One of Brad’s last flights in Indonesia.
I was stuffed full of southern cookin’ and hoarse from talking so much. It was the kind of weekend that filled me up and also let me spend myself until I was thoroughly exhausted. I’d flown from Colorado to Texas for a special wedding of a long-time friend, and then spent a night with dear friends from my own newlywed days. Both sets of friends listened, shared, and cared for me in rich ways.
Heading back home, I waited in the Dallas airport, surrounded by strangers, a mixture of outward hubbub and the inner quiet of not having any reason to speak to anyone.
“Are you from…Asia?”
The man talking to me looked like he could be from Asia himself with his dark skin. I noticed that he was pointing at my phone plugged into an outlet. Brad bought the phone for me in Indonesia when we lived there. It has a two-round-pronged plug, so I’ve had to use an international plug converter once we moved to the States. It stuck out above the other phones plugged into the sockets.
When we lived and traveled in Indonesia, I got used to curious and friendly fellow passengers asking me where I’m from. Our family was sometimes the only white people in the airports through which we traveled. The answer we gave was something like, “We’re American, but we live in Kalimantan.” When we weren’t preoccupied with caring for our kids or catching flights, we often enjoyed a conversation with a new acquaintance.
Noticed
This time, though, I fumbled through the response. “I’m American, but I live—lived—in Indonesia for 14 years.”
The slip-up came from the mixed feelings of having to past-tense my way through the answer. We loved our Indonesian home and community, and for many reasons, didn’t want to leave them. Leaving felt like disorientation, sometimes like disappointment, many times laced with deep gratitude for the privilege of living there, and other times, like death.
It felt good that someone noticed that maybe I didn’t completely belong in America. Maybe I haven’t disappeared into the crowd that looks like me, but has no idea who I really am, who I’ve become, and who I love.
In the five minutes we had left before our flight was called, we quickly exchanged stories. He was from India, but lived in California, and had traveled all over Southeast Asia. Indonesia was on his bucket list.
I told him that we loved Asia, that my kids were born there. I used the line I like to say: They have American skin, but Asian hearts…and stomachs. I urged him to specifically work Kalimantan—our Indonesian island home there—onto his travel list.
He was curious about the work we did there. I wanted to know what life was like for him in America, what was hard, what was good. Are people kind to him, like Indonesians were to us? But we ran out of time to get the answers. It was time to board.
When we disembarked in Denver, we smiled at each other. I really meant it. It felt good for these parts of me that now feel hidden to be noticed. I have an Asian phone and had an Indonesian home. I miss it terribly and someone on that plane knew that.
When the Familiar becomes Foreign
Living with the incongruity—my insides not matching my outsides—can be tiring. I now live in American suburbia, own a van, and try to remember to check my mail when we return home from picking up the kids. (We didn’t have a mailbox in Indonesia.) But we’ve whittled down our many addresses (Indonesian one, Texas driver’s license one, parents’ one, and MAF one) to just one. And the one I now have feels the most foreign.
“There’s more than one kind of poverty,” a friend of mine recently told me.
I was struggling to find the words to describe how rich I’d often felt there, in a land that, to outside eyes, may seem to have so much less. But I sometimes go through my days here in the States feeling like pieces are missing.
We recently needed to buy Brad a suit for a job interview for an airline job. He’s entering a whole different field of aviation from his previous Borneo float flying on jungle rivers.
“What am I doing?” he said as he looked in the mirror at his suit. Normally, we replenish his supply of waterproof shoes and strong sunscreen when we visit the States. And now? Expensive suits? How life has changed.
I patted his chest. “Same incredible heart as always,” I told him.
Choices and Grief
Many former MAF pilots have kindly coached him through this process of flying in America again. We all have our reasons for this big transition. None of them include big salaries or fast planes or disregard for the indigenous communities we gave years to serve. Some of these pilots talk of the deep grief they’ve felt when they had to make the difficult choices of leaving a community and service that they loved. I want to give them all hugs, tell them how much I honor what they gave up (and gained) to go there, and that I trust the choices they felt they needed to make to come back here. I want to thank them, too, for the purpose and sacrifice with which they flew in Indonesia, and for showing us the purpose beyond the work there, the purpose and sacrifice here, too.
(Many global workers may not have even had a choice when they had to leave their adopted homes, due to visa problems, security issues, sudden health needs, etc. Dear ones, I see you, too.)
I’ve always been proud of Brad’s mission flying job. He literally saved lives. Now, though, more than ever, I’ve seen the depths of Brad’s serving heart, advocacy and integrity. Not all types of heroism happen during a medevac.
As Brad and I sort out our lives, who we are, and what’s important to us during this transition, some things are clearer than others. We know we’ll always live frugally (but feel thankful for everything we have) no matter our address. We’ll always care more about people than planes, and use planes to connect people—indigenous or suburban—with resources, family, funerals, training, education, economic opportunity, more medical options, and a chance to see beyond our village or neighborhood. We’ll always learn and grow, whether it’s about a language, a new plane, our communities or ourselves.
The Wonder Box
For the things that feel incongruous, ironic, or just confusing, we’ve created what we call our “wonder box.” As in, “I wonder what to do with that and how to make sense of it.”
For instance, as we process all the differences between America and Indonesia, we try to be slow in our judgments and opinions. The differences in economies between the two places can seem startling sometimes and it can be tempting to either criticize or justify how other people spend their budgets. But the reality is, both generosity and materialism are present all over the world. And I enjoy seeing how all people make a home, a life, a business, and art out of their surroundings and resources. Better just to stick “economy” in the “wonder” box.
And as we decide next steps for our lives, we ask ourselves, will the airline life be a good long-term fit or just a good job for now? Wonder box.
The losses involved in leaving Indonesia, the entwined pain and the joy of our lives, and all those pieces that don’t fit yet into a clear picture? Will God show us someday? Will He use it? Will He redeem it? Will the opposites and ironies we’ve experienced establish grounding, lasting truths for our future?
Put it in the box.
Having this box takes the pressure off of figuring it all out right away, of trying to align every value we have with some of the realities in which we now find ourselves. And it allows us to know things about ourselves—that we love a good tropical rainstorm—while also being able to chat with our neighbor about the beauty of a Colorado snow.
Moving Forward
I recently was out shoveling snow in what has been a particularly snowy Colorado winter. I was a long way from the last yard we had in Indonesia—filled with plumeria trees, geckos, frogs, and palm branches. Our family favorite was a simple zip line that stretched across our grass like an open arm, inviting kids from the neighborhood to come be brave and free.
The snow was heavy on my shovel, but I moved quickly. My neighbor had kindly shoveled more than his share, leaving me with just my driveway. Feeling strong, I concentrated on scooping and tossing. Snowflakes dropped light and beautiful on my brown mittens. I enjoyed the steady progress, even liked the challenge of staying on my feet on the slippery concrete. Strangely, incongruously, I felt like spring was beginning inside of me. We’ve come through many struggles, have survived the first difficult months of this transition, and God has given us life, love, support, encouragement and hope again and again.
What gifts, adventure, friendships and opportunities to add good to this world will come next?
I wonder.