Of matches, papayas, mosquitoes, bats—and cold showers

That afternoon—just twenty-four hours after landing in Lomalinda—I heard a cheery voice at the back door, “Knock-knock.” That was my introduction to a Lomalinda tradition—everyone called “Knock-knock” instead of knocking.

A lady stepped inside our big screened-in porch, introducing herself as our neighbor across the road, Ruth, and in that moment I saw a real-time demonstration of Matthew 25:35 in action: I was a stranger and Ruth was welcoming me.

She handed me pruning shears. “You can borrow these,” she smiled, pointing to vines climbing up our porch screens and leggy hibiscus plants outside the kitchen window. How thoughtful! I never would have thought to pack pruning shears in our suitcases, but we sure did need them.

I led her to the kitchen where she handed me a tin of homemade granola and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed lemonade. Ruth’s thoughtfulness blessed my heart.

“And this,” she said, “is papaya sauce—like applesauce but made with green papaya.” I didn’t know anything about papayas but was pleasantly surprised—we all liked applesauce so I expected our family would enjoy this new treat.

She also brought a ripe papaya and taught me how to peel it, scoop out its seeds, and cut up the flesh. Now, looking back, I continue to be touched by Ruth’s generosity and kind help.

She also showed me how to light my gas range and oven. The matches were half the size, in every dimension, of our wooden ones in the U.S. The stick part was short and made of something flimsy, maybe string, dipped in paraffin.

Ruth had to strike several matches before one flared up, but she never got flustered. I marveled at her quiet perseverance.

But even more than that, though I didn’t realize it at the time, watching her patiently striking those matches was like a parable teaching me how to live in Lomalinda. I wish I’d been more cognizant of that parable during our first couple of weeks in Lomalinda.

Nevertheless, in coming days and in various ways,

God impressed upon me—

in the silent way He sometimes does—

the importance of persisting in the face of obstacles.

I did keep fighting,

but those challenges loomed big.

Mighty big.

That evening, I looked back at the day. We’d had an uphill climb in more ways than one. Sweaty, gritty with dust—or sticky with mud, depending on the time of day—by evening I knew I should shower. But our house, like most in Lomalinda, had no water heater.

I’d have to take a cold shower.

Something inside me rebelled.

Dave had taken a shower earlier and suggested I lather up while standing toward the back of the stall, beyond the stream of water, and quickly rinse off afterward. I gave it a try, but the cold still took my breath away.

Spent, I dropped into our warm, damp bed and listened to mosquitoes dive-bombing my ears and bats rattling in the attic. Yes, bats. And they reeked something awful.

Were we crazy to move to Lomalinda?

“I was a stranger and you welcomed me”

I snapped the picture, turned, and willed my wobbly knees to take me back into the house. Only then did I realize that dear Glenny probably didn't know prim, proper women from upscale suburbs don't like snakes in their homes. (If you missed the Glenny-and-the-snake story, click on Have you ever been standing in front of a mirror when you yelled at your kids?)

Back in the kitchen, I trembled, still feeling sick to my stomach, overwhelmed by dense, humid, equatorial heat, and feeling terrible over yelling at Glenny.

But I told myself, “You have to pull yourself together. Get back to work.”

Numb, I stooped over the open suitcase on my kitchen floor, pulling out tightly packed kitchen equipment, towels, sheets, shoes, clothes, and books, traveling from room to room putting them in their proper places.

Karen, Tim, Ron, and Phil McIntosh

The pilot who had that morning flown us into Lomalinda, Ron McIntosh, and his wife, Karen, had invited us to dinner that first evening. Karen Mac, as everyone called her, drove to our house on her Honda 90 motorbike, scrunched my little Karen on the seat between the two of us, and called out, “Hang on, and don’t be bashful about it.”

By then Ron had arrived on his motorbike and Dave and Matt hopped on with him. We were off on our first moto rides.

Karen drove down and around and up several hills but, partway up a two-tiered one, she stopped and called back, “Now I have to drive up the steepest hill in the center. Hold on tight—and don’t wiggle!”

I surveyed the hill. Steep? An understatement. And it was strewn with loose stones.

I couldn’t believe she’d try that incline with the three of us on her little putt-putt motorbike, but we followed her instructions, and she knew what she was doing. We made it to the top without a problem. We stayed on the peak for only seconds, passed by the radio tower, and then zoomed down the other side.

Karen served homemade pizza with precious mushrooms she’d hand-carried from Bogotá. We felt honored to share in a birthday party for their son, Tim.

Having welcomed many newcomers, Ron and Karen knew how tired we were and offered to take us home early, and we didn’t argue.

But the evening wasn’t finished. Lyle and Carol Ann Connet stopped by with Paul and Jennifer, my kids’ future classmates. Carol Ann handed me homemade cinnamon rolls. What a treat!

After the Connets left, Garnet and Barbara Holteen stopped by with a loaf of Barbara’s bread.

Everyone’s thoughtfulness and generosity

blessed my weary heart.

Through those people and their gifts, our family experienced Jesus’s words, “I was a stranger, and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35) (from Chapter 6, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)

On that first evening in Lomalinda,

little did I know what the next couple of days held.

And little did I know that Karen McIntosh

had spoken words of wisdom that evening:

“Hold on tight—and don’t wiggle.”

My first week in Lomalinda would have been

so different, so much better,

if only I had recognized Karen’s words’ broader significance,

if only I had applied those words’ meaning to my hour-by-hour living.

I was a stranger and you welcomed me

Our new colleagues welcomed us to Colombia in such lovely ways—not in showy ways but in sincere, generous, thoughtful ways. To this day I’m still touched by their welcome and the ways God blessed, provided, and protected us through them.

It started with Bill Nyman’s welcome on the morning our jet began its descent toward the Bogotá airport. I wrote this in Chapter 3:

My stomach knotted. What would happen when we went through customs? I’d studied Spanish for three years, but Dave knew little more than adiós. I’d have the job of listening, comprehending, and communicating. Would I understand the officials? Could I speak back to them? 

The Aerocondor touched down and, as we taxied toward the terminal, I spotted a man in a suit standing outside the building and watching the plane. Something made him look like an American. My heart skipped a little beat at the possibility. 

With Karen’s hand in mine and Matt’s hand in Dave’s, we headed toward the door, clunked down the steps, and followed the crowd toward the terminal entrance—and our future. The man in the suit stepped forward, smiling. “You must be Dave and Linda Thomas.” 

“Yes!” I answered with excessive enthusiasm. At that moment he looked like an angel. I’ll forever be grateful to Bill Nyman for helping us navigate through a crowd of officials in customs and immigration. He knew what to do and where to go, guiding us to the right places at the right times, speaking fluent Spanish.

Along the way, he cautioned Dave, “Carry your wallet in your front pocket. We have lots of pickpockets. Actually, I don’t use a wallet at all. I just put cash in my front pocket.” He paused. “And push your watch under your sleeve. If you don’t, thieves will snatch it off your wrist.”  

We lugged suitcases, footlocker, duffle bag, and carry-ons through airport doors and into bright sunshine while Bill scanned a selection of taxis—various colors and makes and years, and the drivers as diverse as their vehicles. “That,” he motioned toward a dilapidated microbus, “will be good for you, considering all the luggage you have.”  

He spoke to boys nearby and they tossed our bags on top of the van. From somewhere they produced straps and ropes. Wrapping and tossing and tugging and knotting, they fastened the load.  

Bill told us how many pesos to tip each boy and gave the address to our driver. We piled into the rickety van and began our journey. Bill followed in [his] Volkswagen Beetle, waving to us. . . . We waved back.  

My grasp of Spanish had been miserably inadequate in the airport. Colombians spoke so fast that I couldn’t understand them. I shuddered to think what that experience would’ve been like without Bill. (Chapter 3, Please, God, Don’t MakeMe Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)

Let me repeat that. I shuddered to think what that experience would have been like without Bill. It could have been a nightmare. God bless him! We were strangers and Bill welcomed us.

And I’ve always remembered the sweet, unexpected welcome Dave and the kids and I received when we first stepped out of the taxi in front of the Bogotá guest house. I wrote:

The front door burst open and grinning strangers poured out in a line, their greetings so warm that I thought they’d mistaken us for someone they already knew. But I was wrong—they knew our names, and they were expecting us. When I realized their sincerity, I fought tears. (Chapter 3)

I especially remember Lynne and Lee Henriksen’s big smiles and friendly conversation. I’m pretty sure Mel Grant was there, too, and some of the Kindberg family. We were strangers and they welcomed us.

Our new colleagues . . . ushered us inside the guest house. . . . Someone led us to a small room upstairs. Only later did we hear Richard and Gladys Janssen had moved out to let us use their bedroom. They’d also moved in a bed for Matt and Karen and, knowing how tired we must have been, they urged us to take a nap. (Chapter 4).

I’ve always wondered where (and on what) Rich and Gladys slept that night. The guest house was full. Did they sleep on a sofa? In a chair? I hope not. Bless their hearts for the sacrifices they made. We were strangers and Rich and Gladys welcomed us.

After our naps, the guest house manager, Dick Inlow, suggested we . . . go out for lunch. Outside on the sidewalk, Dick hailed a taxi. He spoke briefly to the driver in Spanish, but I couldn’t catch enough to understand. 

While we were climbing in, Dick said, “Sorry I can’t join you. I have a dental appointment.” What? “Don’t worry,” he said. “I gave the driver directions to Crem Helado—that means Ice Cream. It’s just like a hamburger joint in the U.S.”

After we'd eaten our lunch,

Dick stepped into the restaurant, helped us pay our bill, and then suggested we walk around the neighborhood. . . . Strolling toward a corner in a quiet area, I stepped into the crosswalk, vaguely aware of an approaching car half a block away. I was taking my time sauntering across when, from behind, Dick grabbed my arm and pushed me across the street. As the car sped by, he warned, “Remember—in Colombia, pedestrians have no rights!” I’d never heard of such a thing. (Chapter 4)

Knowing we needed lunch, Dick had hailed a taxi for us, helped us pay our bill, introduced us to a Bogotá neighborhood, and prevented me from getting hit by a car! We were hungry and he helped us find food. We were strangers and Dick welcomed us.

But our new colleagues were not yet finished with their kindnesses.

Around five in the afternoon, one of our morning welcoming committee, Lee Henriksen, asked if we had food for supper. We didn’t, but we were getting hungry. He smiled and said, “I know where to get fresh sandwiches.” He led us down the sidewalk, around the corner, and then he ducked into a space smaller than an undersized bedroom. 

Hundreds of items sat wedged on shelves and in cubby holes. The store was so small that Lee, Dave, and I couldn’t stand inside at the same time. Lee, serving as our translator, gave our order to the little man behind the counter. He even helped Dave count his pesos. That evening, our family enjoyed ham and cheese sandwiches on delicious fresh rolls. (Chapter 4, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)

How thoughtful and helpful Lee was. We were hungry and he helped us find food. We were strangers and Lee welcomed us.

“I was hungry and you gave me food. . . .

I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”

Matthew 25:35, RSV