Dad ran a hand over his stubbled chin as he stepped into the kitchen of our mission home in Nigeria. “Marcy, there’s a plane coming tomorrow. Do you have any cookies to send to Kent Academy for Larry and Debbie?”

Mom dried her hands on the towel beside the sink and crinkled her forehead. “Oh, Herb! We ate the last of the brownies with our afternoon tea.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.” Dad rubbed Mom’s weary back. “I’ve been concentrating on class prep to stay ahead of my Nigerian students.”

“I’ve just finished the dinner dishes, but I could bake a batch of cookies.”  She slipped one arm around the waist of Dad’s tall, slender frame and rested her head on his shoulder.

“It’s 7:00 pm, so you have a couple of hours before the station’s generator shuts down for the night.” Dad grinned. “If anyone can do it, you can!”

“Okay. But you’ll have to put the little kids to bed.”  Mom bent and pulled a mixing bowl from the cupboard. “I asked Mark and Grant to play nicely with baby Cindy until I got back there.”

“Once the cookies are baking, I’ll write a letter to our big second-and third-grade kids at K.A.” She opened the oven, turned the gauge, and clicked the gas to light the flame. “I miss Larry and Debbie while they’re at school. I wish we could somehow keep them with us and include them in our mission’s ministry.”

“I miss them too. But we know the school is the best place for them. Thanks for doing this baking on such short notice.” Dad stepped toward the doorway, then stopped and frowned. “Do we have enough flour and sugar? We haven’t been to Ilorin for a few weeks to shop.”

The Brown Sugar Box

Mom nodded. “We still have plenty in the storeroom.”

You’re such a whiz in the kitchen.” Dad’s eyes twinkled. “You can whip up anything from nothing!”

Mom brushed a short, dark strand of hair from her face. “Fortunately, I bought milk from the Fulani herdsman who stopped by yesterday, so I’ll make sugar cookies. Remember how Debbie calls them Fulani cookies?”

“Yes, and we all love your Fulani cookies.” Dad patted his stomach as he headed toward the living room.

Mom measured the ingredients, stirred the batter, and soon two trays of tasty treats were in the oven. Then she scooped batter onto two remaining pans.

Once the cookies were cooling, Mom sat at the dining room table. She slipped a sheet of carbon paper under the first page of a notepad so she could write two letters at once. Then she jotted down the family activities of the past week.

The letter ended with, “That’s all for now. Lots of love, Mom and Dad, Mark, Grant, and Cindy.”

In the kitchen, she opened a lower cabinet door and rummaged through empty boxes. “Here they are!” She pulled out two brown sugar boxes she had saved just for this purpose and lined them with waxed paper. Carefully placing one cookie after another in neat rows, she squeezed into each carton as many as she could.

Dad pressed tape on the packages as Mom held the wrapping in place. “I can picture our kids’ smiles when these arrive.”

“Larry and Debbie will be excited to get packages!” Mom hugged them to her chest then used the hem of her apron to wipe a tear from her cheek. “I sure wish we could deliver these in person.”

* * *

Airplane Deliveries

The midday sun shone brightly as my seven-year-old friend and I ran across the playground toward the boarding school dining hall, our arms straight out to the sides. Veering left then right then left again, we soared and dipped like airplanes over the asphalt. Suddenly the hum of an engine buzzed overhead, and we stopped to look at the sky, holding our hands up to shield our eyes from the sun.

“I wonder if that plane is coming from Egbe.” I laughed with excitement.

“Maybe it’s bringing us mail from home!” Her voice squeaked high as she flew in a circle around me.

After lunch I raced to the girls’ dorm. There we second graders brushed our teeth and settled carefully onto our neatly made beds for a short rest before afternoon classes.

Soon an auntie walked down the hall stopping from room to room handing out the day’s mail. “Here are packages for two of the girls in this room.”

All four of us looked up.

She stood by my bed. “One’s for you, Debbie, and a letter.”

I hugged the brick-shaped parcel as if I were hugging Mom. Butterflies danced in my tummy as I thought of the treat inside. But first, I opened the letter and read the news about Mark, Grant, and Cindy. How lucky they are to still live at home.

I took my time opening the brown package. Look how carefully Mommy placed the tape. I love her handwriting. I don’t want to rip anything.

A Message from Home to My Heart

Finally, I spread the paper open. There sat a brown sugar box.

My roommates’ eyes grew big. One asked, “Why did your mom send you that?”

I laughed. “I think she just used the box.” Sure enough, inside were cookies—Fulani cookies. I took one out and sniffed. The smell of sugar and vanilla tickled my nose.

I bit into the cookie. Instantly, I was back home on our village mission station helping Mom stir the dough. Taking fingerfuls of batter. Handing the spoon for Larry to lick.

I sure miss home.

The girl in the lower bunk across from me opened her package of roasted peanuts and held them out to me.

“Want some?”

I want to taste the peanuts, I thought. But I can’t bear to give up a single bite of my Fulani cookies. “No thanks,” I said. “I don’t want to trade.”

From the bunk above me, my roommate leaned over the railing. “Hey, Debbie. What did your mom send you this time?” Her parents lived in another country and she didn’t get many letters. She looked sad.

“These are cookies made with milk from Fulani cows. Plus, lots of flour and sugar.” I felt bad she never got packages. We’re both homesick. Maybe a cookie will help her feel better.

I handed one up to her.

“Thank you!” Her face broke into a grin and she took a nibble. “Mmmm. So sweet and sugary.”

Mom would be proud I shared her cookies.

Cookies Don’t Last Forever

After a while, the auntie came down the hall and collected our goodies. “I’ll put these in a tin in the cookie cupboard. They’ll be in the office next to the girls’ lobby, and you can eat a few of yours each afternoon until you finish them.”

After rest hour as I walked to school, I saw my brother and waved. “Hi, Larry! Did you get a package from home?”

“Yes, I did. Fulani cookies! They were so good.” He smacked his lips together. “I ate half of them already.”

“Some kids never get anything,” I said. “We’re lucky Mom and Dad sent us a letter and tasty cookies.”

Over the next week, I took two cookies from the brown sugar box every rest hour. I imagined having tea time with Mom as she and I sat at our little kids’ table on our porch.

The day I ate the last cookie in my bed, I faced the wall, curled up like a cat, and nibbled in secret. While I bit off teeny, tiny pieces savoring the love from my mom, my heart felt as heavy as a rock.

After rest hour I dragged my feet as I walked to the school building. Halfway across the playground, I suddenly smiled as I thought of the next plane buzzing over the school compound bringing a letter or brown sugar box from home.

Looking Back on My Childhood

It was difficult to be separated from my parents at that young age, and I couldn’t hang onto the feeling of love they had for me. However, the tangible gift of a letter and, even better, fresh-baked goodies, filled my heart with the memory of home. Those little bundles of love helped ease the pain of separation from my family.

As I visited with my mom in her retirement village recently, we reminisced over the experience. Mom said, “We were fortunate that planes came often to Egbe, and I made sure to send you a letter or a package each time. I missed you so much and wanted you to know we loved you.”

Then we laughed as she reminded me how much labor it took to make the cookies. “I first had to strain out the bugs, dirt, and cow’s hair from the milk. Then boil it to pasteurize it.”

What I Know Now

When I shared this memory with my youngest brother, Grant, he had a light bulb moment. He said, “I bought my home because it was in the flight path of Fresno Yosemite International Airport, and I love to watch the planes fly overhead.”

Grant added, “I just realized why I love so much to watch those planes. It reminds me of how good it felt to look up at the planes while I was a homesick boy at boarding school and know the plane likely carried a letter and maybe cookies from Mom and Dad at home.”

It’s wonderful how the memory of that little brown sugar box still evokes feelings of love and family.