I am a son of the Rio Grande Valley. My birthplace, Alamo, Texas, is just a few miles north of the "Great River," the Rio Grande. Born three years into the great depression, I was the fifth child of eleven and first born son. During the depression, my parents lost everything, including the family farm and home. My early years were a mixture of attending school and working on a farm. We knew no nightlife because there was nothing to do in Alamo. Our family rarely if ever missed a day of kneeling down and saying the rosary together. During my early years God protected me and my siblings from rattlesnakes, rats, car accidents and even a gila monster.

I went to St. Anthony's Apostolic School in San Antonio, a minor seminary for teenage boys considering the priesthood. While I had a tough time with Latin, I made All-City in football. As I prepared for ordination, my brother, Mike, took his first vows and prepared to enter the scholasticate for seven years. I was ordained in 1959 and was assigned to Holy Family Parish in Corpus Christi. Three years later I volunteered for the missions to Mexico and was assigned to the mission of Tehuantepec in the state of Oaxaca, Mexico. Tehuantepec is an isthmus, 120 miles wide, in the southernmost part of Mexico. The area was a remote, isolated and mountainous region inhabited by a variety of indigenous tribes, traversed mostly on horseback or on foot.

When I arrived in Tehuantepec, the Second Vatican Council had already brought changes to other parts of the world, but they were just starting in this part of Mexico. Spanish had replaced Latin, and this seemed difficult for many to accept. Many times, it was easier for the people to learn than it was for us priests. The church the Oblates received in 1958 had been abandoned since the Mexican Revolution in 1910. Some priests had been driven off, but God in His divine mercy had kept the faith alive among so many of the people. Except for the Pan-American Highway, this very large diocese had very few roads. Most of our travel was either on foot or horseback or by mule or donkey. The climate was extremely hot in the lowlands and very cool in the mountains. Typically, a trip from the lowlands into the high mountains would take about two days on horseback. Many villages and small pueblos were along the way in the lowlands; some were villages of 100 people or so, while others had 1,000 to 2,000 people. All were farmers, but those living close to the Pacific were fisherman as well.

Priests in the 1950s and 1960s couldn't visit the pueblos often. When they did come, everything was done in one to three days - Masses, baptisms, sick calls and some Communions - with hardly any instructions. They would return again perhaps in six months, or maybe in a year. In 1972, we built a small clinic with six rooms and a bath. Besides caring for sick from all the pueblos, we delivered hundreds and hundreds of babies, many of whom are now in their forties. We helped string electrical wires and improve the roads. Around 1985, the government built a small, narrow paved road.

There were many duties to occupy a missionary's days - Mass, confessions, baptisms, marriages and visits to the sick. Meetings and time are important to catechists, and difficulties are always present. In days past, all this could take two days. The sick needed medication, and there were babies to be delivered, all without electric lights. Candles or lanterns were the only light. The dirt floor is covered at times with paper. The mothers in labor are very patient; they suffer, but do not show much pain. Life has been very difficult for them. Some things about these people have always impressed me. Ladies prepared flowers for church and for Mass each day. It gave me great joy to see this. Though strapped themselves, neighbors planted for the poorest and sickest. These acts of charity prompted me to reflect on my own life. The Lord speaks in many ways. These were the days of calm and peace.

But that was about to change. Trouble was brewing, though it didn't happen all at once. It was gradual. In the early 1980s, drug cartels began moving their operations from northern Mexico to the remote mountain valleys in the state of Oaxaca. There was quite a temptation for the people to cooperate with the drug lords since money and food were scarce. The Indians had little idea of the harm being done in other places by the drug trafficking. Even "Mexico" was a distant place for them. They were the ones who took all the risks in growing poppies and marijuana. Visitors from outside our pueblos began coming to visit, mostly at night. Daily flights of small planes came over the area. At night, the lights would go out. Trucks that had not been in the area before were now coming. Machine guns were being introduced in the area, packed in boxes and moved by dollies. I asked some men what the guns were for, but they didn't answer. I knew it could not be for something good. Problems began. There were murders. At first, many people didn't know why the poppies were being grown, but it soon became evident what was happening and why the planes were in the area. We were on the drug smuggling route. Marijuana can be grown anywhere, but poppies need a cool climate. The mountain climate in Tehuantepec is perfect for growing poppies for heroin.

In February 1982, while on a daytrip in the truck, we encountered groups of people who told of being shot at and threatened. My first thought was, Don't get involved with this dangerous situation. I knew that some families had been burned alive in their houses. I asked my companion on the trip, Father Joe, to hear my confession, and I prayed: Have mercy on me, O Lord, and forgive me all my sins Forgive me all the times I have been inconsiderate to others. Forgive me for my sins in my past life. Father Joe gave me absolution, and I commended myself to God and our Blessed Lady, Mary. We continued on our trip into toward trouble. Fear enveloped me. I knew people were hiding in houses and would not come out because of fear. We drove to the house where we had heard that shots had previously been fired. As I walked to the door, a man stepped halfway outside, calling, Padre, Padre - pronto, pronto ("Father, Father - Hurry! Hurry!"). Shots rang out, hitting the man as we ducked inside. Inside lay two teenage boys who had been shot and were bleeding, one in the face and the other in the chest. The mother and five young children were all screaming for help. I was terrified and didn't know what to do. The mother and children were hanging on to me and screaming, "They are going to kill us! They are going to burn us!" I could hardly believe this was happening to me. I knew that if I went outside, I would be shot. There was no choice. I got away from those holding on to me and went out the door. On trembling knees that could hardly stand, I went to the driver's side, from which the shots had been fired, keeping my hands in the air. I couldn't see these people, who were behind nearby rocks. I called out to them, "In the name of God and the Blessed Virgin, I am the priest and I wish you no harm. There are people inside who are bleeding. In God's name, don't shoot. In God's name, don't shoot." I was beside myself, not knowing what to do. The pickup had to be turned around. Climbing inside the vehicle, I tried to start the engine, but it was dead. This could not be happening, I thought. This wasn't real. With God's grace we were able to load the injured man and boys into the back of the truck. As Father Joe drove to town, I tried to help the injured but the man died before we could get there.

Deaths and drugs continued. Families were warned not to interfere with the planting of marijuana and the poppies for heroin in their fields. At night and alone, people would come to share with me what was happening. The newly elected man in charge of looking after one of the poppie fields would come to see me at night. He revealed to me that he had told some drug lords they could not plant any drugs on the lands belonging to the pueblo and planned to report them to authorities. Shortly after this, several men took this man away a, where he was tortured and murdered. His wife, seven months pregnant, came to tell me what had happened. Out of fear, not many people went to get his body. Two months later, I delivered her baby, her thirteenth. This mother had all these children to care for and now her husband had been murdered.

People were afraid to travel and to go out after dark. The hauling of truckloads of drugs was a daily event. Every day, planes were flying in with guns and leaving with drugs. Frequent murders of innocent people continued. In one case, a man with a wife and five children were being sought by the drug cartel. One afternoon, the children were left alone at home when six vicious killers, all armed with machine guns, went to the house looking for the man. Not finding him, they shot the children with their machine guns. Four were riddled with bullets. Only the baby, sleeping in a chicken basket in the corner, escaped their notice and survived.

I began keeping a list of those who were murdered. Families told me of the names and dates of the murders - and also, many times, the names of those responsible. I began keeping a list of all this information with places, names and dates. When the list grew to 150 incidents, I gave it to the proper authorities in Mexico City. I was scared, but I also remembered who had sent me there. I knew there was danger ahead; the only question was where and when it would strike. It didn't take long to find out.

In March 1987, while on a routine day trip alone on the Pan-American Highway, I heard what sounded like the truck exploding. Then, as pieces of upholstery fell from above my head, I realized that someone had fired at me from the other side of the road. I could smell the gunpowder. When I later stopped to examine the truck, I found twelve bullet holes in the roof, just above my head. I continued on to Oaxaca where I phoned my provincial who told me to catch a flight to Mexico City. That night, I didn't sleep. I kept hearing the shots over and over again in my mind. Arriving in Mexico City, I went to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe and went to confession. Then I sat down and pondered the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. I have no idea how long I spent looking at it. I cried, and I said to her, "Mary, my Mother, please tell me what to do. I must know." Inside, I was hearing, Don't be afraid. Go back to the pueblos. I am your Mother.

I spent six more years in Quiechapa serving the people. Murders were still frequent, and heroin was still being grown. So many people had been killed that we had asked the killers' families to turn in their weapons to us. I had collected about twelve automatic rifles and pistols. The arms had one thing in common: all had been used to murder others. What were we to do with all these weapons? The congregation built a large fire in the yard of the church and gathered around. "As a protest against these murders, I have invited you to destroy the guns with the sledge hammers and then to burn the pieces in the fire," I told the congregation. "They will kill no one again."

The generosity and courage of these simple people amazed me. One day, I heard the church bells ringing. It must have been around 3 p.m. - a strange time, I thought, to be ringing the bells, but it was signaling an emergency. A murderer was angry at me for having spoken out against the killings and the violence. On the high side of the pueblo, many women had gathered to stop him as he walked toward the church with his rifle. The women stopped him and sent word to me not to leave my home until he was gone. Perhaps he had been drinking or was on drugs. In any event, he left and did no harm to me, but I was afraid. Those brave ladies remained until he left.

I finally had to leave Mexico when my health deteriorated and forced me to retire. I am recovering from a stroke and live at the Oblate Madonna Residence. I thank God for the years he granted me to serve the poor and abandoned. I thank God for the gifts he loaned to me. I thank God for each servant I have met on my journey through life.

Most of the stories about Father Ted were taken from his autobiography "When the Wolves Came". For more information or to purchase a copy of his book, contact his sister, Judy, at judith.pfeifer@harlandale.net.