Photo courtesy of Thadd Jackson: My friends Elizabeth, Rebecca, Jane, and Aunt Lavina in front of Camel Rock.

As I watched out the side window, the bush airstrip and surrounding jungle fell rapidly away. The pilot circled around and dipped the wing toward the cluster of missionary families and Nigerian friends, their chins tipped skyward, hands shading eyes from the bright sun. They waved vigorously at the two mission planes whisking their children away to Kent Academy, 300 miles north.

Blinking rapidly, I swiped my fingers at the tears cascading down my cheeks. “Good-bye, Mommy. Good-bye, Daddy.” My stomach twisted into a tight knot, and I whimpered. “I won’t see you for a long, long time.”

Bending forward, I clasped my head as wrenching sobs shook my shoulders while grief stabbed like needles into my heart. How could they force me onto this airplane? Why do I have to go back to Kent Academy for the rest of first grade?

The drone of the airplane drowned out all other sound and soon I could no longer hear my own sobs. With that eerie feeling my crying subsided.

Staring out the window, I watched the trees glide by below us, the jungle dotted with clearings of villages. I spied some grown-ups, tiny as ants, scurrying from farm to home. Their day is just like any other day, but I’m being torn away from everything I love.

For a long while, the plane lazily followed a thin thread of brown—the road leading me away from my home at Egbe to the boarding school for missionary kids. I leaned my head back, sunk into the seat, and closed my eyes to block out the Big Sadness.

Trouble with My Tummy

My tummy started churning with the familiar sour feeling of carsickness. Mom gave me medicine, I thought. I still feel groggy, but maybe it’s wearing off. The roiling got worse, my whole body ached, and my face felt clammy. I knew what would come next.

Shooting my arm forward, I tapped the pilot on the arm. “I feel sick. I’m going to throw up!”

“Here’s a bag for you,” he said. “You’re going to be fine. We’re halfway there, so we have less than an hour left.”

After I spit up the contents of my stomach, I felt a little better. But I had to hold onto the smelly bag.

When we finally landed on the concrete runway of Jos airport, I stretched and took lots of deep breaths like Mommy taught me to. But the sick, achy feeling lingered.

All ten of us kids from Egbe crowded into the Volkswagen van for last leg of our journey to school. The sturdy tires of the dusty van bumped over rocks and ruts in the sandy road.

Gripping the steering wheel with strong hands, our driver, a dorm uncle, swerved now and then to veer past the largest potholes. With nothing to hang onto, my little body pressed first left, then right, into the big kids sitting beside me.

The Last, Long Drive

“It’s only twenty-three miles,” he said. “But the drive takes almost an hour because of the rough road.”

The path took us down an embankment, across a narrow, dry riverbed, and up the other side. “What happens if there’s water in the river?” I asked. “Is it safe?”

“The gully never gets really full, even in the rainy season, so we usually drive through,” the uncle replied. “But if it’s not passable, I try again the next day.”

A shiver ran down my spine. “I sure hope I don’t have to come this way on a rainy day.”

Then he pointed out a huge pile of stones high in a stretch of hills along the left side of the road. “There’s Camel Rock.”

Sure enough, a large boulder formed a base while several more balanced on top, forming a distinct head and hump. “That sure looks like a camel sitting down,” I said.

But watching the scenery made my stomach quake and my face sweat again. “I think I’m about to throw up. Can I have some fresh air?”

The big girl rolled down her window, and a cloud of red dust billowed in. She quickly wound it up.

The sting of salty tears prickled my nose. I feel so sick. I wish I had Mommy to put her cool hand on my forehead. I hugged my stomach tightly and hung my head low as hot lava tears dripped into my lap.  At last, the van slowed and turned onto the long, sandy driveway leading up to KA. Just in time, I swallowed back the lump building up in my throat as we rolled to a stop on the playground in front of the girls’ dorm.

Back at School

When I stepped onto the tarmac, my thin legs wobbled, and my body jangled as if I’d spun ’round and ’round in a washing machine for hours.

From the back seat, my big brother Larry clambered out. “I’m sorry I couldn’t sit next to you the whole way.”

He gave me a tight hug, then grabbed his suitcase and headed after the other boys toward their dorm. “See you later, Sis.”

“When will I see you again?” My voice sounded squeaky.

Larry shrugged. “I don’t know. But I hope soon.” Then he turned and trudged on.

I lugged my small brown suitcase up the steps into the girls’ dorm, then turned into the first-grade hall. Once in my old familiar bedroom, I dropped my case onto the bed.

Snapping open the latches, I lifted out a soft, pink t-shirt. Mommy’s hands were the last ones to touch these. Burrowing my nose into the shirt, I sniffed deeply. I could smell her gardenia perfume.

Tears welled up in my eyes again, and I imagined Daddy’s deep voice saying softly, “That’s the umpteenth time today.” I placed the clothes in the dresser drawer and smiled at his made-up word as my nose dripped onto the clean fabric.

At dinner, the hall echoed with children’s happy chatter, and the smell of roast beef filled the room. But the food tasted different from home, and my tummy still felt queasy, so I ate just a few bites of the meat, potatoes, and peas on my plate.

Far from Home

I was relieved to be excused and head back to the dorm. Before long, my roommates and I brushed our teeth and pulled on our PJs. Climbing the wooden bars at the foot of the bed, I pushed aside the towels with my toes. Up on the shaky top bunk, I worried I would roll off the sides, even though the front had a railing. I slid carefully between the tightly tucked sheets and lay as still as I could, hoping they would stay tucked in all night.

The auntie kissed four tired girls good-night, turned out the lights, and headed down the hall. Her kiss on the lips felt annoying instead of comforting, so I rubbed my sleeve back and forth over my mouth to stop the tickle.

All day long I had felt sick. Now there was no Mommy or Daddy to comfort me with a bedtime prayer, the one we always chanted together, dragging out the ending. I tugged the covers up to my nose and whispered while fresh tears started:

“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Aaaaay-men.”

Can God watch over me here? I wondered. I told Mom and Dad I didn’t want to come back, and I don’t know how I can make it until June.

Then I remembered Mom’s promise. She and Daddy would bring my two little brothers here in April, in time for our new little baby to be born at the big hospital in Jos.

Tired from the long day, I drifted off to sleep with tears drying on my cheeks and a glimmer of hope flitting through my mind. I think I can manage until April.

Looking Back

That return trip to Kent Academy, after a relaxed Christmas vacation at home, was much harder than my initial flight at the beginning of first grade. This time I knew how much I’d miss my parents and little brothers, how hard it was to remember the many rules, and how very lonely I felt even though surrounded by 200 other kids at the boarding school.

Even today, when faced with change, my stomach clenches with a vice-grip of fear. But I remind myself how God carried me through that most difficult year as a child, and I’m grateful he gives me courage today each time I need it.

Link It to Your Life

How did you deal with big changes in your life as a child? How does that affect the way you react to uncertainty today? What coping mechanisms did you use then that you perhaps would like to revise now?

Prayer

Thank you, Father, that you hear my cry every time I feel anguished. You always listen to my desires, and you provide help and comfort when I’m hurting.

You, Lord, hear the desire of the afflicted; you encourage them, and you listen to their cry.
Psalm 10:17 (NIV)