Healing from a High Cost

by Fran Geiger Joslin

Missionary martyrs in history often serve to spur missionary movements. The 1956 murders of Jim Elliott, Nate Saint, and others in Ecuador were no different. Missionaries going to primitive locations around the world became more common.

On the heels of the Ecuador murders, missionaries in the 1960s understood sacrifice. They entered remote lands to share the gospel of Jesus, knowing the risk of losing their lives. My own father, influenced and challenged by those willing to die, offered up his own.

My parents went to the mission field in 1959, serving the Lord in what we now call Papua, Indonesia. At that time this area of the world lived in near stone-aged conditions, wearing grass skirts and gourds for clothing, carrying bows and arrows, and regularly participating in tribal warfare, which included cannibal feasts.

Our dads trekked mountains to reach the unreached. Without knowing a stitch of the language, they found ways to reward the nationals for helping to hack out air strips in the mountains. This allowed small Cessna airplanes to deliver family members, mail, lumber, cattle, and anything else we might need.

Unable to calculate the cost—and possibly unaware of a cost—to their children, these missionaries followed the expectation of sending their children to boarding school. Homeschooling materials didn’t exist back then, so missionary kids attended boarding schools run by other missionaries. Sadly, these house parents were usually inexperienced and untrained in caring for children, especially more than one hundred of them at one time.

As a group of children all attending the same boarding school, we became family. We called each other’s parents “Aunt” and “Uncle.” We often experienced traumas together. News of our own fathers facing the threat of death affected the entire group. We watched our classmates whose families were affected by tragedy, not knowing how to feel ourselves, and wondering what it must feel like for them. Other times while at home, we witnessed tragedy while sitting by the home radio, receiving news as it happened.

As expected, missionaries at times gave their lives for the sake of the gospel. Because of the mountainous terrain and unpredictable weather conditions, airplanes went down. Pilots and missionaries alike lost their lives in tragic circumstances. Most of us remember hearing pilots on the radio reporting downed airplanes, the following days of searching for a crash site, and then reports of no survivors. This affected us deeply, offering no way to process the information, the grief, or the fears that ensued. This was “normal” in our world.

In 1968, two missionaries trekked into a new territory to take the Good News to an unreached tribe. Phil Masters and Stan Dale went with nothing but good intentions, but the villagers felt threatened. They shot Uncle Stan and Uncle Phil full of arrows and then enjoyed a cannibal feast in their honor. Ten children (including one unborn child) lost their dads that day. Two women were widowed.

I, personally, will never forget watching one of the widows, wondering how she kept a smile on her face. Attending school with her children also impacted me, as I’m sure it impacted others. Questions plagued us, but we dared not ask them: What must it feel like to lose your father, especially in such a traumatic way? How did they attend school and act like they were okay? What does one say—or not say—to these children?

It appeared we were to go on normally and not ask questions. To my knowledge and memory, we received the facts but no further discussion took place. My father’s life had been threatened on numerous occasions but, so far, he had escaped alive. The biggest question on all of our minds, I’m sure: “Will I be next?”

Still processing the murders of our two uncles, tragedy crushed us once again. Only three months later a Cessna airplane crashed in the exact location where the cannibals martyred our Uncles Phil and Stan. This airplane included a pilot (Menno Voth) and a six-member family (the Newmans). The only survivor? My sister, Leah’s fourth grade classmate, nine-year-old Paul Newman.

The cost this time? The pilot’s wife widowed, her toddler fatherless, and Paul Newman orphaned. Just like all others, this tragedy affected every missionary on the island, but also every child at boarding school. This time felt more personal, for some reason. Maybe as children we couldn’t comprehend the amount of pain involved in losing your entire family. Maybe we experienced enough pain three months earlier. Maybe the cumulative effect of numerous tragedies put us over the edge.

What made this tragedy even more heart-wrenching? Paul’s DNA aunt and uncle “rescued him from the jungle” and took him to the United States to live with them. All communication with his friends in Papua ended. I’m sure his family did what they perceived to be in his best interest. They also took in a nephew whom they barely knew. We recognize and appreciate that sacrifice.

One thing we all understood: how unfathomable the amount of pain that existed for Paul. Fifty-four years ago, over one hundred children felt the enormous loss of their friend about whom they worried and for whom they prayed. We grieved on his behalf. During all these years, prayers went up and questions remained. Whatever happened to Paul Newman? Is he okay?

Here and there we got tidbits of news. He married. Years later, his wife died. (I exchanged words with the Lord over that one.) We continued to wonder and pray.

A Papua reunion in Orlando, Florida took place during the Fourth of July weekend of 2022. Our long-lost friend appeared as one of the speakers. We felt honored to reconnect with Paul Newman, share our concerns for him, and ask our questions.

From the podium Paul shared with us the details of his own story. He described the weather conditions, the cloud cover, and the tree stump that clipped the wing, ultimately downing the airplane in which his family died. “On the second largest island in the world, a sovereign God…allowed a little Cessna 185…to fly up the wrong valley and crash near a path that led to a bridge that continued to the village…where the warriors who killed Stan and Phil…lived.” Only a sovereign God can do that. Paul crossed the bridge on hands and knees, desperate to escape the burning airplane and seek refuge from the rain and stormy weather.

At the reunion in Florida, Paul revealed to us the pain of losing his Papuan family in addition to his parents and three siblings. The lack of communication with his “jungle friends” left him devastated, feeling that no one cared.

He returned to Papua in 1991 to visit the crash site and ask unanswered questions. Unknown to Paul at the time of the crash, the Papuan warriors were out for blood. They kept track of the death count in terms of brown skins (the nationals) to white skins (the missionaries). After the ambush on our uncles (two dead white skins), another skirmish a month later, and now the crash (six dead white skins), the death tally equaled nine brown skins to eight white skins. Taking Paul’s life would even the score. Perfectly justified in their culture. One leader in the village refused to allow an even score. He protected Paul’s life, offering him refuge in his own home.

Paul’s visit in 1991 reconnected him with the man who saved his life.  A piece of the wreckage still sat atop the man’s hut twenty-three years later—as a memento, no doubt. Maybe as a reminder of the little boy whose life he touched only briefly.

Paul’s visit informed him of the details of his own protection and rescue, realizing that, had his father or the pilot lived, they would’ve been killed by the villagers as well. God used this child’s life to bridge the gap between these cannibals and the missionaries. Who would ever dream that the life of a nine-year-old could make all the difference!

A church was eventually planted in the village that killed Stan and Phil. Saving Paul’s life began a chain of events that softened the hearts of the villagers. Missionaries rewarded the village warriors with many thank you gifts, and the warrior cannibals eventually gave their lives to the Lord. Some of the very warriors who shot and ate our fellow missionaries became leaders of the church.

Of course we always rejoiced over the repentance of the village warriors and the church that sprang up. We needed to know something good came out of the terrible tragedies. We also needed to know Paul was okay, that God brought healing to our friend and fellow boarding school classmate. The lack of information remained the piece that haunted us.

What relief we all felt at the reunion to see that Paul still walks with the Lord. He understands God’s sovereignty over the details surrounding the plane crash, the loss of his entire family, and his own life. He remarried. He’s okay. As children we all sensed the enormity of his pain. On some level, Paul’s pain affected us, and we prayed for our friend for fifty-four years.

Thank you, Lord, for taking care of Paul and allowing him to be okay. Thank you for showing him your amazing grace and allowing him to see how much he was loved and missed.

Thank you for bringing healing and closure to a group of people by allowing us to see into Paul’s life. Thank you for showing us the beauty that came out of such a terrible tragedy. Thank you for allowing us to know Paul is okay.

Thank you, Paul, for sharing your story and allowing us to ask too many questions.

Pictured above: The Newmans with the Lockhart girls (l-r: Leah-the tallest one, Alice-with checked top, Fran-in light pink, Beth-in red) about a year and a half before the crash. Paul is partially pictured on the far left behind Leah with two of his siblings, Joyce and Steven. His parents are standing at the back with unborn Jonathan.

Pictured below: Paul in 2022 with his new wife, Sandy.