Enslavement or Freedom?
A few weeks ago Gingie and I were invited by a former cabinet level official to attend a formal ceremony in Washington, D.C. honoring thirteen surviving members of a 45-man Marine Corps combat platoon. The next day we attended a small private cookout at the Secretary's home. In attendance were the heroes and their wives, a couple of generals and a few nationally known political commentators.
Almost unnoticed on one corner of the deck, were several folks that I recognized as Vietnamese. I knew that they must enjoy some prominence to be invited to this exclusive affair. I asked my host who they were.
I'll just tell you about one.
At age 28 he was one of the youngest commanders in the Vietnamese Army. He had already received his country's Medal of Honor. After the fall of Saigon he was captured and sent North to be interred in a reeducation camp. These camps are more than just political indoctrination classes. They are designed to break the human spirit by utilizing the two greatest psychological tortures known to humanity --- isolation and fear of the unknown.
Visualize his experience. Upon arrival, he was thrown in a box. A cage would have been more humane. The box, about the size of a large doghouse with a metal door, was actually a cistern for ground water.
He had no room to stand up or lie down. He was forced to sit in total darkness with his head bowed and his knees drawn up to his chest. He had no idea how long he would be confined in this manner. It could be hours. It could be days. Or it could be until his death! He didn't know if he'd ever get out.
His only contact, outside of his own mind, were the mosquitoes, and if you've never been in a tropical climate without insect repellant, you don't know what mosquitoes are; and the rats, who can weasel through even the tiniest of openings in their search for food. Both viewed him as a proten source.
He sat like this hour after hour after hour. When he had to relieve himself there was nowhere to go. He was condemned to wallow in his own filth.
The only way that he could tell the difference between day and night were periods of stifling, suffocating heat alternating with periods of damp, bone-chilling cold and always, always the incessant droning of mosquitoes buzzing in his ears.
The mosquito and rat bites quickly bacame infected. He developed dysentery and diarrhea. He competed for space with his own waste. He became emaciated. His teeth rotted out. The stench was overwhelming. He nearly went blind. Still he endured; hour after hour. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year, for five and a half long years.
Can you imagine one percent of what he endured? Imagine sitting naked for just an hour in your own closet surrounded by mosquitoes and rats.
When he was released from the box, he was still kept in solitary confinement. His condition had deteriorated so badly that it took him years before he could stand or function on the most rudimentary level.
His wife, pregnant at the time of his incarceration, was finally allowed to visit him. She would travel over a thousand miles for one fifteen-minute visit a year. When he was released after twelve and a half years he met his thirteen-year-old son for the first time.
I asked him where he found the inner strength to survive. In broken English, he humbly replied, "I dreamed of the United States. I dreamed of freedom for my family. If I died, they would never escape. I had to live."
Ladies and Gentlemen, you have a free ride. If you haven't achieved your dream, recognize that you are in a box of your own design.
As we journey through life, we are constantly challenged by events that can break our spirit. Maybe we feel unappreciated. Maybe our feelings are hurt by those to whom we are most loyal. But just as this officer did a decade ago, we must focus on our will to live and our escape to freedom.
It may take two or three years, or even ten years to escape. But your challenges pale in comparison to those obstacles faced by my compatriot.
Use a few products and share them with others. Keep an eye open for those who are also looking for freedom. If you can't find the courage to address these small tasks, you have chosen to spend the rest of your life in that box that you have created for yourself. Enslavement or freedom? The choice is yours!
Frank Keefer
Three Red Marbles
I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes and noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes.
Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.
"Hello Barry, how are you today?"
"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They sure look good."
"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"
"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."
"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."
"Would you like to take some home?" asked Mr. Miller.
"No. Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for'em with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"
"All I got's my prize marble here."
"Is that right? Let me see it." said Miller.
"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?" the store owner asked.
"Not zackley but almost."
"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble." Mr. Miller told the boy.
"Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller." Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store."
I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado, but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.
Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits, and white shirts... all very professional looking. They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.
Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.
"Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size... they came to pay their debt."
"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."
With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband.
Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.
We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds.
- W.F. Peterson
