8 months. That’s how long I’ve been without what you people take for granted every day. Driving. Buying books. Diet Coke. Diet Dr. Pepper. Special K Vanilla Almond. Strolling through Target whenever you want.
Pretty much since the day I landed in Asia, recovering from Africa’s hardships, I started dreaming of the possibility of a layover in America, where I could get my 10% Benzoyl Peroxide Clean and Clear facewash. And maybe Chik fil A. At almost every meal in Cambodia we talked about what we would do with a day in the States.
When we finally heard that we would in fact have a 12 hour layover in LA, I got serious about the issue. I had my whole day planned out. Drew a map in my journal of all the places I wanted to go. I made list after revised list and plotted out my course with no time to lose.
A day of independence and the comforts of America. Yes please.
After over 40 hours of travel and hanging out in airports, we landed in LA at 8 AM. (BTW, Chang Mai bus to Bangkok, wait 22 hours in the airport, 5 hour flight to Toyko, wait two hours, LA, see below, Miami, layover 6 hours, 3 hour flight to Managua, Nicaragua, 3 hour flatbed truck ride to Chichigalpa. …whew). Got through customs and was ready to leave by 10 AM.
(Side note: this is the contraption on the side of toilets in the Tokyo airport. You can play a recorded flushing sound just in case you are being too loud).
No time was to be wasted. I grabbed my bag on a smart cart, wheeled it right to the free shuttle to the rental car places. Got there, ready to embrace my freedom, bubbling with excitement, only to look down and realized I grabbed the WRONG bag. One of my teammates. Crap. Okay. No prob. I’ll just get a car and swing back by the terminal before I head off on my day of adventure.
What? It’s going to cost 178 bucks to rent a car??? Okay, fine. All-star game in town? Under 25 fee. Insurance. California taxes. Shoulda made a reservation, but didn’t because I thought a friend was going to be there with a car. I almost paid it too. Anything to get behind the wheel on this one, very sacred day. The rental guy, after hearing that I was a world traveling missionary, talked my ear off for about 15 minutes about my time in Africa, and how next time I should visit his homeland of Ethiopia.
I had to interrupt him: “It’s okay. Nevermind. Too much money.”
I nervously boarded the shuttle back to the airport. Oh no. My day is going to get eaten up looking for my people and my bag! Which I absolutely needed so I could send home half my stuff. The shuttle took it’s time dropping people off at their specific airline. I bit my nails and tapped my foot. I got to the terminal…only to find to my serious misfortune that the girl whose bag I accidentally took had already checked mine. Gone. Behind the iron curtain of airport security.
I won’t try to pretend I didn’t say the f and s word in excess at this point. Noooooooo!!!! I needed to mail half of that bag home! I can’t carry it across Central America! So heavy! This can’t be happening! A few of my squadmates looked at me with extreme pity and sat with me through the ensuing agony.
Exasperated, I watched my dream day over which I had lusted for NINE weeks now circling the drain. I sent up a desperate prayer. All I could get out was: “Lord. Help. Please. I just need you to help right now.”
2 hours, an American Airlines angel, and a security debacle later, they sent my bag out on carousel one.
1 PM. Awesome. Half my day gone. I had to be back at the airport by 630 PM.
I took a shuttle to some random street, from where the bus driver pointed me towards the post office to be walked to about a mile away. Cold winds slapped me in the face. I passed FIVE rental car places along the way, cursing each and every one of them for being sold out and inaccessible to me. I walked through the gasoline/ car wash section of one that had an SUV running with the door open wide, no humans in sight. Grand theft auto….? They won’t miss it just for a few hours, right?
Psssh. All I want is a new pack of white v-necks and a latte. Is that too much to ask on this one, lonely day I have in the land of free, home of the brave?
I got to the post office and psyched myself out for the worst: Possibly closed. Super long lines. Really slow workers with bad attitudes. No boxes and no tape for packing my stuff. I expected to be turned away…ya know…the typical USPS experience. I imagined myself digging in a dumpster for a box and using the scotch tape in my bag to wrap it up after which I’d have to hike 4 miles to the UPS store. Even as I was walking towards the post office door, ominous black clouds suddenly flooded the sky. Rain was imminent. Horray.
I opened the door. And to my surprise, there was a whole wall of beautiful white boxes, just waiting for me to pick the lucky one. As I tried to arrange it, a lady who looked like she might give me quite the attitude for holding up the line with my frazzled arranging of my box, very sweetly said…”Honey, you in line? Need some time? I’ll hold your spot. Do what ya need to do.”
Her voice melted me. I was nearly in tears. Yes. Yes I do need some time. And some help. And a car. I’m a mess here. But thank you, kind lady. Thank you for saving my spot. Her simple act of kindness completely changed the tone of the rest of my day.
I sent my packages off through a similarly very friendly postal worker, found a cab to Target-having yet another conversation with a native African eager to talk about his home country, and rode the peaceful, but cold wave of the rest of the day. Although it started raining…I was able to make it to American Apparel, dip my feet in the Pacific at Manhattan Beach, take a cab to REI and Barnes &Noble. I strolled through Target like I was walking the streets of gold. I stocked up on my favorite deodorant (apparently the only brand in the world that will keep these pits happy), white tees, and Cheeze-Its. After everything was said and done, I got to get every last thing I had on my list to get, on this very special one day I had to spend in my beloved homeland. The land of nice people who will help you out, fabulous coffee, and red big box stores that have everything you need and more.
As I was riding my last cab to the airport, simultaneously achingly grateful for my salvaged itinerary and smug at my acquisitions, I realized that God had completely answered my desperate 12 word prayer. He did help. But He went further. He saved me 178 bucks.
In Anne Lamott’s book “Traveling Mercies” she write that the two very best prayers we can pray are “Help me, help me, help me” and “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
After circumnavigating the world and seeing countless miracles and praying big giant prayers, I was reminded that God still sees us in the simple things. In the daily grind of real life. And He cares about it all, not requiring us to be super spiritual about everything. It’s okay to simply just say “help!” He’s hears those prayers too. He wants in on every process, He wants us to want Him in, He wants us desperate for Him. Even if it is just to make it to help us make it to Target.
So Lord, thank you, thank you, thank you fort my v-necks and chai latte.
