There are several kinds of missionary tales. The uplifting and exhilarating stories of spiritual triumph told over and over during presentations and meetings in our home countries; the edgier stories we swap with our teammates, that really only people living in our context will understand; the “missionary badge” stories of our bouts with malaria, consuming really unappealing food, and enduring unusual bathrooms (the bathroom stories being at the top); and finally the stories we keep close. The moments that either mold and shape us, or bring us to the brink of giving up. They reek of self-centeredness, failure, exhaustion, and God’s silence. That last type of story is one I’m choosing to tell now, partially because of what I learned from it and partially because it’s simply good to tell. It’s easy for missionaries in this social media crazed world to start living for the next great account of “and there God was and oh how He blessed,” forgetting all the times along the way we think He’s missing. So… here it goes.

When we set our trip itinerary to America last month, we chose to cut layovers a little close on the way back in order to avoid overnighting anywhere. We knew at the end of our time in Dallas, Richmond, and Delaware, the girls would be hard pressed to get home. And so would we. We didn’t want to dilly dally with overnights. During my last morning run with Mom, I joked she would either get a quick goodbye from us in LAX as we waited to board the long Pacific flight, or we would Facetime with them from a hotel room in Chicago. I laughed as I said it because I didn’t really think it would happen. Surely not. Please, Lord, no. Please.

We boarded the Chicago-bound plane with plenty of time to spare, taxied out onto the runway, and then experienced the dreaded stall. We ate into 50 minutes of our short Chicago layover sitting right there on the Richmond tarmac. There was very little explanation of what was going on, and the lone flight attendant was flat out lying in order to avoid confrontation. She got to the point where she publicly shamed a person for going to the bathroom. Needless to say, it wasn’t a pleasant flight for anyone. Once we finally landed in Chicago, we sat another 50 minutes touring the backside of their airport because every gate was full (Chicago was not a fun place to be that day). We prayed and hoped that our next flight was stuck at a gate with so many others, and it was! But it was also closed. Because… of course. I was frustrated, dreading the impending long flight that would now be delayed another night, and mad at nobody in particular. Bad weather had caused all of it and there’s simply nothing you can do about that. Even so, I cried and I started wondering why. Why did God answer my plea with such a resounding “no”? I just wanted a smooth trip home. That’s all. And now we’re stuck, why?!?! I gathered myself as we ate some airport Subway while waiting for the hotel shuttle, and was able to enjoy Ray’s happy chatter at the shuttle driver. When he was able to get a word in, all he said was, “She sounds like Minnie Mouse.” So true, buddy. So true. We finally poured the girls into bed believing that tomorrow would be a new and better day. The Lord was in control and watching over us. He would pave the rest of the trip and in the end we would see why this was a good and restful delay.

We had plenty of time the next morning to slowly make our way to the airport. We weren’t stressed because we had paid our dues of “bad travel” and now we were really going home. As we made our way back, a plume of black smoke billowed into the sky from the general direction of the airport. We passed by the source of the smoke and saw a blackened and burning plane we think was part of a training exercise. Regardless of what was happening, the image of a passenger plane up in smoke seriously unnerved our conviction that we were getting a reset. It just didn’t seem like the best sign for our immediate relationship with air travel. But the flight to LAX was uneventful. Both girls did really well and we regained our good spirits; God was with us.

Once in LA, we found three of our seven trunks (the rest were set to arrive later that afternoon), and lumbered over to the international terminal. It was simple checking in, simple getting dinner, simple entertaining the girls, and simple waiting at the gate for the late night flight. It stopped being simple when God abandoned us somewhere around 10:30pm. We were standing at the gate waiting to preboard as a family (one of the thousand reasons to always fly Qantas) with tense passengers crowding around. The group was antsy but silent, as only large crowds waiting to board a plane can be (there’s overhead space at stake, I will knock you down with my over-sized carry-on to get to it!). Willa started fussing inexplicably, but we both assumed she was just overly tired. And that’s when she first vomited down the back and side of my sweatshirt, right in front of our friendly crowd. I could actually feel all of their pent up angst previously directed at the poor lady making announcements, now being directed squarely at us. They were silent and they stared. And I didn’t completely blame them. We were the family no one wants to be near. Two toddlers and some vomit. In the split second we were given to decide what to do, we chose to go for it. She was probably overwrought and full of strange airport food, so she just needed to work something out of her system. The girls were not doing great traveling at that point and we felt it was urgent to get them to their own home and their own beds. So we boarded. And then she vomited on the front of my shirt, her shirt, and her hair. We deplaned. Again… in front of a staring and silent crowd. I was beside myself. The flight customer service agent treated me like a hyperventilating patient, but I was beyond disappointed and discouraged. God was nowhere around. He was leaving me alone and embarrassed in a strange city, so well covered in vomit I could smell nothing else. My baby girl was pale and whimpering in my arms and we were not going home. We’re going back out into a cold and lifeless terminal. God was silent.

We were scooped up immediately by Qantas. I can’t really express in words how lovely they were. They carried our bags, mixed just the right amount of humor and pity into all of their interactions with us, loved on our children, and booked us into a hotel for two nights on them. One agent even offered to go buy us diapers at 2am. Willa vomited one more time for good measure as we waited at the check-in desk for the logistics to get worked out. Finally, we crawled into the shower and into our strange beds, Brian with Willa and me with Ray, shutting out the disappointment of the day.

I had no clothes the following morning. All of what I was wearing the previous night, and the extras in our carry-on, had been used up on Willa’s sickness. We slowly woke up the next morning, letting the girls sleep as long as their little bodies allowed. Brian sneaked out to catch the airport shuttle for the first of many, many trips to and from the airport. He was on a mission to collect our luggage so I could get dressed. I sat in bed with a weak Willa watching episode upon episode of “Paw Patrol,” and waited. Waited for clothes, for a better attitude, for contentment, for God to show up. Ray alternated between bouncing through the room, yelling at the planes landing out our window, and watching the dog show. It was restful, but tough. I was mentally dwelling on the plane that left us behind, knowing we would be just hours away from Brisbane if only we had been able to get on that plane. So much closer to home. And here we sat, looking out over a smog-filled city. Stuck and alone.

Willa perked up impressively throughout the morning and we thought about trying to get the Pacific flight that day, but chose instead to wait another night just in case. She was perky, but not herself yet. The next morning we woke up encouraged, rested, and excited to move on. Then Willa vomited again and we were back to square one. At this point in the story, Qantas lost their patience. It wasn’t their fault, but they threatened all sorts of fees for another delay and required her to visit a doctor for clearance when we did try the next flight.

It was about this time that our hearts began to change. The whole trip we tried to bolster ourselves by saying, “God is doing something big for us here. He’ll miraculously bring all of our luggage together or the flights we’re missing would’ve been bad situations that He kept us from or we’ll get strangely put in business class when we finally do go or, or, or!!” We had all sorts of ideas of how God was planning to bless us and how it would become our big story. The one we tell everyone about the time God showered blessings of comfort and ease on us after challenging us a little in the beginning. As the right kind of shower kept eluding us, and instead we were showered with delay after delay, lost luggage, seat assignments getting worse for the long flight, and more hoops to be jumped, we were convicted. God was blessing us through adversity. He was allowing momentary discomfort and travel trials to work on our souls.

We learned to love each other through stress, through unknowns, through boredom, through intense frustration. We cuddled on beds for long stretches of time, found joy watching Ray push the elevator buttons and wave to all the hotel employees (all of whom she knew well by the end), and had the joyful memory of finally crowding together into three seats on a completely full and two-hour delayed Pacific flight. Because we did finally get on it. We were so happy to be pointing home that the squishedness of the flight itself was absolutely easy. Our troubles didn’t end once we made that flight. It landed two hours late and our Port Moresby flight was bumped up 45 minutes, but we made it. Ray hit her wall on that airplane and cried or slept through the rest of that day. She was such a joy to be around through all the headaches and heartaches, despite the whirlwind of emotion swirling around her people. When she hit that wall, we just held her and let her do what she was going to do. And God gave us that chance. To love her as she flailed, just as He had loved us while we flailed. We’re such a stronger family for the whole situation. There’s no shower of blessings to report, as our worldly sides define it (comfort, ease, and stability). The shower of blessings came in the form of the affliction, because in that He was able to teach us perseverance. Perhaps next time instead of repeatedly asking “why,” we’ll simply say “thank you.”

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

James 1:2-4

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