I'd no intention of confrontation, but with at least twelve savages ahead of me caution was needed. In the brush well back from the ford I took a position that gave vantage to the crossing. I saw no one but waited, listening. I heard no birds and took alarm at this. I waited longer, just watching and listening. To my left there was suddenly a crashing through the brush. I turned to see both Indian women captives, still naked, running right at me then right past me. That they saw me I was sure. I could have reached out and touched either of them. As they passed my eyes followed them, but another crash through the brush brought me back around to the direction they came from just in time to see one of their Iroquois captors running after them, right at me. He was not ten feet from me at a dead run and he saw me. His stone ax he lifted and such a scream I've never heard. I stood up, my walking spear in my right hand. The point of the spear I raised up, the rear I braced with my foot

Steve Hayner was serving as president of Columbia Seminary and was healthy and fit when he found out he had terminal pancreatic cancer. These pages, including reflections from some of those closest to Steve and his wife Sharol, offer us a hope-filled glimpse into what it means to walk with God in honesty, with joy, even through great pain.