"Joanna!" my mom called on one rainy morning in 1994. "Time to get up!"

"Thank you for such a wonderful life, God," I prayed hurriedly as I put the rest of my thoughts on hold.

I was a 15-year-old living about an hour from Villavicencio, Colombia, where my widowed mom had begun serving with New Tribes Mission in 1990. Mom was teaching at a mission school surrounded by the Andes Mountains. We called our base the Finca (Spanish for "farm").

During breakfast, we discussed the rainy weather and its effect on our plans for the day.

We had just cleared the table when our phone sounded five short rings—the alarm signal. I grabbed the receiver and listened anxiously as one of the teachers announced, "The guerrillas are here! I can see about 15 of them! They just forced the high school kids out of the dorm at gunpoint."

My brother rushed to the window. "It's true," Josh said. "The guerrillas are down at the other end of the Finca." I hastily handed the phone to my mom, then ran to the window. I could see a cluster of guerrillas waving their guns and heading toward the gym.

My mom repeated to my sister what the teacher on the phone was saying. "Some of them are going house to house ordering people out and taking them to the gym." As Mom hung up the phone, she tried to encourage us. "Stay calm, kids. God will take care of us."

Before we could decide what to do next, we heard someone banging on our back door. "Abre la puerta!" a man shouted. "Open the door!" My heart jumped. We encountered two rough-looking men wearing camouflage and carrying automatic weapons.

They pointed their big guns in our faces and ordered us, "Put your shoes on and come with us." While we followed them across the soccer field in silence, I wondered what would happen next. "Please God," I pleaded, "protect us from these evil men."

The tension mounts
The two guerrillas led us to the gym, where they had already rounded up most of the other missionaries.

I was relieved to see that everyone appeared unhurt. I looked past that, though, and noticed the varying emotions in the faces of these people

I knew so well. The men were trying to be supportive and strong, the women comforting, and the children brave. They all knew this was real.

Suddenly the room became silent; one of the guerrillas said, "We have nothing against you missionaries, but we want to make a statement to your government." He was a tall man, he was holding a small gun in one hand, and he had a walkie-talkie clipped onto the belt of his camouflage uniform. He spoke with confidence and authority in a loud voice. He was obviously the commander.

"We don't intend to hurt you," he said. "We just want the American troops to get out of Colombia." As he spoke in Spanish, one of our missionaries translated into English.

I hardly heard a word he said, but I felt the tension mounting with his every sentence. When he finished, he ordered two of the younger guerrillas to hand out roughly typed Marxist fliers.

Just then another guerrilla, who looked about 17, marched in pushing our construction boss, Steve Welsh, ahead of him. The young man muttered something to the leader.

The tall man quickly scanned the room. His piercing gaze finally rested on our tallest missionary, Tim VanDyke, who was standing with his family and some of the younger dorm kids. The commander jerked his arm up and pointed his finger at Tim.

"You! Go with him!" he said, indicating the younger guerrilla. Tim didn't know what was happening, but he had to obey. Leaving his family, he walked over to where the young guerrilla and Steve were standing. Tim and Steve had been chosen as hostages.

I watched in dismay as the young guerrilla took Tim and Steve out of the building. Then I heard the leader shout, "All of you, move to the back wall!" A few couples, thinking the guerrillas intended to shoot everyone, panicked and shoved all the children to the back.

My heart was pounding, but otherwise I felt unusually calm. I moved automatically, not thinking about what was going on around me. After a few torturous seconds, we knew they had no intention of shooting us. But even that didn't ease our fear.

The leader issued one last command: "Stay here! Don't leave the building!" He turned to fire more orders at the guerrillas still in the gym, who quickly disappeared. Then he, too, vanished through the doorway. The two guerrillas who had escorted my family and me to the gym were ordered to ransack the dorms. Then all the guerrillas piled into two of our Jeeps. They drove away up the steep, muddy road with Tim and Steve.

Praise amid terror
We all stayed in the gym until we could no longer hear the Jeeps ascending the mountains. We were reluctant to speak, but finally someone said, "Why don't we sing a song?" One of the younger children suggested "In Moments Like These," a praise chorus. We started singing, quietly at first, but louder as the words of the song gave us encouragement:

In moments like these,
I sing out a song
I sing out a love song to Jesus.
In moments like these,
I lift up my hands
I lift up my hands to the Lord.
Singing I love You, Lord.

My heart hadn't slowed down, but I paused to pray: "God, thank You for protecting us from violence."

As I prayed, God calmed my heart, and I was able to continue: "I don't know why You allowed this to happen, God, but You did. So please take care of Tim and Steve, and help us know what to do next."

Finally, some of the men thought it was safe to go outside and look around. After what seemed like an eternity, one of them returned and said, "I don't think they'll be coming back for a while." That was good enough for us; we all left the building.

The longest wait
Steve's wife hadn't been in the gym with us. We hurried to her house and tried to comfort her. A few minutes later, our Colombian neighbors walked in. Their downcast faces showed deep concern. One of them finally said, "We are so ashamed that our countrymen would treat you this way."

We soon returned to our houses. There was nothing else we could do except wait. Word came that the military wanted us to stay put. The soldiers would hike out and help us evacuate. We waited anxiously as the hours passed. The military had to move with care through the jungle to our base to avoid any possible ambushes by the guerrillas. We chose our most necessary and precious things to pack in our small evacuation bags.

The next day, around noon, we evacuated. We had only two small planes, so we went in shuttle flights. From the windows of the twin-engine Aztec, I watched my beautiful home disappear.

A different life
Our principal decided to move the school into Villavicencio for the rest of the semester. Everything was different in the city. There was too much noise and pollution. Most of our things, as well as my brother's dog and my horse, remained at the Finca. I missed my home so much.

During those difficult days, and later as we packed and returned to the States, I realized that my basic beliefs in life had been challenged. Did I really believe that God had been in control of those guerrillas and everything they did? As I searched my memory, replaying in my mind the scenes of that day, I began to see how God had been in complete control all along. I remembered how many of our missionaries had been away in Villavicencio that weekend and didn't have to go through the ordeal.

I remembered the guerrilla commander telling a younger guerrilla not to take James Gleaves because his wife was pregnant. This showed how God had specially chosen Tim and Steve to be the two hostages. I recalled detail after detail that could have been arranged only by God. And I realized that God, after all, knows and sees all the things I don't.

A year and a half after the invasion, the Colombian army discovered where Tim and Steve were being held hostage. The army attempted a rescue, but Tim and Steve were killed. No one knows if Tim and Steve died in the crossfire or if the guerrillas murdered them.

Tim's wife now works at the headquarters of New Tribes Mission. She and their four children live in Florida. Steve's wife has remarried. Their children are now married as well.

With the increase of terrorism and anti-American hostilities, it seems that missionaries are more at risk than in past decades. Still, we shouldn't forget that millions of believers face a daily threat of persecution. In many countries, these believers are the only possible missionaries.

When I think about my experience with the Communist guerrillas, I am not bitter. Instead I remember two of my favorite Scripture verses: "I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord" (Phil. 3:8). I may have lost my home and most of my possessions, but I gained much more than that. I gained the greatness of knowing the character of my God, "who loved me and gave Himself for me" (Gal. 2:20).

Joanna Harris graduated from Southeastern Bible College in 2002 and now lives and does ministry in Tucson, Arizona. Another version of this article appeared in Brio magazine (March 1998). For more information on New Tribes Mission, visit www.ntm.org.

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