The Tank Man's Son (30 page)

I was a wreck. For a bachelor like me, thinking about getting married was stressful enough. Every stereotype about clueless single guys fit me perfectly. But now the actual event was barreling toward me, and the thought of so many eyes watching us made my stomach clench. I had no idea what would happen when Joan finally met my parents. She had heard plenty of “tank stories,” as we called them, but what would happen when she met Dad?

Pastor Mike from our church would be officiating, but we had to rent a larger church for the ceremony and reception. Between our families and the fact that our entire congregation wanted to attend, the guest list swelled to nearly three hundred. The older women at church were especially keen to witness the union, given that most had believed such a thing to be impossible. My hunting trophies outnumbered my dates a hundred to one. The joke around church was that I was so awkward with women that I’d named my dog Buck
 
—and Buck was a female.

Everyone gathered together for the evening rehearsal at the church. Dad and Ann arrived, arm in arm. He was dressed in a fedora and a long overcoat, and when he removed his hat, I could see the top of his head shining. Pastor Mike knew a great deal of my story, so he moved the rehearsal along briskly, interjecting jokes whenever he could to keep the atmosphere light.

“Dad, stand over here,” he ordered my father, pretending to have a military air. He pointed, and Dad dutifully followed and came to stand next to me. We looked at each other for a quick second, and what I saw in his eyes surprised me. It was pride. That wasn’t a feeling I was used to, but I liked it.

“And Mark, when I tell you that you can kiss the bride tomorrow . . . no sloppy stuff, okay?”

That earned a laugh from everyone.

The rehearsal finished, and everyone caravanned to our house for dinner. Friends had set out a buffet of tacos with all the trimmings, and
as people began to line up with their plates, Mom and Dad and Ann met in the living room.

“Hello,” Mom began.

“Hello, good to see you,” Dad tried.

“And Ann, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Well . . .”

“Yes, we should probably get our food.”

It was cordial but forced. Once the inevitable greeting was out of the way, Mom and Dad were able to stay apart for the rest of the evening. Even as I chatted with what felt like an endless stream of well-wishers, I observed my family. Mom was visibly nervous whenever she had to pass near Dad. Her head pulled back slightly, as if in slow-motion recoil from a fly buzzing near her nose. Jerry was practically a Ping-Pong ball, bouncing back and forth between our two parents, anxious to catch up with both of them. Sheri seemed glued to Mom’s side. I saw Dad and Joan in line together at the taco bar, chatting as they piled food on their plates. Joan was everywhere, able to enter and leave conversations in a graceful way that I couldn’t.

Mom and Sheri were sitting together when I drifted over to chat. “Mark, how did you find Joan?” Sheri asked.

“At church,” I said simply.

“She seems
great
,” Sheri said, pulling a face. “
Much
better than I expected from you!”

“Sheri!” Mom commented, but with no real anger. “But I
am
so impressed with Joan, Mark. She’ll be a wonderful wife. You made a wise choice.”

“I’m so thankful,” I agreed.

“I mean, she’s educated and articulate and pretty and . . .”

“Okay, Mom! Mark’s gonna get a big head!”

Jerry joined us. “Hey, Mark! Finally getting married, huh?” Jerry joked. “Seriously, though, Joan sure seems like a nice girl. Does she know what she’s getting into?”

“She’s got a pretty good idea, but yeah.”

“Well, you got lucky, that’s for sure.”

Later I found myself near Dad and Ann in the kitchen. I hugged Ann, who smiled at me and said, “We’re so happy for you
 
—the Lord bless you, dear.”

Then I chose to hug Dad. He seemed quieter, but not because he was weaker. More that he was
calmer
, somehow, on the inside, and I could see it on the outside.

“Congratulations, Son.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

And that was that. Normal words spoken between father and son. A normal hug to mark the eve of a wedding and the start of a new chapter in life. Dad left with Ann, and I wondered if I was seeing a father so changed as to nearly be a new man.

The night wore on, and one by one everyone headed back to houses and hotel rooms. After the last guest had gone, I helped Joan finish cleaning up. We were putting away the vacuum when Joan told me, “I’m so surprised by your dad.”

“In what way?”

“He just seems so soft spoken and mild mannered.”

“He didn’t use to be.”

She smiled but didn’t say anything else. When the house
 
—
our
house!
 
—was tidied up, I joked, “See you tomorrow?”

We laughed, shared a quick good-night kiss, and I walked out into the night. The steering wheel in my truck felt like ice. As I drove back to my apartment along dark, silent roads, I shook my head several times. I was getting married, with my family there to witness. Me! It was a strange thing to believe, but the evidence was overwhelming.

My hunting buddy and roommate, Jerry, was my best man, and my brother was my groomsman. The two of them made sure that I looked
presentable and that I was standing at the front of the church, all in plenty of time for the ceremony: black tuxedo, white shirt, black bow tie adjusted and readjusted. A friend from church played a classical piece on the piano as Joan came up the aisle on her father’s arm, with the bridesmaids and groomsmen following. Joan’s best friend, Valerie, was her maid of honor, and her youngest sister, Lucy, was the bridesmaid. The women wore royal blue dresses and matching shoes.

Hands behind my back, I pinched myself. This was really about to happen: Joan was going to marry me. I tried to keep breathing.

Another friend from church sang a song while Joan and I knelt, side by side, to light a unity candle. I held a small taper, as did she, and we touched the two flames together on the wick of a wide, white candle. Once the candle in the middle was glowing brightly, we blew out our own candles.

And then Joan fainted.

I didn’t notice until it was too late to catch her. She leaned a little, kept on leaning, and then she appeared to be resting gently on the carpeted floor. Someone raced back with a glass of water, her bridesmaids helped her sit up, and before two minutes had passed, Joan was back on her feet and smiling.

“Let’s get to the
greatly shortened
message,” quipped the pastor.

After the message, we took communion together, while yet another friend provided special music. She was meant to sing along to a taped instrumental track, but the tape began to play in the middle of the song. Recovering without a hitch, she belted out a shortened version.

Then it was time for our vows. I have no idea what either of us said. All I remember is Joan’s smiling face, her eyes shining through the veil, and the taste of her sweet, soft lips when I lifted that veil and kissed, for the first time, my wife.

When the pastor introduced us as Mr. and Mrs. Bouman, Joan gave me a quick grin and a minuscule shrug that seemed to mean, “Oh well, it is what it is
 
—and it’s good!”

The next day we took leave of our families. I hugged Mom and Sheri and Jerry.

“Love you, Mom. Thanks for making the trip. I know it was a long way for you,” I said.

“I sure like Joan
 
—she’s wonderful. I’m so sorry she fainted,” Mom sighed.

“She’ll be fine,” I assured her.

“Well, we had a wonderful time,” she said, before adding, “I’m glad for you, Mark, really glad.”

“Good luck, Mark,” Sheri said. “We’re so glad we could make it.”

“I’m glad too. Travel safe.”

“Joan’s a keeper!” Jerry added.

“I know. I
know
!”

When they left, I said good-bye to Ann and Dad. I hugged Ann, and with tears in her eyes, she hugged me back with the biggest hug her tiny frame could muster. I realized how similar my body was to my father’s when he was my age: strong arms, large hands, a barrel chest. I was starting my life as a married man, just as Dad had twenty-five years earlier. He’d screwed that up about as thoroughly as possible, along the way fathering and raising
 
—if you could call it that
 
—me and my siblings. When I was a child, nearly every day had been slow-motion agony of one variety or another.

Now I was married, I had a good job and a nurturing church, and perhaps strangest of all, I woke up feeling hopeful most days. There was no way to slice it and make my life sound like that of Mark Bouman, the weirdo kid from Belmont.
I must have myself confused with someone else. Aren’t I the Tank Man’s son?

Dad was standing behind Ann, dressed once again in his overcoat and fedora.

“Seems like you got a good one, Son.” He put a hand on Ann’s shoulder, and she looked sideways at him and smiled.

Dad nodded at me. I nodded back. I was my own man, and I knew that fear would never again rule my relationship with my father.

Soon Joan and I were alone. Together in our bedroom, we packed suitcases for our honeymoon. The next morning we would drive to Alberta, Canada, after which we’d drive to Wisconsin to celebrate Christmas with Joan’s family.

I closed the lid of my suitcase and latched it with a click. It was a far cry from the broken suitcase I’d taken to Bible camp so many years before, the one I’d held together with one of Dad’s whipping belts. It was a family suitcase, and Dad had used it too. One Friday, as we were preparing to leave for the Grand River to spend the weekend on the ship, Dad had barked at me, “Take my suitcase to the car. Hurry up!”

I obeyed, lugging it awkwardly through the door and trying to hurry toward Mom’s car. Before I reached the car, however, the suitcase burst open, scattering Dad’s clothing across the sand. Panic filled my throat. If Dad came outside, he would beat me, but if I went back in and told him what had happened, he’d still beat me. Without much conscious thought, I knelt and quickly stuffed everything back into the suitcase, sand included.

Dad never said a word about his dirty, disheveled clothes. Hadn’t that been the reality of my childhood? Punishment could arrive at any moment, yet just as easily never arrive. That uncertainty, that continually possible violence, was what had nearly destroyed me. How had I not simply died on those eleven acres of Michigan sand and scrub, the gradual victim of my father’s commands?

It was a mystery, but one I celebrated gratefully. I was about to leave on my
honeymoon
, for goodness’ sake, with a woman so far out of my league it was comical. When I was a boy, I never had any inkling of what my future might hold. The only thing that seemed certain was that it would involve suffering.

Now that I was in the Air Force and married to Joan, I had even less of a clue about my future. We were a new family, but how long would
it be only the two of us? We were optimistic and free, and we could go anywhere and do anything. Anything! I savored the feeling that there were adventures waiting to be seized and lessons waiting to be learned without an abusive teacher.

Terror, after being my constant companion for most of my life, had vanished. In its place was a new and wonderful sensation
 
—hope
 
—and I knew that
whatever
was waiting around the bend, it would be less like another slap and more like a sunrise.

S
OON AFTER
J
OAN
and I were married, I chose to leave the Air Force and go back to school. I earned a degree in electrical engineering, and we moved to Wisconsin. We had a son, and despite my upbringing, I discovered that I already knew how to love him like crazy.

Then, as soon as I got comfortable, God threw me a curveball. Joan and I were sitting in our small church in central Wisconsin, and our son was downstairs in the nursery. That morning a visiting missionary talked about Cambodia, and he wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

“We have an orphanage there that cares for more than one hundred children, and sometimes we need people to come and help out. Maybe some of you will come!”

While I recrossed my legs and continued to listen politely, Joan leaned into me and whispered, “Oh, I would
love
to do that!”

You’ve gotta be kidding me
 
—you’d
go to Cambodia?
I wondered.

As we stood to sing the closing hymn, Joan whispered again, “We
need to talk to that missionary right after the service, since we’re interested!”

“We
are
?” I blurted.

But I hadn’t ended up with Joan by overthinking things. After the service ended, we chased down the missionary, and our conversation stretched to an hour. One step led to the next, and each step felt right, and less than four months later I was looking out an airplane window at the humid sprawl of Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capital.

We had committed to serve for twelve months, and we spent most of that year working in the capital as well as visiting the orphanage the missionary had spoken about. It was every bit the adventure I’d anticipated, especially when I heard that quiet voice again
 
—the one I’d heard hunting with Zeke
 
—telling me we’d be back after our year was up. Back for good.

When we returned more than a year later, after our second son was born, we were given shocking news: we were being put in charge of the entire orphanage!

Learning to run the orphanage was incredibly difficult. Our Cambodian staff saved us from countless errors, but we still made plenty. We adjusted to the heat and humidity and rain. We picked up bits and pieces of the language. We got to know the kids. And then, somewhere along the way, we realized we were actually
in charge
. We were responsible for the well-being
 
—spiritual, physical, emotional
 
—of all the kids and our staff of several dozen.

So we put our heads down and went to work. But what surprised me more than anything was how often my childhood kept coming to mind
 
—not to curse me but to bless me.

The entire orphanage used water that came from a single, shallow, hand-dug well. The procedure had always been to fill large plastic canisters with the well water and then insert ceramic filters into the canisters
until the water was clean enough to drink and cook with. The filters always needed changing, and the water was never very clean, not to mention the odd frog I’d find perched on a filter and goggling up at me.

The solution was obvious: drill a deep well. Dad’s well was two hundred feet deep and hadn’t run short of water once during all our years in Belmont. I hired a local guy to drill a well on the orphanage property, and even though it took him and his rickety gasoline engine three weeks to drill sixty feet, that was plenty for our needs. We slapped in a pump, installed water lines to each main building, and never bought another filter.

I had to put out fires
 
—literal fires
 
—in both the dorms and the yard. I didn’t have a tank to help me, but I did have Dad’s kind of attitude: just get the flames out and get back to more important things.

I had to stare down the barrels of guns. Cambodia was rife with attempted carjackings, robberies, and shakedowns, and we simply had to deal with it. Some part of me understood that God had a way of taking care of us, even in this chaotic mess. I didn’t fight back, but I did manage to turn the tables more than once, intimidating the would-be thief into stunned silence as I drove off.

I witnessed every kind of injury and health crisis imaginable, from broken bones and lice to gaping cuts and wasting diseases I didn’t even know existed. In Cambodia, knowing the difference between a minor medical situation and something serious enough to warrant a trip to the clinic could mean the difference between life and death.

Sometimes, though, despite all our efforts, we couldn’t save a child’s life. No one from the Cambodian government ever asked what happened to that boy or girl, and there was never a death certificate or a coroner’s report. We simply wrapped the body in a blanket and carried it to a hill nearby, where we would bury the child. We did what we had to do, and then we kept going
 
—the de facto motto of my childhood.

Joan and I were there for the kids, present with them, when no one else was. They weren’t just marginalized in that society; they were nothing.
Less than nothing. But trying to meet the needs of 130 kids in a war zone was like trying to keep the sand out of my childhood home. Joan and I joked that on a scale of one to ten, with ten the most difficult, running the orphanage was a twelve. Yet in spite of such difficulty
 
—or perhaps because we stuck by the children in the midst of the difficulty, even to death
 
—a bond formed between all of us. Joan was affectionately called
Mommy
, and I was given a new name as well. One that would have made precisely zero sense to me when I was a child, even as I began to wonder if my childhood was what had made the new name possible.

They called me
Papa
.