Even though she’s trying to hide it, I know my mother’s worried, too. She’s jumpy, looking around in case someone tries to take us kids away at the last minute. I don’t think she takes a deep breath until we’re all buckled in our seats. After we take off, she slumps and falls asleep for a few hours. Thank God, Jondy and Nina do, too.
Halfway through the flight, when she wakes up for dinner, she digs in her overhead carry-on bag, nearly dropping her heavy laptop on my head. She hands me a map of the US and tells me to start memorizing the different states’ names. “You’ll need to know this in America or people will think you’re not being educated properly,” she tells me. Mom hasn’t been back to the States in eighteen years, and she’s wondering how much has changed.
After two days of travel, including twenty-four hours in the air, I dazedly follow Mom off the plane at Miami International Airport with a mix of excitement and trepidation. The customs area seems huge and stark with white, shiny walls and harsh neon lights that burn our jet-lagged eyes as I search for signs to direct us. At least the signs are in English. When we pass through the arrivals gate, we are swept into a crowd of sweaty people; everyone is in a rush, pushing to get somewhere.
My first shock is all the colors and sizes of people—Black people in African robes and turbans, brown ladies in bright dresses and head scarves, fat people, tall people. The few white businessmen seem to be far outnumbered in this colorful crowd. Us three kids stare in awe. In Asia, we rarely saw Black people, or even fat people. Most of the people there were thin with black hair, brown eyes, and golden skin. The huge, multicultural crowd at the airport is so different than the white world of the movies that I am expecting.
It takes forever to pass through customs, collect our baggage, and reach the airport lobby. Still, when we get there, no one is waiting to pick us up. Pushing our luggage cart and trying to keep hold of the kids, Mom and I search the entire building, looking for someone with the Family member look—a smiling duo sporting unstyled, slightly graying, long frizzy hair and plain, well-worn, hand-me-down clothes and eyes that have the light of a true believer.
After an anxious hour waiting and looking around for someone from the Family, Mom changes some money and finds a pay phone. She inserts a few coins and dials the phone number for the Family Home that she was given by the Shepherds in Thailand.
“No answer,” she groans.
We don’t have an address or a name, just the phone number and the assurance that someone knows we are coming and will be here to pick us up. We take a seat on a bench near the phone booth and wait for a bit before trying the number again. Mom continues to call the number every half hour, but there’s still no answer. Do we have the wrong number? The excitement of the plane trip has worn off, and fear is the only thing preventing us from collapsing from exhaustion. Where is everyone?
Nearly six hours pass before Mom finally leads us out of the airport. A blast of hot, humid Miami air hits me as we spill out of the rotating doors. A taxi driver rushes up to us, and after Mom explains our predicament, he says he’ll take us to a motel run by his brother. Nervous about being cheated in a foreign country, Mom reluctantly agrees. We are out of options.
Mom has only the $200 Grandma sent her for the trip. When we reach the dingy motel, she peels off a bill for our driver and then continues her efforts to reach our contact person. She is doing her best to stay calm, but she can’t hide her growing panic.
We must make the money stretch—$36 per day for the motel. She budgets $5 per day to feed us. At the grocery store, we can only afford to buy milk and the fixings for peanut butter sandwiches, which we live on for three days.
After the second day, we make the very expensive long-distance call to the Home in Thailand, hoping that they will provide us another phone number for a Family member in the US. I watch the pay phone gulping down our few remaining dollars, only to have them give us the same phone number that we’ve tried dozens of times. “Call back tomorrow and we will see if we can find you another number,” the voice on the other end of the phone says.
Two more days pass and still no luck. Mom calls her mother in Atlanta in desperation; her parents don’t have email yet. Grandma explains that she’ll have to go to a Western Union office to wire us funds, which will take a few days at least. Mom tells me we don’t have enough to cover the motel room another night—we’ll be on the street tonight if someone doesn’t find us. I pray desperately while trying to encourage Mom that God will take care of us. I’m terrified, but it will not help Mom or the kids to say so.
Mom uses nearly all the coins we have left to make one more call to Thailand. Finally, someone there gives us the number for a different Family Home, in Atlanta. It’s a lead! Mom calls the number and is given the correct number for the Home in Florida. With our last coins, she finally reaches a Family member in the Miami Home. She breaks into tears as she gives him the address of our motel. Within the hour, we get a call from reception that our ride has arrived. I jump up and down in joy and relief, pulling Jondy into a tight hug.
We hurry to the lobby, where a tall, slender man with wiry gray hair awaits us. My entire body wants to cave in in relief as we pile into this stranger’s van for the thirty-minute ride to our next destination. I watch out the window as flashes of blue ocean and palm trees whiz by. The van slows as we pull into the driveway of a big house surrounded by a high concrete wall. A few people greet us as we bring our suitcases inside. This is a communal house with about thirty people, including some teens. Someone shows us to a small room where we can set down our things, and we are given a quick tour. From the living room window, I notice a large backyard covered in short green grass. I’ve rarely seen a lawn—they are not common in Asia.
Our hosts let us stay while we sort out where we are going next. Although it has a similar schedule—Devotions, mealtimes, etc.—this home is much more relaxed, even disorganized, compared to the Bangkok Combo we’ve just come from. I’m still wary, but not much is demanded of us other than the usual chores designated for Family visitors passing through, such as helping out with dishes and cleaning.