM would be more painful.  Frank arrived the
previous day to spend time with us before we leave Switzerland.  When
the invitation was extended in a letter, I imagined YWAM to be his
primary interest in coming to Lausanne, but on his arrival his comments
hint that his coming is weighted more in my direction than YWAM's.  His
offer to accompany us and the three black bags on the train to Zurich
is a Godsend.

On the train, I tell Frank about our lives as fugitives.  Moved by a
desire to protect us, he mentions marriage as a solution.  Michelle's
mouth falls open and isn't restored to full operation until we have
said goodbye to him at the airport terminal gate.  The depth of Frank's
friendship warms my heart, knowing that I can call on him for any
situation.  Without Frank's assistance, I could never have gotten
everything off the train in time at the airport stop, which would have
sent us in a different direction, causing us to miss our flight to
England.

At Heathrow, Michelle and I join the long line of Christmas
travelers.

Heeding legal advice, Michelle and I have been out of the U. K. for six
months, but our passports tell the story that we haven't returned to
our country of residence in almost three years.

Deportation to the U. S. A. remains the greatest threat.

When the official thumbs through my passport and asks the usual
questions, I respond that I have just completed missionary training in
Switzerland.  Hopefully, he will relate the numerous stamps in my
passport to being a missionary.  Showing him air tickets from Heathrow
to Edinburgh, I express my intention to spend Christmas in Scotland.

Whether it is the air tickets out of England, the spirit of the season,
or my missionary zeal that influences him, he stamps our passports and
wishes me a Merry Christmas.  Maneuvering through customs, my mind is
whirring.

Now that we have been granted six months in the United Kingdom,
Christmas in Scotland will become a reality.  Imagining the New Year,
nothing seems to block returning to live in Oxford, where Michelle can
attend school.  The urgency to cross the Atlantic has vanished.  The
future appears so bright, so hopeful, that I kick up my heels, leaning
into the bar of the luggage cart.

As we pass through the portal in the airport terminal, hundreds of
hopeful eyes are riveted on the advancing luggage carts as they round
the corner.  Having witnessed many joyous reunions at airports, my
expectation of seeing a familiar face rises for an instant, but
dissolves into the crowd by the time we pass through the barriers.  As
my thoughts turn toward the Edinburgh flight, I feel a tap from behind
on my shoulder.  At first, I stiffen at the unlikely occurrence that
immigration has reconsidered, and then a familiar voice stops me in my
tracks.

But is there any comfort to be found?

Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?

--W B YEATS, NINETEEN BUNDRED AND NINELEEN

ON THE CHANCE THAT MICHELLE AND I WOULD MAKE IT through U. K.

immigration, Sally Stokes has driven from Oxford to Heathrow to meet
us.  Michelle is bowled over to see her teacher, and I'm speechless at
Sally's unexpected welcome.  Since the flight to Edinburgh is delayed
by fog in Scotland, the three of us make plans in the airport
restaurant.  Sally has been preparing the way for our return to Oxford
by talking with a board member at Emmanuel Christian School concerning
Michelle's readmission, which seems likely.  Where to live is a bigger
obstacle, although Sally mentions an available apartment that she will
pursue, now that the opportunity exists for us to spend six months in
the U. K. At this glorious moment, anxiety about tomorrow can wait.

The joy of the present puts the future where it belongs.

After years of reunionless arrivals in airports, Michelle and I
experience two in the same evening.  Janet is waiting outside the
barrier in Edinburgh, wondering whether we will be on this flight or on
another heading in the direction of Nova Scotia.  On the ride to Perth,
I smile at the future because my heart hasn't let me down.  Michelle
and I will be spending Christmas with Janet at our home away from
home.

Early Christmas morning, as the three of us sit on Janet's living room
floor, opening gifts, there is a knock at the front door.  The hour is
too early for friends to visit.  My mind leaps to the memory of a man
Janet had told me about, who had waited in a parked car on the street
outside her house one day.  Through the curtains, she had observed him
taking pictures of her home, looking as if he could have been a private
investigator.  She had watched him until, perhaps having seen her at
the window, the man moved down the hill to photograph the field of
sheep next to her house.  Later, she learned that he had been sent by
the local government, which is considering developing the field.  If
this man standing next to Janet's Christmas tree is a detective, he's
brazen to enter her home on Christmas morning disguised as Santa
Claus.

My fears are relieved seeing that Janet, despite feigning surprise,
appears to know the man under the red suit.  A nearly nine-year-old
Michelle watches Santa pull gifts from a bag, perhaps rethinking former
conclusions.  Santa Claus leaves by the back door to deliver the
remaining gifts to the residents at the care home next door.

A Christmas call to the U. S. A. gives no indication that our journey
is ending.  The lack of news about Jim confirms plans to push ahead
with moving back to Oxford.  Sally Stokes telephones, encouraging me to
call the chairman of the board about Michelle's readmission to Emmanuel
Christian School.  The accommodation that she had mentioned is an
option to pursue.

Ray, a member of the church where Keith, Sally's husband, is pastor,
owns an apartment in Oxford that is vacant.  The beautifully furnished
two-bedroom apartment is located close to Michelle's school, above a
chiropractic clinic.  Although the bedrooms and living room would be
private, the bathrooms and kitchen are used by the clinic staff.  After
clinic hours and on weekends, the upstairs would be exclusively ours.

The only hiccup is that the apartment has been promised to missionaries
for six weeks during January and February.  I call Ray to inquire about
it, and he sets the rent as whatever I can pay, expecting no assistance
in paying the utilities, since he has been briefed about our
circumstances.  When Sally and Keith offer us lodging in the manse
during the six weeks we must vacate the apartment, I accept.  The next
evening Michelle's school readmission is confirmed by telephone.  Now
we must replace the gray uniform skirts that were given away in
Switzerland.  Once again, details for moving to Oxford have fallen into
place within a few days.

Life flows jubilantly toward the New Year, 1993.

CHRISTMAS IS A WARM-UP FOR HOGMANAY, NEW YEAR's EVE in Scotland.

In Kinloch Rannoch, Janet and I go first-footing during the first few
hours of the New Year.  In times past, a firstfooter, the first person
to cross the threshold, brought to the household a piece of coal or
peat to warm the fire, a bottle of whiskey to warm the insides, and
oatcakes.  Janet and I cross the threshold with gifts of shortbread and
black buns (a rich fruitcake wrapped in pastry), although neither of us
are dark-haired, the preferred color of a first-footer for bringing
good fortune in the New Year.

On New Year's Day evening, everyone is ready to fling off fatigue to
dance the night away.  In a small church hall on the edge of the moor
at the top of Loch Rannoch, several musicians provide the rhythm for
dancers who have little room to maneuver, which is fortuitous for an
American who doesn't know the Highland steps.  At midnight, sandwiches
and tea are put out to sustain us until the wee hours of the morning.

In this remote venue, I'm one of three Americans in attendance, but I
don't seek out the American couple from California for conversation.

WHEN THE TRAIN FROM EDINBURGH TO OXFORD ARRIVES ONE and a half hours
late, Keith is waiting for us at the station.  After a late supper with
Sally and Keith, we meet Ray, our landlord, at the apartment, which,
newly decorated and with a modern kitchen, is the most attractive
living situation yet.  Ray supplies us with sheets and towels, even
preparing the beds for our collapse.

In a few hours, the new school semester begins.

During the opening assembly, students sing "Happy Birthday" to
Michelle, who is nine years old today.  Most are surprised, as well as
puzzled, to see her, perhaps thinking back to the final assembly only
six months ago when goodbye cards and gifts had been presented to us.

Michelle settles easily into a new class with old friends, thrilled to
take her place next to Hannah, Rachel, and Stephanee, who hasn't yet
returned to Colorado.

Changes occur even when one is away from a place for a few months,
making Oxford familiar yet different.  Friendships are renewed in all
corners of Oxford, but this time around Michelle and I live on the
opposite side of town, frequent different shops, and attend a different
church.  Living in a city for the second time on this journey is an
alien experience.  During our first stay in Oxford, I had seen a
chilling television drama entitled 12, 01 PM.  , about a man caught in
a time warp, a lunch hour in the park.

When he eventually realizes what is going on, only one hour exists to
convince others of his predicament.  Starting his mission at ground
zero, 1201 P. M. , each time around, his frustration transforms to
resignation at being doomed to repeat over and over again the same
segment of time.  In the past, the challenge of settling into a new
place has occupied my time and mind until it's time to depart, but now
in Oxford the sense of progression is gone.  The haunting idea surfaces
that I might be doomed to backtrack and retrace our steps on this
journey, never advancing to the ultimate destination.

WHEN THE ACID-REDUCING MEDlcATtONS FROM SWITZERLAND run out, the
stomach pains return.  Visiting the same physician from our first stay
in Oxford, a more serious health concern turns up.  In Italy, I had
detected a lump in my breast, which appears to be increasing in size.

In America, during the past fifteen years, numerous surgical procedures
had been necessary to determine the nature of breast lumps.  All had
turned out to be cysts, except one, a benign tumor, but if this one
turns out to be malignant, receiving medical care could be difficult,
if not impossible.  The United Kingdom won't assume fiscal
responsibility for the surgery, chemotherapy, or radiation therapy
expenses required by a noncitizen, and I am beyond the pale of
insurance, as well as the emotional support of family.  Michelle could
end up being alone with no parent to care for her.

I am referred to a surgeon, and a biopsy is scheduled in her clinic.

Never before has so much been riding on a long thin needle.

Hope for the future is restored when the aspiration confirms the mass
to be a benign cyst.

WHEN THE MISSIONARIES ARRIVE IN OXFORD, MICHELLE AND I vacate the
apartment to become short-term lodgers in the Victorian manse next to
Keith's church.  For the next six weeks, Michelle and I live with Sally
and Keith and two of their three children still at home, as well as two
cats who purr contentedly on Michelle's bed.  Attending a church house
group that meets at the manse is uncomplicated now, since Michelle's
bedroom is upstairs.  Church members of various ages and callings meet
every other Wednesday evening in the living room for teaching,
discussion, prayer, and fellowship.

I had met one of the members in the church parking lot when I had
helped balance the end of an antique church pew as he loaded it on top
of his station wagon.  At that time, I had discovered that John, who is
a designer in wood, and I have mutual interests faith in God,
architecture, the creative process, and singleness.  Our conversation
had sparked my interest in getting to know him better.

Soon after we move into the manse, a visitor appears at the breakfast
table one Sunday morning.  David, a medical doctor and family friend of
the Stokeses, has returned to Oxford during the night from South
Africa.  On a whim, I ask him if he knows Frank.

Incredibly, David had dinner with Frank several evenings ago.

Weeks before, Frank had written to tell me that he would be changing
hospitals to relieve a doctor who would be returning to the U. K. , but
I never expected to sit across a table from the same doctor in
Oxford.

Believing this occurrence is coincidental requires more faith than
receiving it as assurance that no circumstances are too great for God
to engineer.

DURING THE WEEK OF OUR THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF LIFE ON THE run, the fever
and chills of influenza almost prevent me from walking to the telephone
booth for a U. S. A. call, but not calling at the appointed time would
have unleashed my mother's imagination toward the direst straits.  From
my parents, I learn that Jim had recently taken a three-month leave of
absence from the hospital for health reasons, although he has since
returned to fulltime work.  Jim's health is shifting back and forth, as
are my emotions, never knowing what to expect when I call Kentucky.

On the way home, I meet John while shopping for juice and medication.

I had hoped that our paths would cross outside the house group, but not
on a day when I look wan and feverish.  His gentleness warms my heart,
and my health improves on the ride home in his car.

WHEN THE MISSIONARIES RETURN TO THEIR MISSION FIELD, Mlchelle and I
move back into the apartment above the clinic.  Although living at the
manse has been fun, it's good to be on our own again.  In addition to
Sally's tasty meals, the manse was a hub for church activities,
particularly the house group.  Attending those evening meetings now
requires arranging for someone to stay with Michelle.  One of the perks
of living away from the manse is riding home with John, who lives only
a few blocks from our apartment.

Returning home from the Good Friday service at church, I hear a knock
at the clinic door downstairs.  Thinking it's a patient who doesn't
realize that the clinic is closed, I open the door to see John, who has
brought lunch for the three of us.  At the house group meeting earlier
in the week, I had mentioned that Michelle and I would be traveling
with the church mission trip to France during Easter break.

After lunching with John, I'm not as keen on traveling to France.  Our
purpose for taking the trip is twofold to support the church's
missionary who is serving there and to update our passports for another
six months in the United Kingdom.

Riding on the expressway on the outskirts of Paris, I see the Eiffel
Tower as a speck on the horizon.  Our destination is Le Creusot, the
city that supplied Marie Antoinette with crystal chandeliers.  In
France, my thoughts travel back to Oxford, despite the busy week.

Passing through immigration on the ferry in Sally and Keith's car makes
coming and going from the U. K. like crossing the Red Sea on dry
ground.

Remaining in Oxford is allowed until October 1993.

ON THE MAY BANK HOLIDAY LAST YEAR, MICHELLE AND I HAD spent the
afternoon wrangling with each other and American Express in York, a
year later, I heartily support the United Kingdom's declaration of a
Monday holiday that allows us to sleep in.

Stopping by the manse to talk with Sally Stokes, I learn that today is
John's birthday.  Sally offers to look after Michelle if I would like
to invite John out for a pub dinner as a birthday treat.

Alone with the telephone in the dining room, I eventually push the
numbers.  When John answers, he accepts the invitation.

During the Good Friday lunch, John had mentioned showing me a bluebell
wood in the Oxfordshire countryside.  The blossoms are at their peak on
this fine spring day.  Late-afternoon sunshine sprinkles the indigo
carpet, a covering so complete that we must step gingerly to avoid
smashing the flowers.  The visual enchantment of these woods would be
the envy of any Hollywood set.

As we enter the Star, a seventeenth-century pub in a nearby village,
"Take Five" is playing--a mutual favorite that John has played on a
double bass with a jazz group.  For his own enjoyment, he also plays
Appalachian music from Kentucky on a dulcimer he made himself.

John's musical credentials are noteworthy.

A full moon lights the meadow path as we walk along the Thames River
past the ruins of a medieval nunnery, now a crumbling hulk in the
silver light.  John's creative genius has spun an evening as lovely as
any tapestry that may have graced the walls of the Godstow Nunnery.  At
the clinic reception desk the next day, John leaves a note of
appreciation on notepaper with a photograph of a bluebell wood, a dead
ringer for the one we had visited the afternoon before.

The birthday evening with John softens the news from America about the
decline of my grandmother's health.  My mother has spared me the
progression of my grandmother's downhill memory slide, which has moved
her into a nursing home.  The mental jigsaw puzzle accompanying
Alzheimer's disease would prevent her from hosting the big party she
hoped and planned for when Michelle and I would return to America.  I
feel as though I have lost her.  I want to grieve with someone who
knows my grandmother, but that's impossible.  Michelle's memory of her
is fading, and expressing my sadness would only upset her.

During the weeks to follow, John and I enjoy one another's company on a
shoestring budget that includes picnics, kite-flying with Michelle at
Port Meadow, and sampling John's ace cooking talents.  God heard the
cry of my heart in January by uncorking fun and spontaneity in my life
and by leaning toward Oxford to put His arm around me.  For Michelle,
it seems as if God has reached down and yanked me away.

For over three years, Michelle has had my constant and undivided
attention, which she now regularly shares with John.  The more time
John and I spend together, the more obnoxious Michelle becomes.  The
situation is complicated by the fact that she likes John.  The threat
of being excluded from the fun mitigates her unpleasantness.  Finally
Michelle gives up, realizing that her disagreeable behavior isn't
driving him away.

IN JULY, A U. S. A. TELEPHONE CALL PULLS THE PAVEMENT OUT from under my
feet in the phone booth.  Jim has telephoned my parents, following up a
three-page letter in which he asserted his victimization and outlined
his resentment and hatred toward me.

My father's deafness delegates my mother as the primary telephone
communicator.

With resignation in her voice, my mother says, "Janie, Jim's heart
hasn't changed at all, except maybe becoming more bitter.

Although his voice didn't sound as strong as it has in the past, he
wanted me to know that his health is good."

"Mother, that doesn't surprise me.  He knows how difficult it is for me
to be cut off from all of you.  He's implying that he will be around
for a very long time, hoping I will give up and return home."

"Well, I wouldn't expect to return home anytime soon.  Jim mentioned
that he will be delivering a medical paper in Bethesda, and he plans to
attend a medical seminar in Oxford, England."  Cutting off my mother's
remarks, I repeat with as much detachment as possible, "Oxford,
England?  " My clenched throat prevents me from speaking.

Instinctively, I look over my shoulder, half-fearing, half-expecting to
see Jim walking toward me.

"Yes, he wanted me to know that he feels well enough for international
travel, but I don't think that .  . . "I no longer hear what my mother
is saying as I lean against the side of the phone booth to steady
myself.  For a few minutes, I talk about Ellen's (not saying
Michelle's) dance lessons to divert attention away from inadvertently
exposing our hiding place.  My mother knows me well, and vocal
vibrations could tip her off.  With the seconds disappearing from the
phone card, finding out about the Oxford meeting will be tricky without
making my mother suspicious.

Offhandedly, I ask, "Did he say when he would be traveling to Europe?

, " not wanting to call attention to Great Britain.

"No, he didn't mention any dates.  It's possible that he isn't even
going .  . . " The phone card beeps ominously, leaving us only a few
seconds to say goodbye.  My mother's mild drawl had expanded her words,
consuming precious time units on the phone card.  Today I had needed
the space between her syllables to gingerly retrieve information.  On
the walk home, I worry that I had appeared too eager for information
about Oxford.  Expecting to see Jim's face at every turn, I am
tormented by the necessity of brushing my tracks and taking more
precautions.

THE MANSE HOUSE GROUP IS BLESSED WITH TWO MEMBERS WHO work at Oxford
University's medical center, the probable host for an international
medical meeting.  The medical library staff member will be on the
lookout for infectious disease meetings in Oxford, but the other staff
member, Anthony, is more likely to hear about future meetings.  The
research lab where he works is situated next to the department of
infectious disease, Jim's medical speciality.  Three weeks after being
alerted, Anthony overhears talk in the lab about the British
Parasitology Society meeting at Oxford in mid-September.

That's the one, and it's only one month away.

With only two months remaining on our United Kingdom visas, the thought
of meeting Jim on the street in Oxford sends me to a travel agent to
make flight reservations for Nova Scotia.

Michelle pleads that we wait until the last minute to leave Oxford,
giving her maximum time to attend school, enjoy midnight feasts with
her friends, and have riding lessons with Anne, Ray's fiancee.

Canada may be too close for our safety--Jim knows that I would plan a
rendezvous with my parents whenever possible-but the airline
reservations to Halifax stand.  No other destination is handy, but both
my parents and I have grave misgivings about our fleeing toward North
America.

While I am wondering what direction to take, Steve from Switzerland
calls from the Aeastasis, YWAM's hospital ship.  We have lost contact
with each other for a while, but Steve has tracked us to Oxford through
YWAM Crossroaders I keep in contact with.  Although the ship is a
possible destination, nothing in my situation has changed since the
first application.  I'm still a single parent who would spend much of
my time caring for Michelle.  Earlier in the summer, John, Michelle,
and I had toured the ship in London, where it docked before heading for
West Africa.  Unknown to Michelle and me, Steve had passed through
London a week later to join the ship before its sailing.  I don't
reapply, feeling as if I'm trying to force open a closed door of
opportunity.

As MY FRIENDSHIP WITH JOHN DEEPENS, THE UNCERTAINTY OF how long this
journey will last and what will happen to me when it's over introduces
the awkwardness of an emotional straitjacket into the present.  In less
than two months, Michelle and I will be moving to a new country.

According to legal opinion, it's likely that I will be sentenced to
prison, even if I remain in hiding until Jim's death.  The relationship
with John, or anyone, isn't secure until the legal situation is
resolved.  But this is my head talking-my heart sings a different
tune.

All we can do is take our friendship one day at a time, an optimal
increment of time for living life, whether one is a fugitive or not.

The night before the school year begins, I cry out to God for direction
on our next destination.  Only five weeks remain on our visas, the
reservation deadline for the Nova Scotia airline tickets is three days
away, and I have no peace about purchasing them.

The only confirmation for moving to Halifax has been Ray mentioning a
medical colleague there.

The next morning, as parents linger outside on the first day of school,
one of the mothers I haven't seen since the last day of school a few
months ago approaches me purposefully.

"Chris, I have been wanting to talk to you, but I didn't know if you
would still be in Oxford.  I have met another mother in your situation,
except that she is English, fleeing from an American husband.  When I
told her your story, she said, Tell her the safe place to go is
Ireland.  "' The exquisite timing of these words strikes my ears as if
God Himself has spoken them.  Confirmation will be necessary, but the
revelation of Ireland as the next step lodges firmly in my mind, even
altering the day's plans.  After leaving Michelle at school, I catch a
bus for London'to pick up a Moneygram at American Express.  As planned,
I stop by the Canadian tourist office for brochures on Nova Scotia and
then impulsively seek out the Republic of Ireland's embassy.  Asking
general questions about how long Americans can stay in Ireland and what
happens if one wants to stay longer, I learn that foreigners must
register at the aliens office in Dublin, since no passport control
exists between the United Kingdom and Ireland.  Returning to England
and Scotland will be a cinch.  The following day I cancel the Nova
Scotia reservations.

John and I take comfort in the idea of being separated by the Irish
Sea, rather than the Atlantic Ocean.  John telephones his brother, a
minister in Oxfordshire, who has a minister friend in Dublin.  The next
evening, during a long telephone conversation, I explain our situation
to Niall in Dublin, who extends enthusiastic support for helping us
move there.

A few days later, I receive the housing page from the Irish Times,
where Niall has circled apartments on the same side of Dublin as the
church.  The listings mean nothing to me, as indecipherable as a
code.

Establishing the basics of life several times a year during the past
four years has left no enthusiasm for moving to Ireland, or anywhere.

Life is in a reduction phase, and the threshold lowers daily.

Prolonged stress of indeterminate duration is depleting both the body's
and the soul's resources.  A regimen of rationing these reserves cuts
out nonessential exertion.  Journal entries have become sporadic,
letters to friends have dwindled, and cooking, which never had a secure
position, has gone by the wayside.  It seems too great an effort to
photograph the people and places I'm leaving.  At the beginning of the
journey, I had hoped to photograph for posterity every place where
Michelle and I stayed, but this practice was suspended several
countries ago.  If only I could stop running on the moving platform.  I
don't want to think about finding a place to live in Ireland.  I almost
wish that John hadn't come into my life.  The emotional pull of leaving
behind someone I care about hasn't been there before.

A WEEK BEFORE THE OXFORD INTERNATIONAL MEDICAL SEMInar, the news from
America surprises me.  Jim won't be attending the meeting in England
because his father is in the hospital in Kentucky.  Relief, which can't
be shared with my parents, floods every corner of the phone booth.  On
the walk home, another concern surfaces.  I have accompanied Jim to
medical meetings in the U. S. A. , as well as in Europe, and my face
might be recognized by any of his friends who might attend this
meeting, even after the passage of years.  For all I know, some may be
on the lookout for a mother who looks like me with a young girl of
about the right age to be Ellen.

At the manse house group, I ask Anthony if he could obtain a list of
the speakers at this meeting.  Anthony doubts that someone in his
department would receive a program for a parasitology meeting, but he
will be on the lookout for one.  Several days before the meeting
begins, a late-evening knock at the clinic door gives me a start.

Apprehensively, I descend the stairs, wondering how we could escape if
one of Jim's friends is standing there.

Opening the door, I see Anthony with a piece of paper for my
inspection.  Without him asking, the program of lectures for the
parasitology meeting had appeared on his desk, and, sure enough, two of
the presenters are Jim's friends, who would certainly recognize me
without a disguise.

The circumstances of the medical meeting aren't mentioned to Michelle,
only that I will be spending more time at home to research my thesis
before we leave for Ireland.  Devising a strategy, I initiate the
following precautions for the days before and after the meeting date,
in case any seminar participants are sightseeing in Oxford.

Walking near the university and the tourist areas of Oxford is
off-limits.  Michelle and I will avoid all public appearances together,
even at our neighborhood shopping area.

On school mornings, John will pick up Michelle in his car.  In the
afternoons, she will walk home with the mother of some schoolmates who
live nearby.  Whenever I leave the apartment, I will disguise my
appearance.  The simple disguise of stuffing my hair in a hat and
wearing glasses is shown to be effective when a teacher at Michelle's
school doesn't recognize me until I remove the hat.

The week of the medical meeting comes and goes without incident, but
the thought lurks that someone could have seen me on one of my few
excursions in the neighborhood.  Even if the identification of Michelle
or myself would be inconclusive, someone could contact Jim with their
suspicions.  He might then hire a private investigator in Oxford to
search for us.  It's a mystery as to why Jim hasn't contacted Janet or
Gabriella during the past three and a half years.  Perhaps this Oxford
meeting will direct his attention toward Europe and the two households
Jim knows that I would visit at some point.  Fortunately, weariness
nips this convoluted worry in the bud.

A YEAR BEFORE LEAVING SAN FRANCISCO MICHELLE HAD PROfessed her belief
in Jesus as Lord and Savior, but she hadn't been baptized.

Witnessing the baptisms of school friends in Oxford has motivated her
to do the same.  During the past year, Michelle's faith has matured
through associations at school and church.  Her friend Stephanee has
encouraged her to join the Girl Crusaders' Union (GCU), an organization
for girls aged eight to eighteen to learn about the Christian faith and
its application to life.

On our last Sunday in Oxford, teachers and friends fill our church to
witness her baptism.  Michelle reads the testimony she has written,
attributing God's protection as what has made the difference in her
life as a Christian.  Early on in our journey, she had selected
favorite verses from Psalm 63 "For Thou hast been my help, And in the
shadow of Thy wings I sing for joy.  My soul clings to Thee, Thy right
hand upholds me" (verses 7-8).

After the service, Miss Cooke, Michelle's GCU leader, lets me know that
she has written to Mrs. Allen, the GCU leader in Dublin and her
longtime friend, briefly explaining our circumstances.  She encourages
me to phone Mrs. Allen when we arrive in Dublin, having paved the way
for another supportive contact in a new country.

Later in the day, John and I walk in the arboretum, a special place
for him, as his love of trees is the source of his art.  I pick up a
Japanese maple leaf at the peak of its autumn color to press with a
stem of bluebells in my Bible.  The pressure of circumstances is too
great to offer our relationship a future, which snaps as a branch from
its own weight.  The temporal is uncertain, there are no guarantees.

Only one hope will not disappoint, and that's reserved for the
eternal.

Eleven.

Amazing Grace.

May the road rise to meet you, May the wind be always at your back, May
the sun shine warm upon your face, the rains fall soft upon yourfields,
and until we meet again

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

--AN IRISH BLESSING THE JOURNEY TO IRELAND BEGINS AT CREWE WHEN I STOP
traveling away from Oxford and toward Dublin.  Preoccupied with
shifting the three black bags, I don't see an entry on the platform
monitor for an earlier train to Holyhead, but Michelle does.  Her
observant eyes assure our timely passage on the ferry to Dun
Laoghaire.

Sometimes the smallest of details, the least of encouragements, makes
the greatest of difference in a new endeavor.  Michelle's astuteness in
England opens for her the door of confidence in Ireland.

Before leaving Oxford, I had reserved a room at the same
bed-and-breakfast where Michelle and I had stayed during our first trip
to Ireland.  Two years earlier, we had traveled this exact route for a
Moneygram pickup at the American Express office in Dublin, although at
that time the perspective had been different.  The beauty of the Irish
coast and our enjoyment of the spirited city of Dublin had transformed
our mission into a brief vacation.  Now we will be making County Dublin
home.

The setting sun backlights the coastal hills as the ferry enters the
port of Dun Laoghaire.  Since there is no passport control, no stamp
documents our exit from the United Kingdom.  The customs office,
located several buildings away, is the only official office open at
this hour, but the three black bags prevent us from walking there.  We
hire a taxi to take us the few streets to the bed-and-breakfast, where
Mrs. D'alton greets us with the same geniality she had extended during
our first stay.

The next morning being Sunday, Niall has arranged for church members
who live nearby in Dalkey to pick us up.  Only Imant arrives, since his
wife Barbara is at home with their sons, one of whom is sick.

The church, which meets in a school, draws members from all corners of
County Dublin.  Their exuberance momentarily lifts the pressure of
establishing a new life, holding out hope in their lilting assurances
that "something will turn up."  Encouraged by their welcome, Michelle
and I sign up for a church retreat the next weekend at Greystones, a
seaside village in Wicklow, south of County Dublin.  Following the
service, all members and visitors are invited to gather at the home of
Niall and Sue, his wife, for refreshments.  During the afternoon, John
telephones Niall's home to confirm our safe arrival, which ferries my
thoughts back across the Irish Sea and away from the task at hand.

Discussing housing options, Niall calls a friend, Carol, who lives in
Dun Laoghaire.  Carol knows of an apartment in Killiney that may be
available.  She invites Michelle and me to her home on Tuesday morning,
hoping to have the information about the apartment by then.

Only one day remains on the U. K. immigration visa.  Unless our
departure from the U. K. is documented on our passports, it will appear
that we have overstayed.  The lecture by the U. K.

immigration officer at Portsmouth still rings in my ears.  Taking DART
(Dublin Area Rapid Transit), the transportation lifeline of County
Dublin, downtown, Michelle and I wait for several hours at the Aliens
Office.  Hoping to document our arrival on Irish soil, we obtain a
tourist visa application.  The amiable agent, who has no clue of our
circumstances, gives me his name as a contact to expedite the
processing of the registration form.  I have no intention of submitting
a form that puts our passport name, address, and telephone number on
file with the Republic of Ireland.

Determined to have our passports stamped before the midnight deadline,
Michelle and I return to the ferry port in the evening, threading our
way through a maze of warehouses, having been told that the customs
office is tucked away inside one.

At first, the customs official refuses to stamp them, seeing no
justification, since the Aliens Office handles registration.

Persistence prevails.  Hours before the U. K. visa expires, our
passports are stamped CUSTOMS AND EXCISE, 18 OCTOBER 1993, LANDING
STATION, DUN LAOGHAIRE, as if it applied to fruitcakes from America.

At Carol's home the next morning, I learn that the apartment isn't
available.  When our conversation meanders to other topics, such as
places to exercise, she invites me to an aerobics class the following
day.  Ready to pound frustration into a gym floor, I agree to meet her
at the class, which is held at a church in the neighborhood.  After
three nights of staying in a bed-and-breakfast and three days of eating
in restaurants, I'm no closer to finding a place to live, or a school,
than when we arrived.  I can't keep up this level of expenditures.

Recently, my parents have mentioned that their cash reserve is running
out.  If the journey lasts much longer, selling their home will become
necessary.

Resilience isn't as springy as it was in New Zealand, Oxford, and all
the countries in between.  Accumulative exhaustion is weighing me
down.

No longer does the absence of opportunities in a new place signal the
end of the journey.  News from America supports this notion.

Jim and his wife are attending a medical meeting in New Orleans.

Feeling as if I should be pounding a different pavement, Michelle and I
still attend the aerobics class, expecting to see Carol.

A friend of hers reports that she is ill.  After aerobics, I inquire in
the church office about housing, also asking if anyone knows Mrs.
Allen, the Girl Crusaders' Union leader in Dublin.  Not only do they
know Mrs.  Allen, but she is a church member and lives nearby.

Encouraged to contact her, first by Miss Cooke in Oxford and now by the
church office staff, I wonder why I haven't done so earlier and
telephone her from the church.  She suggests meeting us right away,
Miss Cooke's letter has paved the way for our introduction.

During lunch at McDonald's, Mrs.  Allen makes a startling proposal.

Since some bedrooms in her home aren't currently being used, she offers
two of them to us until next spring.  At that time, her husband will be
returning from England, where he teaches at a university, and her
daughters and their families will be arriving for the Easter holiday.

Two bedrooms plus kitchen privileges are offered at whatever rent we
can afford, an offer coming from Mrs. Allen's heart, not from
financial considerations.  Concerned about the money I'm spending at
the bed-and-breakfast, Mrs. Allen suggests we see the rooms this very
afternoon.  The decision to take them is made before we leave
McDonald's.  It is confirmed by the spaciousness of Mrs. Allen's home,
the beauty of her flower garden, and the comfortable upstairs
bedrooms.

The name of the area, Glenageary, means "glen of the sheep" in Gaelic,
but the sheep have long gone.

ONE DOWN AND ONE TO GO IS HOW I VIEW OUR IMMEDIATE situation.

Carol directs us to a teacher at a local school, who will consider
enrolling Michelle in her class.  Seeing our weariness, Mrs. D'alton
drives us to the school appointment.  Although the teacher is willing
to have Michelle as a pupil, this action requires special authorization
from the school board.  Now seven weeks into the school year, most
classes in County Dublin are filled to capacity.  I let the request
drop, and the school quandary is put on hold until after the church
retreat.

On moving day, Mrs. D'alton drives us and the three black bags to Mrs.
Allen's home in time for Michelle's first GCU meeting.  As I pack for
the weekend retreat, the chatter of about fifteen girls filters up the
stairs.  In a matter of hours, Michelle puts down roots in Ireland with
girls her own age who have common interests.

After the GCU meeting, Michelle and I board DART, whose stop is only a
few blocks away, to travel to the church retreat at Greystones.

Heading south toward Bray, the train leaves the tunnel opening to a
stunning view of Killiney Bay.  The wide crescent of the sandy beach
hugs the coast, which tourist brochures describe as resembling the Bay
of Naples.  With the graceful cone of Sugarloaf Mountain rising from
behind the beach, the landscape needs no comparison to enhance its
beauty.

Bray Head, an imposing hulk of land at the end of the crescent, blocks
the southern advance of DART.  We board a bus at Bray and wind through
the coastal hills, stopping at the village of Greystones, where the
windows of the retreat house, Carraig Eden, or Rock of Paradise, are
glazed with sea spray.

The church envelops us as if we have always been within its fold.

The childbearing age of the congregation provides an abundance of
playmates for Michelle.  We share a room with another single mother and
her infant son, whose own story bonds us.  The friendship start-up time
with Imant and Barbara, his wife, is immediate, and we receive an
invitation--the first of many--for dinner at their home in one week's
time.  In every country, as my inclination to cook has waned, God has
placed us in the proximity of excellent cooks.  Barbara and Imant's
friendship shortens the journey, as does the friendship of their sons,
Philip and Dylan, for Michelle.

The speaker for the retreat is a YWAM staff member serving in England,
who also happens to be an American from California.

The spiritual theme of v-he weekend shifts my focus from the tyranny of
temporal urgency to the exigency of eternity.  Thinking of the DART
line, I picture the Glory Train bound for Eternity, making stops along
the way, even unscheduled ones, opening its doors to anyone on the
platforms willing to step inside.  Whether the traveler boards at the
first stop or at the eleventh hour makes no difference, but being on
the train at the destination's end is imperative.  So it is with God's
kingdom.

Walking along the beach at Greystones, I reflect on how far I've come
in trusting God for provision and protection.  Having sung the hymn
"Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing" many times in the past, I had
never known the meaning of the phrase in verse two, "Here I raise mine
Ebenezer."  Reading about the Israelites, I learn that the prophet
Samuel set a stone in a place he called Ebenezer, meaning"the stones of
help" in Hebrew.  The stone memorial had signified "Thus far the Lord
has helped us" ( 1 Sam.

712).  Looking back, the path of our journey is littered with
Ebenezers.

IN OXFORD, Miss COOKE MENTIONED ANOTHER GCU ASSociate in Dublin, Miss
Stella Mew, who is the principal at a girls' private school, as well as
a friend of Mrs. Allen's.  With only the cost of renting rooms, money
would be available for private schooling.  Through an introduction by
Mrs. Allen, Michelle and I meet Miss Mew to discuss Michelle becoming
a student at Rathdown School, which is located within walking distance
of our new home.  After I explain the situation and the risk of
registering in public schools, Miss Mew opens the door of admission to
Michelle.  Miss Mew's support and Michelle's eagerness confirm Rathdown
School as being the right choice.  Sensitive to the expense of my
purchasing a complete school uniform, Miss Mew loans us a gabardine
school coat, which has been left at the school unclaimed.  A few days
later, Michelle dons a pleated bluegreen plaid skirt with a dark green
sweater, becoming a third-year student.

Rathdown School goes beyond fulfilling Michelle's expectations.

French lessons, Gaelic lessons, drama workshops, and sports throughout
the year--field hockey, track, basketball, swimming, and tennis--are
all enjoyed in the company of friends.

The girls in Michelle's class welcome her enthusiastically, initiating
a new name of endearment, Shelly.  When Michelle participates in school
activities involving an audience, she is supported not only by my
presence, but also by Mrs. D'alton, Mrs. Allen, and Mr. Allen (when
he is in town).  Having grandchildren the age of Michelle, they become
a surrogate family.

Letters and phone calls from John add anticipation to life, but cutting
off contact would remove the sadness I feel when I think about him.

Uncertain about whether seeing John would make me feel better or worse,
I miss him and eventually encourage him to visit us in Ireland.

Traveling by train and ferry, John spends a few nights at Mrs.
D'alton's bed-and-breakfast.  Our walks by the sea are invigorating, as
well as being physically and emotionally exhausting.

The push-pull of mixed-up feelings makes letting go of John's devotion
inconceivable.

AT THE AMERICAN EXPRESS OFFICE IN GALWAY, THE AGENT INforms me that the
computer is down, temporarily blocking the Moneygram transaction.

Waiting for any reason in a place where my passport name is known makes
me uneasy.  When the computer links are restored, the agent asks for my
Social Security number.  This is the first instance in four years when
passport identification and the Moneygram reference number haven't been
sufficient verification.  Since New Zealand, my Social Security number
has been jumbled in my memory, and I always forget to verify it when
talking to my parents.  Sloughing off forgetfulness as casually as
possible, I hope the agent doesn't catch on to how peculiar this memory
lapse would be for an American.  When the request for authorization is
sent through without a Social Security number, American Express delays
approval.  Communicating with both Dublin and New York, the agent
remarks that she has never experienced such a protracted delay.

Warning lights flash in my mind.  Although this delay may result from
the internal workings at American Express, perhaps my name and passport
number have been flagged.  A wave of panic overcomes me.  Realizing
that my passport is behind the counter, out of reach, I want to run
into the street, but I restrain the urge to flee.

Under my breath, I sing the words to "Amazing Grace, " praying for
God's power to release the money.  After more waiting and more
telephone conversations, authorization is extricated as inexplicably as
the bottleneck materialized.  Nothing can be taken for granted--least
of all, past success.

RECONNECTING WITH YWAM IN DUBLIN, MICHELLE SIGNS up for the King's Kids
Christmas Outreach, which combines two of her passions singing and
dancing.  In Switzerland, being part of the King's Kids had been a
dream, restrained at the time by her age and the language.  Weeks of
singing and choreography rehearsals in Dublin, as well as a weekend
retreat, make the advent of Christmas spiritually festive for both of
us.  Piling into vans to sing on Grafton Street in the center of
Dublin, in a hospital, or in shopping centers about Christ's message
builds friendships among the participants.  Friendships with YWAM staff
members strengthen God's Spirit within me to endure the difficult
months to come.

The Christmas phone call to my parents is impacted by the presence of a
cleaning lady in Mary Ellen's apartment.  My mother codes her language
as if she is conversing with a relative across town.  From our muddled
conversation, I learn that Jim is spending Christmas in Kentucky,
perhaps delivering a medical paper at a university after the
holidays.

The presence of the cleaning lady was distracting but not as disruptive
as the time when lightning had struck Mary Ellen's balcony at the same
time my parents arrived to receive my call.

My mother had resolutely continued the telephone conversation as
firemen filed past her.

Mary Ellen's friendship has been a bulwark of strength for my
parents.

Following the early morning phone calls in her home, she invites them
to stay for breakfast.  Revealing to no one, except Mary Ellen and
Marcella, a previous telephone contact, the occurrence of these phone
calls, these breakfast visits are times when my parents can express
their emotions about what's happening with Michelle and me.

THE JANUARY RAINS IN DUBLIN FALL HORIZONTALLY WITH some drops never
reaching the ground.  Umbrellas are useless against the wet winds.

Treetops in Dublin are littered with plastic bags that have been put
there by updrafts from the unrelenting wind.  Sometimes Mrs. Allen
gives us a ride to Rathdown if a downpour occurs as we leave for
school.  Although friends faithfully pick us up whenever possible, a
lot of time is spent walking in the weather to school and shops.
health is like an underground stream in my life, always flowing and
often surfacing with flulike symptoms and respiratory illnesses.

During U. S. A. calls, my voice is often raspy from respiratory
congestion.  When I express concern about how much longer my body can
endure the stress, my parents engage a lawyer in Kentucky to initiate
negotiations with Jim's lawyer about our returning to America.  Jim is
staying at his parents' home, presumably due to ill health.  Ears in
Kentucky haven't heard whether he plans to return to California.

As physical stamina ebbs, I work to build up spiritual strength through
prayer, a devalued spiritual asset.  Marion, the mother of Dawn, a GCU
friend of Michelle's, invites me to a women's home Bible study through
her church.  These women embrace the circumstances of my life through
prayer.  Imant and Barbara host a weekly church home group, a place
where members express a variety of emotions, calling out both to God
and man for strength.  As we pray for one another's needs, God's power
transfuses into the circumstances, sometimes like water breaking
through a dam, other times with the force of an intravenous drip.

Barbara and I become partners in prayer, bringing our petitions and
praises around her kitchen table to each other and God.  I yearn to
tell her about my secret pleasure on hearing my name in the Irish
expression "Janey Mac."  Fortunately, the passport alarms don't sound
any more, now that we have decided to remain in Ireland for the
duration of the journey, but moving looms in April when Mrs. Allen
will need our rooms.  Through Barbara, I contact a lady at her mother's
church who rents an upstairs one-room apartment with a small kitchen,
but my primary concern is living in a single room with a
ten-year-old.

The room is bright and pleasant, like our landlord, Miss Welsby.  From
the edge of one window is an angled view of Sandycove and the ferry
pier.  Although this apartment is closer to shopping, it's half a mile
farther from Rathdown, adding two miles to the day's walking.  Walking
the extra distance, particularly in the mornings, seems overwhelming.

When Fiona, the mother of a Rathdown classmate, offers to pick up
Michelle in the mornings, I take the apartment.  Once again, Mrs.
D'alton moves us and the three black bags to our new home.  Michelle
heaps attention on two local cats that have adopted Miss Welsby.

BEFORE LEAVING CALIFORNIA, I HAD PRESENTED To SUSAN, A friend in San
Francisco, a shoebox full of legal papers, the power of attorney on my
behalf, and bags of Peet's coffee beans from my freezer.  During these
past four years, Susan has been pursuing all angles in attempts to
advance my freedom in California.  Recently, she has put my mother in
contact with a lawyer in San Francisco who is pleading my case at the
district attorney's office.

Working in concert, Susan and my mother are orchestrating the
advancement of my cause on two fronts San Francisco and Kentucky.

I

ll Contacting the lawyer in Kentucky from a public telephone booth, I
confirm that I would like her to represent me.  As a result of
communications with Jim's lawyer, she receives a letter expressing
Jim's desire to see Ellen and a proposal for our return to America.  If
Ellen and I return to America, Jim will drop the child abduction
charges against me.  In return, he would retain full custody of Ellen,
which the judge in San Francisco had awarded him after our departure.

My visiting rights with Ellen would be limited and supervised.  Did Jim
really think that I would grab at this proposal after four years of
living on the run for Ellen's protection?  His proposal is ludicrous,
even laughable, if the situation weren't so sad.  I instruct my lawyer
to make a counterproposal Ellen and I will return if full custody is
restored to me, Jim being limited to supervised visiting with the
supervisor being me.

I know this proposal will be rejected, but any compromise would
threaten Ellen's protection.  Jim could be a threat to my life if we
return to America, as well as hers, he has nothing to lose.  Regardless
of Jim's desperation, I would return to America if-he were to agree to
my proposal and set in motion the appropriate legal actions.  As well
as being sensitive to the fact that this could be his last opportunity
to see his daughter, I'm more sensitive to my daughter's feelings.  Her
fall-out emotions over never seeing him again are impossible to
gauge.

Relying on indirect communications, a legal resolution of our situation
seems hopeless.

THE DAY FOLLOWING THE MAY BANK HOLIDAY WEEKEND, AS I'm saying goodnight
to Michelle, there's a knock at the front door downstairs.

Doubting that Miss Welsby would be expecting a visitor at this hour, I
listen as she opens the door.  The caller's voice is soft, deep, and
familiar.  Hastening down the stairs, I see John looking up at me from
the hall.

Smiling self-consciously, he says, "I thought I would drop by to
celebrate my birthday with you."  After I have introduced John to Miss
Welsby, she withdraws to her living room.  Seconds later, Michelle
appears on the stairs, giving a shriek of delight when she sees him.

Traveling from Oxford by bicycle, bus, and ferry for sixteen hours,
John has walked here after checking into Mrs.  . D'alton's.

Upstairs in our small kitchen, he unloads from a small duffel bag a
carton of whipping cream and a mixer, a chocolate cake baked the
previous evening, candles and matches, and a bouquet of bluebells from
the Oxfordshire woods of our first date one year ago.

The surprise of his arrival (after I had given up hope) leaves me with
few words.  Mostly I repeat, "I can't believe it, " as the three of us
eat birthday cake in our kitchen.  Barbara chides me later for not
calling her about staying with Michelle on short notice.  At the time,
I didn't think about it, being overcome with the serendipity of the
moment.

John leaves the next morning on the return ferry.  Irlis visit has been
so fleeting that its reality may seem questionable in a few weeks'
time, when the blossoms wither.  The bluebells have pierced my heart
with romance.  I have no doubt that I will see John when we visit
Oxford in the summer.

Now WHEN I APPROACH THE TELEPHONE BOOTH TO CALL America, whether
speaking to my lawyer or my parents, the instability of the situation
triggers anxiety.  Is Jim's death imminent, or will his health rally as
it has in the past?  As expected, Jim rejects my proposal for our
return, reiterating his claim that he will never give up custody of
Ellen.  Jim's desire to see his daughter isn't top priority in his
life.  Whose counsel has his ear, or is he too ill to receive any?

Pride, foolish advice, or something else is cutting off what could be
Jim's last opportunity to see his daughter.

During a call to America in mid-May, Jim's name isn't mentioned once.

Several days earlier, Nannie, my ninety-four-year-old grandmother and
my father's mother, has died.  My parents will leave Mary Ellen's house
to attend her funeral after receiving my call.  As I cross the street
to buy another phone card, my sobbing makes the employee at the
newsstand uncomfortable.  He doesn't know what to say to me.  No one
does.  None of my friends have the answer to the question Why couldn't
God have preserved Nannie's life until we returned?  I had been the
apple of her eye, her only grandchild.  She had always been there for
me.

Jim had been banking on the separation from my family, as well as
inadequate funds, to drive me back to America.

Michelle's memories of her great-grandmother are more limited, but she
remembers searching through Nannie's bag for the ever-present roll of
Life Savers, as well as playing with her collection of salt and pepper
shakers.  That night, as I comfort Michelle before saying goodnight, I
perform a ritual that Nannie had done when I was a small child and
unable (or unwilling) to go to sleep.

Rubbing her fingertips together, she (playing the part of the Sandman)
had sprinkled imaginary sand into my wide-opened eyes.  Then her
fingertips would close the lids and apply magical mud while reciting
"Now I lay me down to sleep.  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."  I
think back to the day Nannie died.  Michelle and I had been
sight-seeing with Helen and Tony from Oxford, who had been staying in
Dublin.  On the bright and sunny day, the four of us had walked along
the sea coast, ending our visit with afternoon tea at the Shelbourne
Hotel in Dublin.  I have been ignorant of my grandmother's death for
three days, now I want to retake them, inserting sadness and
mourning.

Walking on daily rounds to school and shops, sometimes I sing, but
songs flow less frequently now.  With my grandmother's death staring me
in the face, the wind doesn't seem at my back.

One hymn's chorus, which worked its way into my spirit through
repetition at a young age, does come forth spontaneously.  Emphasizing
a different word each time, I sing, "On Christ the solid rock I stand,
all other ground is sinking sand .  . . all other ground is sinking
sand."  I feel myself sinking in the pit, but know that my feet will
strike the "solid rock" before I'm overcome.

ONCE AGAIN, GOD BRINGS AMERICA To MICHELLE, THIS TIME through an
introduction in the workout room of the hotel where I attend an
aerobics class.  Another woman and I approach an apparatus at the same
time, deferring to one another.  As I notice her English accent, she
recognizes my American one, which prompts conversation on living in
America.  Joanna, her husband, and their daughter, Alexandra, are
staying at the hotel while he directs a Walt Disney movie in Ireland.

Alexandra, who is the same age as Michelle, invites her to swim in the
hotel pool, as well as visit the movie set at the studio in Bray.

Their friendship extends into the classroom when Alexandra is enrolled
in Rathdown for the remaining weeks of the school year.  One morning,
after dropping off the girls at school, Joanna and I drive toward the
Wicklow Mountains to have lunch at Johnny Fox's, the highest pub in
Ireland.  Joanna, who is a screenplay writer, encourages me to write
our story.  Although I have been keeping a diary and making notes,
attempts at putting pen to paper haven't materialized beyond a few
pages.  Concern about the outcome of the story blocks my enthusiasm for
writing, a prison sentence would provide ample time to write the story,
as well as the graduate thesis.  Judging from the prison documentary I
saw in Oxford, another positive benefit of serving time would be losing
weight.

Two WEEKS LATER, A U .  S .  A. PHONE CALL AGAIN UNEXPECTedly
spotlights death.  In a moment, all is changed.  Jim has died at his
parents' home in Kentucky from complications related to AIDS.  Although
my mother has been commenting on the decline of Jim's health during the
past several months, his death comes as a surprise.  Janet had said
that it would come when I least expected it, as is true for so many
things.  My thoughts are like bumper cars bumping into and bouncing off
one another.  If both deaths were meant to be, why couldn't Jim's death
have preceded Nannie's?  Legal contacts had lifted my hopes that Jim's
heart would change.  Now all hope of having the charges dropped is
gone.  Relief is tempered by the finality of his death.  Lodged in a
recess of my heart had been the wish to talk with Jim
face-to-face--reconciled.  Spent of emotion, I can't talk with Michelle
about another death right away.  Will she strike out at me in anger,
maligning me for keeping her away from her father?  I ask myself .

After Michelle returns home from school the following day, I suggest a
walk along the rocky shore.  Michelle's enthusiasm jump-starts when I
add stopping for ice cream along the way.

Walking the short block to the sea, I begin with a deep sigh.

"Sweetpea, I talked to Bebe and Granddaddy, who told me some sad
news.

Your dad died a few days ago in Kentucky."  Michelle's prolonged
silence makes me wonder whether she comprehended what I said.

Looking up at me with an expectant face, she asks, "Mommy, does this
mean we can go home now?  " Caught off guard by her matter-of-factness,
I slammer, "Uh .  . .

I .  . . I don't know, probably not right away."  After more questions
about where and how Jim died, she laments, "I know I should be sad, but
I'm happy we're free."  As we walk, Michelle becomes more subdued.

Reality is percolating through her consciousness that she will never
again see her father whose memory has faded.  At the water's edge, we
hurl stones into the sea.  Jim would have grieved in the same
way-skimming stones across the water.  When he had experienced the
pressure of college exams, or later the pressure of clinical and
research responsibilities, I had witnessed many a pebble fly from his
hands.  I can visualize the tilt of his body, leaning into his right
shoulder before the release.

Later that evening, the reality of never seeing her father again hits
Michelle as we say goodnight, a time of the day when we had prayed for
him.  Starting to cry, she moans, "I miss my daddy.

Mommy, do you remember the night he brought me cough medicine?  " I nod
that I do, and she continues, "In the middle of the night he got out of
bed and drove over to our house to bring me medicine.  He took good
care of me, Mommy."  Michelle had hit on Jim's gift.  As a physician,
he had been an excellent care-giver.  What a loss for his patients!

Sometimes, I had called him "the doctor's doctor."  Friends are at a
loss to know how to comfort me.  "Thank God" isn't what I feel, neither
is "Oh, no, God."  Regardless of the pain and disappointment, almost
two thirds of my life was spent with Jim.

Sadness persists.

At the best possible time, Michelle and I receive an invitation to
spend a few days with friends at a hunting lodge in the Wicklow
Mountains.  This being our second visit, we know what beautiful
surroundings await us.  The way to Hollywood, Ireland, begins its climb
through the mountains near Glendalough, the lovely lake and valley
where St. Kevin founded a monastery in the sixth century.  From the
car I see the Round Tower, where monks fled for refuge from attacks.  I
want to flee from thoughts of death.  Last autumn Mrs. Allen and I had
threaded our way through the stone church ruins and Celtic crosses in
the graveyard, which I now overlook.  Legend says that hugging the base
of one particular graveyard monument guarantees marriage within the
year, if the fingertips touch.

Our hosts are Marion and her husband Frank, as well as Tom, Frank's
brother, who lives year-round at the lodge.  Michelle explores the
byways in the green hills behind the lodge with their daughter, Dawn,
who is a GCU friend.  In the evenings, they play cards or board games,
enlisting the participation of Dawn's older brother, Andrew.

The adults sit in front of the fire with a hot drink and the hunting
dogs at our feet--reading, talking, or playing cards.

l

During the weekend, the women from the Bible study group in Dublin come
for an afternoon picnic with their families.  Afterward, we hike up a
gravel road toward the top of the mountain ridge, surrounded by glens
of dark conifers and rocks pushing their way to the surface.

Marion's keen analytical mind is a brilliant sounding board for
assessing future scenarios.  If Michelle and I stayed in Ireland, my
parents could visit us here, but that would leave my grandparents in
Kentucky.  Michelle wants to transport Rathdown School, the whole of
Ireland, and a lot of other countries to America.  Any return to
America should occur after she attends a GCU camp in Yorkshire with her
former Oxford GCU group.  The camp is two months from now, giving time
for things to settle in America.

Contacting my lawyer in Kentucky to assess the status of my legal
situation after Jim's death, I find that he has left no dying wish that
we return to America in freedom.  His family express no interest in
paving the way for our return--quite the opposite.

Although my lawyer offers no assurance that I won't go to prison, no
guarantee exists that I shall.  Separation from Michelle grips me with
terror more than the actuality of living in prison.  Receiving legal
help depends on avoiding arrest and extradition when passing through
U.

S. A. immigration and on making it back to Kentucky.

ONE NIGHT, ABOUT A MONTH AFTER THE DEATHS, I AWAKEN AT 2 A. M. , not
from a rapid heartbeat but from irrational terror.  My head feels as if
it is wrapped in a blood pressure cuff that is being pumped up.  As my
skin crawls with heightened sensitivity, I want to scream and run
helter-skelter from the room.  Turning on the light, I open my Bible,
but it's impossible to read.  Desperate to quell the war being waged
inside me, I fear becoming a casualty on the battlefield.  Using my
earphones, I listen to a tape that Michelle had rescued from a
wastebasket at YWAM Lausanne.

The music soothes, but the singing of Scripture strengthens.

"Give ear to my words, O LORD, Consider my groaning.  Heed the sound of
my cry for help, my King and my God.  For to Thee do I pray" (Ps.  5

1-2).  Crying out to God to preserve sanity, I don't know how much
longer I can keep the struggle silent without waking Michelle, who
sleeps a few feet away.  The next second a loud clap of thunder
startles me, rocking the windows.  God isn't speaking in the sound of a
gentle wind tonight.  The novelty of the thunderclap, one of the few I
have heard in Ireland, cuts the panic like a sword.  Remaining in bed,
I wait, knowing that Peace is on its way.

The next morning, still shaken by residual fright, I'm worried about
surviving intact.  The winter has been too long, too wet, too gray, too
draining.  I crave to be out of the brisk cold wind, to sweat in the
hot sun cooled by a gentle breeze, like the ones we had experienced in
Greece.  Before noon, I'm scanning vacation brochures at a travel
agency in downtown Dublin.  Gordon, who is a travel agent as well as a
member of the church home group, advises a package tour to Greece,
normally difficult to reserve this late in the season.  Due to a
cancellation that morning, a reservation opens for a two-week vacation
in Corfu.  Guilt flows over me as I make the deposit, but experiencing
a vacation in two weeks' time is both expedient and prophylactic.  It's
a matter of paying now or later.

Corfu is hot and sunny, providing many opportunities to talk with
Michelle about the future.  After years of travel, this trip is our
first vacation.  Concerned that Michelle may learn information about
her father's death from someone else, I explain about AIDS and that we
have been tested for the virus several times, receiving good reports.

When I talk about the possibility of going to prison, Michelle
expresses her desire to live with Bebe and Granddaddy.

Two days after returning from Corfu, I sit across from Gordon once
again, this time making airline reservations for Toronto.

Years before in Italy, I had decided that it would be the portal for
returning to America.  On August 16, 1994, seats are available on a
charter flight leaving Dublin for Shannon and Toronto.  On faith, I
reserve seats on a flight from Toronto to Cincinnati, where my parents
plan to meet us, knowing that we may not make it that far.  Later in
the day, Gordon calls to report that the price of each air ticket has
been reduced by œ50, a reduction occurring only on the Tuesday flight
of that week.  Puzzled as to why this day has been singled out to
reward the passengers, I believe it's confirmation that this is the day
we are to travel home.

WITH ONLY TWO WEEKS REMAINING BEFORE OUR FLIGHT TO Toronto, Michelle
and I travel to Oxford to say goodbye to friends and places.

Ray graciously offers our former apartment as a place to stay, since
the students who occupy it are away for the summer.  Michelle departs
with the Oxford GCU group to attend their camp in Yorkshire.  In a
week's time, I shall meet her on the platform in York to board a train
for Perth.

While staying in Oxford, John and I see each other every day.

The pain of enjoying his company is gone.  My heart is somewhere over
the Atlantic at this point and John makes no attempt to hold it back.

Keeping in touch across the distance is a foregone conclusion.

The early morning rendezvous with Michelle requires that I arrive in
York the evening before.  Strolling through the streets as darkness
falls, I pass a recessed shop entry where a man sits on the sidewalk
with a black dog.  Walking on by, I stop after a few paces, prompted to
retrace my steps and initiate a conversation with him.  He introduces
himself as Mark Antony and his dog as Cleopatra, and it's apparent from
his discussion on the powers of the occult that we serve different
masters.  Announcing that he is a warlock, he claims that the
witchcraft powers were passed on to him by his grandfather at a young
age.  When he tells me that his Christian name is John Mark, I no
longer see a man in his fifties who is holding his arm out to passing
cars, presumably in a salute of malediction--I see a young child whose
spirit has been raped by an adult whom he may have trusted.  Perhaps
the same was passed to his grandfather, generation to generation.

Addressing the spiritual gulf separating us, I say, "John Mark, we
serve different masters.  You're a slave to Satan, and I profess the
Lordship of Christ.  In the Bible, the Apostle Paul mentions being set
free from the spirit of slavery and fear, which your master requires.

" Smiling, he interjects, "You have said the right word, " and pulls a
piece of wood from his pack.  On it, the word "slave" has been
carved.

Hitting the mark of his spiritual condition sends vibrations through my
own spirit.  Adjuring him, I plead, "It's not too late, John Mark.  You
can decide to serve a different master.  One who gives life and
freedom, rather than death.  Change your allegiance before it's too
late."  Ignoring my admonition, he turns his attention back to the
cars.

As I turn to leave, he extends his hand toward me, looking me in the
eye and knowing what's going on in my heart.  I don't know what to
do.

At my hesitation, he thrusts his hand a bit closer.  Perhaps my refusal
to shake his hand would be interpreted as excluding him from the love
of Christ.  With the reluctance of plunging into a pool of cold water,
I extend my hand.  On the walk back to the bed-and-breakfast, I feel
uneasy about this encounter, troubled by what has happened.

On the station platform the next morning, I notice a group of girls in
a huddle at the other end.  When Miss Cooke sees me, she signals to
Michelle, who turns around.  Seeing the white sling on her arm, I ask
the obvious question.  The previous evening she was using a chair to
climb into the top bunk at bedtime.  When the chair tottered, she lost
her balance, and her arm struck the back rail of the chair.

Miss Cooke explains that the camp nurse examined Michelle's arm,
believing the wrist to be sprained.  Opting not to go to the hospital
on the last night of camp, the nurse still advises having it X-rayed.

Rather than seeking a medical opinion in York, we board the train for
Perth, where Janet could lend support if X rays become necessary.

Although Michelle isn't in distress, the pain in her arm worsens on the
journey to Perth.  After dropping our luggage at Janet's, we walk to
the hospital on the other side of the sheep field.

Using Ellen's passport for registration purposes is no longer a
problem.  In a few days' time, I shall be surrendering to authorities
in Kentucky if I'm permitted to enter America.

The radiologist reports that a bone in Michelle's arm is broken,
requiring anesthesia to reset it.  At midnight in the surgical prep
room, Michelle pleads not to have a shot.  As the intravenous line is
inserted in her arm, the doctor focuses her attention on the cartoon
characters painted on the ceiling.  While counting the figures, her
voice trails off.

Having worked as a secretary in an anesthesiology department, I
remember a young law student who had been anesthetized for an emergency
appendectomy.  A freak drug reaction had caused cardiac arrest and
death.  Most likely, Michelle will be fine, but nothing can be taken
for granted.  We're so close to the end of our journey.

An operating room nurse who is going off-duty gives me a ride to
Janet's home to retrieve what we will need for spending the night at
the hospital.  Although Janet is on duty at the residential care home
next door, she runs me back to the hospital in her car before Michelle
awakens.  In the recovery room, I present Michelle with a bouquet of
sweet peas that Janet had hurriedly picked from her garden in the dark
for Squeak.  A soft cast has been applied for travel in a pressurized
plane, though not ideal protection for maneuvering in airports and
crowded aircraft.

ON SUNDAY, OUR LAST DAY IN SCOTLAND, EWEN, JANET's minister, who has
also been my minister in Perth, has unknowingly planned a tremendous
send-off service for Michelle and me.

Months ago, the idea had come to Ewen to plan a family service at the
end of the summer based on the theme of returning home after a
vacation.  During the "Going Home" service, participants offer music,
poetry, and testimonies about homecomings, both temporal and eternal.

As the congregation sings "Amazing Grace, " none of the participants,
not even Ewen, realizes the significant timing of the message until
afterward.  "Going Home" shifts the focus from arrest and imprisonment
to reunion and homecoming.

ON THE FLIGHT TO TORONTO, I FEEL THE PUSH-PULL OF REturning to America,
just as I had experienced it on leaving.  Over the international waters
of the Atlantic, the boundaries of national allegiance have lost their
distinct edges, our survival having been aided by citizens of many
countries.  No one who shared the knowledge of our circumstances
betrayed us.  No one harmed us.

In the course of traveling thousands of miles, I lost neither luggage
nor cash.  Only a bracelet, three earrings, and a zebra-striped sock
(half of a Christmas gift from Michelle) failed to follow us.

Remarkably, the sock found its way back to me two months later.

Perhaps I have been away from America too long.  Everything will seem
different, and acclimatization to the culture will take time.  I have
no health insurance, no driver's license, and only a few hundred
dollars of cash.  I'll be starting from rock bottom, since the judge
had awarded Jim custody of Ellen and bestowed to him all my possessions
and assets, my share of the house equity, and even my retirement
benefits.  Returning to America as a wanted woman is bittersweet.

Although I have broken the law, I'm not a criminal.  During the flight,
Michelle writes a note to her dead father, expressing her wish that he
had dropped the legal charges against me.  In the postscript, Michelle
writes "God help us."  She is terrified that I will go to prison.

Canadian immigration offers no resistance.  At U. S. A. customs, I
don't have ready answers, having concentrated on what I will say later
at passport control.  Once Michelle's X rays receive special handling
in customs, I have no idea what to declare, realizing that I could be
tripped up here just as easily.  The journey has been so long that
everything deserves to be declared.  Few of the items packed in San
Francisco have survived the journey.  I panic when my mind goes
blank.

The customs officer, who has opened our black bags, exerts verbal
pressure to respond as I struggle to remember their contents.

Eventually, I declare the value of wool sweaters and scarves purchased
in Ireland.

Walking down a corridor to U. S. A. passport control, I pray for
wisdom.  If the official inspects the passports carefully, he or she
will notice that Michelle and I haven't returned to the U. S. A. in
almost five years, which may be a red flag for immigration watchdogs.

As I present our passports and airline tickets, his demeanor is
friendly, not authoritative.  Looking at Michelle as he thumbs through
the pages of my passport, he asks, "How did you break your arm?  " It
is the only question he asks.  Her broken arm proves to be an effective
distraction.  After consoling Michelle about the misfortune of it
happening on a trip, he smiles and hands back our passports.  In a
matter of seconds, what I have been dreading for years is over.  To
celebrate the victory, I pull out the leftover coins, still wrapped in
the roll Stephen had given us in San Francisco.  It's been almost five
years since U. S. currency has passed through my hands.  Ceremoniously,
I buy Michelle a hot dog.

On the flight to Cincinnati, our jubilation is difficult to contain in
seats 11A and 11B.  I tell our seatmate the reason for our excitement
the story is almost too incredible for him to believe, but his
skepticism doesn't faze me.  On the descent, I see the meanderings of
the Ohio River and pray that the plane lands safely.  We are so close
now.

Our plethora of cabin luggage holds us back from being among the first
passengers off the plane.  My seatmate offers to carry something to
help speed things along.  My parents are waiting at the terminal gate
on pins and needles, with no idea whether we are on this flight, having
made it through U. S. immigration without being arrested.  Every second
of delay prolongs their agony.

Seeing my parents framed in the door of the gateway, Michelle runs into
their arms.  Her glee assures them that she has not forgotten them
during the separation.  Having had no photo-graphs to catch them up on
Michelle's development, they embrace her ten-and-a-half-year-old
stature with astonishment.

Blocking the way, the four of us clutch each other in wails of joy.

My seatmate unobtrusively sets the black bag down.  Other passengers
eddy to either side of us, looking askance at the over-themoon show of
emotions.

Reaching the outskirts of the city, which is home to Jim's family as
well as my parents, Michelle and I crouch in the back seat to avoid
being recognized through the untinted windows of the van.  If I am
convicted, sentencing could be favorably influenced by surrendering,
rather than being apprehended.  Turning away from the direction of the
city and toward the country roads where my parents live, we sit upright
until headlights drive us down in the seat again.  We pull into my
parents' drive, and I taste what it must be like to be on the approach
to heaven.  The past is left behind.  The future doesn't exist.  Only
the present matters.

Arc, who has become an old dog with a whiter face, looks at me with the
same adoration.  He remembers me as I caress his velvet ears.

The answering machine handles any phone calls.  I go through the house,
noticing what furnishings have been moved or replaced.  My parents are
content to look at us and comment on how well they will sleep, knowing
we're upstairs.  For years, I have visualized looking out of the front
window across the fields to a neighbor's barn.  It's not the time to
catch up on almost five years of living, it's the right time for
savoring present delights.

As WE WALK INTO MY LAWYERs OFFICE WITHOUT AN APPOINTment, she bursts
into tears when she sees my mother, assuming me to be Janie.

Her compassion encourages me.  Plans are activated to arrange a court
hearing for the next day.  Returning home, I place calls to Scotland,
Ireland, England, and San Francisco, requesting prayers for finding
favor with the American legal system.  In less than twenty-four hours,
I could be waiting in a jail cell for extradition to California.  I
have visions of being handcuffed to a seat in a bus, although felons
may be escorted by air.

On the following day, Michelle, my parents, and I meet at the lawyer's
office, learning that the hearing couldn't be scheduled on such short
notice.  The alternative plan is to present my case to the sheriff.  On
the way to the county jail, I muse on how I have dressed for a court
hearing, not a jail cell.  In the parking lot, Michelle remains in the
car with her grandparents while I am accompanied by my lawyer and
another lawyer who is assisting her.

Walking to the entrance of the jail, the two lawyers explain to me what
will happen on the inside.  One brings up a point, which prompts the
other to halt, saying, Wait!  as my hand is poised to push open the
front door.  Thinking ahead, she continues, "It's probably best that
you don't go in just yet, but wait in the car.  I want to talk with the
district attorney's office in San Francisco before you make an
appearance."  On the way back to the parking lot, the assisting lawyer
explains that the sheriff would have been obligated to arrest me on the
spot if I had crossed the threshold, given the felony charges against
me.  I had been one step away from certain arrest.

At the car, we confront the puzzled expressions on the faces of
Michelle and my parents.  Knowing little of what is going on inside, I
surmise that persuasive reasoning is occurring on my behalf.  What's
the point of putting a mother in prison who needs to be free to nurture
her fatherless daughter?  As we wait in the car, the assisting lawyer
listens patiently to our questions and concerns, encouraging us when
possible.  The flight instinct is still strong, but this time around,
my motivation isn't as compelling.

There's nowhere to run now, and I'm too tired anyway.  It scares me to
think how much time I might have to rest.  Two hours later, my lawyer
appears and opens the car door to make an announcement "I have good
news.  The sheriff has been conferring with California, and the
district attorney's office in San Francisco is dropping the charges.  "
Michelle lets out a whoop, and everyone follows suit.  The threat of
going to prison lets go its grip.  The fear of living in hiding is
gone, no longer stalking me.  The slate has been wiped clean, as if no
charges had ever been filed.  At last, I'm free.

As one journey ends, a new one begins.

THE DOOR THAT I HAD EXPECTED TO OPEN THEN CLOSE BEHIND me with a solid
thud hadn't done so.  Freedom puts me at a loose end.  Suddenly the
future explodes with more choices than opportunities.  I had assumed
that I would be barred from making the decisions myself.

During the first weeks of freedom, we spent our time inside my parents'
home--hiding out until the felony charges clear the crime computer.  If
I were stopped by a police officer for any reason and checked, I would
be arrested and questions would be asked.

Our self-imposed house arrest is where both Michelle and I want to
be--reconnecting with our parents/grandparents and dog.  The changes in
their well-being during our absence is sad.

My mother's blood pressure has skyrocketed and my father's energy has
plummeted, but their spirits are buoyant.  So are ours.

Michelle wants to see all of America with them.  Between bites of fried
banana peppers from the garden, I introduce them to people and places
around the world that couldn't be mentioned during our phone
conversations.

Only Arc's health deteriorates quickly.  Within six weeks, the loyal
beagle into whose younger ear I had whispered so much heartache loses
his strength to live.  My father buries him on a peaceful fence row
next to their dog.  Arc's last act of devotion had been to hang on
until our return.

When the charges clear, I initiate the legal process to reclaim what
had been technically taken away from me the custody of my daughter.  In
the twinkling of a tear-filled eye, the judge restores to me custody of
Ellen (Michelle) and no one objects.  I beam thankful messages toward
the heavens some destined for eternity and others received by
satellites and relayed to friends in San Francisco, Ireland, England,
Scotland, Italy, and Switzerland.

Once the entourage of boxes (which follow us to every new country)
arrive and the three black bags have been unpacked, I then permit the
crisis mechanism in my nervous system to shut down completely after
five years of nonstop operation.  This letdown triggers exhaustion
beyond any I experienced on the journey.

At my grandmother's nursing home, she gives me a faint smile of
possible recognition, months later, she would call my name.

On the piano in the activity room, I play her favorite hymns.

Amazingly, she sings the verses from memory, at a time when her ability
to carry on a conversation has gone.  Down the hall, my grandfather (on
the other family side) is rejuvenated from seeing us, the ones who had
been lost but now are found.  His already sharp mind is given a new
edge by a merry heart.  At the age of ninety-three, God grants me the
privilege of praying with him--a prayer assuring him of eternal life.

Until that life begins a year later, I listen and take notes as he
tells stories from childhood and his younger days as a truck driver and
a union organizer.

On my birthday, John calls to explain that the distance across the
water is too far this time for him to bring a bouquet of bluebells.  I
am pleased that the idea had even been considered.

His telephone calls are frequent, as well as painful.  Our relationship
is a memory without a future.  On either side of the Atlantic, no
mention is made of commitment.  I suggest we limit our contact to
letters, which, in time, dwindles to birthday cards and then only
Christmas greetings.

Michelle decides to retain the name she selected for herself-to be used
by everyone except family.  Legally, she wants her name to be Ellen
Mari Michelle.  At school her hodgepodge accent is noticed by the
other fourth graders in her class.  Since

The Revenge of the Three Black Bags 237

Michelle has learned in a variety of languages and teaching methods,
she enters a grade behind others who are her age.  Most of her
classmates, rooted in American culture, are developing wings, but
Michelle took flight from America before establishing roots.

Every one in her class has been to Florida except Michelle, who has
seen the Parthenon but not Disney World.  Now is the time to give her
the continuity she has missed.  Michelle takes tap, jazz, and ballet
classes at the same school of dance.  Summer after summer, she enjoys
mowing the few acres of land where my parents live, a fifteen minute
drive from our own place.  Horseriding lessons are sporadic, but she
still dreams of owning her own horse.  Echoing the words of her
favorite Bible verse--"In the shadow of Thy wings, I sing for joy"--she
sings whenever her vocal cords aren't occupied with eating, talking, or
sleeping.  As a teenager, she's happiest when the above pastimes
include hanging out with friends.

Although the pace of life has slowed abruptly, the urgency to move on
to the next country doesn't subside immediately.  The rootless
lifestyle hasn't prepared me for staying put.  Rerooting in America is
as challenging as the uprooting had been.  Living in America is
familiar, yet different for both of us, though Michelle gets in step to
the rhythm of her new country easier than I do.  As preparation for
reentering the workforce, I complete the writing of my graduate thesis
and receive a master's degree in geography from San Francisco State
University.  As a part-time faculty member at a university in Kentucky,
I teach geography and dream of going around the world again in
freedom.

FRIENDS FROM AROUND THE WORLD VISIT us IN KENTUCKY, BEginning with
Frank from Canada/South Africa, Sally and Keith from Oxford, Ray and
Anne from Oxford, and Ann Marie from Dublin.  I am pleased to show them
who I am, and their presence pleasantly interjects our journey into
life on this side of the world.  Bonds of friendship are further
cemented when Michelle and I return to England, Ireland, and Scotland
for the purpose of promoting the British edition of FiegerHail Moon
Several of us incorporate an organization to promote the public's
awareness of child abuse in Kentucky.  The purpose of Abused Children
Talk in Kentucky, Inc. (ACT in KY) is to encourage everyone to listen
to children and to act on behalf of their protection.  The political
voice of children is faint and doesn't always carry through the halls
of government.  If the public megaphones a call for their welfare, then
cannot mountains be moved to protect children from abuse?  ACT in KY is
in its infancy of development, crawling toward its goal, temporarily
hampered by my preoccupation with writing this book, as well as being a
single parent.

In the night skies every month, God shows me a reminder of His loving
care and the unusual publishing path this book has taken.  The process
of writing exacerbates a problem brought on by moving the three heavy,
black bags around the world.  Sitting in a nonposture friendly position
in front of a computer freezes my neck muscles.  In time, the tension
moves laterally across the muscles above my right rotator cuff, which
had shouldered the heavy burden of the three black bags.  Looking over
my shoulder becomes impossible, which now isn't as critical as it had
been as a fugitive.  According to a neurologist, the heavy load may
have injured a neck ligament that the tightened muscles never give a
chance to heal.

The three black bags are now retired--collapsed in flattened heaps,
collecting dust under my bed.  They had rendered faithful service
during bittersweet years of sojourning--never becoming lost or ripped
or unzipped at the wrong time.  As reminders of the baggage of pain I
had once carried, they have been through too much with me to discard.

In a similar manner, deflating emotional baggage can make the heart
sad, even glad--realizing that a pain in the neck is only a pain in the
neck.

The end.