My Experience: Kidnapped in Mexico City
While we were serving as missionaries in Mexico City in the 90’s I was kidnapped. Many people have asked me to share more about how it all happened. My son, David Jr. wrote a story about my experience. The event affected our whole family, and I love the way David tells the story. Since it’s not a short story I’ll post it in parts.
Kidnapped: Part 1
My dad had a busier day than usual and had to stay at his office until it was dark. After hours upon hours of working on reports for the home office, making phone calls and planning for the coming weeks for his ministry he was finally able to leave work. Unlike most work days he had not driven to work this day. His car was in the shop getting fixed. He grabbed his big black over coat and shoved his vintage colorful blue Apple MacBook, paperwork, and Bible into his briefcase. Before he left the office he called our house and told us he was coming home, as he always did. I remember loving to wait by the phone every night for my dad to call. I would patiently sit on our old Victorian burgundy couch. When I heard the phone ring I would quickly run over to the phone. I handed the phone to my mom and she told my dad to hurry home because it was already 10:30 and it was getting dangerous.
As my dad was walking out of the work complex and through the doors he double-checked his pockets to make sure he didn’t forget anything. My dad walked out of his office in downtown Mexico City, the biggest city in the world, and likely the most dangerous as well. Dad was never afraid of the danger of the city. He loved Mexico and their people. However, this night would change his perspective. It was a dark night and the only lights were coming from the front of the buildings and the headlights from the road. People were running all around him. As he neared the street dad tried to whistle down a cab. After a few cars passed he thought “I’m never going to get a cab.” After a few minutes of trying to wave down a cab an old green Volkswagen Beetle pulled up. My dad opened up the passenger door and moved his way past the empty passenger seat that had been taken out. “Finally I’m going home,” or so he thought.
The small green cab came screeching to a halt just a block from the office. The stoplight was green but the driver wasn’t moving forward. “Que paso?” What is going on, my dad asked. Two Mexican men were knocking on the cab’s window. Dad was thinking, “Well this is strange, maybe they think the cab is empty.”
Or maybe he got in the wrong cab at the wrong time. Maybe it was because he was white and they thought he was an American with a lot of money. Maybe the driver was an accomplice . . . whatever the situation was, the men were not looking for a ride. To be continued …
In His Grip, Dave