The excitement builds each Spring as natives go to the seashore, mountains, and even their rooftops to await the annual migration to their land. As they look longingly toward the skies, their thoughts turn to all the goodies this migration will bring. Some will come with gifts of food, clothing or medicine. Others will bring joy and laughter of song, drama and other special events. It’s been a long winter. The days have been short; the night’s way too long. The citizens have barely been able to survive, but the weather is now warming in that far away land and soon those silver birds will be landing bringing with them, not only abundance to share, but also new toys that will surely amaze them all.
No one really remembers when the summer migration began. Many years ago, the migrants from afar did not quickly leave the land; instead they stayed a long time. Though now rare, some of those earlier migrates are still in the country fifty years later. The early migrates would fly back to their place of origin occasionally, but they would always come back to stay for as long as four years at a time and sometimes even longer. They certainly were a benefit to the natives, as they, too, helped the citizens by building schools, hospitals and places to pray. Some inhabitants say that if it weren’t for those early migrants, the summer migrants wouldn’t have a place to land. One wonders if the earlier breed of migrants is now an endangered species, as there seems to be few arriving to stay these days. Many think they are dying out because it takes too much effort for them to settle in the land, it is hard on their children, and no longer cost efficient.
The summer migrant breed seems to be much more plentiful and the flocks grow larger with each passing year. They are usually young travelers, some hardly out of high school. They are so much fun. Most of them stay for less than two weeks, but that’s okay as in that time the visitors build houses, dig wells and put on skits. Sometimes they go to countries that are not friendly so they merely visit the land, walk and YARP (they can’t use the word “pray” as they might get into trouble) for their nation. Though the natives are a bit sad at the end of the two weeks, they are not in despair as they’ve made new friends, have new email addresses and, after all, as soon as one flock of migrates leaves, there is another group scheduled to land the next day.
The coming and goings of migrants are constant for at least four, with the last group of returning to their own land by September. The inhabitances are sorry to see the end of the migration season, but are warmed by the memories of those who made the trek to their land. A new dress, watch, computer and even a game-boy, though secondhand, is appreciated. The dark winter days will pass quickly and in a few short months the natives will press their faces against the immigration window once again to greet those who will come to their shores and share their love for the less fortunate, even if it’s just for fourteen days. It’s hoped that the summer “M’s,” as they are sometime called, will be so emotionally moved with their visit that they will become long-term migrants, send more financial aid, or at least remember to YARP for the natives. Let’s YARP they will.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Lost Luggage
“I’d like to fly to Dallas,” the man told the girl behind the counter, “but I want my bags to go to Milwaukee.”
“I’m sorry sir,” the little thing said with a puzzled look, “we can’t do that.”
“Why not,” the weary traveler replied, “you did last week.”
Anyone that is at least a Silver Medallion knows the feeling. Last week I flew in from Nicaragua after a hard two weeks of teaching. I couldn’t wait to get home and sleep in my own bed. As I stood at the end of the conveyor belt with expectations of getting my bags, I suddenly realized I was the only one still at baggage claim. Everyone else had picked up their bags. I was all alone. A few minutes ago, there had been a long line of people at the Hertz rental counter nearby, but now they were all on their way home or business with me left holding my carry-on. There I stood, by carousel number two, wondering what my next move should be. As I surrendered to the reality that my bags were a no-show, I walked slowly down the hall to report that, once again, I made my connection, but my suitcase didn’t.
“What color is your bag, sir?” the employee, who was the symbol of my wrath, asked as I filled out the lost baggage claim. I would love to take it out on him, everyone else does, but he didn’t lose my bag so there’s no honor in beating him up.
“Black,” I replied with a bit of an edge. Of course the bag is black, they all are. Luggage manufacturing is a throwback from Henry Ford’s Model-T days when that was the only color car that came off the assembly line. Yeah, I guess I could carry my wife’s pastel flower suitcase, but who wants to risk being called a girly-man just to be able to identify a bag? Her suitcase stands out so much that everyone at baggage claim watches to see what type of person would EVER put they’re clothes in that thing. No thanks, I’ll put a thousand ID stickers on it, but the suitcase will always be black. And the stickers will be manly. No Minnie Mouse or Pooh stickers for me. I also don’t believe in suitcase evangelism, so you won’t see any “I fly with Jesus” stickers on them either. “It’s just a plain black suitcase,” I confessed sadly.
After giving my name and address for the delivery of my bag, (if it ever arrives!), I head outside the terminal, wondering if this is another one of God’s tests on my spirituality. Granted, this wasn’t as dramatic as Job losing his cattle and children, but I wonder if He wasn’t saying to Lucifer, “Have you considered my servant Lewis, at baggage claim two, that there is none like him in all the earth?” Though I would never curse my Creator over this, I came pretty close to cussing out His creation working at Continental.
But wait a minute - I need to look on the bright side. After all, I did make my connection and the plane didn’t crash. Another safe landing, that’s always a very strong positive event. And what an exciting life I live that I can even lose luggage! There’s a ton of people in this world who would love to travel, see the world and even lose their suitcase. Lost luggage for those who seldom travel would be a major part of their story to tell to family and friends. What a great privilege I have to put the airlines in a position of losing my bags every month! As irritating and inconvenient as it was, I didn’t lose my temper. (Good job, Lewis). Maybe I did pass the test. No, I didn't cheerful and say, “God bless you sir, I know it wasn’t your fault,” but I also didn’t give him an earful of how incompetent his company was. I hate to be around people who miss their flights because of a delay or bad weather and they yell and scream at the ticket agents who are in charge of getting them on another flight. Gee, lighten up folks, they didn’t fly the plane.
The reality is, losing luggage comes with the territory of my life. I can’t drive from Managua to Springdale, so I can either quit traveling or quit getting uptight about the inconveniences that are just a part of my rewarding profession. The truth is, the bags always show up eventually. So as I pack for my next trip, I can honestly say, “Thank you, Lord, for another opportunity to serve you in another city and country.” As I walk up to check-in, I resist the urge to say, “I’d like to fly to India, but I want my bags to go to…oh, just surprise me.”
“I’m sorry sir,” the little thing said with a puzzled look, “we can’t do that.”
“Why not,” the weary traveler replied, “you did last week.”
Anyone that is at least a Silver Medallion knows the feeling. Last week I flew in from Nicaragua after a hard two weeks of teaching. I couldn’t wait to get home and sleep in my own bed. As I stood at the end of the conveyor belt with expectations of getting my bags, I suddenly realized I was the only one still at baggage claim. Everyone else had picked up their bags. I was all alone. A few minutes ago, there had been a long line of people at the Hertz rental counter nearby, but now they were all on their way home or business with me left holding my carry-on. There I stood, by carousel number two, wondering what my next move should be. As I surrendered to the reality that my bags were a no-show, I walked slowly down the hall to report that, once again, I made my connection, but my suitcase didn’t.
“What color is your bag, sir?” the employee, who was the symbol of my wrath, asked as I filled out the lost baggage claim. I would love to take it out on him, everyone else does, but he didn’t lose my bag so there’s no honor in beating him up.
“Black,” I replied with a bit of an edge. Of course the bag is black, they all are. Luggage manufacturing is a throwback from Henry Ford’s Model-T days when that was the only color car that came off the assembly line. Yeah, I guess I could carry my wife’s pastel flower suitcase, but who wants to risk being called a girly-man just to be able to identify a bag? Her suitcase stands out so much that everyone at baggage claim watches to see what type of person would EVER put they’re clothes in that thing. No thanks, I’ll put a thousand ID stickers on it, but the suitcase will always be black. And the stickers will be manly. No Minnie Mouse or Pooh stickers for me. I also don’t believe in suitcase evangelism, so you won’t see any “I fly with Jesus” stickers on them either. “It’s just a plain black suitcase,” I confessed sadly.
After giving my name and address for the delivery of my bag, (if it ever arrives!), I head outside the terminal, wondering if this is another one of God’s tests on my spirituality. Granted, this wasn’t as dramatic as Job losing his cattle and children, but I wonder if He wasn’t saying to Lucifer, “Have you considered my servant Lewis, at baggage claim two, that there is none like him in all the earth?” Though I would never curse my Creator over this, I came pretty close to cussing out His creation working at Continental.
But wait a minute - I need to look on the bright side. After all, I did make my connection and the plane didn’t crash. Another safe landing, that’s always a very strong positive event. And what an exciting life I live that I can even lose luggage! There’s a ton of people in this world who would love to travel, see the world and even lose their suitcase. Lost luggage for those who seldom travel would be a major part of their story to tell to family and friends. What a great privilege I have to put the airlines in a position of losing my bags every month! As irritating and inconvenient as it was, I didn’t lose my temper. (Good job, Lewis). Maybe I did pass the test. No, I didn't cheerful and say, “God bless you sir, I know it wasn’t your fault,” but I also didn’t give him an earful of how incompetent his company was. I hate to be around people who miss their flights because of a delay or bad weather and they yell and scream at the ticket agents who are in charge of getting them on another flight. Gee, lighten up folks, they didn’t fly the plane.
The reality is, losing luggage comes with the territory of my life. I can’t drive from Managua to Springdale, so I can either quit traveling or quit getting uptight about the inconveniences that are just a part of my rewarding profession. The truth is, the bags always show up eventually. So as I pack for my next trip, I can honestly say, “Thank you, Lord, for another opportunity to serve you in another city and country.” As I walk up to check-in, I resist the urge to say, “I’d like to fly to India, but I want my bags to go to…oh, just surprise me.”
