A Tribute to a Father

I vividly remember Meeka, a woman I met in a refugee resettlement site in North Sulawesi. This jungle region was the new home for her and her three sons. She lived in a humble bamboo framed home with a dirt floor. In this setting, she relayed the horrific story of the loss of her husband. She spoke to me through an interpreter.

A message had been sent to warn their village of a probable future attack by jihad militia. In response to this her husband placed his family on a boat headed to the safety of the refugee camps in Manado. He did what any other loving father would do. He secured the safety of his family, sent them on their way and returned to the village to rescue the others. As the boat headed for Manado, filled with families of young and old and the precious cargo of his wife and sons, he assisted the remaining villagers onto a second boat.

Suddenly a boatload of jihad terrorists entered their inlet and panic filled the air. This was what the villagers feared and were hoping to avoid. The previous boat had made a safe departure but this one was now trapped. Many prayers went up in the brief moments before bombs exploded and gunfire ripped the air. The villagers' boat was sunk and all the people in it were either drowned or slain. Meeka's husband must have thought about his family in those last moments of his life. During the chaos of the attacks, I wonder if he thanked the Lord that his family was on it's way to safety. He lost his life doing what any decent man would have done--he stayed to help rescue the remaining villagers.

Meeka and the boys made it to Manado. She waited for the second boat. It never came. Slowly the reality of what happened began to emerge. The loss of her husband along with others from her village became a horrible reality demanding acceptance. She was now a widow with three children to raise. She was numb, scared and angry. How would she survive? How would she tell her children their father was gone? Her life was all questions. She was so vulnerable. That was what I saw in her as she clung to her infant son in the resettlement site.

It had been four months since the day she watched her village fade away as the boat delivered her and her boys to safety. The day she last laid eyes upon her husband. She spoke in very soft tones explaining her presence in the refugee resettlement site. As she related the story, tears began to flow down her cheeks. She wept not only for herself and her sons but also over the murder of a decent man, a good husband and man of strength. I wept with her, joining her in the horrible reality of how decent people like her husband have lost their lives. They did nothing to deserve the attacks waged against them.

I give tribute to this unnamed husband and father. He was a good man who lost his life helping others. He leaves three sons and a wife. We now pray that he multiplies himself in the lives of the three sons he loved. Please remember Meeka as she raises these boys. Pray she will have the grace to raise them to be men of God.