Previous | Next 

Mission accomplished

Ruby Cleroux

The Boeing 747 jet at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport appeared to be full as I made my way along the aisle in search of my seat. En route from Tel Aviv to Calgary after a busy Holy Land tour, I was looking forward to a long nap on the flight across the Atlantic, as well as a chance to reflect on my experience.

In the five-seat midsection, I hesitated beside a row which had one empty place near the middle. I checked my boarding pass. It was mine. The elderly sari-clad woman sitting in the aisle seat was of the same nationality as the young woman, two small children and man at the other end of the row. Assuming that she was the grandmother, I offered to change places with her, but she shook her head.

I stowed my carry-ons and gingerly eased into the cramped space, trying to conceal my dismay. The baby girl being held by the young woman stopped crying long enough to flash me a frantic glare, then resumed her anguish. The boy, who had shrunk into the far side of the seat next to me, eyed me uneasily out of the deep pools which occupied much of his little brown face. The man at the end ignored us.

I murmured hello to the mother, looked away and prayerfully wondered how the Lord would manage to provide the sleep my body demanded and how I and other nearby passengers would cope for the next eight hours. When the women spoke to each other in their own language across my seat, I again gestured that we could exchange places, but the offer was declined.

The mother continued to cuddle and soothe the wailing child, shifting her from shoulder to lap for what seemed an interminable period. I inwardly applauded her gentleness and patience. Finally, after accepting some soft pudding from the dinner tray, the baby hiccuped her way into occasional sobs, and I entertained a ray of hope. Determined to snatch some sleep, I lowered the back of my seat. It didn’t take long in the noisy commotion of the daytime flight for me to face reality. My mission would not be accomplished.

Resigned at last to the involuntary adventure, I began to smile each time the boy stole an anxious peek at me. Eventually, I was rewarded with a delightful curve in the small mouth, suspending for a moment the heart-wrenching sadness that seemed to spill from some cavern deep inside. To this point, he had remained silent and guarded, twisting a piece of crayon, staring at some invisible object or picking at a bit of food but not eating.

The grandmother observed my efforts to amuse him. Hoping that she understood some English, I inquired about the family. She surprised me by stating that she was not related to our travel mates. She further revealed that the parents of the children had died in India. She expressed concern for the orphans because they had already spent over 30 hours in transit. This kind lady then apologized for keeping the aisle seat, explaining that she was subject to leg cramps. I felt the heat in my face.

I had expected to tune out the world with notepad, headphones or a movie if unable to sleep. Instead, I had become involved in a living drama with a message that no media could equal.

Soon the boy was engrossed in drawing and colouring pictures. He held them up for my smile of approval. Seeing this, the young woman politely asked – in reasonably good English – about my trip. When I explained that I had been on a Mennonite Central Committee anniversary tour, she disclosed that she was a social worker, that her boss was “Mennonite” and that she was transporting the little ones to a home in the United States for adoption. After uniting the children with their new parents, she would immediately board a return flight to India. Her vital mission would be accomplished.

Mission? Accomplished? Had I had a mission? Yes. The mission I had had in mind had been to receive, not give comfort. But God had another plan for me which involved: meaningful interaction with someone who was “different”; eliciting full-blown smiles from a numb little boy; relieving a harried caretaker; supporting the body of an exhausted (and terrified) baby, who later stretched part-way across my lap; and finally . . . really listening.

Thanks to my Heavenly Father, who accomplished His purpose, and who granted a reluctant pilgrim His peace through a Scripture verse taken to heart after a very special tour: “He has showed you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8 NRSV).

Ruby Cleroux is a member of Vauxhall (Alta.) MB Church.

Previous | Next 

Last modified July 16, 2000.

© 2000 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
Masthead and usage information.