Monday Morning Faith

by Lori Copeland

  The driver and Sam conversed with each other, but since I couldn’t understand what they were saying, I didn’t take part in the exchange. Papua New Guinea wasn’t anything like I’d expected. I’d expected something more archaic. Several of the shops we passed looked intriguing. Too bad there was no time to browse. We stopped in front of a hotel.

  Sam’s smile was warm. “We’ll spend the night here and travel to the village in the morning.”

  I filled with curiosity when I got out of the car to look around.

  Sam and the driver transported our luggage inside to the desk. Our reservations were in order, and soon we each had a room key. A bellhop, wearing a crisp khaki uniform, showed us to our rooms and accepted the generous tip Sam handed him.

  Sam turned to me. “Rest a bit. We’ll have dinner at five thirty. I’ll tap on your door when I’m ready.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be ready.” I’d have time to unpack and take a shower; the long plane ride left me feeling grungy.

  I closed my bedroom door, and my eyes took in the furnishings. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought we were in an American hotel. The bed had crisp white sheets, and the towels in the private bath were fluffy, white, and soft. I took a few things out of my suitcase and hung them in the small closet. Later I stood under the showerhead for a long time, luxuriating in the hot water and my own coconut-scented shower gel. After toweling off I slipped on a robe, dried my hair, and dressed. Around five thirty, Sam tapped on my door. When I opened it, he looked rested and refreshed.

  “You look wonderful, Johanna.”

  “Thank you.” I slipped into the suit jacket and slung the strap of my brown leather purse over my shoulder. My passport was in the bag, and I didn’t intend to leave it behind. As nice as Papua New Guinea was turning out to be, I still intended to leave in two weeks.

  The hostess ushered us into an open dining area. We sat at a round table adorned with an immaculate white cloth. A hurricane lamp with a lighted candle occupied the center of the table. The light cast a soft glow. A large palm tree threw fringed shadows over the courtyard. The result was exotic. Romantic.

  Sam ordered for both of us (no bugs, I warned), and when our food came I was relieved to find it recognizable: fish with some kind of light sauce, potatoes, vegetables, all delicious.

  We finished up with coffee and a coconut-cream pudding, savoring every bite.

  Sam spooned up the last bite of his dessert. “Don’t get the idea the whole trip will be like this. We forfeit luxury after tomorrow.”

  I concentrated on a buzzing mosquito, the first I’d spotted tonight. Sam was still talking, and I pulled my attention back to him. “Don’t worry. I won’t expect to be entertained in this style every night.”

  “Good, because you won’t be. I don’t want you to be disappointed.” He glanced at his watch. “I know it’s early, but we’d better turn in. It’s been a long trip, and our car to take us to the airport will be here before dawn in the morning.”

  Now that he mentioned it, I was tired. It would be nice to linger in the courtyard, but the crisp white sheets on my bed beckoned.

  Sam kissed me good night outside the door to my room.

  “Be ready to leave by five.”

  “So early?” Sleeping in had been on my list of expectations.

  “Tomorrow will be a long day.” He brushed a hand over the collar of my suit jacket. “You did pack jeans, didn’t you?”

  “Several pair, as well as long-sleeved blouses — everything on your list.”

  “Good. Wear a pair tomorrow. Good sturdy shoes too.”

  I snapped a salute. “Yes, sir!”

  His arms closed around me and I leaned into his comforting presence. The trip was turning out better than I’d expected. His lips lowered to meet mine and I forgot all my apprehensions. I had Sam, and as Nelda and Mom and Pop had reminded me, I had God. How could a girl need anything more?

  Four thirty a.m. came way too early. I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Even a shower didn’t revive me. As ordered, I dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved cotton blouse. By the time I had my hiking boots laced, my stomach was growling. I’d seen the dining room hours posted last night. It wouldn’t be open until eight. As well as Sam liked to eat, he’d made plans for a morning meal.

  I was ready, suitcases packed and locked, when his knock sounded at the door. We staggered downstairs under the weight of our luggage. A cab waited at the door to take us back to the airport. He handed me a breakfast bar and juice carton. “Bon appetit.”

  A small single-engine Cessna, looking like a child’s toy compared to the big jets, waited on the tarmac. The cab pulled close and we got out. My heart was beating like a jungle drum. We weren’t going to fly in something that small! Sam picked up our suitcases and winked. “I didn’t mention this part of the trip.”

  “Why?” I eyed the tiny cabin, hysteria crowding the back of my throat.

  “I knew you wouldn’t come.”

  He had that right.

  The pilot, an American, looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Unshaven and sporting a cowlick in his collar-length hair, he was gruff and appeared rather impatient with my lack of speed. He greeted Sam and then turned to take my hand in a viselike grip. “Call me Mike.”

  Before I could answer, Mike grabbed the suitcases and stowed them in the plane. The carry-on bags followed. Sam, like the gentleman he was, helped me inside. I eased down into my seat and fastened the safety belt. This wasn’t a plane! More like a kiddy ride you’d find at amusement parks.

  We sounded like an angry gnat taking off. Buzzzzzz. Pftttbuzzzzzz. Pfft. Once we were airborne I realized why the earlier turbulence coming over hadn’t bothered Sam. The small plane danced and jumped like a puppet on a string, shifting and tilting, sending my nerves into a state of perpetual shock.

  Before I had time to adjust to the heinous ride, we were descending to a small landing strip that looked like little more than a mown path.

  The plane hit, then bounced along the uneven ground, jarring teeth and eyeballs before it rolled to a stop. I wasn’t sure if we landed or crashed. I was still numb from the experience when Mike climbed out of the cockpit, unhooked a latch, and kicked the door open.

  “Thing sticks,” he explained when he met my startled gaze. I had never left a plane in this fashion.

  Sam and I climbed out behind Mike and got into a waiting jeep. A dark-skinned native sat at the wheel. Sam said something in the man’s native tongue, and he grinned. Once aboard, we took off and I hung on as the jeep bounced across potholed ground, arriving at a rustic landing where a decrepit motorboat sat moored to wooden pillars. We were at some body of water surrounded by thick, tropical vegetation. Overhead, dark clouds formed.

  I watched, horrified, as Sam and the pilot carried our luggage to the boat. Sam had left out a lot of information. We weren’t going to ride in that thing! The boat was small and had dozens of dead fish littering the bottom. The stench was unbelievable; I held my nose.

  Sam made a few parting remarks to the driver and then turned to me. “Climb aboard.”

  I gave him a weak smile, feeling like a condemned woman on her way to the guillotine. The boat owner and a second man sauntered toward us, not in any apparent hurry, which suited me fine. Sam greeted the men with a smile and a handshake. They indulged in a series of hand waving and facial expressions accompanied by guttural sounds I couldn’t begin to interpret. It struck me like a physical blow that I was now in a place where I couldn’t understand anyone other than Sam and the missionaries. Four strangers. And Sam.

  The two men clambered on board, and Sam held out his hand to me. “Come on, Johanna. It’s a safe vessel.”

  If we hadn’t been so far from Saginaw, Michigan, I’d consider hitchhiking home. But one look at the surrounding maze told me just how limited my choices were. I grasped his hand and stepped into the boat, which lurched beneath my weight, threatening to dump me into the muddy green river flowing p
ast the dock.

  “Easy does it.” Sam steadied me. I shot him a glance that would have fried bacon, one he pretended to ignore. I had a feeling by the time my “vacation” ended he would rue the day he’d ever suggested I come along. I knew he loved me and I loved him, but would our love be strong enough to meet the challenge we were facing?

  I had my doubts.

  I sat down without tipping the boat and wiped the sweat from my face. The place was a sauna. My contacts fogged over. Damp clothing clung to my frame, and my hair had frizzed into a little stringy pigtail. It didn’t get this hot in Saginaw. It didn’t get this hot in hell. The sun bore down like a giant spotlight. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the river come to a boil under the intense heat. Brush and undergrowth lined the banks on either side of the water. Orchids dripped from foliage. Birds I didn’t recognize hopped through the brush or flew overhead, their strange cries puncturing the silence. It was all so beautiful and exotic and utterly terrifying.

  Hordes of insects feasted on the exposed skin of my face and neck. I slapped, hit, and smacked. Thank goodness Sam insisted I wear long sleeves.

  I hunched deeper into my seat, staring wide-eyed at the sights unfolding as the boat skimmed the water. Trees crowded in thick lines. Something large splashed in the river behind us. I swerved to look over my shoulder, half expecting to see a rhino headed our way. All I saw were expanding ripples. Nobody else in the boat seemed worried, so I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  We motored deeper into the dense jungle. The heat and silence were oppressive. An occasional animal cry raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Could I handle weeks of this? God, please don’t let me make a complete fool of myself. I had a hunch my guardian angel would be working overtime on this journey.

  Attempting to look more at ease, I trailed my hand in the water, visualizing a Victorian heroine taking a romantic boat ride on the River Thames. One of the natives said something in a burst of rapid-fire words to Sam, who spun and looked at me.

  “What language is he speaking?” I asked.

  “Tau Pisin.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He probably wanted you to keep your hands in the boat. The river is full of coral catfish — eel-tailed catfish.”

  I jerked my hand out of the water so fast I sent a spray of water over the boat’s occupants. A minute earlier the thought of being sprayed with dirty river water would have repulsed me. At the moment, I was busy counting fingers. When I was satisfied I had my full quota, I switched my attention to Sam. “What’s an eel-tailed catfish?”

  “It’s a species best to avoid. The spikes in the fish’s dorsal fins are sharp, and if one spikes you it will cause intense pain that will last for hours. It could even be fatal.”

  Well, lovely. What have you gotten me into, Sam Littleton!

  Sam bent forward. “Relax. We’re safe.”

  After what seemed like hours, Sam pointed ahead to the mouth of an inlet. “There — on the left. The village.”

  I followed his pointing finger and the bottom dropped out of my stomach. We were approaching an island. The main part of the village lay along a cliff line that dropped thirty to forty feet to a narrow, rocky beach. Irregular terraces were separated by rough walks of volcanic stone. The crude residences were of hand-hewn timbers, with walls of light but strong-looking leaf stalks.

  “Saga palms,” Sam explained.

  Palm leaves thatched the roofs. I recognized the huts from the photographs I’d seen. Even framed by the lush forest, the village looked dismal.

  Sitting in a lagoon some fifty to seventy feet from shore, two even more primal structures rose out of the water on stilt-like poles. I turned to Sam, eyes questioning. He nodded. “That’s where we’ll stay. The Laskes’ is the one on the right, the Millets’ on the far left.”

  I looked at the two huts with landings surrounding the structures and swallowed. “The missionaries … live on the water.”

  “Yes. It’s cooler here, and the villagers don’t welcome them to live on shore.”

  My eyes skimmed the thatched huts. “I’m going to live on water that’s filled with spiky catfish.”

  “Yes, but the fish won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

  Heaven help me. I was going to eat and sleep in the midst of cranky predators. What other shockers lay in store for me? The first fat raindrops fell, dimpling the water. By the time the boat reached the first hut, a deluge fell from the fast-moving black clouds. One moment, scorching heat; the next, pouring rain.

  Welcome to your new life, Johanna.

  I was suffering from jet lag, and my biological rhythms were seriously out of sync. I was sunburned, bug-bitten, and drenched to the bone — and utterly convinced we’d passed through some horrific time warp.

  Water collected in the bottom of the boat. I squinted, bleary eyed, through my contacts and the blinding downpour. Sam told me we were traveling to a region where the yearly rainfall averaged 120 to 150 inches. Apparently we were getting the full load this morning.

  And, just to top it all off, the boat was leaking.

  TEN

  The driver cut the outboard and we drifted up to the first hut. If I hadn’t been expected to live here I’d have said the setting was picturesque, but the word that came to mind was hovel. The boat bumped into one of the stilts and came to a stop. A slender woman with a tangle of brown curls held back by a tortoiseshell clasp stood in the doorway, waving to us. Sam helped me out of the craft, up the ladder, and onto the deck. The boat operator and his native helper unloaded our luggage, and I watched helplessly as they climbed back in the boat and jerked the motor’s starter cord. It coughed and sputtered, but then began to idle. Moments later the craft disappeared around the nearest land point.

  The rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. Steam rose from the wet deck. The sun was like burning coals on my water-soaked shoulders. I stood there drenched in sweat as I listened to the sound of the fading outboard. I’d cringed at having to ride in the smelly, dirty craft, but suddenly it seemed like my only link to civilization. I gladly would have climbed back in for the return trip. If I’d had anyplace to return to.

  There was something unsettling about being on a different continent. Unnerving — if I’d had a single nerve left. I’d never realized what a barrier language could be. I could talk to Sam. The missionaries spoke English, but other than that I wouldn’t be able to understand a single thing said to me.

  The pretty brown-haired woman approached, smiling. Sam grasped her hand, and I recognized the strong bond between them. I peered down at the catfish-infested water. Could those things jump — like leap onto the landing? Sam introduced me to his friend, who turned out to be Eva Millet, my hostess for the duration of my stay. She was friendly, cheerful, and welcoming.

  “We’ve been expecting you, but travel is so unpredictable here we weren’t sure when you would actually arrive.”

  “Unpredictable?” It hadn’t occurred to me before, but how would I leave if an emergency arose? What if Mom or Pop took gravely ill?

  “Nothing runs on schedule here.” She laughed as if that was no problem. Well, I could point out lots of problems, beginning with no cell phone signal, telegraph wire, or e-mail.

  I knew Sam carried a satellite phone, but was it reliable? How did we stay in touch with the outside world?

  “Did you have a nice flight over?”

  Sam nodded at Eva. “Great trip.” He must have forgotten the coughing engine. “We’re tired, of course. I think Johanna is still adjusting to jet lag, but other than that we’re ready to get to work.”

  By now we’d been joined by two men and a second woman, who I assumed were the rest of the missionary team. Sam made the introductions. The tall, broad-shouldered one was Frank Millet, Eva’s husband and my host. I guessed the couple to be in their late fifties. They’d been here for twelve years. Living in a hut? On this island? Impossible to grasp such dedication.

  The short,
rather rotund man with a freckled face and sandy red hair was Bud Laske. Mary, his wife, had the same red hair and vivid blue eyes — Irish eyes, set in with a smudgy finger, as the saying went. They were a perfect fit — right and left shoe — where Sam and I must have looked like two left feet wearing an orange sneaker.

  The Laskes lived in a nearby hut that looked identical to the one where we’d unloaded. The two dwellings were connected by a narrow, shaky-looking walkway. What would make someone like Mary, who would shine in any cosmopolitan setting, choose to spend her life in the middle of a killer catfish – infested lagoon?

  Maybe she’d had no choice. Maybe missions was her husband’s dream and she followed out of devotion to him. Hope surged that I might be with two women who could identify with my doubts, my dilemma. Eva and Mary could tell me the real truth about living on the mission field. They could provide me a reasonable argument for Sam. Not a selfish argument, but a matter-of-fact, logical one.

  The Laskes were younger than Frank and Eva, maybe in their forties — too young to be buried in this isolated world. But then, Frank and Eva were too old to be here.

  Just what age do you think is the proper age for missionaries?

  I didn’t know. But it wasn’t my age, of that I was certain.

  “Come inside,” Eva invited. “I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.”

  I released a silent sigh. At least I’d have private quarters. Sam hefted my suitcase and Frank took the carry-on. I followed Eva as she led the way through the door, which I noticed only had a curtain separating it from the outside. Anything could crawl in the house, any animal or snake. Cheerful thought. I planned to be very careful where I stepped or sat down. Inside, Eva pulled aside a curtain and indicated a narrow space with a cot.