Saturday, June 2
nd, I spent the morning making pancakes and playing card games with Matias. I finished emptying out my wardrobe, checking cupboards for any forgotten items, and lugged my two suitcases downstairs. Late afternoon, we wrestled Shalom into her kennel and drove to the airport. None of it felt real. It felt like I was headed to the States for an extended vacation, like I would be back in a few months. I handed my cat over to the airline and steeled myself for some difficulties in immigration. Saying goodbye to Matias and my brother was harder than I thought, even though I knew I’d see them in three weeks, but it still felt more like something that would happen in theory, not a reality.
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| saying goodbye to Kristen and Joel at the airport |
Then I passed through security and felt the pit in my stomach rise into my throat. Hardly anyone was waiting in immigration, and the officer was unexpectedly friendly. He took one look at my empty passport, another look at the signed printed piece of paper I gave him stating my passport was being processed for citizenship and proceeded to treat me as though I were already a Bolivian citizen, not charging me the exit fee for foreigners and waving me on after stamping my passport.
It wasn’t until I was alone in the bathroom stall near my gate that the tears came gushing out. I felt my body ache with the reality of what I was leaving behind, all that I had invested in, grown to love and couldn’t bring with me. The sharpness of it and the suddenness of leaving everything behind (despite the months and months of anticipating and waiting for this day to come) all but took my breath away. But I still had almost 24 hours of traveling ahead, so I washed my face and headed out to join my fellow travelers in line to board our first flight.
Then I heard my name over the intercom, asking me to report to the front desk. The airport official informed me I needed to verify my cat before I boarded, and I was led down to the baggage area along with a dog owner on the flight. Once out of earshot of the other passengers, the policeman who was escorting us to identify our pets told me that my cat had escaped from her kennel and I needed to help them catch her again. He grumbled about people flying with pets, saying I was probably going to delay the whole flight.
I walked into the baggage area and saw five or six men yelling and running around, trying to catch Shalom. She’d wedged herself underneath one of the baggage machines, an impossible space to reach under. Shalom looked calm, curled up on herself, but I could only imagine how panicked she must be with the loud machines, bright lights of cellphone flashlights shining in her eyes, and multiple men poking at her trying to get her to come out. They gave me a stick to prod her out, and one man grabbed her by the tail. I was finally able to get a grip on the nape of her neck, thinking that would hurt the least, but she seemed too fat to pull out. With one or two men pushing her from behind and me pulling as hard as I felt comfortable doing, she finally popped out. As I stuffed her back in her kennel, they explained to me that the whole front of my kennel had come apart (making me wonder how they’d been handling the kennel to make that happen!) and they were going to wrap the kennel in packing tape to keep the door from falling off again.
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| goodbye to Cochabamba at night |
As I walked back upstairs to board my plane, I felt again like the whole trip was surreal. Who has to chase their cat around the luggage sorting room because half the cage comes apart?! And how is it that she escaped her kennel in an enclosed room, instead of when she was loaded on the plane? Gosh was I grateful for His care for her, even if it seemed strange the way He provided her with extra security.
When our plane touched down in Miami, I half walked, half ran to immigration and moved as quickly as I could through all the requirements to re-enter the country, eager to find Shalom's kennel and check to see if she'd made it to the States with me. In the immigration line, the dog owner who was with me in Cochabamba casually mentioned that she had been called down below to the planes in Santa Cruz (where we had a brief layover). She explained that one of the baggage workers had positioned her large dog's kennel facing my cat's kennel. Her dog had gotten so worked up facing my cat that he bit his cage, showering blood everywhere. Sure enough, when I finally found Shalom, she was quiet and wide-eyed, but soaking wet with who knows what and her cage was covered in blood.
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| Shalom mid-journey |
Once I was through customs, I was able to transfer her to a new, more comfortable kennel, get her cleaned up and watered. The rest of the trip home was uneventful, and Shalom was a model traveller, quietly observing everything from her case, but never yowling or meowing. She even let the two young travelers next to me on one flight pet her through one of the windows in the kennel.
Now that we're back, I think Shalom has transitioned much better than I have. She's already back into her routine of sleeping in sunny spots, faithfully using her cat box, and even braving the great outdoors (something she was never able to do from my third story apartment). I've been the one struggling to find my sleeping routine, wrestling with the sudden and unexpected death of my Grampy and dealing with a health issue that might have long-lasting implications for my future. It's hardly been the transition I anticipated, but through it all, I've seen His hand continue to sustain me as promised in Psalm 54:4
"Surely God is my help; the Lord is the one who sustains me."
I've seen His provision in the death of my Grampy in allowing me to have one last afternoon with him, one last wink, one last hand squeeze, one last "I love you." I wasn't ready to say goodbye, but I was grateful I got to be one of the voices that sang to him in the wee hours before he passed.
I've seen His provision in bringing me home when He did, giving me a possible answer to the "why" question. The tests I needed for a developing allergy led to a much more serious diagnosis, none of which could have been dealt with in Bolivia. He knew my body needed more care and expertise than the doctors in Bolivia could offer, and began preparing me to return before I even knew I was sick.
I've seen His provision in giving me a car, right when I had to spend most of my car savings on an expensive medical test. Before I even knew I had the need, He provided a solution for the now, calling me to press into Him in trust for the long term solution.
And then, on one of the darkest days since I came back, He gave me this as my devotional Scripture from a daily reminder on my phone:
“Why would you ever complain, O Jacob, or, whine, Israel, saying, “ GOD has lost track of me. He doesn’t care what happens to me”? Don’t you know anything? Haven’t you been listening? GOD doesn’t come and go. God lasts. He’s Creator of all you can see or imagine. He doesn’t get tired out, doesn’t pause to catch his breath. And he knows everything, inside and out. He energizes those who get tired, gives fresh strength to dropouts. For even young people tire and drop out, young folk in their prime stumble and fall. But those who wait upon GOD get fresh strength. They spread their wings and soar like eagles, They run and don’t get tired, they walk and don’t lag behind.”
Isaiah 40:27-31 MSG
So, if you ask me how the transition is going, you might get a long answer. But one thing I do know through all this transition is that He has brought me here, and that He, HE is the one who will continue to sustain me.
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| HOME with family |
We stopped on top of the ridge where the road split for a high alpine picnic, surrounded by layers and layers of mountains.
There were lots of beautiful alpine flowers, like the p'enga p'enga that carpeted the ground where we hiked and walked.
Our last day, we hiked up to a large lake around 15,000 feet and identified the different high alpine birds we saw.
