All the way my Savior leads me
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy,
Who through life has been my guide?
Heavenly peace, divinest comfort,
Here by faith in Him to dwell,
For I know whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well

Who else but God could take a little girl born in Panama and move her more than 3,600 miles to Saskatchewan, Canada? And who else but God could take a boy born in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan and move him 2,000 miles to Philadelphia, then keep this boy and girl for each other and bring them together in His time? This is our story. In reality, though, it is God’s story. It is a story of how God has guided and directed our every step. Although the journey that brought us together was not always smooth or easy, we cannot doubt God’s tender mercy and we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that, whatever befalls us, Jesus does do all things well.

I had what I believe to be one of the greatest privileges a child could have—that of being born a missionary kid. My parents, Gil and Jean Reimer, were missionaries with the Gospel Missionary Union in Panama. They had an exciting ministry teaching in the Seminary and church planting along with home Bible studies. My brother, Glen, was two years older than I, and together we went to a missionary boarding school. 

My childhood was what I thought to be both normal and exciting. Each Monday morning we would be driven to the boarding school, then on Friday we would return home for the weekend. The other m.k.’s (missionary kids) became our close friends and we loved our dorm parents, whom we affectionately called Aunt Ruth and Uncle Gordon. There were only thirteen of us in the school, so we all were in one classroom and in one dorm. Our dorm parents always went out of their way to make each week special in its own way. We all took piano and swimming lessons and spent many hours climbing the amazing tropical trees just outside our dorm or playing ball. It was like an extended family with thirteen siblings. There was always someone to play with and loneliness was never even an issue.

It was the second week of February, 1974. I was almost eight years of age and Valentine’s Day was just around the corner! Our dorm mom had helped each of us girls bake a special heart shaped cake and decorate it to take home for that weekend. I could hardly wait to show Mom and Dad my exquisitely decorated masterpiece! I went to school that Friday morning eagerly anticipating all the promises the weekend held for me. Little did I realize it would be on this very day, at such a young age, I would learn that God’s ways are not necessarily our ways. My brother and I were to discover that this Friday was to be unlike any other Friday we had ever had.

Before the closing bell rang, Aunt Ruth asked if she could talk to Glen and me for a moment outside. I recall thinking how very odd this was, since I could never remember anyone ever getting pulled out of school before. I did a quick mental checklist and was quite sure I hadn’t done anything for which I could get in trouble, and I knew my brother would never be in trouble! My curiosity certainly was piqued. Aunt Ruth took each of us by the hand and asked us to sit down on the cement stoop just outside the door. We sat, one on either side of her, and as I looked at the palm trees swaying gently in the breeze, Aunt Ruth’s words changed my life forever. She told how four days earlier on Monday evening our Dad had been kidnapped from our home. An intensive search was launched but he was still missing. As best she could, she tried to prepare us for the activity that would be going on when we would arrive at our apartment, along with the concern and anxiety.

The weekend was a blur of activity around our 6^th floor apartment in a high rise in downtown Panama City. The phone rang constantly. People dropped by at all hours to bring food. All I remember is ham and countless jars of peanut butter (a rare commodity, since peanut butter was only available in the American Military stores). Day-long circles of prayer were formed on behalf of my missing father. People from various parts of the globe flew in to Panama City to be with us.

On Sunday afternoon an urgent phone call came from the police, asking my mom to come immediately to the station. My Uncle Cliff, Dad’s brother and also a missionary, was with us at the time. He drove with my mom to the police station while the rest of us waited in the apartment, anxious for the news, hoping against all hope that Dad would soon be walking back through those doors with Mom. Later that afternoon we watched as the elevator doors opened and Mom and Uncle Cliff stepped out alone. Dad was not with them. I remember seeing my mom standing there with a white shawl draped over her arm as we waited for the news. When I saw the countenance on her face I knew without hearing a word that Dad would not be coming home again. He was now in his Father’s house.

Mom took us in her arms and told us how they had found Dad’s mutilated body on the banks of the Panama Canal. He had been stabbed eleven times. My father, Gil Reimer, became the first missionary martyr of Panama, and to this day the motives for his murder have not been disclosed.

Sobs and hysterical crying filled the apartment. I heard my grandma cry out, "I will never hear his laughter again." Everyone seemed to be in shock. This awful murder just didn’t make sense. Why would God take away a man in the prime of his life at the age of 36, a man who was having such a fruitful ministry?

Through the commotion I looked up at my mom’s eyes and saw complete and utter peace, and found my solace. She had found her solace in her Lord, and it radiated out of her heart. Who else but God can give a peace that surpasses understanding? Who else but God can give divine comfort? Who else but God can surround us with tender mercy? God, in His great love for Mom, Glen and me, took each of us in His gentle, loving hands, wrapped us in the cloak of His comfort and drew us close to His heart. To this day my mom, as she shares her testimony all over the world, says that this was one of the most precious miracles to her, how God loved us so much that He prepared the hearts of a ten-year old boy and an eight-year old girl for the trials that lay ahead.

He had bathed my mom in His love earlier that Sunday morning, even before the phone ever rang. In the quietness of her bedroom, the bedroom she had shared with her soul mate and husband for thirteen years, God directed her in her Bible reading to Psalm 68:5 — "A Father to the fatherless, and a Defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation." She knew at that moment, without ever being told, that she was now a widow and her children were fatherless. She has always told us how thankful she was that God had prepared her in the stillness of that Sunday morning, showing her what lay ahead. Before the chaos of the day ensued, she chose to find her strength in God. While others around her fell apart she was already being borne up in His arms. Mom had taught me that when we start the day with God He would always give us the grace to meet whatever would come our way—no matter what.

God also surrounded my brother, Glen, with His peace and comfort. After Mom returned from the police station, more and more people kept filing into our little home, until there didn’t seem to be a quiet place anywhere. Some people wept openly, others screamed, some lit candles. After six hours of this chaos, my ten-year-old brother asked if Mom and I could go into his room with him. Mom thought that Glen just needed to get away from everyone so he could weep unashamedly. But no, that was not it. God had so infiltrated Glen’s heart, mind and soul at his tender age, that when this crisis occurred he knew immediately where to turn to find his source of strength. He opened his Philips Translation of the New Testament to Philippians chapter one and asked if he could read it to us. He concluded with verse 21 which says, "For me to live is Christ, to die is gain." Through tears he said, "Mom, that is Daddy. To die has been better." God had given him, as young as he was, an understanding that so many adults were lacking.

Although I was not yet eight, God also gave me the precious gift of childlike insight. On the morning of Dad’s funeral, I woke up and put on the beautiful new white dress someone had given me to wear for that day. I went into Mom’s room and announced, "This is going to be a good day." My mom thought I had forgotten that today was the funeral. With the gentleness of a mother she cradled me in her arms and said, "No Honey. Today is Daddy’s funeral." I looked up at her and responded, "I know that, but Jesus suffered so much for us, we can suffer a little for Him, can’t we?"

From an early age I had learned that once we give our hearts to Jesus our position in Christ never changes. He will always be there to give the comfort, the strength and the mercies that Fanny Crosby talked about in her hymn. Our responsibility is to follow Him and absorb the Word into the very core of our being, so that no matter on what path God leads us we are His pliable, moldable clay ready for His potter’s wheel.

After Dad’s funeral we needed to pack up the things in our apartment and, for safety reasons, leave the country immediately. We moved to Quito, Ecuador where my mom worked for HCJB, the Christian radio station. In four short months we finished our school year in Quito and moved to Canada for an anticipated short furlough.

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