Document text
June 21, 2004 - Subscribe - Contact Us - Rate Card - Place an Ad Valley&State Backpage O&E Sports Archives Classifieds Faith&Beliefs Obituaries Revels April 17, 2004 A light appears amid the horror of kidnappings Scott Dalgarno The recent kidnapping of foreign aid workers in Iraq brought to my mind the hostage crises in Lebanon in the 1980s, and one particular hostage who was a neighbor of mine in Portland a dozen years ago: Father Lawrence Martin Jenco. Fr. Jenco, a native of Joliet, Illinois, was head of Catholic Relief Services in Beirut when five members of a radical Islamic group snatched him from a city street in January 1985. He was freed in July 1986 after months of negotiations involving the Reagan administration, Shiite Muslim radicals and Anglican envoy, Terry Waite (remember the "arms for hostages" fiasco?). "I'm not sure if I'm in heaven or if I'm home. I'm overwhelmed," Fr. Jenco said during a homecoming parade in Joliet. In 1995, Jenco wrote a book about his captivity, "Bound to Forgive - the Pilgrimage to Reconciliation of a Beirut Hostage." There he said that the first thing you do, upon being captured, "is sing. Then you cry. And, finally, you remain silent." He also claimed that he held no animosity toward those who held him captive. In fact, he said he hoped to return to Lebanon to visit the men who guarded him, sometimes brutally, sometimes with gentleness. "I forgive, but I remember," Fr. Jenco wrote. "I do not forget the pain, the loneliness, the ache, the terrible injustice." Fr. Jenco said he numbered the days of his captivity by marking with saliva the walls of the dark closet in which he was held. He kept track of the months by tying knots in a potato sack, and spent much of his time in prayer and meditation. He made a rosary out of threads from the potato sack, and celebrated clandestine Masses whenever he could. At times he was imprisoned with other hostages who came to call themselves, "The Church of the Locked Door." One member of that group was a lapsed Catholic named Terry Anderson. Anderson used his time in solitary confinement to reflect upon his life. He found himself dwelling on deeds from his past he was not proud of. Anderson requested a Bible from his captors and eventually was given one. He said it came as a "gift from heaven." He read and reread it, and in doing so he experienced a rebirth of faith. When he became aware that one of the other captives was a priest (Fr. Jenco), he asked for permission to see him to make confession. His wish was granted. He made his confession, his first in over 25 years. The experience, profoundly moving for both men, left them both in a puddle of tears and drew them closer than most brothers. I once had the privilege of having a conversation with Fr. Jenco. Hearing him describe his experience in person made it very real to me; almost too real. He recounted the day his captors tied explosives to his body. He spoke of another time when he saw a chain suspended from a ceiling and thought he was about to die. Although he said his faith never wavered, he admitted that he told God, "I'm not Job, I want to go home now." I can identify with that. What I will never forget was the story he related to me of one very special night of his captivity; a night in which he was led up to the roof of the building in which he was being held. There his captors sat him down and began unwinding his blindfold. Now, Fr. Jenco had been told many times that if the blindfold were ever removed in the presence of his captors it could mean only one thing: Immediate execution. And yet what met his wondering eyes was not the sight of a gun, but the most startlingly beautiful vision he said he had ever seen. His captors had led him to the roof-top to see the full moon spread out over the city of Beirut. It was something he had not laid eyes on in over a year; something he wondered if he might ever see again. One moment he had felt so close to death; the next he had never felt so alive. "Yes," he thought to himself, "there is beauty in the world, after all; even my captors can be kind." Fr. Jenco, by his own confession, was no saint, but it seemed to me that he'd gotten as much spiritual freight out of that unenviable school of suffering as a person could get. He didn't walk this earth for very long afterward. Perhaps he didn't need to. Fr. Lawrence Martin Jenco died in Illinois, of cancer, in 1996. He was only 61. At the time, his friend Terry Anderson said, "I think if anybody is prepared to meet God in complete confidence, it should be Marty Jenco." He should know. DailyTidings.com Home Page Valley&State | Backpage | O&E | Sports | Archives | Weather | Classifieds Columnists | Faith&Beliefs | Obituaries | Revels | Subscribe | Contact Us Copyright 2004 Ashland Daily Tidings and Ottaway Newspapers All Rights Reserved Click Here Site Search: .:Advertisements:. RESOURCES - Mail Tribune News - ODOT Road Cams