Out of Captivity : Surviving 1,967 Days in the Colombian Jungle

The Transition 111I’d run through the list of things I’d miss out on—dance recitals,school dances, her learning to drive, graduating from high school, firstcrushes and heartbreaks—all the stuff that makes up a life. Even themost pleasant memories—our recent family vacation to Disneyland orwatching The Little Mermaid with Destiney—became painful to replayin my head, but I was like a kid with a loose tooth probing it withhis tongue and tugging at it with his fingers. I wasn’t trying to torturemyself with the past but I couldn’t shut my mind off, either. I couldn’tcontrol when things would come to me. One minute I was there in thejungles of Colombia, held hostage by terrorists, lying in a makeshiftshelter thinking of family and home, and then suddenly the lyrics tothe Blues Clues theme song would run through my head:“Sit down in your thinking chair and think, think, think . . .”This happy little jingle would just tear me to pieces. I wrote aboutthese things in my journal all the time; I just poured my heart and soulonto the paper. Sometimes, when I wasn’t feeling so bad, I’d rereadwhat I’d written and realize that I was in a very desperate state. I wasso emotional, so sensitive to everything, fragile, and on the verge ofbeing broken. I was glad for those moments when I could see myselfclearly enough to recognize what was happening to me. I’d resolve tobe better, pray for strength, and inevitably something would happenon those days when I’d just about reached the edge that would pull meback from utter despair.I continued to pray to God to get me the hell out of there. I did theusual thing and told Him that I would reform myself, become a betterperson, a better Christian, do whatever it was that He wanted meto do. Thy will be done, but please let Thy will be what I want morethan anything else in the world—to see my family again. I receivedno great revelations. I didn’t hear the voice of God telling me that Iwould be fine. Instead, I’d look across the camp and Keith would giveme a thumbs-up. I’d see Tom sitting in his hammock reading one ofthe FARC newsletters, and as if he sensed my eyes on him, he’d look