Wow . . .

So, I have to say. This week has been unexpectedly strange.

Yesterday, I sat down to my computer and found this piece of writing opened on my desktop.  I remembered drafting it in September of last year, thinking to enter a writing contest in a magazine I was reading.  I was recounting the evening I arrived in Kinshasa on my own last July. Because of a seven-hour delay in Brussels, we arrived well past what would be considered safe. When I drafted months ago, I got writer's block, closed it down, and honestly, completely forgot about it. Until, it randomly showed up on my computer as I sat down to check my email or Facebook or CNN. I am sure my kids had something to do with it. And, unexpectedly, I reread these words--

                 I threw the last dilapidated suitcase into the back of our already-crammed minivan.  The feeling was overwhelming.  It was not butterflies in my stomach; it was a raging buzz across my entire being.  I was encased in fear, and only the shuffling of my feet and the nonrefundable flight tickets propelled me forward.  Then, blonde hair that sits atop a bouncy five-year-old boy appeared at my left hand.  He grabbed my fingers and kissed the back of my palm.  “In case you miss us . . .” he said.  Ah, The Kissing Hand. For me.  We both had hid our trepidation of what lie ahead so well, but I could not hide the wall of tears ready to flood down my cheeks, my little boy saying so much in so little. He didn’t say, “Stay,” although I am sure that is what he wanted. I know that is what I wanted, but we both knew I had to go.

                Thirty-six hours later, I arrived at my destination—Kinshasa, in the Democratic Republic of Congo—and found myself alone at three o’clock in the morning, unfamiliar with the city, and in a car with two drivers who spoke only Lingala and French.  I should say I only spoke English, as I was in their country, and it was my duty to learn their language.  But, I learned Spanish in school, and so I sat in the van, a thirty-five-year old, praying that my parents would never find out I had betrayed their one condition to their blessings on my travel:  Don’t go out alone at night.  A newcomer to foreign travel without a companion, and until this year a newcomer to any travel without the comforts of Western society, my mind raced with morbid possibilities.   My phone sat comfortably in my backpack, long out of battery.  As the last passenger was dropped off, leaving me alone in the car, all I could do was sit quietly in the backseat, encased in darkness and utterly alone, praying that the Congolese sunrise would find me safe. 

                When my drivers pulled into the dark courtyard of what I hoped was the hotel where I had reservations, I saw no one.  At first glance, it appeared that we were at a deserted warehouse, and all of the images of every horror film I had ever seen entered my mind.  But, these Congolese men were kind, even if we don’t speak the same language.  They walked with me to the patio and knocked on the door.  My heart was pounding so hard that it might be visible to them if they could see in this pitch dark.  Moments later, we heard a man grumbling himself awake on the patio.  I later learned this was Jack, who acts as the hotel’s bartender by day and sleeps on the patio to protect the patrons and welcome late-arrivals at night.  Aged and slightly rackety, Jack quickly opened the doors, turned on lights in the foyer, and led me to my comfortable room at St. Anne's.

                Tired and overwhelmed, I quickly slept.  I did not know my need for courage was just beginning. 

Then, today, I saw this blog post shared on a friend's Facebook page, written by a man who was abducted two weeks ago from an almost exactly similar scenario I faced last July (despite a harrowing experience, thankful he was eventually safe):  Abducted and Robbed in the Congo. 

And, I am just thankful.  Thankful for the Lord's protection.  Thankful that I knew about the only reliable airport shuttle in the country because of my travel months earlier and a wonderful organization here who does all it can to keep us safe. Thankful that a man from World Vision overheard me express my fears to the flight attendants in Brussels and vowed to get me to the shuttle safely.  Thankful that those two men driving me to the same hotel ensured that I arrived.  In the palm of God's hand, neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither today nor the worries of what is to come, can separate us from His love. Wow . . .