Go Now!: From the Innermost Parts of the Heart to the Uttermost Parts of the World Plus Forty Stories of Faith

By Wendell Martin

Go Now! is the true story of Wendell Martin and the amazing adventure he found himself caught up in when he dared to answer God’s call to ‘Go to Hong Kong Now!’

The book is filled with bold faith and miracle stories that take you among the wild head-hunters in northern Philippines, to Communist China where Wendell and his wife, Daisy, made over 1000 border crossings with suitcases loaded with Bibles. It is the story of how God miraculously opened the way to deliver the gospel into every home in Hong Kong, and the surprising miracle that launched a ministry among thousands of Vietnamese Boat People detained in refugee camps in Hong Kong.

However, this book is more than just amazing missionary stories. Wendell gives you an intimate inside look at how God worked deep in his heart, the lessons learned in God’s ‘School of Hard Knocks’ and how the power of God rescued a discontented young man and crafted him into an effective tool for His service.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798385000593

Wendell Martin

Wendell Martin is the Founder and Director of Go Forth Ministry and has served the Lord in Asia since 1986. He has led over 50 mission teams to participate in the ongoing ministry that now extends beyond Hong Kong to China, Vietnam, and Taiwan. Wendell and his wife, Daisy, reside in Wooster, Ohio.

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Copyright © 2023 Wendell Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0108-8 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0109-5 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0059-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911194

WestBow Press rev. date: 02/12/2024

CONTENTS

Foreword

Preface

Part 1: FROM THE INNERMOST PARTS OF THE HEART

Early Years

Honky Boy

Going Deeper

The Separating

Surrender

Boot Camp

An Extreme Makeover

Headhunters!

Into the Jungle

Culture Shock

First Encounter with Headhunters

The Headhunters and the Heart Hunter

God’s Strength in Weakness

Leaving the Philippines

Angel in Disguise

The Enemy Sets a Trap!

When God Leads

Part 2: TO THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE WORLD

Breakthrough

A New Life in Hong Kong

Evidence of Things Unseen

Jesus Devils

The First Bible Courier Trip

Donkeys for Jesus

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words

Go NOW

Like Sheep Without a Shepherd

Making Disciples

Sent Out by the Holy Spirit

More Than Imagined

The Kingdom Invitation

An Unexpected Turn

Conclusion

Part 3: 40 STORIES OF FAITH

Introduction

Miraculous Protection!

The Story of Sister Lu

God’s Invisible Servants

Story from a Short-term Bible Courier

Another Story from a Short-term Bible Courier

A Message of Encouragement

Fifty-Two Hours on a Hard Seat

A Special Trip to Beijing

Jiao Ma Meets Jesus on the Great Wall of China

Christian Beggars

The Dead Raised Through Prayers

Faith of a Child

Another Miraculous Border Crossing!

Sharing the Gospel with a Falun Gong Master

A Heart Doctor Meets the Heart Healer

A Night Stranger

Hidden Treasures: Part 1

Hidden Treasures: Part 2

The Gold Coin

Understanding Comes Through a Dream

The Test

The Cost of Loving Jesus

The Healing of Anh Duong

Death Defeated

Caged Woman Set Free

Learning Through Suffering on Peace Road

All I Want to Do …

Dream of a White Shirt

A Vision of Buried Bones

A Miracle in the Mountains

Not Dead Yet!

Nguyễn’s Healing!

Persistent Prayer

A Quick Answer

Disappearing Tumors

Overcoming Nightmares

The Power of the Blood

The $300 Miracle!

Stories from Three Vietnamese Pastors

Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death

A Final Word

To my Wonderful Family

To Daisy, my amazing wife who has faithfully stayed by

my side and has been an incredible encouragement as we

navigated through all the twists and turns of our journey.

To our three children, Lee, Ellie, and Jonnie, who have

been my joy as we’ve lived this adventure together.

Thank you!

My heartfelt gratitude to Robin and Mike McFarren,

and Jessica and John Weaver whose wonderful support and

encouragement helped get this book across the finish line.

Thank you!

FOREWORD

Having been in the church my entire life, I thought I was well-versed in the ways of foreign missions. Yes, there were differences from church to church, but I cannot say I saw anything new. The missionaries I knew were dedicated, faithful people who served Christ with energy and passion, but it seemed to me they were fighting an uphill battle, feeling isolated in their ministry. I admired them but also felt sorry for them.

Then I met Wendell Martin. While being well-known in our community, his method of bringing Jesus to different areas of the world was refreshing and inspired people, not only to give and serve in foreign fields but also in their own churches and neighborhoods. This book is an account of Wendell’s personal growth while serving the Lord and the amazing things he witnessed as he went where God told him to go. It is also a description of foreign missions that are effective and productive while simplifying the details of administration.

I got to know Wendell when he returned from living in Asia and became active in the church I pastored. While continuing to lead Go Forth Ministry from the United States, he took teams on short-term projects and also ventured out by himself to different parts of the world. I was privileged to go on some of these missions and see firsthand the excitement, risk, and fruit of these efforts. It changed my thinking of how missions can be done as individuals or churches.

Wendell never asked for money. Yes, you read correctly. He works hard. When he is not in the field, he finds a job so he can support his family and contribute to the mission. I am not saying it is wrong for missionaries to ask for support, but Wendell put his trust in prayer and listening for God’s direction. As a member of the Go Forth administrative board, the majority of our meeting time was spent praying and sharing how we saw God at work, and a minimum of time was taken with financial and programmatic details. Those were fun meetings.

Wendell’s life exemplifies how humility can be a source of power from God’s hand. He is one of the most respected people I know, and yet he takes no credit for any accomplishment or success in his ministry. Whether in the United States or a foreign country, he is simply the most effective missionary I have ever seen.

Finally, Wendell is my friend. This book is his story. After you read it, I pray you will know Wendell and seek to be closer to the One True God he serves.

Mike McFarren

Mike McFarren is an ordained elder of the Free

Methodist Church of North America.

PREFACE

You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.

—Psalms 139:16 (NLT)

God is the most imaginative story-writer ever. Every person created was formed with the intent and capacity to be a great masterpiece. God desires to write out a story on the pages of that life. Your life is a story. What kind of story is it?

I wanted my life to be one of those adventures, the kind you usually only read about. The sad reality was, however, my life was disappointingly mundane and predictable. One day, I discovered there was a better narrative God desired to write of my life all along. This would be the story of a life based not on fate and circumstances, but one custom-designed, full of adventure, risk, surprises, and wrapped up in purposeful significance. It promised to thrill, challenge, and take me to places I never dreamed I could go.

Up to this point, the story of my life seemed to have little significance. I was doing life, not living it. How I longed to step into a new and better narrative, the kind of elusive story Jesus seemed to be offering those who dared to follow Him. The challenges of stepping into it would require a violent and dramatic reshaping of the things I held dear, things I had written on my heart in permanent ink: my history, my identity, my values, and my relationship to the God I thought I knew. It would require throwing off my hard-earned self-identity in a way that would be as dramatic as a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly.

It wasn’t until I was willing to tear up my mundane, haphazardly-scrawled life narrative and invite God to write His own better version on fresh pages that I found myself being led into an adventure filled with excitement, purpose, mystery, and deep satisfaction. Only God Himself could have dreamed up the story I found myself caught up in.

The book you are holding in your hands is that story. It is a thread of events, a storyline composed on the pages of my life, interwoven into a much bigger chronicle, one God has been writing since the creation of this world.

It is the desire of this writer that the account of my journey might somehow affirm, challenge, inspire, and perhaps stir your curiosity just enough to make you wonder what kind of story God holds deep in His heart for you, the one He would love to write on the pages of your life.

Wendell Martin

Part One

FROM THE

INNERMOST PARTS

OF THE HEART

Chapter 01

EARLY YEARS

Direct your children onto the right path, and when they are older, they will not leave it.

—Proverbs 22:6 (NLT)

I was born near Cleveland, Ohio, in the middle of July 1953, on a very hot and humid day. And a child could not have been born to more loving and caring parents than the ones I had. God was central in our home, and spare the rod and spoil the child was a gentle guide that established safe boundaries and a clear sense of right and wrong at an early age. While there was strict discipline in our home, I, along with my older brother and two younger sisters, learned foundational values that served as a moral and spiritual compass, guiding me through the twists and turns of life.

At an early age, I learned that life was more than the years I would spend on earth. I discovered the choices I made on earth would determine my eternal destiny. Such a choice was initially an easy decision. At the tender age of six, a firm confidence in God rapidly expanded in my heart. But over time, uncontrollable circumstances, which shape and steer the course of our lives, gradually eroded that confidence. Thankfully, I was about to experience a real-life miracle that would always compellingly argue on behalf of God’s very existence and His love for me. This miracle, which happened early in my life, stayed in my heart as a constant reminder of the truth through seasons of doubt and drifting.

In those days, miracles were not common among the Christians I knew. We were taught that they really did happen, just that it was a long, long time ago. But for me, it all started with warts!

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I stared in dismay at the embarrassing lumpy mass of warts covering my right knee. There were fifty-two of them! One for every week of the year, I muttered in disgust.

Back when I was only eight years old and quite foolish, I had become friends with a toad. I had spent an afternoon studying its grumpy face, delighting in the feeling of its sticky toes as it crouched on my bare knees, in anticipation of a dramatic leap to freedom.

Now, two years later, I was much wiser, having been informed by more knowledgeable neighborhood kids that—as everyone knows—toads were the cause of warts! Regardless of whether they were right or wrong, I now knew that this conglomeration on my knee was the terrible debt I had to pay for my ignorance of such matters. Though I didn’t know it then, I had formally been enrolled in the proverbial School of Hard Knocks.

We’ll schedule an appointment with the doctor to have them burned off, my mother announced, which caused me to lay awake at night, my imagination running wild.

This ungodly solution horrified me. The doctors might as well amputate my entire leg, I groaned with a shudder.

My life was coming to an end, and I was only ten.

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You search the Scriptures because you think they give you eternal life. But the Scriptures point to me! Yet you refuse to come to me to receive this life (John 5:39–40 NLT).

Church attendance was a weekly ritual that governed our family. However, I had a special dislike for Sunday morning services where time seemed to come to a standstill. Like a prison guard marching back and forth, the pendulum of the old church clock swung beneath its scowling face. It looked out across the long-suffering congregation and held me captive to the hard, wooden church bench. The clock was like a god, with mysterious power over everyone lined up under its scowling gaze. It was a god who seemed to be at war with the Christian God, who hid within the tattered Bible held in the calloused hands of the aged preacher.

Every Sunday was the same, and this week was no different. It was a procession of monotonous hymns, prayers, announcements, and outdated testimonies offered by devout performers. But it all seemed an unenthusiastic effort to gain approval from either the clock or God of the tattered Bible.

But it was never enough. The clock always demanded more, always hungering for a longer sermon. It didn’t have to be a delicious sermon, mind you; it simply had to be offered. So words were uttered and strung together like old Christmas lights that didn’t work, and with each pendulum swing, the clock pulled the dim strand slowly and methodically out of the preacher’s mouth. So wearisome words, validated by references to unknown famous people, stories told in an effort to sharpen a dull point, poetic lines, and Bible verses, were used in an effort to somehow make a bland sermon more appealing.

Like a teacher wagging her finger while scolding a child, the solemn hand of the clock held me tight to the hard wooden bench. Whenever I wiggled too much my father’s hand squeezed my knee. How I hated that clock!

So I ignored it. Instead I watched a fly buzz on the hardwood floor as it struggled to turn its fat body over and get airborne. I empathized with it. From outside the open window, I could hear the sound of someone, who was most certainly far from God, mowing grass during church on Sunday. It made me wonder if God would send them to hell, and I concluded that He probably would have to.

And in closing, I’d just like to say … the preacher droned on.

I knew the routine. At least ten more minutes remained. And it would be followed by a lengthy prayer, in which each main point of the sermon would be re-preached. I felt bad for God! The closing prayer often seemed like a last-ditch effort to use guilt and shame to manipulate the indifferent congregation toward that particular week’s desired response. It made my insides churn and my head hurt.

Then finally the preacher solemnly closed his Bible. Gathering his notes, he strolled off the platform and sat down in the front pew with his head bowed. I couldn’t tell if he was praying, pretending to be humble, or feeling just as relieved as I was that the service was about over.

As the pastor sat down, it was as if the entire congregation breathed a sigh of relief. Feet and papers shuffled, children wiggled and parents shushed them, old people coughed, and hymnals were pulled from the bench rack in a noisy preparation for the closing song. A few farmers, who had been up in the wee hours of the morning milking cows, sheepishly stretched and yawned, pretending they hadn’t been snoozing.

And the evil clock was finally satisfied for another week.

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Who is like you among the gods, O Lord—glorious in holiness, awesome in splendor, performing great wonders? (Exodus 15:11 NLT).

But I didn’t just hear about God in church every Sunday. Another place that lives securely in my childhood memories is the old church basement, which always had a bad smell. There was the dank, musty smell of rubber cement, library paste, and outdated restrooms. Behind a closed door at the far end of the basement lived a huge, foul-tempered, ancient coal furnace.

In that smelly basement, amazing stories were told, lessons were taught, and young lives were shaped. I learned a long time ago that a man named Jesus taught people how to live. I heard stories of how He healed people who suffered from every kind of sickness by simply touching them or speaking a word or two. I heard how Jesus had created food for thousands of hungry people out of a young boy’s lunch and how He had calmed violent storms. He had even walked on water! Jesus seemed ancient, mysterious, invisible, and distant. But He was a hero I tried hard to believe in.

Then one day, there came the discovery that Jesus was much more than just a hero from the past. The revelation came that this same Jesus, quite literally, was really alive right now. And somehow, among a bazillion other kids in the world, He knew and loved a ten-year-old boy with fifty-two warts on his knee and who hated going to His church.

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I also hated memorizing Bible verses, but I wanted to go to summer camp. However, the price I had to pay was memorizing three hundred of them. Worse yet, I had to memorize the verses down in the church basement. At the far end of the basement, the furnace growled and belched as if in righteous indignation, representing the kind of wrathful God I had grown up fearing. Someday that furnace is going to destroy this place, I hoped half-heartedly as I thumbed through my Bible, searching for the next verse on the list to memorize. Memorization did not come easily for me. My mind was better at creating fantasy worlds, where the stories of a much more personable Jesus played out like a movie in my imagination.

Then I found it, and it was a short verse, Hebrews 13:8. Things were looking up! Not only was it short, but it was also an easy verse to remember: Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.

It didn’t take long before the simple words took root in my mind, and I hurried to the teacher to recite them before the words had an opportunity to slip away forever. At home that night, I lay in bed, staring at a glow-in-the-dark cross I had stuck on the wall with a thumbtack. It was my reward for verses recited that evening. The glow of the cross held my attention as sleep once again evaded me, my active imagination playing out the gruesome removal of the fifty-two warts soon to be burned away.

God, why are you letting this happen to me? I whispered toward the cross hanging over the foot of my bed. Why couldn’t I be alive two thousand years ago, when you could just snap your finger and heal anybody of anything? Why don’t you … I paused midsentence in an attempt to hear what seemed to be a voice whispering out of the darkness in response.

I paused, not daring to breathe. Then I heard it again. This time, I recognized the voice. It sounded like my own! It was reciting the Bible verse I had memorized just a short time before.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. I listened to my own voice repeat the verse several times. Then came a shift as a different voice seemed to take over. I am the same yesterday and today and forever, Wendell. And guess what? I am the same as always, even at this very exact moment! Yes, I healed every kind of sickness yesterday, and I heal every kind of sickness today! In fact, I can always heal any and every kind of sickness you can imagine.

I pulled the covers over my head, uncertain if the voice was just my imagination or if Jesus was really talking to me. Not daring to move for fear of disrupting this special moment, I waited. Then suddenly, in a burst of joy and wonder, Bible verses I had memorized over the many past months exploded into my mind and began to fit together, forming a simple yet profound truth. It was like finally discovering several pieces of a puzzle that locked perfectly together to reveal part of a bigger picture.

This was a revelation of spiritual truth. It sailed into my heart like an arrow, bringing a new hope and simultaneously striking death to the childish fears and doubts that had haunted me night after night.

Excitement swept over me. I knew Jesus had come to me and that He would heal me! I knew it! Yet I also knew I needed to do something to activate the faith I had in what I knew Jesus would do.

After some careful thought, I quietly whispered into the darkness, OK, Jesus, I’m not going to look at or touch my knee for two weeks. When I take a bath, I will not wash my knee. I will not talk to anyone about this except You. I believe at the end of two weeks, You will have taken away all the warts. Thank You!

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Those were perhaps the two longest weeks of my young life. I was extremely careful to remain completely oblivious to what might or might not be happening to my knee. Finally the day came when the two weeks were over. I watched the clock until the exact preset time arrived.

Then I looked. I was astonished at what I saw. I could hardly believe my eyes! Yet I had to believe, for there was not a single wart to be seen, not even the slightest indication that there had ever been fifty-two warts there. My knee had been totally and completely healed.

I began shaking as the realization sank in that Jesus, my same ancient hero of the Bible, now so much more than that, had really come into my bedroom and really talked to me two weeks earlier. He had heard my declaration and observed my act of faith. Jesus, the God of the universe past, present, and future, cared about a little kid with warts.

I stared in wonder at my healed knee, and as I did, my spiritual eyes were opened at the discovery of the greatest treasure imaginable. There was the proof of a very real God who loved and cared for me. Me!

He had revealed himself to me. He had wrapped me up in His love, and I knew it.

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What do you do after you have an intimate encounter with the all-powerful God? Everything in life is changed, even for a ten-year-old hyperactive boy. Everything is seen from a new perspective. Values are transformed.

However, many people in my small world did not seem to understand. Even the very nice people from church who had taught me all about Jesus didn’t seem to understand that Jesus really is the same at this very moment as He was several thousand years ago. At least that is how I perceived it from my childlike vantage point.

They sang songs about Jesus, prayed in His name, and acted like they believed He really was with them, but I never really saw the evidence of His presence in a way I could understand. In some ways, it almost seemed that people were bothered by Jesus. To avoid unpleasant eternal consequences, they had just enough fear that Jesus might actually exist to be pressured into behaving in a way that they thought He required.

That is how I understood the message the preacher was often trying to express: God was annoyed with all the people in the world, including me. How well I behaved, or at least pretended to behave, determined how much God would tolerate me.

However, at the same time, I found there were some people who seemed to experience and talk about Jesus in the way I was just beginning to discover. Something was different about them. It was confusing.

The old pendulum clock on the church wall seemed like an accurate representation of the somber God our church worshipped: acting stern, demanding our sacrifices of time, and requiring proper behavior. Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk, the clock scolded sixty times a minute. Its stiff hands were so different from the arms of Jesus that had wrapped a young, scared boy in His love and healed him.

This real living Jesus, who seemed to walk out of the pages of the Bible and into my life, conflicted greatly with the distant and impersonal Jesus I had previously experienced. I had yet to learn that countless numbers of Christians around the world were also relating to Jesus Christ in similar ways as I had.

My encounter with Jesus was like a little seed of truth planted in my heart but then quickly covered up with the dirt of doubt and confusion. It took many years before that seed finally found its way out of the darkness to break out on the surface of my troubled heart and once again eagerly reach out for the Son.

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Look! I stand at the door and knock. If you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in, and we will share a meal together as friends (Revelation 3:20 NLT).

I had received a taste of God’s goodness and love in a simple miracle as a child. It awakened an appetite that became a deep craving for more of the reality of God, of His presence, power, and, most of all, love.

As I moved through my teen years, like many of my peers, I was on a quest to define my own identity. Among a host of external forces eager to dictate who I should be, it seemed an insurmountable task to define who I really was. The person I was evolving into was not the person I wanted to become, yet external and internal forces seemed determined to shape me into someone I did not like or want to become. In all this, more painful concerns of youth that demanded immediate attention compromised the hunger for God. Thus, my teen years were filled with much searching, self-doubting, and frustration over circumstances and pressures that seemed beyond my control.

Throughout this season, there remained that distant flickering memory of the encounter I had experienced with Jesus as a child. The memory called to me, as if from a dark, distant place, like an invitation to something better than the fate I was tumbling into. While I hoped I could live a better life, the reality was that I was plunging uncontrollably into a place of depression, fear, and self-rejection, like someone hopelessly floundering in quicksand with no way of escaping. Yet the distant memory of the reality of God’s love offered reason for hope.

As I moved through the latter part of my teen years, I explored numerous paths, from Eastern religions to strict adherence of traditional Christian practices, searching for the reality of God. From time to time, I would sense that He was near, as if He were teasing me onward in my search. I didn’t understand then that it was the Holy Spirit drawing a discontented teenager toward the love of his Father in heaven.

This searching, however, eventually led to a dark time that gripped me with a persistent sense of being lost. It seemed the more I searched, the more I discovered how lost I really was. It felt like a hopeless entanglement in a bizarre, never-ending maze, a place of total disorientation where fear grows until it overwhelms and finally paralyzes. In a strange paradox, I was afraid of moving in any direction while at the same time afraid of not moving at all. I was fearful of the known and the unknown.

Yet despite the paralyzing fear, moving was the only feasible option. As the world closed in and I found myself drifting into isolation and despair, I still sensed there was a place of hope and safety. There had to be. From time to time, it seemed within reach, but what I was so desperate to grab hold of somehow always seemed to slip away. What was most frustrating was that I didn’t understand what it was I had actually let slip away and why it had happened. There was a destiny calling to me. I knew that my life had been cut out for something better!

I am the same, yesterday, today, and forever. Those simple words of hope were like a distant whisper of truth, a memory of an enticing tidbit from God’s banquet table. These simple words continued to nudge me forward through the murky and turbulent season of youth.

Chapter 02

HONKY BOY

This I declare about the LORD: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I trust him. For he will rescue you from every trap and protect you from deadly disease. He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection.

—Psalms 91:2–4 (NLT)

Kidron, Ohio, is a small Mennonite and Amish farming community made up of people who, in general, live close to nature and God. Trees, fields, and my bicycle, along with a few neighborhood boys, had been my companions through the long summer months between school years. We explored and lived in our imaginary world, searching for fossils and mushrooms, hiking along the stream that ran through Devil’s Hollow until it merged into Sugar Creek, and riding endless miles on our bikes going nowhere.

Throughout the hot and humid summer nights, we frequently slept outside. We tried to stay awake as long as possible as we listened to the mysterious night sounds and gazed skyward at the expanse of silver stars overhead. We chattered about pointless things that often evolved into serious discussions lasting into the early morning hours.

As summer gave way to autumn, the air became crisp and dry and seemed to cause those stars to shine even brighter. We would wake up shivering in the early morning, teeth chattering from the chill that had penetrated our sleeping bags. We would watch the rosy hues of dawn begin to peek over the eastern horizon and chase the last traces of night away. As we lay curled up in our sleeping bags, the delicious, musty smells of autumn leaves gave warning that, like the change of seasons, soon our young lives would also change.

In 1971, I graduated from high school. Finally! It was a long-awaited day I celebrated, a celebration more like completing a prison sentence than a graduation. I was free: free of the intense peer pressure I had endured for so many years, free of the disciplines and confines of regimented learning, and free to finally become who I thought I really was and to live outside the culture and pressures that had tried to dictate my future. I was free to be me.

This newfound freedom, however, soon gave way to a harsh new reality that hit hard, like a punch right in the nose. The freedom I so longed for led to the disappointing discovery that I had no clue of who I really was. Freedom, without knowing our identity or purpose, is pointless. I suddenly found myself being backed into the corner of an identity crisis, and it demanded resolution.

And so began a search for life’s meaning. Who am I? Why am I? Is there a destiny I must search out and grab, or do I simply let the river of life carry me along and adapt to whatever comes my way? Perhaps every person comes to a place in life where these questions must be addressed.

One thing was clear: I was being suffocated in the safety of the beautiful farming community where I grew up. I was dying in a bubble that isolated me from a big world that begged exploration. Somehow I had to escape to an environment with a broader perspective where I might discover who I really was.

So in the summer of 1973, I signed up for a year of voluntary service through an organization associated with our church, setting my sights on New York City, which would be my home for the next year. The former season of feeling lost and hopeless was sure to be left behind. On shaky legs of faith, I took deliberate steps toward a life of surrender to the God who, I trusted, held my destiny in His loving hands.

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The passenger train screeched and jolted to a final stop. I sat silently, gazing out the dirty window at the crowds of people scurrying along the platform outside. I was in Grand Central Station, New York City, far from home. I got up from the seat, threw my guitar over my shoulder, and picked up the large duffle bag containing a few pairs of blue jeans, some T-shirts, and other necessities, as well as my Bible and a half-pack of cigarettes.

As I stepped off the train onto the platform, I breathed in deeply the foreign smells of the city, odors of exhaust from all kinds of machines, garbage, tobacco, perfume, and, in general, the scents of masses of humanity. Everything was in stark contrast to the life I had just left in Kidron.

Once outside, my eyes immediately lifted skyward. I stood spellbound, feeling very small as I stared in amazement at the towering buildings reaching for the clouds. Before me was a spectacular man-made world of cement, bricks, steel, and glass, a symmetrical world set in rows and right angles. What a contrast to the random asymmetry of the natural world, God’s order, which was now far behind me.

The cement of the city baked under the hot sun. Most people who crowded the busy sidewalks stayed on the shaded side of the street, avoiding the intense sun and heat that reflected off the south-facing towers. An occasional cloud could be seen drifting across the random, open spaces between the buildings, a token reminder of the wide-open spaces I had left behind. Vehicles filled the streets like marching columns of an undisciplined army, an endless procession, rumbling and honking as they battled each other for position. The exhaust they spewed, along with exhaust from innumerable humming air-conditioners, only added to the nearly unbearable heat.

At first glance, the hippie movement of the late sixties and early seventies had obviously made its colorful imprint on the city, expressed in the fashions, hairstyles, and street language that had created a new culture across much of the nation. New York seemed to be the East Coast nesting ground for this American-born youth revolution. Sentiments of love and peace, flower power, and if it feels good, do it scented the air. Drugs were commonplace. Rock and roll music was evolving, and through it, the heartbeat of a young generation was begging for recognition and a voice to express their newly-found identity.

While the city pulsated with the vision of love and peace, there was an undercurrent of tension as roaming gangs warred violently with each other. Colorful spray-painted graffiti boasted gang members’ individual identities and territorial boundaries on many buildings, as well as on nearly every subway and bus. But as I thought about it, it was nothing really so unique. They were only doing what everyone else was doing, searching desperately for identity and a way to express it.

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The next twelve months brought me to a painfully clear realization of the magnitude of how lost humanity really is. New York City was bursting at the seams with all kinds of people, from all kinds of backgrounds, with all kinds of value systems and priorities, living out their lives the best way they knew how. The city was a smorgasbord of amazing and diverse lifestyles. For many, circumstances had overtaken them, and they simply lived in survival mode, living lives void of any real satisfaction or meaning.

Here was a city loaded with humanity who seemed to be wandering, lost, searching, and ever hoping for that lucky break. The solutions the world offered that had such bold guarantees of real answers for the dissatisfied heart always failed to deliver as promised.

During that year of service, I primarily worked at Good Shepherd Mennonite Church in the Bronx. Each day I would get on the subway from a station located a few blocks from the Voluntary Service Center in Manhattan and head north to 167th Street Station, just one stop beyond Yankee Stadium. From there, it was a tense nine-block walk past dingy stores and businesses protected with heavy bars and gates. Gangs of young Hispanics and Blacks roamed the neighborhoods along the way to the little church where I served every afternoon and evening at an after-school Christian children’s club.

Yo, honky boy! they called out.

I interpreted these menacing words to mean, Hey, white boy, we see you, and we don’t like you.

I frequently heard these intimidations from youth sprawled on trash-strewn stairway entries of shabby apartments lining both sides of the streets. Every time I heard them, I cringed, not knowing if some sort of action would follow the taunts. I was a young white guy wandering through Black and Hispanic territory. I was not welcome, and I knew it.

One day as I was walking along, a gang of eight or ten young guys approached and blocked my path. Moments later, another group came up from behind, boxing me in. My heart hammered in panic as the young men, all wearing gang colors, roughly shoved me into a narrow dead-end gap between two buildings. My worst nightmare was suddenly unfolding, and I felt completely helpless. Neither fight nor flight seemed like practical options. However, I still had one other option left, the idea of which somehow miraculously forced its way through the fear that paralyzed me: Pray! Do it now!

God, help me! I inwardly screamed in one of the shortest yet sincerest prayers I had ever prayed.

Cornered like a helpless animal, I faced my attackers. One large guy, obviously the leader, held me firmly against the brick wall, the front of my shirt wadded up in his fist. I expected him to start pounding the daylights out of me, but instead he began firing questions at me.

What are you doing here? Where are you from? Where were you last weekend? Where do you stay? Where were you two weeks ago?

Sensing there might be a chance of surviving this ordeal, I answered each question as truthfully as I could, I’m here to work at the church over there. I pointed toward the building about a block down the street. I’m here as a volunteer for one year, and my job is to help at the church with their after-school Bible program for the kids around here. I’m from Ohio. I’m staying at our center in Manhattan with a bunch of other people about my age who are also volunteers. I went roller-skating over the Brooklyn Bridge last Saturday. The Saturday before, I was riding a bike in Central Park. On Sundays, I come here to attend the church services … I quickly blurted out with a shaking voice.

I saw the slightest softening in the face of my young interrogator. He stared at me for an uncomfortably long time. Finally he relaxed his grip on my shirt and, taking a step back, declared definitively, Yeah, you’re OK, man. Now we know what kind of guy you are. You are telling the truth.

Then more lightheartedly, he bragged, We’ve been following you for the past two weeks and want to make sure you ain’t someone who’s gonna mess with our kid brothers and sisters who go to that after-school program over there where you’re working. He jerked his head in the direction of the church. You’re all right, man.

He paused for a moment. Then his face broke into a smile. You know it’s dangerous for a white boy like you to be walking by himself around here? You should join our gang. We’ll make sure you stay safe, he offered.

As tactfully as I could I answered, Well, thank you for the offer, but I will be around for only a few more months before I will be heading back to Ohio.

He smiled and nodded his head thoughtfully. OK, man, but we want you to know that we appreciate what you do for our kid brothers and sisters by helping them and stuff. And just so you know, we’ll be watching out for you. If you ever need any help, just let us know. OK, man?

I agreed, relieved I was still in one piece and things were actually turning out much better than I could have hoped … or so I thought.

So, white boy, you got any money? were the next words my new friend asked next.

I cringed inside. I had just purchased a bunch of subway tokens to cover the next two weeks of transportation. My pockets were bulging with them. I knew it was obvious my pockets were full of something, and trying to deny it could probably bring this new friendship to a speedy end. I had little choice but to indulge him in this game.

Moments later, my pockets were empty. My wallet was also removed, and the measly dollar I had saved for a late-night snack had vanished before my eyes. The subway tokens were passed among the gang, and with a final Thanks, man. You’re all right, my abductors stepped aside.

I tentatively made my way out of the snare. Without a backward glance, I assumed a nonchalant gait down the sidewalk toward the sanctuary of the little church. Inwardly, I was sprinting that last block as if my life depended on it.

From time to time, over the next few weeks while the weather stayed warm, I would see that gang hanging out on a stairway. But now, when I heard them call, Yo, honky boy, I would smile and give them a friendly wave, although always from the relative safety of the far side of the street.

Chapter 03

GOING DEEPER

"You fathers—if your children ask for a fish, do you give them a snake instead? Or if they ask for an egg, do