Dottie

Psalm 46:1-3

2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Arriving home from my class at Georgia State on November 11, 1987, my daughter told me I had had a call from her paternal grandmother and I should call her back right away.  The news:  My father, who had lived in Mexico in his camper off and on since I was five, had passed away in northern Mexico.  I called the number left with Mrs. Toney and reached a young woman who said, “Your father died where he loved.” She was with the office of the Mexican ambassador, Mr. Orr.  She advised that I was to call him the next day for instructions.  I needed to okay his cremation there in Monterey.  

For some reason, I gathered I had to identify him before his cremation.  I dreaded the thought of seeing him several days after his death!  I prayed earnestly that I could do what was needed of me.  After all, he had once told me, as I was driving him from Arkansas to Atlanta to the Veterans’ Hospital, that he “could always count on me.”  I couldn’t let him down now, either. 

The next day Mr. Orr advised me of where to fly into, which Holiday Inn to stay in Monterey, and how to get to his office from there.  I made arrangements for the care of my children and made reservations, as advised.  During the time between flights I called my friends, Diane and Rick, who lived in Houston. I asked them to pray for my safety.  They asked me to let them know of my progress through the coming experience.  

Over the next five days I approved the cremation, surrounded by six employees of the crematory and the ambassador’s office.  I  had only to go to the crematory office, and not to the hospital where his body was being held, pending my signature and payment. They gave “heart attack” as the cause of death.  Mr. Orr had told me not to agree to pay more than $200.  I was driven to that office by Javier, an employee of Mr. Orr’s office.  That evening I was to meet the representative of the crematory in the lobby of the Holiday Inn.  The bag of ashes he gave me was still warm.  I had a feeling that to this day stands as the most profound I have ever had.  I found a place in my room next to the broad window overlooking the place “where he loved.”  

Javier’s car was a 10-year-old vehicle whose front window had a huge star-shaped shatter.  I rode in the front seat with him. Our assignment the next day was to try to free the camper that was impounded in a small town in northern Mexico.  It was full of my father’s possessions, and especially the keys to my grandfather’s house in Arkansas, which would fall to me to dispose of, along with all of his possessions. The keys were placed in a drawer in the galley of the camper which had a hidden compartment.  My father had shared this information with me….and no one else.  He had told the young woman who called from Mexico, his friend, how to reach me if ever there was a need.

Because the camper was rather luxurious, being built onto a one-ton truck by my father, it was quite a find for the Marshall who reigned in that part of the country.  Three days in a row, Javier took me the hour’s drive to this Marshall’s office. I prayed earnestly that I would not meet the same fate as the camper. Meanwhile, the Marshall set up several barriers to prevent my taking possession.

 Mr. Orr had advised me and Javier each day before we left to go to northern, mountainous Mexico.  I was never to drink from an open container or eat unsealed food while in the Marshall’s jurisdiction. ( I had arrived at the airport with a 6-pack of Tab and six packets of Nabisco cheese crackers.)  I survived on these the whole week I was there. 

The first day in the Marshall’s office, he did not want to talk to me because I did not have enough identification to prove my connection to the camper.  We left. The next day, he required me to read a full-page document written in Spanish and sign it. Although I had taken one year of Spanish in the tenth grade, this was not possible.  When the Marshall returned to his office, the man sitting next to me in the waiting room, who had dirt on his face and shirt, revealed in a very soft voice that although he is a Mexican native, he learned to speak English while living in Michigan!  He had been arrested for driving his car into a mound of dirt.  He and his family were thrown out of the car. He did not know where the family members were taken.  He was charged with disturbing the land. He offered to read it for me, and I signed. The next day, I was then to take custody of the camper. 

 Not! The paperwork had not gone through yet.  I asked if I could inspect the camper, which was parked in the back of the property.  He allowed me and Javier to go into it at my insistence.  On the corner of the handle of the oven, I saw a clump of gray hair which was in line with the hole in the window, small and round like a bullet hole. In the work area where he had his typewriter, there was a letter sealed in an envelope, addressed to me. He had prepared a letter to wish me a happy birthday, which is November 26.  The letter was dated November 11.   This became the identification I needed.  The Marshall could no longer deny my right to the camper.  

On the final day, when we arrived at the location of the camper, it had been decided by the Ambassador that Javier would drive the camper to the border and go past the border into the States and on to Houston where my friends awaited me at their home.  It was not legal for Javier to work in the U.S., so this was going to be tricky.  But the scariest part was the armed policeman who was to accompany us!  Javier seemed not to know of this arrangement! He got on the phone and the Ambassaor assured him this was for our protection.  He told me that he had told Javier to call once we got to the States, and if that did not happen, he would never work again.  The policeman was to exit at the border.  

I have never prayed so hard as I rode through northern Mexico, drug country, between these two, one armed and the other to become an illegal in the States.  As we went through the hills of northern Mexico, I envisioned all sorts of horrible outcomes.  

Prayer was my only weapon.  

I had kept my friends in Houston apprised of the plan. Little did I know how God was working it out.  When we drove up to the border, the armed guard got out and walked back into Mexico, talking on his bag phone.

The next part of the story is also evidence of God at work.  As Javier drove up to the stall where vehicles are inspected, a man in plain clothes walked over to Javier’s window, leaned in, and said, “Are you Dottie Toney?” 

 I said I was, and he said, “I’ve been waiting for you. The parents of your friend Diane in Houston live here in Laredo.  They are in my Sunday School class, and they asked if I could help you.  Although it is my day off, I agreed to help if I can.”  I could barely speak as the tears welled up in my eyes.  The border guard in plain clothes began searching for his official card to give to me, but he couldn’t find it.  It was back at home with his uniform!  He pulled out another card, wrote something on the back, and gave it to me.  It said, “Okay to pass.,”  and then his signature.   It was a plumber’s business card! He said to show it at the border stops and pray  it was accepted.  The problem was Javier’s being an illegal the moment he crossed the border.  He could not  legally work in the U.S without being registered.  

This gracious off-duty guard did not inspect anything about this homemade vehicle, which must have looked really suspicious, packed to the hilt and being driven by a Mexican native with a Caucasian woman.  Javier called the ambassador to give him the details of the drive.  We were stopped three times by border police as we went down the highway, headed to Houston in the camper, where Javier would board a plane back to Monterey.  Each time, I would pass the plumber’s business card with the border guard’s message and signature on the back.  The police would pause, look at us, pause, and then wave and say, “Aw, go on.”  

When we arrived in Houston, my friends and I took Javier to the Houston airport, and as I picked up the bag with my father’s ashes,  Javier turned to me in perfect English, and said, “You can suspect the Marshall in your father’s death.”  I was stunned.  At no time had he revealed that he spoke English!  

This story is evidence to me of God’s love and protection, as is described in the two Bible verses.  Of course, there are thousands of similar sources in the Bible, but in the front of my Bible I have noted a few I have depended on for comfort and guidance., the two I noted at the top. 

So, if ever I am stymied, fearful, in need of strength, I recall this experience, these verses, and know that my life is in God’s hands. 

 BTW, the hymn written by Martin Luther, A MIGHTLY FORTRESS IS OUR GOD is based on Psalm 46.  I hope you will read it, and arm yourself with the armor of God:  His Word.