Pray for Rain

"For the land that you are crossing over to occupy is not like the land of Egypt, from which you have come, where you sow your seed and irrigate by foot like a vegetable garden.  But the land that you are crossing over to occupy is a land of hills and valleys, watered by rain from the sky, a land that the LORD your God looks after.  The eyes of the LORD are always on it, from the beginning of the year to the end of the year."  Deut. 11:10-12

"Elijah was a human being like us, and he prayed fervently that it might not rain, and for three years and six months it dod not rain on the earth.  Then he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain and the earth yielded its harvest."  James 5:16-17

"Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. ... 'And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night?  Will he delay long in helping them?  I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them.  And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?"  Luke 18:1, 7-8

So on our way to church this morning Cassia was talking about the drought that has threatened the water supply of a suburban area of over 5 million people here in the Cape.  [Cape Town's water supply comes entirely from rain-fed dams.]  We chatted for a minute about it, and then I said, "You know what we need to do?  We need to start praying every night that God would send rain."  And Cassia immediately piped up and said, "Why don't we pray right now?"  So we did, right there in the car as we were driving. [I didn't close my eyes.]

This got me thinking today.  In the modern world, we don't have too many instances where our cultural experience exactly mimics that experience of the people who wrote the Bible.  But this year, here in the Cape, we have come to precisely the same situation that the ancient Israelites would have faced often in their culture.  God points out to the people of Israel that the place He was taking them was not a place where growing their staple crops would be easy like it was in Egypt.  The land of Israel depends almost entirely on rainfall in order to grow anything!  In fact, certain aspects of the Old Testament make almost no sense at all unless you (the reader) understand this fundamental meteorological reality of the geographical land being talked about in the Bible.

Then, in our children's class today (I teach 5th and 6th graders) we came to the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand in our journey through the Gospel of Mark.  One of the girls in the class almost immediately made a parallel between the situation in that story and the present water crisis we are experiencing here in the Cape.  I complimented her on seeing the connection, and later asked the class what we should be do in light of what Jesus appears to be teaching his disciples with the whole "twelve baskets" business (12 baskets, 12 disciples ... get it?!?).  After going through all the stereotypical churchy answers that involve thinking but not doing, someone finally said, "We should pray."  I said, "Exactly."  [Of course, by saying this I'm not negating the need to conserve water.  Everyone gets that part already.]

So now I guess I need to put my money where my mouth is.  Lent starts on Wednesday.  So I'm going to start praying for rain, and inviting people on Facebook to join me.  Throughout the ages of the Church, Christians have prayed antiphonally (meaning "call-and-response"), and it works like this:  the leader of the prayer prays and ends either with "Lord, in Your mercy..." or "...we pray to the Lord"; and the people respond by saying either "...hear our prayer" or "Lord, hear our prayer," respectively.  Through Lent I'm going to pray for rain on Facebook, and I invite you to respond daily with your own "...hear our prayer."

The story of a breakdown (vehicular, not mental)

The first time I ran out of gas, I had had my driver’s license for about half an hour and was headed home on an Oregon country road on a beautiful summer day. The car rolled to a stop in front of an abandoned farmhouse, while my mom and I pondered what had happened to it. The Herling women are not known for being mechanically minded.

The second time I ran out of petrol, it was a hot Sunday afternoon on the way home from the Cape Town airport after having dropped off a friend. (Mona, if you’re reading this, don’t you dare feel guilty over any of this.) We had intended to get petrol on the way to the airport, but had run into bad traffic and had no time to spare, and my petrol gauge told me I had enough to get to the airport. Leaving the airport, I knew I had to find a petrol station quickly. I blew right past a BP station on the outskirts of the airport and considered weaving my back through the tangle of highway, but was confident I would see another petrol station soon. (I’m optimistic like that.)

A few kilometers later, I still hadn’t seen another petrol station, and traffic on the highway had slowed to a painful crawl between concrete barriers, with no shoulder. I resolved that I needed to get off at the next exit, in search of a petrol station or at least a place I could safely stop. The fact that my gas gauge had been telling me that I had 20 km. left for at least 30 km. should have been a dead giveaway that in fact I didn’t have 20 km. left. (But I’m optimistic like that.) Sure enough, about a kilometer after I had exited the main highway to another 6-lane highway, my engine sputtered to a stop and I coasted onto the shoulder.

I called Joel, who called emergency roadside assistance. I wasn’t feeling particularly anxious. I had stopped right next to an informal settlement, but it was broad daylight, my doors were locked, and help was on the way. I cracked my windows and settled in to wait.

A few minutes later a car pulled off right in front of me, and a man approached my car. Through my cracked window, he asked me what was wrong. He told me that he was an off-duty policemen, that I was stopped in a dangerous place, and that he was going to call traffic police to come wait with me until roadside assistance showed up. In the meantime, he was going to stay with me himself until the traffic police showed up.

For nearly half an hour, we both sat in our cars in the hot sun. He came to check on me several times, just to make sure I was still okay. I contemplated the prominent sticker on his back window, proclaiming the name of a church. During one of his check-ins, I thanked him for the tenth time and told him, “God sent you.”

Finally the traffic police showed up, and my guardian came to say good-bye. I thanked him again. He said, “I’m just obeying my Chief.” I said, “He’s my Chief, too.”

Just for the record, it took seven South African men to get this white woman back on the road: one off-duty policemen, four policemen in two cars who took turns waiting with me for the hour it took the roadside assistance to arrive, and the two guys who finally showed up in a bright pink car to pour petrol into my tank through a Coke-bottle funnel. Just for the record, every single one of them was unfailingly gracious and professional. Not one of them asked me for anything.

One of the on-duty policemen told me again that I was in a very dangerous place, and pointed out that I was right next to an opening the residents had made in the concrete fence between the highway and the informal settlement. From where I was sitting in the car, I couldn’t see the hole without leaning forward, and so I hadn’t even seen it. He also told me that he was so impressed that the off-duty policeman had stopped to help me on his way home from church, and kindly suggested that I email the off-duty policeman’s supervisor to commend him. It was only then that I realized I had never even asked the off-duty policeman’s name. (Thankfully, the policemen who made the suggestion had collected that info for me, and the email address of the supervisor.) Mr. Zikeshe, I will be emailing your supervisor to tell him how grateful I am that you went above and beyond, and to ask him to apologize to you for my bad manners in not even asking your name.

Men are often given a bad rap in Africa. Particularly policemen. Especially black men. So it’s important to me to tell this story of six African men who did their jobs with integrity and kindness, and one African man who took nearly half an hour out of his Sunday to sit by the side of the road and protect a perfect stranger.

I also want to tell the story of God’s care and protection. I was reminded again today of the amazing reality that wherever I am in the world, I am not far from someone who serves the same God I do, who is also part of God’s good work in the world. (Psalm 119:68: You are good, and you bring forth good.) I meet people all over the world who are strangers and yet not really strangers. It’s amazingly wonderful every time.

When God pushes the Easy Button

Moves are always hard. I have been—and am—really excited about this move, not least because we get to live in Stellenbosch, South Africa, which is one of the most beautiful and fantastic places on the planet. Postcard-perfect university town, surrounded by breathtaking mountains and picturesque vineyards, and only half an hour from Cape Town, another one of the most beautiful and fantastic places on the planet. How could we get so lucky!

But there have also been exhausting things, stressful things, things weighing on my mind. We spent our first 10 days in a small 1-bedroom flat, and it was very hot, and very small, and we were all sick, and no one was getting enough sleep. Then we moved into our current digs, a lovely 2 bedroom house where I actually have a whole study to myself and can work looking out at a lovely garden. Bliss. But this place is only available through March 1, so there’s been the question of where we are going to live after that. And the question of where our income is going to come from in March. And who is going to take care of our children while I earn an income and Joel is a grad student. And… the list just goes on.

I’ve realized I’ve felt kind of hesitant to talk to my American friends about our current state of affairs. I guess I feel afraid that we will be judged for being irresponsible, not having our act together. Did we really move to another country, with two children in tow, without knowing where we were going to live or where our income was going to come from? Yes, yes we did. And we have felt and do feel that we're doing the right thing. Which isn't to say it's been easy. (By the way, I don’t feel uncomfortable talking to my African friends about this. They’re much more in touch with the fact that life is for the most part not in our control, and that if God doesn’t come through we’re really in trouble. And they generally have pretty awesome stories about how God has come through. Just one of many reasons why I love my African friends, and feel they really build my faith.)

I’ve been reflecting this week on Mark 4. Jesus is in a boat with the disciples, and it’s so stormy the disciples are afraid they might capsize, and Jesus is asleep. What struck me this week is that the disciples’ fear is not that Jesus CAN’T do something about the storm before they all die, but that he WON’T. They don’t say, “What if he wakes up and tries to calm the storm but can't?” Their fear is that he won’t wake up in time to do something, and so they wake him up and ask, “Don’t you care?” (And then, of course, he turns the storm into still water and then asks the disciples, "Why were you afraid in the first place? Do you still not have any faith?") I’ve really related to the disciples in this particular brand of lack of faith. I know God can do anything. But I fear he won’t help us—that somehow he’s asleep on the job, not really tracking with our circumstances and our needs, that we’ll sink because he just didn’t bother to get involved in time.

I had a big reminder of God’s absolute mindfulness of us last week, when I got a request out of the blue to do a small project, as soon as possible. (The uncertainty in our finances comes from the fact that I don’t have a guaranteed income at the moment, as I'm planning to support us working as an independent consultant. But I’m only a couple months into it and so still don’t have steady work.) The project was only a couple days of work, but on top of a larger project I was already working on it was enough to put our finances in the black for February (woohoo!!!), and it was perfectly timed to when I had time to work. I so clearly felt God saying, “See? I've got this.”

But yet, I’ve still been battling anxiety on a daily basis. I can think of so many times when God has moved mountains on my behalf—when, as now, I didn’t have a back-up plan, and I knew that the blessings and provision that came my way were 100% and only from God. But yet, this time I’m still afraid He won’t wake up in time. And that we’ll be penniless and homeless and all kinds of terrible things which I shouldn’t even write about, because that’s giving them too much power.

So, our housing situation. I’ll be in Uganda on a work trip Feb 16-24, which meant that we really had to find housing for March before I left. We’re actually hoping to buy a house, but need housing for several months while we work that out. We have been running into an absolute brick wall in trying to find a place to rent short-term. No one wants to do it, and the fees for breaking a lease early are sky-high. This morning we were supposed to go look at a place that was unfurnished, and was too much money, and too far out of town, but it was available for only 6 months, so it seemed like our best available option. Right as we were leaving I called to confirm that we were coming, and was told we couldn’t come until later in the day. So I went back to my study and pulled up Gumtree (a website that is the South African equivalent of Craigslist) and started scrolling through the ads to see if there was anything new.

I nearly fell out of my chair when I saw there was a new listing, for a very affordable, 3-bedroom, furnished house that was willing to rent short-term. Long story short, we were viewing the house within an hour, it was great, and by noon we’d agreed to rent it for 3 months. We came back and talked to our current landlords, who agreed to let us move out next weekend and refund us our rent for the second half of the month. Settled! And isn't it cute?

Sometimes I feel like God has one of these:

A situation in life can seem so complicated and challenging and impossible, and then God just presses the Easy Button, and almost instantly the knot is cut and the pieces fall into place and sometimes something totally incredible and amazing and clearly supernatural happens… and it’s solved. I would often prefer, in my very limited wisdom, that God would deploy the Easy Button sooner. But I know that in his infinite wisdom he always does it at exactly the right time, and that while I stew and worry and stress and wonder if/how/when God is going to come through this time, I am learning more about the life of faith.

Still on my list of things we need from God really soon: Work. And wisdom about whether we should buy a house, and which house. (That’s a story for another post, but on top of looking at rentals in the last couple weeks we’ve also been looking at houses to buy.) And someone to look after our kids and help keep our house running.

On that last one: I’m currently checking references for a woman that a lady I just met had just met in a park, who approached her and asked for work (as an experienced nanny whose last employer no longer needed her services). Don’t worry, I am checking her references. But I’m also really sympathetic to the situation of hard-working women in this economy who need work and aren’t finding it, and are desperate enough to approach strangers in parks. Our last nanny/helper was such a blessing to us. (And we to her—I’ve been exchanging WhatsApp messages with her since moving here about how much she misses us and about how her new family isn’t treating her very well and she feels like crying every day when she goes to work. Makes me so sad.) So I’m believing God that somewhere in Stellenbosch there is a woman who needs the job with us as much as we need her, and that God will help us find each other.

We’d appreciate your prayers about all of this.

And for the situations in your life that need God to push the Easy Button—keep trusting him that He’s with you, he’s not sleeping, and he’s got it.

Serendipity or Providence?

ser-en-di-pi-ty: n. -- the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way

pro-vi-dence: n. -- the protective care of God or of nature as a supernatural power


One of my personal pet peeves is when Christians observe serendipity in their lives and equate it with providence -- as if it's a supernatural leading of God, or at least some indication of God’s will. To do so is not wrong in and of itself. [I would argue that the entire point of the story of Esther in the Bible is, essentially, this very thing. The reader is meant to draw the conclusion that Esther’s story is NOT simply a tale of happy chance, but is rather a remarkable example of God’s intervention in human events for the sake of preserving His people from extinction. Ironically enough, I conclude this even though the book never even once mentions God!] Nevertheless, this practice annoys me because of its imbalance compared to other things that the Bible clearly says ARE God’s will for us, like being sanctified (1 Thess. 4:3-7), being thankful in all circumstances (1 Thess. 5:18), submitting to civil authorities (1 Pet. 2:13-17), or suffering for doing good (1 Pet. 3:13-4:6), and others.

But beyond this, I have a philosophical/theological problem with calling serendipity, "providence," because if we can claim that events of a happy chance are the supernatural will of God, then could we not also claim that events of an unhappy chance are also the supernatural will of God, simply on the basis of the events happening by chance? This is problematic for several reasons, primarily because Jesus Himself directly addresses this very thing on a couple different occasions. For example, Jesus explicitly says that God does not show favoritism with the weather; everyone gets rain sometimes, and everyone gets sunshine sometimes (Matt. 5:45). If it happens to rain on a day when I need it to rain, then by all means I should thank God for the rain, but Jesus’ words hold me back from concluding that the favorable weather is some sort of supernatural occurrence for my personal benefit. Or what might be worse, concluding that an unfavorable chance is somehow the work of God for my personal harm (or the harm of others), which Jesus addresses in Luke 13:1-5. There was a tower in the area of Jerusalem called Siloam that fell and killed 18 people, and Jesus asks a rhetorical question, “Do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others who lived in Jerusalem?” Jesus goes on to say, “No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.” I take it from these words that Jesus is gently rebuking his audience here, that if you conclude that unhappy chances are somehow the judgment of God (as I heard numerous people claim concerning Hurricane Katrina, as a modern example), then you are the one who needs to repent!

To boil it down, we cannot correctly credit “good” fortune to God’s specific supernatural action any more than “bad” fortune simply on the basis of it being “fortune.” God specifically says in Scripture that He doesn’t act that way. Yet, for all my ranting here, there are times in our lives when we experience serendipity and cannot escape the conclusion that it is God’s providence and not mere happenstance. The books of Esther and Ruth are perhaps the clearest examples of this very thing. This has not happened very often in my life, but there are a few specific incidents that genuinely seem this way to me.

I’ve said all of this as an introduction to telling the story of buying our new vehicle, because the entire story of buying this car has felt so unexpectedly serendipitous that it has sometimes seemed providential. It’s a great story, and it needs to be told. But my conscience demands that I first discuss all of the above before expressing even a glimmer of a hint that it is somehow God’s supernatural will for us to own the vehicle we now own. God doesn’t work that way. We had good fortune to find an amazing bargain for a high quality vehicle, and the story of purchasing this vehicle is simply an awesome story because of the elements of serendipity contained within. So we offer thanks and praise to God, because to do so is both good and right, as the liturgy admonishes us.


And now, the story…

A few weeks ago, I was at my friend Matthew’s house to hang out and play some music. [He plays drums, so we often get together to jam!] Well, we were chatting about our upcoming move, and he asked me what we were going to do with our Honda Civic. I nonchalantly said that we were going to take it to South Africa with us when we moved. He then said, “You know, Joel, you can’t register that vehicle in South Africa, because it’s an import. They won’t register it. You’ll either have to keep it registered here in Swaziland, or sell it and get another car.” I said something like, “Whoa. No, I didn’t know that. I’m really glad you said something.” Well, there’s no way I was going to establish legal residence in South Africa while holding a United States drivers license and driving a Swaziland-registered car. That’s a recipe for disaster anywhere, but even more so in a place like South Africa where encounters with police can be wildly unpredictable. It didn’t take too long to come to the conclusion that we would simply need to sell our Swazi vehicle and get another one.

This was disappointing to me, because we had paid cash for our Civic, and it’s nowhere near the end of its useful life. [My goal was to drive the Civet (that’s what we call the Honda, because we’ve taken it so many places that it probably shouldn’t be driven — but hey, this is Africa! If you’ve never heard of a civet, it’s a small, African mountain cat) until it died, because car repairs are almost always cheaper than new cars.] But Allison and I had been talking about possibly growing the family, in which case we would need a bigger vehicle anyway. Furthermore, a number of our friends have expressed interest in coming to visit us once we move to Stellenbosch, and we wanted to have room in our vehicle to carry passengers. So in the end, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad time to upgrade our vehicle anyway.

So I began searching for a vehicle in our price range with capacity for at least 6 passengers and less than 200,000 km “on the clock” (that’s what they say here). Specifically, I was hoping to find a Toyota, either a Condor or Avanza, which are medium-sized crossover vehicles that seat either 7 or 8, depending on the specific model. The selection was pretty slim, and there was nothing that really stood out as a terrific value. But there was another problem. As Allison and I continued talking about it, she communicated that she was really worried about driving a manual transmission, and (as far as I could tell) all those vehicles were manual transmission. She really preferred an automatic transmission vehicle if we could find it. So I adjusted the parameters on the Auto Trader search engine for automatic transmission, and it came back with 200+ vehicles in the whole country of South Africa. I began paging through them all.

This was Monday evening of the week before last. There were some decent candidates, but they were all too far away to make the purchasing practical. Again, nothing was standing out until I saw a 2006 Volvo XC-90 2.5T 7-seater with 184,000 km (about 117,000 miles) which had had one owner and full service record for sale at a dealership in Johannesburg, about a 4 hour drive away. I immediately picked up the phone and called the salesman, even though it was after hours. He answered and told me that the car was still available. I told him that I was interested and would call him back at 8am sharp to discuss the vehicle.

In the meantime, I began researching. Having rebuilt the engine of a Volvo sedan I previously owned, I knew without a doubt that the high mileage would not be a major concern. If taken care of properly, Volvo engines run cleanly for a long time. Their safety record is impeccable, and their cars are both well-designed and well-built. I carefully read all the online review sites I could find on that particular year and model, and while some reviews were mixed, most all commenters were very bullish on the ’06 XC-90 2.5T and included no major mechanical complaints. Normally, we would be priced out of that vehicle, but this particular dealership was trying to get their stock off the lot and was having a massive sale. This particular car was priced in the same range as the Toyotas I was looking at earlier, low enough that we could pay cash for it and not have to finance it. Allison and I talked about it at length that evening, and we decided that if I felt good talking to the salesman about it on the phone, then I would travel to Joburg the next day to look at it and buy it.

Now it just so happened ... that my friend Matthew had just started a new job and needed to drive to Joburg the following day for corporate training to last the remainder of the week. So I called him up and asked if I might be able to catch a ride with him in the morning. He said yes, of course. I phoned the salesman in the morning, and he gave me the whole rundown. It had been previously owned by an employee of the dealership and had blown a gasket, so he traded it in. The dealership had the engine rebuilt and was selling the vehicle nearly at cost because of the amount of cars that they simply needed to get sold. Also, there was a 1-year warranty on the major mechanical engine components following the rebuild. I told him that I was coming to look at it that day and would probably buy it if I liked what I saw.

Within an hour my friend Matthew picked me up, and we had a fantastic drive, just enjoying each other’s company and chatting about everything that 30-somethings men talk about (you know, mostly telling stories of dumb things we did when we were younger). Truthfully, I couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend a 4-hour commute. The dealership was only a few miles from where he needed to go, so he even dropped me off! I met up with the salesman, and we went out to look at the Volvo. I told him that I wanted to inspect the car thoroughly, and he said that he had to talk to his manager about something anyway, so he let me have at it. I dug my penlight out of my bag, got down on the ground, and started looking over every inch of the undercarriage, starting at the front left corner and working my way around the car counterclockwise. Everything was clean and tight, no body damage, the interior was immaculate, even the tread on the tires looked fairly new. As I came around to the front right corner, I saw some fluid on the bottom side of the plastic shield guarding the engine. I dabbed it with my finger. Motor oil. The salesman came back then, and I told him that I’d found an oil leak. We opened the hood, and I could see oil on the right side motor mounts as well, but it was impossible to tell where it was coming from.

I went inside to meet the sales manager and have a chat with him about it. I told him I thought I wanted to buy the vehicle, but that I wanted the oil leak fixed first. He answered that he would have to send the car back to the mechanic who rebuilt the engine, and I was free to go along if I wanted. So the salesman and I hopped in and drove it down to the shop of a very pleasant mechanic named Willie (pronounced “vee-lee”). He and his assistants ran the car up on the lift and started removing guards and covers in an attempt to find the leak. I watched them work for about 15 minutes or so, then Willie decided that there was a good many more parts he would have to remove to find the leak. He said he needed three days to be able to take it down enough to find the leak, fix it, and then test it to ensure that the leak was fixed. I phoned Allison to give her the rundown, and we decided that we would wait the three days for them to fix the leak, and then buy it. So I returned to the sales manager and paid a small deposit for him to hold the car for me, then the salesman dropped me off at my friend Matthew’s hotel.

By this time it was nearly 5pm, much too late for me to catch the bus back to Swaziland, so I needed to stay overnight somewhere. I didn’t want to pay to stay in the ritzy hotel where Matthew was staying, but I remembered a place where I had stayed last year when I came to Joburg to take the GRE exam. It was a backpackers place that rented cabins for less than $20/night. I met up with Matthew and phoned from his room in the hotel. They had space for me! So Matthew and I hopped in his car, and off we went, GPS in hand.

Now Barefoot Backpackers is on Pretorius Rd. in a suburb of Joburg called Midrand. The problem is that there are three different streets in Midrand called Pretorius Rd. [No lie.] It was raining. And it was rush hour. In Joburg. I don’t know how long us it took us to get to Barefoot Backpackers, but it was much longer than it should have been. And we had great fun the whole time. We eventually got there, I checked in, then we drove off in search of victuals. We found a Debonair’s Pizza that was still open, and had a really meaningful chat while eating dinner. All in all, that day turned out to be the most “just pure fun” I’ve had in quite a while. From my cabin later that night, I sent an email to another friend in the States, telling him that the whole day had come so out-of-the-blue that it felt almost providential. The next morning I took the commuter train to the bus station and hopped the bus back to Swaziland.

 Now, it just so happened ... that another one of my friends here, an expat from Sweden named Matz, was flying in from Nepal and headed back to Swaziland on the same bus! So on the 4 hour ride back, Matz and visited for a good long while and had a great time catching up (I hadn’t seen him since coming back from the States).

[Here, an interlude. In the days while I was waiting for the oil lead to be fixed, I had some restless evenings. It’s hard for me to spend a bunch of cash all in one shot anyway (well, it’s hard for me to spend, period), but it’s tougher to spend money on a vehicle (much less a Volvo!) when there are so many physical needs around us. In a way, this emotional reaction is a healthy one. The presence of poverty in our lives and experience rightly prompts us to examine our consciences, especially in regard to decisions with what we do with money. And this is true regardless of where in the world you live. But there is a flip side to this coin as well. The reality of the world is that there is very little that I can physically do to alleviate suffering from the poverty around me. I know, that doesn’t sound like a very pious thing to say; but I think it’s an important reality to accept for someone to be effective in the kind of environment in which we live. There is not just a practical reason for this (burn-out), but also a theological reason. I don’t save people, Jesus saves people. But as I was weighing all these things in my mind, another thought that came in which I think accords with the truth…

I can’t fix all the money problems in Swaziland, but I can pray and ask God to fix them, and I should do that. And actually, I do do that already. But the lesson for me was deeper than that, I think. The lesson is, when I feel guilty about my position of wealth, the best immediate response is to pray to God. Buying the Volvo is a good use of money: the vehicle will meet our needs for the foreseeable future; it’s a quality vehicle that should last; and we’re not spending any more than we would if we bought a Toyota. And we are actively involved in meeting the physical needs of people around us to the extent that is realistic and (as far as we can tell) mutually beneficial, and even on some occasions, personally sacrificial. I have no reason to feel guilty, and I have every reason to pray. Praying places one’s trust in God, not self. Praying is an action in line with God’s character as the omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent Creator of the universe. I can pray for the person I give money to on the street. I can pray for the gogo (i.e. grandmother, or old woman) I pass by whose skin is sun-hardened, her spine permanently bent from labor, her face etched with the creases of life. I can pray for the children I meet in passing. You get the point here; it’s a good lesson.]

Well, it turns out that when the engine was rebuilt some exterior bolts hadn’t been torqued quite up to specs. The mechanic tightened the bolts, cleaned the engine off, and let the thing idle for a day to make sure that the leak was stopped. The following Monday, I got back on the bus to Joburg to test-drive the Volvo. It ran like a dream, and there was no sign of oil anywhere upon returning to the dealership.

As we were walking around finalizing everything that needed to be done to complete the sale, I walked across the new car showroom and happened to glance up and saw this:

Now, it just so happens ... that this is Charm City, USA -- yep, good ol’ Baltimore. Looking north on Light Street from downtown Inner Harbor, to be exact. I instinctively said, “Hey Alecs!” — that was the salesman’s name — “see that? That’s Baltimore, the city I used to live in. I’ve driven on that very street! Crazy! I’m gonna take a photo!” He said something like, “Yeah man, that is crazy!” Obviously, I was more enthused about it than he was, but he appreciated the moment, too.

Serendipity?  Providence?  Either way, it’s a great story.

An hour later, I was driving home in our new used Volvo. Thanks be to God!

A Tin Can, Spinning

You know that bit about how people in dangerous situations seem to experience them in slow motion? Totally true. It’s also true that adrenaline gives you dry-mouth with a really bitter taste. It’s been almost 12 hours since the crash, and I can still taste it. I’m writing down this story now because: 1) I can’t stop thinking about it, and need to talk it out; 2) I’m feeling some funny emotions about the whole thing, which is to be expected; 3) as silly as this might sound, I need affirmation that I did the best I could; and 4) I want to get it down before I forget what happened.

Our ZBC team was driving to a small town called Mliba this morning to hold our monthly class there. We were running behind normal schedule, so our team leader (who was driving) probably was feeling a little rushed. Everyone else was in the car when they picked me up in Manzini at about 7:50am…

[Now before I go on, you need to know that I ALWAYS wear my seat belt under ALL circumstances, and have ever since I attended this seat belt safety seminar in high school that was taught by a state trooper. In the space of less than two hours, he’d told enough stories to convince me that wearing a seat belt in a car is the probably the most important safety precaution in the world. And now I’ve lived one of those stories. It’s because vehicles are designed so that the safest place to be in virtually any accident is in your seat, and seat belts are designed to keep you in your seat regardless of what happens to the vehicle. And not only that, but seat belts also prevent some accidents this way (by keeping the driver in their seat), thereby giving the driver the best chance to control the vehicle for as long as possible.]

…The funny thing about this particular pickup is that I didn’t fasten my seat belt right away (I don’t even remember why). Then, when I noticed that I didn’t have it on, the thought actually went through my mind to leave it off. I have no idea why I thought this, I never have that thought EVER. I have absolutely no clue why it went through my mind on that occasion. Anyhow, I put my seat belt on. And it turns out that if I hadn’t, I might very well have been dead right now. As we pulled out of town and starting going faster, I noticed that the car was shaking a little more than seemed normal. It caused me a little concern, but the driver didn’t seem worried about it, and in Africa you wouldn’t go anywhere if you never traveled in a vehicle that caused a “little concern.” It’s simply a different world here than in developed countries, and it’s difficult to understand unless you’ve spent a good bit of time in Africa.

The accident happened sometime between 8:15 and 8:30am, just outside the village of Luve, which is itself about 15km from Mliba. I was in the front passenger seat (that’s the left side for you Euro/American types), the wife of my team leader was sitting behind me, and one of our students was sitting behind the driver. The driver was wearing a seat belt, but the two women in the back were not. [Another side note: often people do not wear seat belts in Africa, for various reasons. Sometimes there are too many people in the car, sometimes cars are old and the seat belts don’t work, etc.] I don’t know exactly what caused the car to skid, I was looking at my phone at the time and not paying attention to the road. However, my best guess is that something broke on the left rear wheel, which caused the rear of the car to swing wildly to the left. When I felt the car do this, I looked up, and I estimate that we were going at least 100kph (60mph), maybe faster, but I don’t know for sure.

START CLOCK. [I’ll explain what I mean in a minute.]

When I looked up, my analysis of the situation was literally instantaneous. I knew that there was no way that the driver would be able to save the skid, we were about to be catapulted off the road to the right. I could also tell from our speed that the car would roll multiple times once we hit the ditch. The thought that then went through my head was, “I might die right now.” It was really surreal — the only thing I can guess is that adrenaline was already coursing through me — but there wasn’t any emotion attached to the thought at all. No terror, no fear, no panic, nothing like that. It was simply a matter of fact. If I had to describe what I felt in that instant, I would describe it with the phrase, “well, here we go,” although I didn’t have that specific thought at the time.

As we hurtled off the road, I instinctively (not deliberately) raised my right hand above my head to shield myself from the top of the car as we started to tumble. I had my eyes open and my mind was active and alert through the entire crash. It was strange and surreal. In that moment, I lost all perception of everything outside the car, it was as if the universe had shrunk to a car-sized tin can. I even lost perception of the others in the car during that moment — it was just me and a spinning tin can. I was only cognizant of one thought going through my mind, and it almost makes me laugh at (again) how matter-of-fact it was. I thought, “Well, this is what it’s like to be inside a rolling car.” I felt an impact on the roof. No pain. I was still OK, but I knew there would be more. Another impact. Still no pain. Eventually, the tin can stopped spinning. Immediately, my brain told my body, “GET OUT!” It wasn’t a scream like that, but it was not the same matter-of-fact thought as the two previous. I must have unbuckled my seat belt (although I don’t remember doing that) and pulled the door handle. I didn’t expect it to open, but it did. I got out.

STOP CLOCK.

[Now, all of what I just described in the last two paragraphs must have occurred within the span of about three seconds; or at most, five. But it felt like an eternity. I know, that’s what you always hear, right? But here’s the thing. There’s no other way to describe it, really there’s not. I can’t say it felt like three minutes, because it didn’t feel like three minutes. It didn’t feel like three hours. It didn’t feel like three years. The only way to describe it is: it was three seconds, but it felt like an eternity. I was keenly self-aware during the entire crash, and it was exactly like watching it in slow motion. It was, undoubtedly, the most surreal experience of my life.]

The next 20 seconds or so went like this: I looked in the car. I remember feeling afraid of what I would see, but it was almost like the fear was somewhere else at the moment, like it was unimportant just then. I saw the student first. She was alive, moving, and bleeding from her head. But our team leader’s wife was gone. I think I cried out her name, looking for her. She had been thrown from the car, and was on the ground about ten feet behind and to the right of the vehicle. She was moving around and moaning in pain, but no blood that I could see. She was calling out her husband’s name, who had been driving. I came back around to the front of the car to see his condition. He had a large gash in his head that was bleeding, but he was conscious and moving. No one was dead, and it didn’t appear that anyone would die immediately.

After these 20 seconds, the next 30 minutes are an utter mish-mash. I could tell that I was not myself, but I was lucid, and my clouded brain was entirely focused on one task: I have to take care of the others. The student was struggling to get out of the car — she was the most vocal about needing help, and her injury appeared to be the worst. She got out of the car, and I took my fleece jacket and put it on her head to slow the bleeding. She was able to hold the jacket against her own head, so I went to check on the driver. By this time he had gotten out of the car. He was bleeding, and his eyes had a look like he’d been hit in the head. I said something to him, and he muttered a reply that I couldn’t understand. [I’m sure he was concussed.] I took off my shirt and gave it to him, and he was able to hold it against his own head. He was in a bad way, walking around kind of aimlessly. All the while his wife was moaning and clutching her left shoulder, I thought some part of it was probably broken. By this time vehicles were stopping, and people were starting to come around in order to help. I found my phone in the car, amazed that it still worked. [My Facebook page was still up, even. In fact, all four of our phones came through the crash and still worked. I couldn’t believe it.] I called our principal who was at his house in Manzini. telling him that we were in an accident and needed an ambulance. I told him what I knew at that point about the injuries that I’d seen.

I don’t know what specific order all the rest of these events happened. [I said earlier that I was lucid, but not really. I was uninjured (as far as I could tell) and even-tempered, but I was in shock. Many people were asking me if I was hurt. On two different occasions in the next hour I tried to save a man’s number to my phone, and failed both times. I have no idea what I did wrong. The second time I even seem to remember typing the man’s name into my phone and pushing “Save,” but it didn’t save, so I must not have.] The man I just mentioned was one of the first to arrive on the scene (I think?), he was the one who ended up taking the others to the hospital. He was a government employee in the Ministry of Works, he said that he had called the police. The student was starting to act hysterically, so I checked her head again, a little more thoroughly this time. She was bleeding from at least two different wounds, and because of her hair I couldn’t tell how large those wounds were. She was bleeding from her ear, part of which was missing. I asked her if she could lie down, which she did. I looked at the nearest woman and asked her to hold the fleece jacket over the wounds, keep pressure on them, and not to let her go to sleep. Well over a dozen people were around now and starting to move the wife into the man’s bakkie (i.e. pick-up truck) to take her to the hospital. She was still moaning, and getting worse. The husband was still walking around aimlessly. The principal called me back to say that he had called an ambulance to come, and I told him that people were starting to load up the injured to take them to the hospital. There was quite a bit of confusion now as I was trying to ascertain what everyone was doing, communicate with the Ministry of Works employee (whose bakkie it was), and communicate with the principal on the phone. The principal told me to wait until the ambulance came, which I acknowledged and then hung up because I was needing to communicate with the bakkie man. Other people had brought the student over and were loading her in the bakkie as well. The Ministry of Works employee told me that he was going to rush them to the hospital. I told him that our principal had called an ambulance, that it was coming, and that I thought we should wait for it to arrive. He asked what direction it was coming from, and I replied that it was coming from Manzini. He said, “Ok, we will go and meet them on the way.” The student, now in the bakkie, asked me to fetch her bag out of the car because it had some money in it, so I did and brought it to her. Our team leader (the one who had been driving our car) was still holding my shirt on his head and wandering around. I told him to get in the bakkie because he needed to go to the hospital. He asked me if I would stay with the car and supplies, and I said that I would. The bakkie left, carrying all three who had been injured.

Since there was nothing more I could do for any of them, I turned my attention to myself. I had blood on my arms and hands, and nothing but my tie with which to wipe it off. That didn’t work very well, and now I was starting to be concerned about getting blood off me as soon as possible (which is a major concern in a country like Swaziland with high HIV prevalence). At this time I was also able to locate all my belongings except my small satchel bag, in which I had been carrying money. Not a terribly large amount by American standards, but not insignificant. I was looking for it when the police came. They started questioning me about a number of things, and I communicated to them that the others in the car had been hurt and were going to the hospital. They left to follow, saying they would come back to get my statement. I returned to my attempt to find my satchel, and the paramedics came.

This was now between 30 and 45 minutes after the crash. I asked the paramedics if they had met anyone on the road, and they said, “no.” I briefly explained what had happened, and they asked to check my blood pressure. They checked me out thoroughly, confirming that I had no discernable injuries. They also wiped some of the blood off my arm. Before I had come out of the ambulance, our principal had arrived. Having no else to check out, the paramedics left. Some time after that, the bakkie returned. The driver said that he had passed the ambulance and tried to flag it down but was unsuccessful. He had taken the others directly to the hospital, and they were receiving treatment. The principal and I loaded as many things from the wrecked car that we could salvage into his vehicle and drove back to Manzini. I could feel my sense of shock starting to dissipate, and I was starting to have brief waves of emotion. I also began to feel soreness in my left arm and right wrist, just minor bruising from the impact. I’d asked the police, the paramedics, and the principal if they had any wipes with which I could clean the blood off, but no one had any. I was now starting to be concerned about the length of time blood had been on my skin. I was pretty sure my level of risk was 0%, especially since I didn’t see any cuts on me, but I didn’t want to take any chances. We returned to the principal’s house where I washed myself thoroughly and changed out of my undershirt (which had blood on it).

At this point I was safely out of danger and away from the scene of the crash. I still had no physical pain to speak of, but I could tell that my brain was not right. The principal told me that I was walking slowly and unevenly, and he asked me directly if I was sure that I was all right. I assured him that I was, because I didn’t have any external pain except on my left arm and right wrist, and the paramedics had checked me thoroughly for signs of internal injuries. The police officer found us, and I wrote out my statement. That was an interesting experience, because my brain still felt kind of drugged. I kept having to scratch out words and rewrite what I was really trying to say. It turns out my satchel had been placed in the bakkie with the injured folks, so I walked over to the hospital and retrieved it. I was amazed to find all the money was still in it — thanks be to God! — especially because the reason I was carrying so much money was so that I could give it to our principal for his orphan care project. I did so, and the principal drove me back to the bus rank (i.e. the transportation center, where all the taxis and buses and kombis arrive and depart from) so that I could get home. My sense of shock had worn off now; I felt very, very weak, and it was starting to get hot (about 11am now). I stopped at the Tandoori Express and ordered a small dish of fried rice, a Russian sausage, and a fat cake (i.e. a bun, deep-fried and usually sprinkled with a little sugar). I sat down and ate all of everything, after which I had much higher energy levels.

I got on the next kombi headed for Mbabane and sat in silence. The crash kept playing over and over again in my head, and I had to exercise immense mental discipline to not let myself imagine what that experience would be like had my children been in the car. I knew that if I let my mind go there, I would get hysterical. My phone rang. It was the principal, calling to tell me that the student had gone in for x-rays and the doctors thought she might have broken vertebra in her neck. I hung up, telling him that I would be praying. Then another thing started happening - I started trying to evaluate myself and what I had done after the crash. I kept second-guessing what I did, thinking that maybe her injuries would have been less if only I had done this, or that, or the other. But as I thought about the situation, I decided that everyone involved truly did the best they could. Maybe I could have made different and better decisions if I’d been more-clear headed, or if I’d had more information at the time, or if I’d been able to to communicate better. But none of that was the case. Those were all irrational lines of thought, and I needed to focus on what was true.

When I got to Mbabane, I saw that I would have to wait a good long time to catch a kombi back to my house. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go home quite yet, anyway. My thoughts and emotions were still really whirling around. I went across the street to the shopping center, hoping that I might run into someone I knew who could take me back home. Sure enough, in less than two minutes I saw my friend Viki (who, with her husband Barry, had had us over for dinner on the Friday previous). My friend Viki is awesome anyway, but she was just the right person for me to see at that moment. Of course she asked me how I was, and I told her that I’d been in a car accident. I was on the verge of breaking down. She could see that I was really shook up, and I told her plainly that I wasn’t quite right in the head at the moment. She said something like, “Oh, you dear,” and gave me a big hug. And it really helped settle me down at that moment. Then she said, “Well, if you can stand to wait about 10 or 15 minutes while I do my shopping, I’d be glad to drop you off at home.” We chatted while she bought her items and during the drive home. As we were close to arriving, I profusely expressed my gratitude and appreciation to her, that I was really feeling better than I had thirty minutes earlier. She replied, “I’m so glad, I think you just needed to talk. Now just sit down and put your feet up for the rest of the day!” I wasn’t able to quite do that, but she was right, I needed to rest.

As I walked in my door I looked at the clock, and it was 12:35pm — almost exactly 4 hours since the accident. I texted the principal to tell him that I was home. After a few minutes, Allison arrived home bringing William from pre-school, and I told her everything that happened. (I had been unable to reach her all morning because she had inadvertently left her cell phone at home while she’d been at work.) We decided that I should go get checked out by a doctor, especially because there was a possibility that I’d been exposed to HIV. Neither I nor anyone else had seen any cuts on me (which is an utter miracle!), so I thought that I was at zero risk of infection. But HIV isn’t something you should leave to guesswork, so I went to the clinic to at least talk to doctor, get checked out, and see what the best course of action might be.

I got right in to see the doctor, and he checked me again for broken bones and other internal injuries. Nothing. He told me that just because I wasn’t feeling any pain then didn’t mean that I didn’t have injuries, because the adrenaline will mask them, and the adrenaline was still in my system. He said that the area of greatest concern with vehicle accidents is the neck, because of whiplash-type injuries, of course, but also because the muscles are strained very hard while trying to keep the head immobile during the crash event. He said there was also to potential for the spine to swell inside the skeletal structure surrounding it, so he recommended wearing a neck collar for at least a couple days. He prescribed me anti-inflammatory tablets, a neck collar, and a course of post-exposure prophylaxis drugs for HIV. I filled the prescriptions and went home.

It was now 3:20pm. Allison loaded the kids up and went to her Tuesday afternoon play group, and I laid down on the living room floor (the hardwood felt good on my sore muscles, actually) and slept for a while. We went through our normal evening routine, and after the kids went to bed I sat down to write this. It was therapeutic, especially because I was starting to feel bad emotionally. I started having the same thoughts again as I’d been having earlier in the kombi, and I was having to discipline my mind quite severely to keep my thoughts from running away with me. It took me until 1:30am until I was finally ready to lie down and sleep, which I did. And I slept pretty well, I think … about 5 hours of good quality sleep. I woke up the next morning in a much better place then when I went to bed.

It’s now the evening after, as I’m writing the end of this. In the final analysis of the situation, I think this is the truth: I did the best I could in a very difficult situation to try to take care of people who had suffered severe physical trauma, using what I knew at the time and what I was able to communicate to others. I had suffered trauma as well, it just didn’t look like it because I didn’t have any visible injuries. I think the correct view of the situation is that all of us, including myself, could have died, and perhaps even should have died. But no one died — thanks and glory be to God. Everyone, myself included, did the best they could with the information they knew they had. It’s just a horrible situation, and it’s difficult for me to be the only person in the car who walked away unscathed, so to speak. But there’s no legitimate reason for me to feel guilty (or privileged) on that account — it’s merely a matter of fact.

Both the driver and his wife were released from the hospital this morning. The wife broke her collarbone, and the husband received stitches for the lacerations on his head.  I never heard if the doctors confirmed he had a concussion.  The student did not have broken vertebra, but rather dislocated vertebra. She was transported to Johannesburg today and will undergo surgery tomorrow to straighten the three dislodged vertebra in her neck. Then, we all need to heal.

Blessed are you, O Lord, the God of our fathers, creator of the changes of day and night, giving rest to the weary, renewing the strength of those who are spent, bestowing upon us occasions of song in the evening. As you have protected us in the day that is past, so be with us in the coming night; keep us from every sin, every evil, and every fear, for you are our light and salvation, and the strength of our life. To you be glory for endless ages. Amen.

[A Collect for Evening, Book of Common Prayer (Anglican), p.113]

Re-patriation, in brief

Here are a few personal thoughts and observations, unfiltered, from our visit to the US this year.  Take them for whatever they are worth, whoever you are:


American money felt fake to me; the bills were too large, and the coins too small (and too light).

American houses looked huge, and it was strange to see building made from something other than concrete.

The mere size of everything in America was overwhelming, and sometimes alarming.

So many trees, especially in the city!

When visiting Baltimore, a city that is 60% African-American, most Americans probably think to themselves, "Wow, there are a lot of black people here!"  The thought actually went through my head, "Wow, there are a lot of white people here."

It felt weird seeing so many white faces.

Americans are loud.  [Guilty as charged!]

Americans have a lot of stuff.

Using my left hand felt weird and made me feel self-conscious, so I just used my right hand for everything.

American drivers don't share the road very well.

Americans want to do everything themselves.

Americans don't think very much about honor/shame in conversation.

I found myself communicating in an African way, especially in avoiding the appearance of shame.

Americans don't smile or hug as much as Africans.

At O'Hare airport in Chicago, on the way back to Africa, I heard my friend Zachs (a Nigerian) speaking his African accent, and I immediately thought, "Ah! These are my people!"

Flying into O.R. Tambo airport in Johannesburg felt like coming to "my airport."

I had struggled to adjust back to American traffic/driving, but returning to South African driving was natural and automatic.

Returning to Swaziland felt familiar, but not quite like coming home.

my worst travel experience EVER (in a world controlled by malevolent computers)

I considered if I was succumbing to hyperbole with such a title, but I don’t think so. I’ve had some real travel disasters in the past, but never with an 11-month old baby strapped to my front, who is even less amused by the situation than I am.

Here’s some travel advice: NEVER BOOK THROUGH A THIRD-PARTY WEBSITE. I have had this travel rule in the past, after some traumatic experiences. But the Expedias of the world (yes, I’m naming names) are so alluring, with their slick search engines and nice fares and promises of doing multiple tickets in a single itinerary.

BUT IT’S NOT WORTH IT. Most of the time things will work out just fine. And then sometimes, something will go disastrously wrong and you will be told you have no ticket or the wrong ticket and there will be a big fight about it between the airline and the third-party website, and you will be stuck in the middle, standing at a ticket counter for hours at a time with an 11-month old baby strapped to your front and a full bladder and no chance to go to the bathroom, wondering what you did to deserve this.

That was me. Today. And the plane left without me, and I am now in an airport hotel room, making my third call of the day to Expedia, and once again on hold for a small eternity, which means I may as well vent through blogging a little.

Cassia and I started our travels this afternoon in a minivan of fellow travelers, which left Mbabane late (I don’t know why I expected any different), and then took a much longer break than the driver said he would at the Alzu rest stop (I don’t know why I expected any different), and then we were close to an hour behind schedule and I began to get worried that I wouldn’t have enough time at the airport for the complicated task of checking in with a baby, too much luggage, and not enough hands. Also, Cassia was not thrilled with 4 ½ hours in her carseat, and made a great big stink about it for much of the trip, in spite of having a very kind mkhulu sitting next to her who talked to her and let her pull his gray curly beard whenever she wanted.

But we got to the Johannesburg airport two hours before the flight left. All good. I went to the check-in counter. The British Airways agent frowned and typed and examined our passports for ten minutes, and then told me that she couldn’t find a ticket number for Cassia, so I needed to go to the B.A. ticket desk. Which I did, a bit disgruntled about having to lug all my stuff all the way across the terminal. But we still had plenty of time, and I wasn’t worried.

When I booked through Expedia, I had definitely booked an infant-in-lap ticket for Cassia. (On international flights, they charge you a few hundred dollars for an infant-in-lap, and they need a ticket, unlike on U.S. flights.) And when I checked my reservation on B.A.’s system, Cassia was definitely in my reservation as an infant-in-lap. But somehow she never got a ticket. Don’t ask me to explain this. So the B.A. ticket agents got to work trying to get her a ticket. First there were two working on it, and then three, and then four. Gradually their conversation with me changed from, “Of course we’ll get you on that flight,” to not answering my questions about whether the flight was still being held for me or not, to “Sorry, the flight is closed.” They said it was Expedia’s fault. They called Expedia, and Expedia put us on hold again and again, and finally after an hour and 13 minutes the B.A. ladies said they weren’t going to keep paying for that international call and they had to close up shop anyway (it was now nearly 10), so they hung up.

It’s hard to tell who was enjoying themselves less during those 2 ½ hours standing at the ticket counter, me or Cassia. Cassia cried on the outside. I cried on the inside. And then, when I thought about how exhausted I was and that I was only barely starting my trip across the world and still only a few hundred miles from my starting point, and already down to only 10 diapers in the diaper bag, I cried a little on the outside as well.

It’s now 12:30 a.m. and Cassia just fell asleep (finally) and I have been on hold with Expedia for 20 minutes (after that incredibly long, totally unproductive call at the airport, I also had a 25 minute call from the hotel that got cut off, and now this 30 minute call, and every time I have to start all over with a new person and explain everything and then get sent to that person’s supervisor and so on). So I actually still have no idea who is going to agree to re-book me, or on what flights, or how much of my cousin’s wedding festivities I will miss.

I still feel mostly in the dark about the problem, but as best as I can understand it, when I booked with Expedia, they couldn’t actually book Cassia on an infant-in-lap ticket because there was a U.S. segment (Seattle to Billings) in which she didn’t have a ticket at all, because for U.S. flights an infant-in-lap doesn’t need a ticket. So somehow this threw their whole system into chaos, and they couldn’t give her a ticket for the international segments either. And somehow, the way that Expedia had booked me meant that British Airways couldn't book her in my itinerary because she was already there but ticketless, and they couldn't book her in any other itinerary because who lets a baby travel on an itinerary without a minder, and so they tried a dozen different ways and simply could not ticket my infant. In spite of the fact that I was standing right there, at the airport, with the little passenger in question, pleading, “Please let us on this flight! I’ll pay! I just have to get on this flight!”

Once upon a time, I believe people just paid actual money and were given actual tickets, and then were allowed to get into a plane or train or automobile and travel from Point A to Point B. What an ingenious solution, so simple! How have transportation systems become so complex that four people working hard for an hour can’t figure out how to sell a woman a plane ticket for her baby? I would be having a good laugh at the absurdity of it, if I weren’t sitting in a hotel room still on hold with Expedia when I should be on a plane to my cousin’s wedding.

… That was all written last night while on endless hold with Expedia. At 1:30 a.m. a very nice young man in India told me none of this was my fault, and even started to give me possible itineraries out of here, and I started to be hopeful that Expedia would do something to help me. At 2 a.m. his supervisor told me that she just had to very quickly talk to her supervisor. I begged her not to put me on hold for a long time as it was 2 a.m. and I was finished. At 3 a.m. she finally got back on the phone to tell me that the best they could do was cancel my ticket and refund me the money (which she seemed to think was a favor as technically I was a “no show” and could have ended up with zero back on the ticket). She told me the whole thing was my fault since they sent me an email in January telling me that they couldn’t book the infant ticket. I never saw the email, nor did I notice that they never charged me for the infant ticket. So it was kind of my fault. Also, I was dealing with nine different plane itineraries for this summer trip. NINE. Details get missed.

But would it have been too much to ask for either Expedia or British Airways to flag the issue in my online reservation (which I checked on both of their websites multiple times), or for an actual person from Expedia to call me to discuss that the “ticketed and confirmed” message in my online reservation wasn’t actually true? British Airways, for their part, says it definitely wasn’t their fault as they had no idea the infant hadn’t been ticketed, until they tried to check me in. And no one can explain why four B.A. agents working hard for an hour couldn’t actually get me an infant ticket. That will have to remain one of the unsolvable mysteries of the universe.

So bottom line is I had to start all over and book a brand new ticket for today, which was of course expensive, and none of the multiple very pleasant B.A. agents I talked to had any authority to lower that last-minute fare or to get me a seat that isn't a middle seat (with a baby on my lap). Who does make such decisions? The computers?

I am on the verge of saying I am never going to book through a computer or website again, only with an actual travel agent. (This never would have happened had I booked with a travel agent.) Do travel agents even exist anymore?

At the very least, I am really, truly swearing off booking through third-party websites. I told Expedia (in our five hours of phone calls yesterday) that I would warn everyone I knew about them and their lack of customer service, so there you are. Be warned.