Chapter 1

 

"I'm sorry, Ian.  I've thought it an honor to recommend the publication of your three other books-but I cannot consider this one.  It is not of the same caliber!"

 

"Is it that you don't believe me, Nolan?"  Ian spoke with his slight Eastern-European accent.

 

Their voices sounded hushed in the large, masculine looking office.  A big, dark-stained oak desk, a large fireplace with an ornate oak mantle, tan carpet, and old fashioned, upholstered furniture made the grandfather clock look at home.  Ian was sitting on the edge of the couch while Nolan sat on a chair cordially perpendicular to his guest.

 

"Ian, our corporation must maintain a certain level of integrity.  As the leading publisher of scholarly material in the evangelical world, we have built a certain trust with our patrons.  We feel obligated to protect that trust."  Nolan spoke softly and slowly.  He was obviously concerned with how Ian was taking his decision.

 

"Whether I believe you or not isn't the issue.  The issue boils down to this: can your claims be verified?  You have half of an ancient brick with a blue, glazed star on it.  You have death reports of some Arabs who were killed in a natural gas explosion.  That's not exactly hard evidence.

 

I have to admit that I found this story hard to believe.  Yet I have chosen to believe you because I know your character, and I know your family.  But if I, who know you, must force myself to accept your account, how do you suppose our readers will feel?"

 

"I understand," Ian responded sincerely.  "I suppose if I were in your position, I would make the same decision."

 

"Now, Ian, if you want to publish your theories or the theories of the Magi Chaldeans without revealing the source, that could be acceptable.  But to state your conclusions on the basis of ancient findings which you cannot produce, that's asking too much."

 

"I'll consider it," Ian replied.  "Thanks for mulling it over, Nolan.  When you turned this down on the phone, I thought I should see you first.  I have an appointment with Jerry Glassman at Angel Wings Publications.  They do not specialize in scholarly works, but they'll publish just about anything written by someone with a little name recognition.  I feel like I have to do something with my experience, even if my evangelical peers laugh me to scorn."

 

"Ian, let me reiterate what you said to me, 'If I were in your position, I'd make the same decision.'  Go for it, brother!  And if you like, I'll put in a good word with Jerry!"

 

The two men rose to shake hands. Ian's short and chubby figure was a non-threatening one.  Nolan respected him tremendously, which made the situation more painful for the publisher.

 

Ian hopped into his Chevy and drove through the traffic of Grand Rapids, Michigan.  He couldn't wait to return to his family in Congress, Indiana.  He hated red tape.

 

It was only a fifteen-minute drive to Angel Wings Publications.  The publisher's office was on the first floor of an old redbrick five-story building.  The office door was open.  Ian peered inside.  The bumpy plaster walls were firm looking, painted an off-white, as were the old radiators.  The tile floor was faded but not worn through.  The area rug around Jerry Glassman's desk was new.  The lights were old-fashioned, hanging globe fixtures.

 

"Come in.  Mr. Vaclav, I presume?"

 

"Jerry Glassman?"  Ian inquired.  Jerry rose and extended his hand to Ian.

 

"Good to meet you in person.  Glad you made it.  I've read some of your works on Semitic studies.  It is an honor to meet a man of your caliber!"

 

"Thank you, sir.  It was good of you to see me on short notice.  As you suggested, I came prepared to share a summary of my latest book-my adventure in Iraq.  I told you that Nolan was unwilling to publish it, but I was hoping you folks might."

 

"Well, Mr. Vaclav, I am interested.  Very interested.  Please make yourself comfortable, and take your time in sharing your experience.  Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

 

"Thank you, Jerry.  Please.  Some cream if you don't mind."

 

As they conversed, Ian could see that Jerry loved people.  And he could somehow sense that Jerry loved God.  Not that Nolan didn't, but Ian expected spiritual depth from the leader of a publishing house like Nolan's.  He somehow expected Angel Wings to be slipshod and strictly a business.  He began to realize his error.

 

"Now, Ian, tell on, would you?"

 

"I guess I'll start at the beginning," Ian commented, "which is probably the best place to start."


Chapter 2

 

"Well, does the Chicken Paprika taste good, Ian?"  Gwen, his redheaded wife, queried as the family of four sat around an antique walnut table.

 

The dining room was decorated with dark green wallpaper highlighted by light rose-colored flowers.  The old ranch house was as home-like as a house can be.  Her British voice sounded playful.  Her green eyes awaited his answer.

 

"Pretty good, honeybunch."  His voice held slight traces of his Eastern-European accent.  But it was a gentle voice. "A little sparse on the sour cream, though," he critiqued.

 

"Honey, when have you ever had enough sour cream?  It's amazing that all of us don't have the gout-especially you, you old Slovak!"

 

It was true that Ian, whose real name was Jan (pronounced "Yon"), was a Slovak, but he wasn't that old-only forty-five, the same age as his wife, Gwen.

 

Gwen and Ian had been married for twenty years.  They loved to tease each other.  As their best friends said, "They've been newlyweds for years."  And to make matters sound more ideal, they were the proud parents of two remarkable teenage children, eighteen-year-old Sarah and sixteen-year-old Carl.

 

Gwen was born in England and Ian in Slovakia, (then part of Czechoslovakia).  They had both immigrated to the United States where they met, fell in love, and married.

 

As Ian spoke with his slight accent, he would habitually complain to Gwen, "It's bad enough I have to learn American, but since I married you, I also have to learn English."

 

"Please pass some dumplings this way, Mom," implored Sarah.

 

"Looks like we're all out, Sarah.  Sorry," Gwen responded.

 

"Sorry?  I only had three!  Carl, did you eat all the dumplings AGAIN?!"  Sarah's bluish eyes enlarged.  As a rule, her waist-long, ash-brown hair gave her a gentle image.  But she did not look gentle now.

 

"Sorry, Sis.  I didn't realize what I was doing.  Sorry!  It's a habit, I guess."

 

Ian peered over the table of mismatched dinnerware.  Sure enough, the Tupperware bowl, once filled with dumplings, was now empty.  Yet plenty of chicken remained on the large china platter.

 

"I know the habit," replied Ian.  "You don't eat the chicken or the sauerkraut-not even the rye bread.  All you want is dumplings and gravy!"

 

"I can't help myself," Carl defended, his baby blue eyes and strawberry hair adding a visual to his plea of innocence.

 

"It's just too tempting!"  No one could argue with that.  Chicken Paprika was their favorite meal.  The dumplings, covered with the chicken broth based, sour cream gravy, coupled with its savory aroma were overwhelming.

 

Ian addressed Gwen, "You know, honeybunch, when I make paprikosh (the Slovak word for paprika sauce), I always make a colander full of dumplings.  Why can't you make that much?"

 

"Because I want you to keep fitting in your 38's," she shrewdly replied, with a grin on her face.  Ian and Gwen were the same height, five feet, six inches.  That's where their similarity in build ended.  Ian was pudgy, weighing in at 185 pounds, but Gwen was slim.  "The truth is that I didn't want to buy any more food.  We have to use up what's here in the house because we won't be back for weeks.  I didn't want to throw anything away."  Gwen's answer satisfied her husband.

 

Their travel agenda included a weeklong stop at Egypt.  They would spend a week in Cairo, sightseeing and taking care of some details.  From Cairo they would fly to Baghdad, Iraq.  They would then travel by land to a hilly area where they would camp.  They had allotted about one month for the entire trip but had left it open-ended.  This was to be the adventure of a lifetime.

 

The Vaclav family repeatedly made unusual and lengthy trips.  This was possible because Ian was almost independently wealthy.  Although he had written several books and held down a part time position teaching in an Evangelical seminary, the real bastion of his financial independence was the wise investment of an inheritance.  He could afford a middle-class lifestyle while devoting half his time to unique research and an occasional adventure.  Since he had no taste for extravagance (nor did Gwen), he was in a position to use his life for higher purposes.  Sometimes these purposes were connected to the divine.

 

"You know, I'm so excited, it's amazing I can even eat," Ian innocently commented.  His round cheeks looked even pudgier as he filled them with dumplings.

 

"You've never been that excited," retorted Gwen as she avoided looking at Ian chew his food.  His mouth moved round and round.  Once, when they were newlyweds, Gwen got a dose of motion sickness from watching him chew.

 

After the meal, each Vaclav helped to bus the dishes.  They had already cleaned the house.  The luggage was packed; the pets had been turned over to neighbors; the paper had been cancelled.  The bulbs on the timer-driven lamps were fresh. The Vaclav family was ready for tomorrow's journey.

 

"Let's pray together now," Ian urged.  "This trip of ours is a long shot, but is a family dream come true."  Ian emphasized his accent as he teased, "Is trip of lifetime, no?"  After a chuckle, his voice took on a solemn tone,  "And if the Lord is willing, we might be on to something that will impact the Christian community-and maybe even the world."

 

The Vaclav family was no stranger to prayer or Bible study.  A year after Ian and Gwen were married, they had built a friendship with some Christian neighbors.  These neighbors had not only communicated their faith, they had lived it.  And they offered answers to many of the tough questions Ian and Gwen had raised.  Through their testimony and home Bible studies, the Vaclavs had become committed Christians.

 

Now the Vaclavs were very much involved in the First Evangelical Church, where Ian served as an elder while Gwen participated as a deaconess.

 

Sarah and Carl had been exposed to the Gospel and accepted Christ at early ages.  They never felt as though the Bible had been crammed down their throat, and they had a close relationship with their parents.  

 

After a time of prayer, Ian double-checked the windows and doors.  Then he strolled to his private study closet.  He carried out his laptop computer, in which he was keeping a diary of this excursion.  The file was titled, "The Quest for Babel's Tower-The Actual Trip."

 

************************************************************

 

It was still dark outside the white aluminum-sided ranch house.  The birdbath in the front yard was a mere shadow.  The cool of the fall morning sent chills through the bodies of the Vaclavs, who were not yet acclimated to the post-summer weather.  Though 5:30 a.m. was technically morning, common sense said it was still night.

 

Tom Houser, a widower and retired church friend, arrived to haul the Vaclav family to the airport.  He had studied his maps in preparation for the three-hour drive from Congress, Indiana to Chicago's O'Hare Airport.      

 

Tom and Ian had known each other for only a few months, but they had hit it off well.  Tom was becoming more than a friend to Ian:  he was evolving into a father figure.  Both men loved to talk, but they were unusual in the world of talkers.  They also knew how to listen. 

 

So at 5:30 a.m., Tom, by nature a morning person, helped the family pack their luggage into his station wagon.  The full-sized car had seen better days.  "Old Betsy," as Tom called her, was ten years old, but in good working order.  Tom constantly treated Betsy with rust neutralizers and touched up the paint here and there.  His touch-up work was obvious.

 

"It's a beautiful morning, isn't it, Ian?"

 

"Morning and beautiful don't mix together in my vocabulary," replied Ian.  "If God had wanted us to get up early, He'd given us alarm clocks."  Ian's watery eyes and pale complexion made his night-person disposition obvious.

 

Tom could not let that comment go.  "You know what they say,  'the early bird catches the worm.'"

 

"Yeah," answered Ian, "but the night owl eats a lot better!  You can have your worm!"

 

"Oh, I don't know that a mouse tastes any better," chuckled Tom.  They all chuckled, except for Sarah whose eyes were open but whose mind was still in bed.

 

They settled into the car.  As Ian scooted in, he accidentally knocked a map off the dashboard and replaced it quickly.  The dash was a maze of cracked vinyl and gray duct tape.  

 

As they pulled out of the driveway, Gwen informed Tom that the Vaclav family had eaten no breakfast.  Carl suggested they stop at the Handy McCandy convenience store for a traveler's breakfast.

 

After stopping for a few Styrofoam cups of coffee and some fresh doughnuts, Tom inquired of Ian.  "So, Ian, you are heading to Iraq-old Babylon to be exact.  You know, you never told me the whole story-just that you had a clue about the remnants of the Tower of Babel.  You mentioned that your wife had some connections and that she was able to arrange the impossible:  two naturalized American citizens traveling to Iraq, even while Saddam Hussein is still in power!  But that's all I know.  We've got a long drive, and I just bought a new battery for my hearing aid.  Would you fill me in?"

 

"Well, let ME begin," said Gwen, sympathetic of her husband's morning condition.  Her asparagus-colored eyes were alert.  "As you know, when Ian and I met, I was serving as one of several assistants to the Secretary of State.  On a couple of occasions, I even consulted with the President.  Although I only served in this capacity for five years, I got to know a lot of people.  Many were just starting out in foreign relations, like me.  Since then, several of them have moved into positions of prominence.  A few of them are Christians who tried to witness to me back then.  After I came to Christ, I wrote them, and we have even visited with several of my old comrades.  We have become especially close to one family.  That's how we were able to arrange this trip-even after Desert Storm soured the Iraqis on Americans, and the embargo left them in poverty."

 

"But why would our government not only allow, but even arrange your trip?  A few years ago we were bombing Iraq-now you come in.  How?  Why?"

 

"Diplomacy.  Healing.  Improved relations.  You see, especially after a conflict, relations are severed.  After things calm down, two countries do not usually become friendly overnight.  It takes time.  It takes a lot of small gestures.  And it takes a mutually beneficial event.  In this case, if we find any remnants of Babel, the Iraqi government keeps them.  It is good for them, politically and even financially.  It is good for our country's image.  And it is good for those of us interested in knowing more about God's Word.  So we all could come out smelling like a rose-so to speak."  Although Gwen had lost a lot of her distinctly British ways, she could not help adding the "so to speak" after her statement.

 

Tom kept his eye on the road, his mouth on the coffee cup, but his mind on Gwen.  In a sense, he felt a little awkward having such extraordinary people as friends.  But he knew that Ian and Gwen were all too aware of their own humanity.  The thought that they were better than anyone else never entered their minds.  They just viewed themselves as addicted to trouble!  And perhaps they were.

 

A few days earlier, the Hoosier state had experienced an unusually early frost.  Now the weather was becoming a little warmer.  The sun shone brightly, highlighting the trees, which were just beginning to change colors.  The ride was pleasant as they drove through a rural area.  They passed under a viaduct.

 

"Bah bong, bong, thud!!!"  Tom literally stood on the brake pedal as the car skidded and screeched to a halt, a black line of melted rubber pointing to its now location on the shoulder of the road.  They were grateful that there had been no traffic behind them.                

 

A brick had fallen from above the viaduct and hit the front bumper of the station wagon.  Pulling over onto the shoulder, they discovered that the plastic-coated bumper was cracked and the front grill was dented.

 

Tom caught his breath.  "We were fortunate to escape with such minor damage-imagine if the brick had hit the windshield!"

 

"We could have been killed!" exclaimed Carl.  "What kind of nut did a thing like that?"  The wind transformed his strawberry, collar length hair into a bird's nest.

 

"It could have fallen out of a pick-up or something," offered Sarah, now very much awake.  "Right, Dad?"

 

"We'll probably never know," offered Ian.  "At least, I hope not," he muttered to himself.

 

Then Ian turned to Tom, "I feel responsible for this.  I'll settle the cost when we get back."

 

"Forget it, buddy," answered Tom, his walnut eyes emphasizing the firmness of his statement.  "Old Betsy has so many dents, nicks, and a hundred and forty thousand on her.  As long as she works, that's all I care about."  The matter was settled.

 

"Let's get back in and get going.  We don't want to be late," urged Tom, the calmest in the bunch.

 

"I don't like the way this trip is starting," Gwen observed.  "Let's hope things head in a more positive direction."  Gwen was not the only one visibly shaken.  Only Tom seemed to put the matter out of his mind.

 

"I don't think we should inflate what could be a freak event," responded Ian, trying to convince himself.  It seemed odd to find danger near to home when their apprehension had been focused toward nations on the other side of planet earth.  Somehow, they seemed connected.

Chapter 3

It wasn't long until the old station wagon was once again clunking onward toward Chicago.  Ian and Gwen were blotting the coffee that had spilled on the vehicle's carpet.  Sarah and Carl were unwinding, their eyes glazed with the premise of watching the scenery.

"So, Ian, let's resume the story.  How is it that you decided to go on this kind of journey?  What led up to it?"  Tom's motivations in raising these questions were both pragmatic and personal:  he wanted to distract his friends from their worry, yet he was truly fascinated.  His eyes were glued to his companion.  Ian finished combing his sparse brown hair and returned the comb to his rear pocket.

"What I am about to tell you is unbelievable.  As a matter of fact, when I hear myself repeating the story, even I can't believe it!  Part of it can be verified and some is based on tradition, passed down through the ages.  Anyhow, let me begin with me, work backward, and then forward."

"As long as you know what you're saying," answered Tom.

"I do-well, sort of," defended Ian.  "As you know, I was born in Slovakia, then part of Czechoslovakia.  I was raised in the country in the midst of the Tatra Mountains.  When I was a boy, my dad told me a story.  Now, keep in mind, my dad was not a born-again Christian and knew very little about the Bible.  But one of the few things he did know about was the Tower of Babel.  I can remember his telling me the story, but not until I was a teen did he give me the, uh, the, uh-uh, low-down."  Ian's English was usually excellent, but once in a while the slang expressions defeated him.

"So, what is the low-down?" Tom encouraged.

"During the early Middle Ages, there were a people called the Magyrs who associated a lot with the Turks. Somehow, they acquired an ancient document from the Turks.  In the ninth century, these people conquered what we now call Hungary and settled there."

A light flashed in Tom's mind.  He interrupted Ian.  "Don't modern day Hungarians call themselves 'Magyrs?'"

"That's correct," Ian affirmed.  "During the Middle Ages, my forefathers, the Slovaks, intermingled freely with the Hungarians.  Slovaks even served in the royal court, and there was a good working relationship between the peoples.  One of my forefathers served in the royal court.  The story goes that he found out about a plot to assassinate the king and immediately alerted him.  The king foiled the plot, and awarded my ancestor with land and the 'document most special,' it was called.  This 'document most special'-"

"Pertains to the Tower of Babel!"  Tom blurted, as though he had dust received a divine revelation.

"I can see you are catching on," Ian reinforced.  "What more can you guess?"

"That you have the document, and that is why you are searching for the Tower of Babel!"  Tom added.

"Not quite," Ian deliberated.  "I do not have the document, but I have seen it.  And, more interestingly, I have translated it!"

"Dad, I hate to interrupt you," interjected Sarah, "but I need for us to make a rest stop."

"Me too," added Gwen.  "Me three," Carl joined in.

"Let's stop the mathwork and just stop, eh Tom?" Gwen jested.

After attending to the "calls of nature," and purchasing a supply of soft-drinks and chips, they all piled back into the station wagon.

"We only have another hour left, so how about filling in the rest of the details?"  Tom was absorbed.

"Well, I said I had seen the document," continued Ian.  "Let me elaborate.  My family had kept the document hidden in a metal box that they sealed with wax and oil.  As difficult times were brewing in that part of the world, my grandfather could foresee the inevitable influx of the Nazis and feared the document could fall into hostile hands-or be lost. He had discovered a nook inside a shallow cave in our beloved Tatra Mountains.  So he hid the box in that nook, filled it in with rock and soil, and there the box remains."  Ian paused to sip his cola.  He nearly choked from the carbonation gas.

Impatient Tom jump-started the stalled conversation:  "But this was before you were born-how did you see it?"

Recovering quickly from his cola catastrophe, Ian continued, "This was a family heirloom-and a strictly kept family secret.  When I was a teenager, my dad showed me the hiding place.  But again, we were under foreign control, only this time it was the Communists.  So we kept the document hidden for a future time.  Perhaps it could one day bring wealth to the family.  But the Communists would have confiscated it, and our family would get nothing-except criticism for keeping it hidden so long!"

"So when did you see it," dug Tom.

"Please, let me continue the story," Ian said, now himself a bit impatient with Tom's impatience.  "My parents and I came to this country a few years later, leaving the document behind in our hiding spot.  That would be in the mid-1960's.  But because of that document, I was always interested in what my dad was told by his dad and was passed down all the way from the Turks, that the document pertained to the Tower of Babel.  Interested is not the right word-I became obsessed."

"Between my personal fascination with our family's document and my dad's promptings, I determined to do more than wonder about it.  At the university, I decided to major in Semitic studies.  That includes both languages and some
archaeology.  The languages were my specialty.

"In the back of my mind was the hope that I would one day see this ancient
document.  But I feared going back to Slovakia, for we did not come to the U.S. in the most legal way.  Since my dad was a medical doctor, the Communists were angry that we left.

"When I studied at the university, I had not yet been saved.  I became convinced that the Tower of Babel was nothing more than a legend.  The way the professors mock the Bible and intimidate Christians is abusive-but it works-at least on anyone who is borderline.  Then, after coming to know Christ, I developed the conviction that the Bible was reliable, and that the event recorded in Genesis 11 about the Tower of Babel did, in fact, occur.  My desire to see that document became consuming!"

The conversation's intensity now slowed.  There was a moment of contemplation before Tom broke the silence, "Well, how did you know the language of the document?"

 

"One of my forefathers had inscribed a word in our family Bible, copied from the document.  I memorized the word, and later came to learn the letters were ancient cuneiform.  The word translates into 'Babel'."

While filling Tom's mind with fascination, Ian began running his fingers through what little hair remained on his head, alternately rubbing his clean-shaven chin.

Ian continued.  "My dad, who became a believer a few years after we did, prayed that somehow we could get a hold of that document.  But he died in 1987, before the break up of the Soviet Union.

"Two years ago, our family decided to take the risk of visiting Slovakia.  With the fall of Communism, I felt it safe to return for a visit.  We toured the Tatra Mountains, where I easily found the cave and the box.  Opening it, I photographed the documents, returned them to the box, and hid them in their original spot.  Even with the fall of Communism.  I was not sure whether I could safely remove it from the country.  I thought I had better wait a few years until things in Slovakia were solidified."

Tom's curiosity was beginning to feel satisfied, but he had one more question left.  It was a question he felt Ian should have anticipated but hadn't.  So he asked the obvious question with an almost scolding tone.  "What did the document say?"

Carl offered the answer, "They were directions.  Directions for finding the cave where some of the remnants of the Tower of Babel were hidden."

This time, the whole car became silent.  Though the Vaclav family knew the story well, hearing it sent chills through their spines.  They would actually be utilizing the document held in trust for centuries by the Vaclav family!  It gave the family a sense of being specially chosen of all generations.

Tom changed subjects.  "So, how will you let me know when it's time for me to
pick you up at the airport when you come back?"

"We'll write with tentative details, and phone or wire with specifics.  As a matter of fact, I will write you every other day.  I would like you to share the news with Pastor Schultz so he can get our folks praying.  The Arab world is a lot different, you know. We're nervous about living there over the next month."

"Right," said Tom, "you never know how foreigners will act." Tom caught himself, "I, er, mean non-American foreigners-"

"How about non-European foreigners-that should cover the bases, " Ian chuckled.

Everyone had a good laugh.  Laughing refreshes the emotions, and helps them stretch well-and the Vaclavs would need that stretch-ability!


Chapter 4

They battled congested roads.  They overcame confusing directional signs.  And then they fought to find a parking space in the underground garage.  Victorious, they removed their luggage from the car and started toward the terminal areas.

"Well, we're finally at O'Hare," sighed Sarah.  "For a while there, I never thought we'd make it."

"We almost didn't," donated Carl.  "That brick was a close call."

"Thanks, Tom, for the lift!  You're a true friend," Gwen acknowledged.  "See you in a few weeks!"

"Gwen, Ian, mind if I stick around till you leave?"  Tom was hesitant.  "I have a wild thought to run past you."

"Sure, Tom, speak up.  Even if it's crazy, it doesn't hurt to brainstorm." Ian coached.

"Well, you may think I'm crazy, but would you mind if I-if I-maybe joined you later on your trip?"

"You mean you would like to meet us in Iraq?"  Gwen queried.  Her green eyes lit in conflict with her red hair.

"Yeah, well maybe.  I'm not sure.  It's just that ever since Susie died, I haven't had a lot of direction in life.  Your adventure sounds so promising!  But I've never left the country, and I don't even know how to get a passport or what permission to get or-or even if you want me along.  Please don't think I'm trying to pressure you or put you in an awkward position.  I would understand fully if you thought it better I drop the idea..."

"I'll tell you what, Tom." Ian interrupted, to Tom's relief.  "After we get to Egypt, we'll check with our friend, Fred Bartman, at the embassy in Cairo.  He's the one who has pulled the strings for us.  I'll drop you a line to let you know whether it sounds good or no.  My guess is that it'll be okay. You work on getting your passport.  Sound alright to you?"

"Sounds good to me.  That'll give me time to decide whether or not I really want to go, too," Tom responded.

In a way, Tom was a pitiful sight.  He and Susie had settled in Indianapolis.  They had no children.  The Vaclavs had never met Susie, who had died two years earlier.  Tom had moved back to Congress to be with his brothers and other family.  When the Vaclavs met him at church, they took an immediate liking to him.  He was about five feet, ten inches, and tilted the scale at 200 pounds.  His head was a bald, shining globe, surrounded with a wreath of gray.  His big nose and hairy ears stood out.

He was a capable man, but there was certain "lostness" about him.  The Vaclavs felt sorry for him, but they did not befriend him as an act of pity.  They truly enjoyed his company.  He was slowly becoming an honorary family member.

They sat and chatted to pass the time.  As per usual, the flight was delayed.  The group decided to make a final run for the restrooms.  On the way there, they passed a New Age cult member selling literature and asking for contributions.

"I gave in a previous life," Ian chuckled.  The cult member did not appreciate his humor.  "Next thing you know," Ian addressed his private audience, "they'll be selling Nine Lives cat food!"

Gwen commented, "I thought they got rid of cult members asking for contributions years ago.  I see they are now back in service."

"Well, ma, there's only one-don't say 'they'" corrected Sarah.  "And this one isn't even bald.  So they've improved their image!"

By the time they left the restroom area, the cult member was gone.  "Guess we scared him off," jested Carl.

All of a sudden Ian heard his name paged over the sound system.  "Will Ian Vaclav please report to the desk?"

Ian's short legs whisked him across the white tiled floors.  As he walked toward the information desk, he stepped around a maintenance crew.  They were engaged in an endless task of stripping wax just to replace it with a fresh coat.  Ian felt his feet give way underneath him as he skidded on a wet spot.  Somehow, he regained his balance and plodded on as though nothing had happened.  He was too embarrassed to scan around to see if anyone else had noticed.

Ian finally stood in front of the desk.  The girl behind the counter hailed from India, Ian deduced.  Her dark complexion and the third "eye" on her forehead made her land of origin obvious.  She handed him the note.  He tore open the sealed, stationery-quality letter. It read, "The brick was no mistake.  Better to reconsider the intent of the mission."  It was signed, "A wise advisor."

Ian brought the note back to his family and Tom. They gasped in unbelief.  Then Ian repeated an offer that was becoming a ritual,  "Since this mission could be dangerous, reconsider whether you really want to come.  Aunt Suska is always happy to have company.

Gwen, Sarah, and Carl all responded lifelessly with their part in the route ritual. "No, we want to come.  We know there is risk, and we are willing to trust the Lord with the outcome."  Though their response was in monotone, they meant every word of it.

Ian was not persuaded by their memorized refrain.  As he became firmer, Gwen, Sarah, and Carl became more passionate.  Ian gave up the fight, though his heart was encompassed by fear.

"Now, Tom, you might reconsider," Ian quietly suggested.

"Well, this does slant the balance of indecision," Torn stated regretfully.  Then his tone tilted to the other extreme, "I REALLY want to come NOW!"

"I get tired of going through these so-called 'adventures' in life.  But one redeeming feature is going through them with fellow believers!"  Sermonized Gwen.  "It makes all the difference to know that not a sparrow falls without our Father knowing it, and that he knows the number of hairs on our head!"

"- Which for Ian ain't too many!" Tom exploded.  They all laughed. They needed that laughter.  And they needed Gwen's reminder that "His eye is on the sparrow."

The 747 was now ready for passengers.  They organized their travel bags, checked their shoelaces, and made a few meaningless adjustments to their clothes. Excitement circulated throughout their veins.  It wasn't long till they finally boarded the plane and bid goodbye to Tom.  They were on their way Egypt! What would await them?

Ian encouraged his family. "We could have trouble in Iraq, but I think that's unlikely.  But I feel sure we will have no trouble at all in Egypt." Remember what the note said, it said to reconsider the nature of our mission, not to reconsider taking a trip to Egypt.  It was specific."

"Let's hope the person who sent it was a good communicator."  Carl anticipated the thoughts of all.  He had a valid point.

"It very well might be an idle threat.  It would be hard to believe whoever is bothering us here would follow us half way around the world," Sarah offered.

"You're probably right, Sarah!"  Gwen pitched in.  "Just some nut."

Changing the subject, Gwen asked the three for their opinion about Tom.  "Do you think he would help us on our project?"

Sarah was prepared.  "He was cool and calm when the brick hit the car.  He handled things well.  As I remember it, he actually calmed US down."

Carl was also ready.  "He's like having a friendly grandfather around-and the way he teases Dad is great.  Besides, it'll put us fellows into majority status."

Everyone liked Tom-his faith, his personality, and his wisdom.  "Yes," Ian thought, "he just might be an asset on this adventure, Lord willing."

Their conversation was interrupted by the stewardess.  "Would you care for some chewing gum for your ears?" she inquired.

"But how do you remove it from your ears once you have it in?"  Ian teased.

Gwen apologized.  "Please forgive my husband.  You are what you eat, and he likes to eat ham every day for lunch."

The stewardess was enjoying herself, "I don't mind.  I like humor.  But I would appreciate something I haven't heard a thousand times before!"  Ian had been put in his place. His face admitted defeat.

Carl and Sarah were both proud of and embarrassed by their father's confident sense of humor.  His confidence was not always justified.  He could come across with some extremely funny comments now and then, but he was equally capable of bombing out.  Most of his humor was between the extremes.

In contrast, Sarah and Carl were more like Gwen: very playful, but not very pun-ful.

After more chatting, doing a few crossword puzzles and other past-time activities, the family members dropped off to sleep, one by one.  Their thoughts drifted to fantasies in the land of the Pharoahs.