The Exodus

The diesel engine started with a lazy growl.  Bags packed to the brim, necks adorned with shell necklaces, the last equatorial sun streaming through the windows of the van.

This is it.  We are going home.

Rolling slowly through the potholes of our little road tugged memories from my mind.  All those evenings running to the ocean, dodging the same puddles in hopes to catch the last of the sunset.  Or the night we went spearfishing, and came back toting our trophies for all the neighbors to see.  Or the local feast that left us so stuffed that we could barely walked down that road back to our house.  Or the time walking back from the water under the full moonlight, thinking to myself that I may never see beauty such as this again, with the palm fronds glazed in silver silhouettes against the deep dark ocean sky. 

The van jostled as we rolled over the speed bumps by the church.  I waved to Kun and Nelly Sonia as we passed their house.  I watched as houses flew past on the way to the airport.  People kept to their daily lives, sweeping breadfruit leaves and frying fish over outdoor fires.  I looked up at Mount Matunte, the mountain that almost claimed my dad.  It stood ominous yet beautiful, its green jungle slopes bathing in the morning sun.  We bumped across the rusty bridge that crosses the channel to the airport, and I thought about the dozens of times we would come out here to cool off after a hot day of teaching.  I thought about the kids playing with us and jumping off with us- being friends with us.

We pulled up to the small, open-air airport.  I felt numb, like this wasn’t actually happening.  I wanted to feel sad, but as I let my feelings adjust, I felt strangely fulfilled. 

And feeling fulfilled is about the best feeling I could ask for after a year like this.

Pastor Tara sat wordless with us for a while.  We both knew it was time to go. 

“Boys…..,” his words trailed off a little.  “Thank you.”

“We shared one last handshake with the man that had taken care of us the whole year, the man that deserved so much more but never asked for an ounce of it. 

I didn’t know what to say.  “Pastor…thank YOU,” I replied.  “We will meet again someday.” 

He smiled and patted us on the shoulders.  As he left, it was as if Kosrae left with him.  Everything from then on was a blur.  Plane landing, random security search, tight seating, dry airplane air, takeoff, blue ocean and green island getting smaller and smaller and smaller and then clouds.  Sleep, iPod, John Mayer, stops at Ebeye and Majuro, complimentary drinks, and then Honolulu at 2:30 AM with escalators and Americans and Starbucks and Burger King and roads with lanes and lots and lots and lots of people.

Home awaits me now, along with everyone I love and care for.  I am excited beyond words to fall back into the life I know, to finally be with all those that I have missed so much.

But something will be different now.  Amid this cluttered and busy mind that will soon be taken over by ruthless nursing school and jobs and life itself, there will always be a little corner that is a little warmer and maybe a bit humid, with a sandy beach and a palm tree overhanging the blue water. 

And I know that I can go there anytime in my mind and remember-

The peace that I once knew,

The strength that I once gained,

The beauty that once filled me,

and the Love that I once experienced on the little 

42 square-mile island of Kosrae, Micronesia.

Peace from the United States of America,

River

p.s.  Thank you for joining with me in this journey to Kosrae.  Its about time I wrap up this blog, but it has been a crazy adventure and I had a fun time trying my best to document it.  If you are curious about any other adventures or stories or want to see more pictures, I would be more than happy to talk!  I will always be anxious to share this adventure; and what an adventure it was.  

Soaking It In

I dunked my head under one more time.

mmmmmmmmm.....so refreshing.....

I sank into the cool, fresh water of the jungle stream we found while riding our bikes up an old dirt road that lead to the interior of the island.  The scene was something right out of the jungle book.

Today is our last day in Kosrae.  The intense equatorial sun shone down on my skin just like it always has, and the moist air filled my lungs and we hopped back on our bikes and started back down towards the ocean.  

I wonder how long it will be before I am on a tropical island again after tomorrow.  

Our plane leaves tomorrow, sweeping me towards a land of cool, dry air and a face-paced lifestyle that would feel insane to the Kosraens.  

And I'm just soaking this in while I can.

Peace from the tropics,

River

In Remembrance

I opened my eyelids slowly at the sound of my watch beeping.

6:00 AM, May 14.

I sat up in bed.  Today is the last day of school.

I lumbered into the kitchen and put a pot of water on the stove.  Daylight was just beginning to seep through our windows as I scooped coffee grounds into the french press.  

The last day of school.

Sitting down with my mug of coffee, I produced a very skillful and convincing "faraway look" and reminisced back to the start of the year that seemed like an eternity ago.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

The pastor led us along the chipped-up sidewalk towards the library.  "Here is our library, you should be able to find some textbooks in here," he suggested.  I peered in.  Stacks and stacks of unorganized books cluttered the dank room, and the air smelled like mold and wet paper.  He then led us to our respective classrooms, and gave us a key.  "Let me know if you need anything else boys!" he said cheerfully as he walked back to his house.  I wanted to say 'can you quick tell me how to be a teacher and stuff before we teach tomorrow?' but I feel like that wasn't appropriate at the moment.

Monday, August 26, 2013

Nervous.  I opened my classroom at 7:00 AM and tried to pound together a lesson plan for the day.  Charades for bible?  Maybe.  How about math?  What do 3rd and 4th graders learn in math? Times tables?  Not yet.  Telling time?  Let's try it.  How about English?  Do they even speak English?  Will they even understand me?  And reading.  How can they read English of they barely speak it?  I know.  I will read to them.  But for 45 minutes?  And we have no books.  How do I teach a classroom without any books?  How do I teach a classroom in general??

Here is my journal entry from the first day of school.

I hear the rumbling of a bus.  My heart rate speeds up.  This is it.  This is the next year of my life.  Pretty soon, 15 local kids tumble into my classroom, each taking a desk.  Its eerily quiet as they lock their dark, beady eyes on their new white teacher.  I "confidentially" take a stand in front of the class and write my name on the board in big letters (that's how they do it in movies I guess) and I introduce myself as Mr. Davis.  This title instantly goes under the rug and I am unwittingly dubbed "Teecha".  My plan for charades fell apart as the kids were unwilling to leave their seats, and I resorted to basically acting stories out for them.  Finally, the bell rang.  Phew.  Then math class came.  I decided to teach them how to tell time, but apparently time doesn't really matter on a tiny island where there is nowhere to be.  I struggled through a grueling 45 minutes on the concept of time and yielded no progress.  Finally, after 7 long classes, the bus comes and takes all the students home.  I march upstairs and collapse on my hot, sticky bed.  There is no way I can do this for a whole school year.  There is literally no way.  There must be a mistake, I am not qualified to do this.  I don't even know what I am doing!  I am a con teacher!  What if the parents find out?  Maybe I'm not meant to do this.

I took a sip of coffee as a cool breeze came through the window.  The bus would soon come and drop off my students for the last time.  I chuckled in remembrance of those first few days.  

Somehow this impossible task became possible, and I can only think of one way that happens.  I shot up a silent prayer with a feeling of overwhelming gratitude, because I know I would have never been able to do this without Him.  

This is it.  We did it.  

We marched down our steps like we always had, nalgene and notebook in hand, and as my classroom became flooded with my kids carrying cookies and cake and soda for the party I checked off the final day in my calendar hanging in my classroom.  

And just like that, the giant has been conquered.  I wonder how the world will treat these kids when they get older. 

Holter, Annesha, Awee, Pertha, Natalie, Mitchigo, Webster, Hudson, Fumie, Jenelly, Murson, Vilana, Heather, and Nelly.

I know it sounds corny, but they all have a little part of my heart now, and I know someday I'll be sitting in a cold library at nursing school and I'll wonder how Awee is doing.  Or if Nelly is going swimming today.  Or if Holter ever found out that Fumie likes him.  

Its a two-week sprint now until our plane takes off from the island of Kosrae and carries us back home.

Peace from the tropics,

River

Stuff My Students Say, Vol. 3

As school comes to a close, I would like to share my final installment of "Stuff my Students Say".  Tomorrow marks the final review week of the year, and bittersweet emotions are are starting to well up in my soul.  When I first walked in my classroom, I saw 15 sets of beady eyes staring at me expectantly, and I felt a daunting task hanging over me.  And now here we are with 9 days of school left, and it all seems so amazing that it even happened.  I made friends with fifteen 3rd and 4th graders, and I start to feel very proud of them when I think back on all the times we had in that little classroom.  Here are a few last snippets of some of my my kids' stunning work.

1.  "Webster Dictionary" approved, I'm sure.

2. Mental images....yikes.

3.  Probably the most disturbing thing I have received in my inbox...

4.  Unbelievable.  Just, unbelievable.  The Word of the Week strikes again.

5.  Eh, close enough.

6.  Nelly is covering her bases while giving an example of a spelling word.

7.  The suspense is killing me...

8.  A sit.  

9.  Oh, the irony.  What a great start to a "Pelling" test.

10.  "Hard cake".  Nice try.

11.  When asked what his favorite food was.  

12.  I guess this is what I get for having mostly girls in my class.  My poor eye-cones.  

26 days left of my life in Kosrae.  I'll be seeing you all soon!

Peace from the tropics,

River

"The Cracker Ladder" And Other Stories

The time was 5:30 pm on a Thursday afternoon.  The air was still and hot inside our apartment as I roamed the "kitchen" looking for something to eat.  Trying to find food within my criteria (anything that can be eaten without having to be prepared first), I reached for a half-empty bag of wheat thins from our freezer.

Not wanting to enjoy these delicious salty wafers in the broiling oven that we call our house, I decided that outside would be a good place to have my snack.  I look out the window.

kids.

Hmm.  I did the math.
kids + teacher with crackers = human vending machine.

Feeling a little selfish about my small stash of crackers, I snuck down our incredibly creaky stairs and casually said hello to the kids.

"Hey guys."
"Hi teecha."
"Having fun on the new seesaw?"
"Yes."

They eyed me suspiciously.

I scanned the area for a good stakeout to eat my crackers.  I needed a high place.  Driven by the intense rumbling of my stomach, I spotted the perfect place.  With long, quiet strides, I reached the base of the slide ladder.  I climbed up the sketchy steps to the top, with my head brushing the leaves of the mango tree above.  Perfect.

Now perched on the top of the slide, I reached into the back of wheat thins.

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLECRUNCHCRACKLECRUNCH.

The whoosh of children's heads turning was almost audible from my perfect little vantage point.  I had been discovered.

"TEECHA GIVE ME SOME!"
"TEEEEECCHHHAAAAAA!"
"TEECH GIVE!"

I made a textbook mistake by giving in and dropping one cracker to Nelly below me.  Instantly I was a vending machine.  Kids started coming out of the woodwork, appearing from behind trees and the seesaw and probably the ground.  I had to be fair, so I dropped a cracker to each child.  Mitchigo's little sister, Thelma, was toddling after the older kids with the promise of a cracker.  Being only 3 years old, her motor skills weren't quite up to par.  I dropped a cracker from my perch and it landed right on her head.  She looked puzzled and disappointed at the fallen cracker, and looked up with her beady little eyes in hopes for another one.  After the 6th cracker, she decided she needed to attack the source.  A small brigade of toddlers started making their way up my ladder, babbling things in Kosraen that I didn't understand.

I was outnumbered.  We signed the peace treaty at the top of the slide, and they each received one cracker.

The End.



At this moment I just made a comment to Ryan about these times when I finish a blog, and then I read it back and wonder why I'm even blogging about this.  But then its too late, so I keep it anyway.


Crackers from the tropics,


River

The Honest Answer

I have a little calendar in my classroom.  Its actually a piece of paper with 10 tiny months printed on it, with little day-sized checks spanning from exactly August 20 to March 24.  

Today we have been here 7 months.  

When we first touched down on the island of Kosrae, everything was brand new and exciting.  I wanted to blog about EVERYTHING.  

"Oh my goodness, the ocean was so warm!  I MUST BLOG."

"Great glory, breadfruit tastes like unsalted play-dough! I MUST BLOG."

"There was a sunset!  I MUST BLOG."

Back then I was a pre-packaged SM sent straight from the wealthy and abundant lands of America, tailored to perfection by the SM department and their community.  I came plowing into Kosrae, toting my little camera and soaking in the culture with the thought "Boy, just wait till the folks back at home here about this!" running through my head all the time.

I see myself now as a tan/burnt dude who goes to eat a care-package pop tart, and decides that its too much work to brush off the ants before taking a bite.

The other day I was skyping my girlfriend Haley Coon, and she asked me the question that I have been terrified to answer.  

"Riv, do you think you have changed at all while you have been there?"

I swallowed.  I could give an "SM" answer, which would go something like this:

Yeah, of course I have.  I have really felt God working in my life to give something back to these locals who don't have anything, but still have happiness.  I've built three churches and started a sabbath school and converted 348 people to Christ and built a well for a village without water and found peace and happiness and realized how we take so much for granted back in the States.  I think I'll probably be a missionary for the rest of my life.

Or I could give my honest answer:

"I don't know."

Maybe as a current SM, I see people come back with these great colorful miracle stories, and can see that dreamy, faraway look in their eyes when you assume they are recalling the hardships they endured back in the wild country of who-knows-where.  And here I am, eating pop-tarts with ants on them.  I had always hoped to develop a legitimate "faraway look" from my SM experience, but maybe that comes later.  Maybe I will see the miracle stories after the fact.  

But after some time to think about Haley's question, here are some little things I can come up with:

1. I go barefoot much more often.  

2. Church services don't seem as long as they used to.

3. I started to like breadfruit.

4. Ants and termites are part of the meal.

5. I can hold about a 6 second conversation in Kosraen.

6. I know how to bake bread.

7. The ocean under the stars never ceases to amaze me.

8. I CAN live without Panda Express (barely).

9. I learned how to say yes to things I didn't want to do.

10. I learned how to say no to things I didn't want to do.

11. I like the taste of lentils now.

12. I've learned that even people living on a tropical paradise have struggles in their lives.

13. I've learned that there are different ways of doing the same thing, and they both work.

14. I can climb a coconut tree.

15. I've started to enjoy the race of trying to finish my potluck plate before getting demanded to go get more food.

16. I'm starting to become a morning person.

17. Swimming in the ocean still scares me a little.

18. I still can't fold a fitted sheet my myself.

19. I've learned that life is delicate.

20. I don't know if I'll be able to eat a meal at home without a side of rice.

21. A cold shower doesn't phase me anymore.

22. I'm starting to learn that God displays beauty all around us, whether we stop and notice it or not.

In about two months, I'll be touching down at the Spokane airport at exactly 8:57 PM on a Friday night.  

Then unpack, pack, summer camp, unpack, pack, Portland nursing school for two years, then real life.

Ugh.

I was reading a wonderful book called African Rice Heart written by Emily Wilkens, a fellow Spokanite and good friend of our family.  Her closing words from the last chapter described her feelings finally touching down back into real life traveling back from Chad, Africa.  She spoke of the feeling of the fast-pace American lifestyle being paraded in front of her as she flew back across the U.S., and sure enough when she landed, everything shook.  

Honestly, I'm kind of terrified of this.  Will I be so different that I can't adapt back into my old life?  Or will I be disappointed at the lack of change I discovered in myself upon returning?  What if I get so overwhelmed by the stress of my new life that I am scrambling to buy the first ticket back to Kosrae?

I have found that the only way to escape these thoughts is to not think of them.  Enjoying the tiny, everyday pleasures have begin to grow into my funny little memorable moments of Kosrae, shaping me and building my little "Kosrae Portfolio" in my memory box.  And on those cold winter nights, I will sit in a warm chair and pull out this little portfolio from my mind and flip through stories and photographs, remembering the grand tales and experiences that seemed so small at the time.  

The gap between March 24 and May 30 is getting smaller everyday, and my memory-box portfolio still has plenty more space.  And if everything does shake when I touchdown at home, that memory box is strapped in nice and tight up there in the attic.

Peace from the tropics,

River

The Case of the Flying Soursop

We have a problem.

For some reason, between the three of us, we can't handle even eating ONE fresh fruit sitting on our counter. 

"Oh, we'll eat it tomorrow, its not ripe yet."

Tomorrow: "We should have eaten this yesterday, its overripe."

This time we let a soursop go bad.  Soursops are green, spiky fruits that taste like sour candy from the gods.  But this one was definitely overripe, and had developed a nice skin of black mush.  Taking it outside, we intended to chuck it in the jungle.

"Teecha."

Little Mitchigo suddenly comes out of nowhere.  An evil little "grinchy" though entered my mind.

"Hey Mitchigo!  Want a soursop?"

She thought for a moment.  "Yes."

She held her arms out in front of her as if she were going to catch a teddy bear.  Standing about 20 feet away, I gently lobbed the soursop in the air, watching the mushy fruit travel down towards the waiting arms of Mitchigo.  And then, as if in slow motion, the soursop made contact.

SPLOOSH.

Arms still extended in front of her, the soursop exploded on contact, sending juicy bits of fruit all over her frontside.  Her brother was nearly rolling on the ground, laughing with delight.  Without even blinking an eye, Mitchigo does an about-face and heads straight for the water faucet. 

I ran after her, feeling a bit bad now.  

I stood at the water faucet and apologized, and noticed she was trying to hide her face.  Oh no.  Did I make her cry?  

Feeling horrible now, I tried to strengthen my apology.  She turned off the water, and slowly uncovered her face.  Turning her head my direction, a sly little smile cracked on her face.

"I'm going to tell on you."

She gave a creepy little laugh and ran off to join her brother.  I have yet to receive my punishment from who ever she told on me with.  

A day in the life,

River Davis

The Feast

Kosreans love to feast.

They all have this built-in genetic radar that allows them to simply "know" when a feast must happen.


"Boys, there is a feast tonight.  Please come and join us!"

"Sure!  What time should we come?"

"Tonight!"

"Yes, but what time tonight?"

"Um, around dinnertime."

"....dinnertime?  What time is dinnertime?"

"Oh, its tonight!"

We have also grown accustom to the absence of time here.  When the feast is "tonight", it simply means that they will start whenever enough people show up.  I baked some banana bread using some bananas that were given to me on my way home from fishing and tried to coax the oven to bake faster.  Thinking we would be late to the feast, we walked down the muddy road to Ben Cooper's house.  We knocked on the door, and saw that the house was mostly empty.  Oh no, did we miss it?  I looked at my watch.  7:00 pm.  Its definitely "tonight".  

"Akaywoh!" Mama Sepe comes out from the house.  "You are too early!"

Ah, of course.  Too early.

Feeling foolish that we tried to show up on time to a Kosraen event, I walked under the tin roof of Mitchigo's shack.  Her mom was frying chicken over a fire, and some babies were playing in the dirt next to her.  Chickens clucked around the structure, picking bugs and bits of food scraps off of the muddy ground.  Mitchigo was playing with some marbles, watching her mother cook.

I plopped down beside her.  Pulling out my iPod, I took a picture of the scene, thinking it was rather "local".  Mitchigo instantly was drawn to the glowing screen like a magnet.  She leaned in and whispered bashfully.

"Teecha, um....do you...what....do you have any...games?"

I looked around, feeling guilty about potentially spoiling the local primitive environment around me.

"Um, I don't know.....fine.  We can play ONE game," I agreed.  I pulled up "Hill Climb", a game where you have to drive a little cartoon jeep over bumps without crashing.  Mitchigo got her game face on, and concentrated with amazing focus.  When her little jeep crashed, she squealed.

It was then I felt a presence.

Looking behind me, I found there to be a whole stack of locals peeking over our shoulders at the game.

"Can I try?"
"Can I try?"
"Can I try?"
"Can I try?"
"Can I try?"

I quickly "closed up shop" and put my iPod back in my pocket.  Time to be local again.


"Lets go eat!" Mitchigo decided.  She grabbed my hand and towed me into the house where there was a long table laden with bowls and dishes and platters of Kosraen delicacies.  I saw bins and bins of rice, fried fish, sashimi, boiled breadfruit, tapioca, fried chicken, boiled tuna soup, pickled papaya, chicken curry, spicy rice noodles, cucumber salad, banana bread, sushi rolls, sweet rolls, pound cake, and fresh coconuts with straws in them, ready to drink.  The room was absent of furniture, so we took our place on the cool tile floor.  Sizzling and clattering accompanied the chatter of gossip from the kitchen as the women prepared the last of the meal.  One by one people arrived, climbing through the doors and windows and coming out of seemingly nowhere.  Ryan begins to get tickle-attacked by some of our students, and Mitchigo and I watch with great pleasure as Ryan is submersed in crazy children.

Finally, one of the elders spoke in Kosraen.

"Missionaries, you go first," he announced afterwards in English.
We finally gave in and grabbed out plates.  With kids filing behind us in line, I loaded my plate three layers high with the delicious food.  I ate and ate and ate, drinking my coconut intermittently.  When the bottom of my plate finally appeared, Rolingson calls out to me.

"River, why did you stop eating?  Get some more!"

I took a deep breath.  I went in for round two, as to not be outdone by the Kosraens.  When I was so full I thought I was going to explode, I stepped outside of the house for a moment to feel the fresh air.

The scene was marvelous.  To my right, I could hear the waves breaking far out on the reef.  The tide gently splashed against the rocks beside me and the stars began to come out.  The rumble of the sea mixed with the festive laughter of the feast, and the light danced from the windows onto the roots of the tangerine trees outside.

I smiled.  I pictured myself zoomed out on the earth.  I saw Kosrae as a tiny, dark dot in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean, but with a tiny light shining out from a window from a certain jubilant feast.  I imagined hearing the laughter and chatter traveling over the dark waters to distant shores, mixing with the laughter and chatter of Pohnpei and Majuro and Australia and Japan and the Philippines and Peru and America.





It sometimes seems there is little that connects us on this big, lonely planet.  But that night I realized that some things remain.  Radiant joy is universal, no matter if you are Kosraen or American or Japanese or Iraqi or Bolivian.  These things tie us together, and I feel honored to be a part of it.  It makes me feel like I am home.

The crowd faded, the food disappeared, our bellies were full.  Dodging frogs and potholes on the way home, we said goodnight to the island and let the sound of the waves lull us to sleep.






Joy from the tropics,

River

Follow the Light

"We have to get out of this gully."

My headlamp beam reflected off the shiny, wet leaves of the impossible thicket ahead of us.  The sound of the surf had disappeared again, leaving us with no point of reference.  Ridges rose above us on both sides.

Left or right?  Time was running out.  We had to get off the mountain.  In the pitch black I tried to get a bearing on our location on the hillside, but the jungle was too thick.  I looked back behind me.  My dad was laying in the bushes, unable to move his muscles, and he was getting worse by the minute.

We have to get off this mountain.



Sometimes it seems like some situations get out of hand so quickly, its almost unbelievable.  Everything that could happen at any moment sometimes seem to happen all at the same time, leaving a very grim situation to face.  This was one of these times.

"I think we can make it in 3 hours.  That should put us home by sundown, in time for vespers," we reasoned as we loaded into our truck carrying four Nalgene bottles and two headlamps.  Truth is, we were pushing it.  As we started up the trailhead, I began to realize that our predictions were a little off.  We scrambled up the muddy trail, grabbing for roots and ferns for stability.  Sporadic rain storms were making the climbing conditions a bit slippery, leaving the steep path a sketchy climb for our shoes.

My dad came to visit me here in Kosrae, and timed it perfectly so that he could escape the deep northwest winter.  He is fit and loves to hike, so this was a perfect adventure for all of us.  Finally, we popped out on the top of the peak.  The beauty of Kosrae surrounded us, displaying distant rainstorms over the ocean, rainbows, deep green mountains, the tropical waters, and a beautiful sunset.

A sunset.  

I looked at my watch.  We had reached the top right as the sun began to reach the western horizon.  After a quick picture, we knew we had to make tracks for home before it got too late, because the trail was steep and dangerous in spots, and not always visible.  Scrambling down the steep embankments of the ridge, I noticed that my dad was drinking an abnormal amount of water.  At this time, I decided it was time to turn on my headlamp.  Darkness settled into the jungle when I heard Ryan yell ahead.

"I don't think we are on our trail anymore!" He said.

Classic.  It was getting dark, we are far up on a thick jungle mountain, and we lost our trail.  The full moon rose up over the distant waters of the pacific as we tried to traverse our way back to where we thought the trail was.  Did we cross a ridge accidentally?  Are we on the right side of the mountain?  Was the moon on the left or right of us when we started?  Questions were being exchanged.  Pretty soon, we found ourselves climbing along a steep embankment, getting more lost with each step.  All of a sudden, we heard the bubbling of water.

"Hey, a little stream!  We can follow this down!" I suggested.  Water always takes the quickest path down the mountain, so it seemed logical.  Dropping into the gully, we followed to stream for a few yards.  I noticed my dad getting slower and slower.

"Hey Riv, I don't feel so well.  I don't know what it is, but my muscles are cramping and I feel nauseas.  Do you mind if we rest for a second?" My dad asked.

A rest was more than welcomed for all of us.  Thats when things went south really quick.  I looked down at my dad.  He was shaking vigorously and breathing really fast.  Laying down in the ferns, he started to talk really soft and high.  I searched my brain for anything I had learned in nursing school so far as to what is happening to him.  Shock?  Dehydration?

"How is your pulse?  Do you feel like you are going to black out?  Can you think straight?  What is 5x2?" I frantically asked.  It was obvious that he was getting worse by the minute, and something had to happen.  But what do you do when you are lost deep in the jungle in the pitch black, in a strange gully, surrounded by thorny brush and tall trees, with my dad laying immobile and physiologically unstable on the ground?  It would have been bad enough if we knew how to get home.  But we were lost.  Good, old-fashioned lost.

We have to get out of this gully.  We formed a quick plan.  Tyler would stay with my dad, and Ryan and I would bushwack up the ridge to see if there was a way down.  Filled with the fear that I might lose my dad to whatever was happening to him, I surged forward, heaving the machete back and forth to clear the vines and brush from my path.  Finally on top of the ridge, we found that it was less dense, but any kind of vantage point was hidden by the towering trees.

I stopped.  grabbing onto a banyan branch, I prayed like I have never before.  "God, we are in a helpless and grim situation.  We need you to get us off this mountain and get my dad to safety.  Please."

With great difficulty and failing muscle function, my dad was able to get up the ridge with Tyler's help. But just as he reached the top, he laid down again and started breathing too fast.  He was mumbling a little, and his arms were trembling.  This isn't it, is it?  This isn't how it is going to end, will it?  I thought as I watched my dad lay on the jungle floor in a bad way.

"Dad, we HAVE to keep moving.  We need to go home."

Wishing I knew where home was, he was finally able to climb back to his feet and move slowly on.  Our water was gone, but Tyler found a coconut tree and climbed it, dropping a fresh coconut to the ground. Hacking it open with the machete, we gave it to my dad to drink.  Coconuts are a good source of electrolytes, which hopefully would boost his muscle function.  The coconut gave him enough energy to get back up and climb on, step by step.  It took sheer willpower to make his muscles work, but we kept climbing down.

"Lights!" Someone exclaims.

Sure enough, down by the coast we could see houselights.  One big white light shone out of the jungle below us, promising a house and a road.

We finally had a bearing, and decided just to surge towards the light at all cost.  My dad limped along, but luckily was showing signs of improvement.  With our headlights growing dimmer, we got hit with a giant rainstorm.  Ryan all of a sudden disappears in front of me with a crash.  "Cliff!" he warns from below.  Vines caught our ankles and the black jungle mountainside played tricks on us and we slid down muddy embankments and hidden drop-offs.  Foot by foot we cleared the thickness ahead of us with our machete until we finally reached a flat banana grove.  The light was shining just ahead.  We had made it.

We stumbled into the backyard of a local shack, where a man and his wife were milling outside.
"Akaywoh!  Hello!  We just came from the mountain.  We aren't sneaking," I assured.
"Weis!!  You came from the mountain?  Right now?" He was surprised.  "Come in, we have curry and rice!"

His wife was scurrying around, bringing out chairs and water and banana turnovers.  We were covered head to toe with mud and leaves and scratches.  Dad was feeling much better after restoring his fluids and eating some food.  Tyler ran to get the truck, and we all collapsed in weariness on the couch when we got home.  I whipped up my dad a tall glass of super-strength gatorade powder and we rinsed the jungle off our bodies.  The Pastor met us at our house.

"Boys!  Tell me what happened."

We told him everything, and he just nodded the whole way through.  "I had the church praying for you all since we knew you were lost.  We were just about to send a search party up the mountain!  But I am so glad you are all safe.  I should have not let you go because of the conditions.  People have died up there walking off the top off the waterfalls because they couldn't see at night.  But I am more happy that you are back.  Even though it is dangerous up there, I was ready with my backpack full of jackets and water to cover you with when you were found!  I was ready to leave my village to find the lost boys, like how Jesus leaves the 99 to find the 1," he explained.  "Well, I will see you boys in the morning.  Praise God."

Walking off the top of waterfalls.  My mind raced back to the location of a certain 80 ft. waterfall flowing off a sheer cliff, around the side of the mountain we were bush-wacking down.  It would have been easy to have misstep or been blinded by undergrowth and found ourselves with the same fate.  But here we were, all safely sitting in our house, not knowing exactly how we got down but knowing we were safe and sound.


I believe angels were with us that night.  Stuck in that gully, We found ourselves in a grim situation.  My dad's body appeared to be shutting down for an unknown reason, it was dark and raining, the clouds had covered the moon so we had no compass, and we were dead lost in thick thorns and vines with no hope of ever finding our trail again.  It was one of the few times when I felt totally hopeless, blindly swinging a machete while I recklessly charged up the ridge trying to find us a way home.  The jungle was thick as ever, and I just thrust my machete into the mud and sat down.  I prayed, but I was preparing for the worst.  Don't let me lose my dad up here, God.  I don't know what is going on, but just don't let me lose him. 

It was one of those moments where you wish you had prayed more in your life and you felt totally undeserving of any divine attention.  But we begged anyways, and God saw our need.  God sent a coconut with electrolytes, and I truly believe angels carried my dad up that ridge and down the mountain towards the light.  And once we reached that beautiful light, I realized that my dad was going to be ok.  I sent up a prayer of thanks, not exactly knowing what to say.  He had saved my dad's life and somehow got us off that mountain and back into green pastures.

When we had no idea where we were in that jungle, the only thing we could follow as our compass home was that light in front of us.  Following the light saved us that night.

Following the light will always save us.




Peace from the tropics,

River







p.s.  Dad just left Kosrae, and we had a wonderful time afterwards doing all sorts of things as well as being able to visit Pohnpei with him!  He felt immensely better that night after some rest, and was perfectly normal the next day and actually preached!  Our predictions were that his situation may have resulted from a mixture of things, including mainly dehydration and electrolyte depletion in his muscles, causing a response similar to heatstroke and the symptoms of shakiness, hyperventilation, muscle cramps and dizziness/nausea.  We are thankful that he is okay!  It was awesome to see him and show him our island.  Pray for safe travels as he heads back to the frozen tundra of Spokane tonight.

Stuff My Students Say, Vol. 2

 Greeting from the island of sun and wild children!  I would like to share volume two of "Stuff My Students Say".  From the moment I walk into my echoey classroom to the minute I dive through our apartment door at the end of the day, crazy and unpredictable things happen at any moment.  Here is another small selection of funny, interesting, or just plain head-scratching things that I receive on my desk.  Enjoy!



1.  First off is this wonderful irony in a pen-pal letter from Mitchigo.  Such a shame these schools is speak English.

2.  A strange compliment.

3.  I received a surprise picture of an airplane "giving me the bird".  

4.  A student displaying the Word of the Week clearly on her English paper.  Fabulous! 

5.  A picture of the amazing endangered Sunbird, and his friends Squeeshy and Squash (who happen to be French).

6.  A small window into this student's family life.

 7.  Quite possibly the most local sentence ever.

 8.  Someone is still hanging on to the old-world believes.  None of this new-fangled "earth-is-round" business.

9.  And the Shortest Attention Span Award goes to....

10.  "Rob".

11.  A couple of your basic head-scratchers.  

12.  Just to make sure I know her name.  

13.  Such a generous portion on this plate.

14.  Just the flow of this letter is genius.

15.  I'll be the judge of that.  

16.  Good question, pupil.  I was wondering the same thing.

17.  Then there is this thing.  I wonder how much product it has to put in it's hair to make it stay like that.

18.  It was delightful to hear my kids try and pronounce this week's Word of the Week.

In all seriousness, I love these guys.  They keep me on my toes.  Yesterday I walked into class to find a 3-inch diameter spider on my chair, much to the kids delight.  I often get locked out of my classroom by the students, and I hear more "weeeee teecha's" than you can imagine.  But every day they teach me patience, kindness, and an attitude of simplicity that I could definitely use.  When Webster is celebrating over a long-awaited good grade and I see that genuine smile, it all seems worth it.  When I walk into an "empty" classroom and all my kids suddenly spring out of nowhere, I remember that school doesn't have to lack fun and games.  When Holter points to a picture of Jesus on the cross and asks if he did something wrong, that is a conversation that I am more than willing to have.

  I am realizing that school is so much more than 7 class periods and recess.  It is my chance to show them what life is like, how to face it, and how Jesus will be with them every step of the way.  

Peace from the Tropics,

River