He was too far away to make out the angry words spewing from his mouth, but the meanings were quite evident. The man was ticked.
I waded through the waist-high grass, trying to step in Sam’s tracks, all too aware a bull python or something worse could be lurking. The tires of the plane had cut deep ruts in the tall wet grass. Frank was trying to calm down the pilot — who turned out to be the same man who’d flown us out here … what was his name? Oh yes, Mike. He ranted and raved, waving his arms, pointing to the overgrown strip.
I caught a few of Mike’s heated words. “… could have been killed! You’re supposed to keep it cut … Son of a — ”
I made myself think he’d finished with biscuit eater.
Frank tried to explain. “We didn’t expect you for a couple of — ”
“What did you plan to do? Run out here and cut it when you heard me coming? Do you know how dangerous this is?”
“What are you doing here anyway?” Bud stepped in. “You’re not due for another two weeks, and no one told us the schedule had changed.”
“I can’t come at the regular time! I’m having my gallbladder out next week!”
“Sorry.” Frank tried to shake the man’s hand. “Our prayers will be with — ”
Mr. Personality spun on his heel. “Let’s get this stuff unloaded so I can get in the air before it rains again.”
We pitched in unloading supplies and stacking the boxes and crates at the edge of the landing strip. Mary volunteered to stand watch so the villagers wouldn’t help themselves to the bounty.
“We’re sorry about the condition of the landing strip.” Frank pitched in to help the men unload the craft. “We’ll keep it mowed, even if we have to do it in the rain.”
“I won’t land next time it’s like this.” Mike glowered. “If that baby isn’t as smooth as a new laid egg, I’ll keep on going, and your supplies will go back with me.”
We’d have to use heavy scythes to cut through the brush. It would be a lot of work, and who knew what lurked in the thick growth. Still, though Mike was far from likable, I had to admit he was right.
The workers emptied the plane, and Mike climbed back into the cockpit, then fought to turn the aircraft. The narrow strip, I’d been told, was bad enough when mowed. Now the closeness of the tree line and the tall grass made maneuvering the plane that much more difficult. We watched as he finally taxied down the runway, praying as the small craft emerged from the thick grass, then rose and banked to the east.
We moved to the cartons where Mary stood guard. Sam began handing boxes to the villagers, motioning for them to carry the items to the landing area so they could be ferried to the missionary huts.
Frank glanced at Bud. “We have to keep the grass cut.”
Bud nodded. “We’ll get on it the first possible day we can get a mower or machete through the wet grass. If we make Mike mad enough he won’t be back, and he’s our lifeline to the outside world.”
I stared at him. Without the plane we would be stranded? What about the boat that had brought us here? I recalled the small vessel and realized it wouldn’t hold enough supplies to last the week.
They’d keep the strip mowed all right. If necessary I’d chew it down. From now on, maintaining that strip was at the top of my priority list.
SIXTEEN
Almost every night the Laskes’ kerosene lamp burned long into the wee hours of the morning as Sam made notes on the villagers’ language. He hungered so to reach these people, to give them better lives, while I …
I hungered for a cheeseburger. And comfortable shoes instead of thick boots.
I slapped my palm on the clinic cabinet. Why didn’t the fire of evangelism burn in my soul? God must be so aggravated with me. I was disgusted with myself, and I didn’t want to consider what Sam and the others were feeling.
Bud was helping in the clinic today so I had free time on my hands. After I finished cleaning, I decided I could use some privacy to clear my head. I’d brought a small tablet of writing paper and a ballpoint pen with me this morning, thinking I would jot down some of my conflicting, confusing emotions. Maybe that would be a first step to understanding all that was going on inside me.
Poo had been underfoot all morning. I stopped what I was doing and pointed to Mary, who was gathering children in a circle, preparing to play games. “Go. Over there. Go.”
The little girl furrowed her brow.
“Yes, Poo. Go over there.”
She gazed up at me, eyes wide and mouth half open, like a baby bird wanting to be fed. The scarf I’d given her was tied around her waist, and the blinking light was around her head. Already we’d been through three sets of AAA batteries. She fingered the scarf now, uncertainty clouding her eyes dark. I took her by the arm and led her to the circle, easing her down on the ground with the others. “Poo, stay.”
I sounded like I was giving a dog command. Stay? The child didn’t know what I’d said, but Eva did and she gave me a pointed look. Okay, I wasn’t a saint — nobody in the village mistook me for that. But I needed time alone. Privacy was nonexistent. Even in my cubicle with the curtain drawn at night, I could hear Frank and Eva; one of them snored like a pig in the sun.
I backed away, trying to ignore the query in Poo’s eyes. She started to get up, and I held out my hands, palms open like a traffic cop. “Stay.”
She might not have understood my words, but my tone came through loud and clear. She wasn’t wanted, and the knowledge wounded her deeply.
Clutching my tablet, I turned and walked off. A glance over my shoulder told me she was obeying, but not willingly. Big tears rolled down her cheek. Great. More self-reproach to deal with.
Poo meant well, and I knew she loved me, but her constant presence had worn me down.
The jungle was quiet and cool compared to the village, where heat beat down on the thatched clinic roof. I didn’t venture far, and I kept a close eye out for snakes and other critters. The need for solitude could have driven me to seek a private moment here among the palms, but the bush was the only hope I had for being alone.
Today I was careful, breaking branches on bushes to mark the short trail. After the way I’d treated Poo, she likely wouldn’t bother to rescue me again, and I didn’t blame her. A fresh twinge of remorse struck me. I used to be a nice person.
As soon as I was out of sight and hearing distance of the village, I inspected the jungle floor for insects and then knelt down. On my knees, I peered up through thick branches with guilt crowding my heart. I couldn’t think of the words needed to express my thoughts. After a while I realized it didn’t matter because God knew my heart and there wasn’t any point in trying to camouflage my feelings with holy, pious talk.
“God, I need help. I don’t know what I want, except maybe to go home. I don’t fit in here; I’m sure by now we agree on that point. I believe at times I do more harm than good in gaining the villagers’ respect. We might not speak the same language, but we share the same emotions, and they know, God. They know the others’ dedication and love far exceed mine. If you wanted, you could give me a heart the size of this jungle for these people, but you haven’t. I’m doing better than I was a week ago — two weeks ago — but there’s a huge void to cover before I can begin to match Sam’s enthusiasm. Lord, all I see are thieves, half-naked women, and men with betel-stained or missing teeth. Why can’t I see the villagers through your eyes, eyes of unconditional love? Your love.”
An image came to mind: Poo’s Bum — skinny, dried up, and smelling of sweat and rotting garbage. I shuddered. And yet I knew as well as I knew my own name that God loved that man as much as he loved me. Maybe more.
After a while I stood and looked for a dry place to sit. I chose my spot, conscious of leeches. A shaft of sunlight pierced the leafy overhead canopy. A large black beetle raced around my foot, looking for something and having no luck finding it. As long as he stayed in his space and didn’t threaten mine, I’d respect his presence. Funny. I had complete contro
l over that bug’s life. I could squash him in a moment, deny him life in a split second. Kind of like my life and God’s authority …
The bug and I were trivial. Yes, compared to the bug I was huge. But compared to God? I was nothing. God could squash me as fast as I could end the bug. Sitting there, I couldn’t help but wonder … Did God ponder the option?
I decided to write Mom and Pop a letter instead of sending a postcard I’d purchased in the hotel lobby the morning we left for the village. Goodness knew when I’d be able to send any mail back home, but if nothing else I’d take the cards home with me and give one to Nelda and others in the library. The same went for Mom and Pop’s letter, but I needed to talk to someone. To get my thoughts on paper.
Trees grew like a thick wall here, lining the path and small clearing. Overhead, chattering monkeys swung from treetop to treetop. I noticed that I wasn’t concerned; I guess I was acclimating to the bush. Maybe God was watching over me, although I couldn’t think of a single reason why he should.
I opened my tablet and began to write:
Dear Mom and Pop,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’m fine but it’s hot here in the jungle. I spend my days helping Sam in the clinic or handing out candy to the villagers. They have such a sweet tooth.
I paused, pencil poised on the paper. I’d been about to add, “if they have a tooth at all,” but thought better of it. I would save specifics for when I got home.
I am sorry to report that I’ve made small inroads into the mission field. I believe my first thought was correct: I am not mission-minded, though I pray that God will give me a heart for these people. I see Sam and the missionaries’ dedication and I feel so ashamed that I don’t share their love and compassion for the villagers. It is a strange culture. Women are subservient to their husbands, and we — the missionaries — are never allowed to enter their homes. At times their mission seems hopeless, but Sam reminds me nothing is hopeless with God.
I’ve made a special friend, a little girl who we think is named Poo. Odd name, I know, but it’s an odd place. Poverty is the norm, and everything is dirty. The village smells are wretched; you know my weak stomach. But there is also great beauty here …
I glanced around at the flowers and birds, recalled the clear streams and luscious fruits hanging in large clumps from trees, then bent back to the page and described it all as best I could.
Sam calls this place Eden. While I don’t quite share the same opinion, I have to admit the beauty, especially the multicolored sunsets, makes me feel closer to God. Sometimes I think God has given me a glimpse of heaven.
I miss you all and am looking forward to returning home and to my work at the library. I know you’re wondering about Sam. I’m wondering too. I love him with all my heart, but sometimes love isn’t enough. Sam Littleton is a decent, dedicated man who deserves a woman who will work beside him. Every passing day brings me to the same heartbreaking conclusion: I am not that helpmate. I long to be, but God doesn’t appear to have the same plans for me that he’s got for Sam. In fact, I’m not convinced he’s got a specific plan for me at all. I’m beginning to despair that he’s forgotten me or maybe worse, that the library in Saginaw is the extent of my purpose. I don’t know. I just don’t know.
Tears rolled down my cheeks and I signed my name, praying I wouldn’t be as much a disappointment to my parents as I was to both Sam and God.
Games were over when I returned to the village. Eva and Mary had left. The children had scattered around the village. Poo was standing alone in the shade of a hut. She glanced my way but made no effort to join me. I offered her a smile but she refused it, turning her head away. I felt rotten, but since I couldn’t speak her language, I had no way to apologize.
The boat was on shore, so if Eva and Mary had gone back to the huts, someone had taken them and returned. I pushed the small craft off the rocks and hopped aboard. I’d never rowed the short distance from the huts to the village — never rowed anywhere — but I could manage the feat. Once seated, I lifted the oars and gave a mighty stroke. I went nowhere. Surprised, I glanced up and realized I’d not pushed off far enough. I looked to see if any of the women who were kneeling at the shoreline washing their clothing had noticed my blunder, then moved to untie the vessel.
Okay, what now? If I didn’t make it back into the boat quick enough, it would drift off without me. How would I explain losing the boat if it drifted out to sea? I eyed the situation and decided I could move fast enough to board.
Before I could put the plan into effect a young boy from the village passed, and I yelled at him. He stopped and approached the water, sending me an inquiring look.
I pointed out the situation, the rocky shoreline, and made pushing motions with the open palms of my hands.
He frowned.
I tried again. More motions, more pushing. I even grunted. This time he caught on, and I moved back into the boat. I was half seated when he picked up the front of the boat and shoved. In a desperate effort to stay in the boat I knocked my large-brimmed hat off my head into the water. Horrified, I watched the wind catch it and blow it away from me. I stared at it, sick to my stomach.
Then I heard the splash. The teenager had dived into the water and was now swimming after my escapist hat. When he reached it, he dived, and all I could see were his bare feet. Moments later, he surfaced underneath it, so that it now sat on his head. Grinning like a skunk eating garlic he paddled back to the boat. I blew him a kiss. He handed me the hat and threw me a look that suggested I’d lost my mind. I didn’t care; at that moment I loved that kid.
I managed (through the grace of God) to get the boat across the lagoon to the huts. The chore took longer than I’d expected, and I almost tipped twice, but I climbed out of the boat without turning loose of the rope. The boat secured, I straightened and drew a deep breath. It would snow in August in the middle of this jungle before I tried that on my own again.
Eva and Mary weren’t in either of the huts. Had I left them back in the village? If so, I’d have to make the return trip alone, and I wasn’t sure I was capable of the task. It had been all I could do to make it across this time. I had a feeling practice wouldn’t make perfect.
I finally spotted the two women sitting on the shore behind the huts in the shade of a large betel palm. The water was shallow here, easily forded. I suspected this was the pathway the villagers used when they visited the huts in search of treasure. The two women had spread a blanket on the ground to protect them from the elements. They appeared so relaxed and so happy I wanted to join them.
I stepped out on the deck and circled to the back of the huts, waving at them. Mary waved back. “Come join us!”
“How?”
“I’ll come get you.”
I watched as she stepped into the parasite-infested waters and waded the small crossing. When she arrived at the ladder, she held out her hand. “Come, Johanna. Trust me.”
I glanced at the waters; I could see fish darting about. I didn’t know what kind, and I didn’t want to know. I looked at Mary again, and started. For a second — just a second, mind you — it appeared Christ was holding out his hand to me, saying, Come. Trust.
“Don’t be afraid.” Mary smiled. “I’m here.”
Biting my lower lip, I lowered myself into the water, feeling the coolness seep over my ankles, then midcalf. I held my breath, not daring to look down but grasping out for her hand. When our fingers touched, I opened my eyes. Hand in hand, we tackled the small distance and waded to shore.
Lowering myself on the blanket, I caught my breath.
“See,” Mary teased, “we told you the fish wouldn’t bother you.”
“But who knows what’s down there.” I peered into the swirling water.
“Does it matter?” Eva scooped up a handful of water and let it fly.
No. It didn’t. The fish had swum around my feet, but not one had threatened me. I think at that moment I started to understand. Faith had to start somewher
e, and mine started here, in this dense jungle where there was nobody to trust but God. I still wanted to know what was in that water, but if it didn’t bother me, it made no difference.
We lounged in the shade, enjoying the coolness. The fellowship was reminiscent of conversations I had held with Nelda. If she’d been here she’d have us all laughing and joking, and she’d be handing out advice right and left. Might not be good advice, but she’d have some, regardless.
I’d seen Eva and Mary work side by side with their husbands, dedicated to their service, and envied their spirit. Now I longed to be friends with them. They had their Bibles opened and were engaged in a discussion, which I’d interrupted.
Eva smiled. “We’re reading from Luke 14:23.”
Mary scooted over so I could share her Bible, and Eva continued, “Then the master told his servant, ‘Go out to the roads and country lanes and make them come in, so that my house will be full.’ ”
I listened as the women discussed the passage, and though I added a few comments, I knew we were on a touchy subject. When Eva closed her Bible, I decided to involve the women in something less serious: girl talk.
“Do you go into Port Moresby very often? How do you keep up with what’s going on in the world?”
“We seldom leave the island,” Eva admitted. “But we’ll go home for a few weeks each year. We always enjoy being with family and old friends.”
“What about fashion?” I settled back to fill them in on the latest trends. “Colors are gaudy bright this year, skirts are short and getting shorter, but there are others who favor ankle length — and shoes are going back to spikes. Ankle breakers, I call them.”
Mary smiled. She must think I was discussing rocket science. Undoubtedly, fashion was her least concern. “That’s interesting. The last time we were home, some of the skirts were almost indecent.”
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