“I really don’t want to go. Can I please stay home, Dad?” I begged as I tried to
keep up with the long strides of his muscular legs quickly walking down the stairs,
leading to the living room.

“Ah, I’m not going to talk about this right now,” he said as he stopped abruptly on
the last stair, turning, staring up at me with his deep brown eyes. “Please go get your
things. We’re leaving in ten minutes, and don’t forget your passport.”

“But Dad!”

“Don’t but dad me. You have nine minutes.” Without another word he turned away from me and continued to walk toward the living room, while straightening his silver and black diamond tie.

“He’s so unfair,” I mumbled as I walked back up the stairs.

The day was November 7th, 1993, four months after I turned fourteen. My dad was amissionary with a local Christian organization. He was well known and respected worldwide. It seemed as if I was the only one who did not respect him. He had been
asked to go on a mission trip to Oswald, Africa, which is located between Came loon and Congo, deep in the African jungle.

Two days prior to this, my friend and I were caught smoking marijuana, and were
arrested. We were taken to Skipworth, a juvenile detention center in Eugene. I would only be released if one of my parents would come and claim me. My mom refused.

“Maybe you should think about your actions lately, Debby. You can call your dad when he gets back from his trip,” she said with her serious, cold look.

“Hell no, I’m not staying here that long. I’m callin’ Dad now,” I replied.

Dad came and bailed me out, but with a condition. Because I was suspended from school, and I was driving my mom crazy, I had no choice; if I wanted out of Skipworth I had to go with him to Africa. I was not the least bit happy about it. I would much rather stay and enjoy my vacation from school at home--with my friends.

Out of four kids, one older and two younger, I was the only one who was into drugs, the only one who got into fights, the only one who had been arrested, and the only one who had been suspended--repeatedly, and actually expelled from three different schools.

Two were public and one was a Christian private school. My brothers and sister had never even seen the inside of the principal’s ugly office. I seemed to see it almost daily. I was the “troubled” child. My dad called me his “misunderstood angel.”

“Debby, let’s go!” he yelled.

“I’m coming, just chill!” I hollered back, stomping down the stairs. When we walked outside it was pouring down rain. We loaded our luggage into the back of his green Jeep Wrangler and headed out. After about an hour of silence, I looked at my dad and said,

“This is so stupid! Why do you guys always have to try to run my life? I hate you. The last thing I want to do on my vacation is hear you preach for two weeks straight.

You’re the worst dad in the world!”

Hearing these complaints often, my dad looked at me as he ran his rough hand over the smooth shave of his olive skin, and said, “I’m sorry that you feel that way. Just remember, nothing that you could ever do or say will make me stop loving you. You know, you really don’t have it as bad as you think, Deb. Ah, and by the way, you’re not on a vacation. You’re on a suspension. There’s a big difference.”

“Whatever, Dad. They’re the same to me.” I was quiet the rest of the way to the airport.

After we checked our bags and went through security, we finally boarded the plane. We sat there five minutes before a cheerful flight attendant asked us, “Would you like
something to drink?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a Jack Daniels with Coke,” I said.

“No, you won’t,” Dad jumped in. “You can have Coke. No Jack Daniels. She’ll have a
Coke, and I would love a cup of coffee, thank you, kindly,” he said, sitting back in his seat with a sigh, as he ran his fingers through his neatly combed jet black hair.

I could tell I was aggravating him, but I didn’t care.

Upon our arrival in southern Africa, we met up with our lifeline to the African culture and community. His name was Oji. He was our translator. He stood about five feet seven inches tall with a very muscular build, dark skin and a bald head. Standing up straight with his head tilted slightly to the left, both hands in front of him, he held a thick walking stick. He stepped forward and in his broken and heavily accented English said, “My name

Oji. I jo you da way, ya?” Looking at me he asked, “What your name?”

“I didn’t tell you?” I responded innocently. Confused, He looked at my dad, then back at me.

“No,” he said.
“That’s cuz it’s none of your damn business!” I snapped.

“Debra, that’s enough!” Dad demanded. His face heavy with disappointment he turned to Oji and said “I’m terribly sorry. Her name is Debby.”

“Okay,” he responded as he pointed his stick toward this old golf cart looking thing he called his truck. I turned to look and could not help but notice the dark smoke rings coming from the sad excuse for a tail pipe.

As we were stepping into the truck, I looked over at Dad and asked, “How far does this thing have to make it?”

“Ah, it’s about twenty miles in. Then we have to walk about a half mile to meet our host tribe. Why don’t you just enjoy the scenery.”

“This is gonna suck,” I mumbled as I sat down on the dust-covered black seat. We started driving over the dry ground and through the thick, dusty air that surrounded us.

I’d never seen anything so dirty and crummy in my life. After about forty-five minutes of a slow and bumpy ride, the road literally just stopped in front of us. Now we faced the jungle. The thick grass went about a foot over my head, and all we had to follow was an elephant-trampled path.

We started stomping through, and after about twenty minutes, our leader suddenly stopped. Oji grabbed my arm and whispered, “Tiger behind us, liten to me. Do like I do, hurry!” Just then Oji started to run, throwing his arms into the air, screaming as loudly and aggressively as he could.

Instinctively I hunched down. But, I was quickly pulled back to my feet by my father’s firm grasp.

“Run, baby, run!” he yelled as his voice started to crack. I had never seen my dad so scared; therefore, I was petrified.

Oji ran back toward us, yelling, “Noize--make noize!”

I let out a piercing scream, and one foot in front of the other, I started to run. I only took four steps before my foot slipped into a pothole, and my hand slipped from my dad’s protecting grip.

I hit the ground with a thump. My screams turned from panic to terror, and then to extreme pain. I felt a most intense, sharp pressure in the back of my head.

At that moment I realized that a tiger had bitten me! As I lay face down in the grass, his loud roar echoed in my ear. When he released his grip from my head to readjust, I scrambled and managed to flip to my back.

I looked up at my attacker. His pupils were so dilated with anger, the color of his eyes were not visible. His mouth and teeth were covered with my blood. He was standing right over the top of me, with blood dripping from his mouth, landing on my forehead. With a loud hiss and growl he rose to an upright position on his back legs, claws extended.

I could smell his rotting breath. I covered my face with my hands, and felt the weight of him coming back down on me. His razor sharp claws tore into my left thigh like a hot ice cream scoop gliding through ice cream. One of his teeth went all the way through my right hand. At this point terror was an understatement. I honestly thought I was going to die.

As we tug-of -warred for my right hand, I placed my left hand on his chest to push him off, but to no avail. It was like pushing against a fuzzy brick wall. The harder I pushed the stronger I felt his racing heartbeat against my hand. I found myself begging this massive animal to spare my life.

I was finally able to wrestle away my torn hand from the clinch of his powerful mouth. With the back of my head, leg, and hand bleeding profusely, I screamed, “Please don’t bite my head off! Please, please, plea…!”

Just then he fell lifeless on top of me, head butting me on the way down. His right claw landed in my left eye.

Oji shot him with a tranquilizer gun.

“I have to get her out of here!” my dad managed to spit out as he frantically tried to get this 300-pound animal off of me. He scooped me up into his shaking arms, leaving behind a pool of blood, and a fading tiger cub.

“Dad my leg hurts!” I cried as blood poured from my body including my eye where the tiger’s claw had landed. “I can’t see!”

“I know, baby. Hold on! I’m going to get you out of here. You just hold on,” he reassured me as he sent Oji for help.

I felt very weak and tired from the massive blood loss and couldn’t stay awake much longer. The last thing I remember is being propped up against a huge tree, with blood pouring down my face. My dad knelt next to me, tearing his new black dress shirt into rags to wrap my leg. I will never forget the look of pure terror and helplessness on his face, as he fought back his tears, while I fought for my life.

The tiger lay still and quiet with a blood smeared mouth and paws. He was fading as fast as I was. Soon everything went blurry. Including my dad’s face. Through my squinted eyes, I looked up and for the first time in about six years, I said, “I’m so sorry, I love you Dad.”

When I woke up I was still in an unfamiliar territory. Apparently, I had gained twenty-four thousand and three stitches, and lost about eighty-five percent of the vision in my left eye. I had been put back together by the “Attack Pack” team at a nearby wild life conservation.

A month later, after clawing my way back to health, I was transferred back to the

U.S. As I hobbled my way in the house with the use of crutches, I felt like a different person. For the first time in my fourteen years I saw life positively. I had a new appreciation for life, my second chance, and most of all, my dad. I found myself determined to stay in school and out of trouble. My grades went up as my stitches came out.

To this day I bear many scars, but I was lucky. I have no hard feelings toward the tiger. Actually, I am thankful. The tiger almost took my life, but in reality he saved it. He taught me the lesson that my parents had been trying to get through my thick head for years--Respect.

I guess my dad was right all along-- I never did have it as bad as I thought.